Hello, Aga from Poland. :D I really love your fics. If you have time I have a prompt: It’s Derek birthday after he leaves town and Stiles drunk dialing. Bonus if Sheriff walks in and take his phone and wishes Derek happy birthday.
Oh, thank you!! <3
Since the fandom’s pretty much agreed that Derek’s birthday is on Christmas, I decided to use that here. Hope you enjoy!!
He’s had entirely too much eggnog to be left alone with his phone. His dad should know that. His friends should definitely know that.
But Scott’s busy, caught up in some kind of mating dance with Allison that involves hanging out awkwardly in doorways under the mistletoe and sending her sad eyes, and Lydia’s keeping Allison company at the other side of the room while she sends covert, longing glances back. His dad’s laughing with Melissa with that love-struck sort of look that’s been building up in his eyes for years long now, and probably hadn’t even noticed Stiles swiping the bottle, adding way too much rum after he’d ducked back into the kitchen with it. It’s a holiday, after all, and he’s allowed to have a drink to celebrate.
His dad just didn’t specify how much drink the drink was allowed to have.
So when Stiles ends up in his bedroom, staring at his phone, it’s everyone’s fault, really, and no one’s. Honestly it feels kind of inevitable. Him lying in his his room, on the outskirts of the mating dances, scrolling idly through his contact list until he pauses on a familiar number. He has it memorized even though he probably shouldn’t, but this might not be the first time he’s opened up his contact list to stare at it these past few weeks. To look at the name typed out over the digits, to wonder at the way so few letters can leave his chest writhing with so many unresolved feelings.
He lifts his thumb, brushes across the short word fondly, and jumps as the phone registers an attempt to call and starts dialing.
Stiles seriously shouldn’t be surprised that it happened. He’s a clumsy, melancholy drunk, and it’s about time he accepts it.
The phone continues to ring while he stares, transfixed, at the tiny image of a phone blinking on his screen. Connecting… connecting…
It’s the phone’s fault, he decides. That stupid, sensitive touch screen, stirring up trouble by calling people it has no business in calling, just because Stiles had been maybe brushing his thumb across that name, thinking about hearing that stupid grumpy voice. And so maybe he’d been imagining the smooth screen was a rough, stubble-covered jaw, been half lost in imagining what it might feel like under his fingers… but that’s no reason for his phone to go ahead and call him.
And Derek’s surprised too, it seems like, because while Stiles is busy scowling at the stupid device, he answers, and there’s a startled lilt in his voice when he says Stiles’ name.
Stiles should probably just say he’d dialed the wrong number, or shoot out a quick, cheerful “Merry Christmas” and let that be that.
“You’re not here,” is what slips out instead, his hands clenching a little, his lips twisting into a pout that probably carries into his tone.
There’s a short silence from Derek’s end, and then an amused huff of air.
“Are you just noticing that?”
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