“Sourwolf!” He called, as he stumbled back towards Derek’s spot at the bar (from which he had not moved since he’d claimed it). “Why so grumpy?! It’s my birthday!”

Derek winced as Stiles pretty much bellowed into his ear.

“It is your birthday, Stiles. I know it, probably the whole bar knows it.”

Stiles beamed.

“I’m tweeeeeenty ooooooooone!”

Derek rolled his eyes.

“Hence the alcohol.”

It had not been a great night for Derek, so far.

Don’t get him wrong, Derek didn’t mind celebrating Stiles’ birthday with him. Even had he not been the only option, if Stiles had gone out with somebody else, new college friends, whatever… Derek could quietly acknowledge that he would have been very unhappy and also maybe would have followed them. Anything could happen, you know? And Stiles was never great at caution when he was sober so…

Yeah.

So Derek was mostly exactly where he wanted to be.

He just wished where they were was… someplace else. The bar was noisy and crowded (was this a new thing? Was Thursday the new Friday? Who behaved like this and then got up to go about their lives on Friday?). It smelled like sweat and old food and alcohol and bodies. He could smell the bathrooms even from the bar (the fact that there was a strong smell of cleaning product made him feel both better and more nauseated). And the flashing, changing, obnoxious lights from the dance floor hurt his eyes.

But Stiles seemed to be having a good time.

Derek was perfectly happy to hold the bar up and guard Stiles’ drink while he danced.

Which he did.

Quite a bit.

Derek passed Stiles a glass of water this time, and Stiles cheerfully knocked it back. Stiles looked breathless and flushed and happy and grateful… and then he trundled back out towards the press of bodies. Derek gave everyone his best Wanted Felon glare and returned to waiting.

He didn’t like the venue, but waiting and watching wasn’t exactly are hardship. Quite apart from all the other attractive folks on display, Derek was reveling, just a little bit, in getting to see Stiles like this. Stiles had been out of Beacon Hills for several years now: going home for holidays, but mostly just letting the town go. It seemed to have been just as good for him as it had been for Derek, and Derek had taken it upon himself to ensure it stayed that way…

But it was still rare to see Stiles this uninhibited. He was loose and relaxed and happy, casual with his affection where he’d been so guarded for so long.

Derek was truly happy to see him like that… but he was also, he could admit to himself, jealous. He had no desire to dance, to insert himself into that fetid press of flesh on the floor… but he couldn’t help but wish he was on the floor. He tried not to imagine it, warm and relaxed, pressed up against Stiles’ sweat-soaked shirt as they moved together, creating their own, intimate rhythm that the DJ could never…

Yes, Derek was aware he was a little bit hopeless. Conveniently, none of their mutual friends and acquaintances were around to notice his staring and mock him. Or worse.

The hair suddenly stood up on the back of his neck and he looked back towards the dance floor. In a moment he had Stiles picked out again… and was standing, pushing off the bar, and cutting through the crowd. Stiles was backing up, heading for the wall, shoving off the guy he had been dancing with. The guy followed for a moment, trying to slide his hands over Stiles’ shoulders, around the back of his neck, to keep him in place, but Stiles finally slapped the hands away, ducked down, and forced his way off the dance floor.

Derek cut straight through, ignoring the people he jostled, and the hands that started touching him and caught up with Stiles on the other side. He was leaning against the wall, hands folded across his chest, breathing hard in a way Derek thought he recognized. A very labored, pre-panic attack kind of breathing. He put his hands in front of himself in what he hoped was a very non-threatening posture and approached Stiles from the front and side, careful to let Stiles see him coming and not to trap him.

“Hey, Stiles!” He had to shout a little to be heard over the music, even no longer on the dance floor.

Stiles looked straight through him and edged away.

“Stiles!” Derek held his hands up in the universal ‘no harm’ gesture. Stiles didn’t respond. And then Derek had what was probably a McCall-level bad idea. He stepped a little closer, trying to ignore Stiles’ slow attempts to get away, laid a hand on his shoulder, and flashed his eyes.

Stiles’ own eyes went wide and a sharper breath interrupted the tight rhythm he’d had going.

And Derek suddenly had an arm-full of drunk twenty-one-year-old.

It wasn’t the first time Stiles had hugged Derek, not really. They’d mastered the shoulder bump, and the half-hug, and the couch slouch. But they almost never hugged full-on. They were far more likely to accidentally hug while fighting some supernatural baddie, Derek pulling Stiles in tight to his chest and turning them so he’d take the brunt of the attack, or them stumbling into each other, all over each other, as they pulled each other through woods and rough terrain to escape the same critter.

But this was…

Stiles buried his sweaty face against Derek’s neck (too tall, now, to lean on his chest while they were both standing). His arms went under Derek’s and came up behind him to fist Derek’s T Shirt over his shoulder blades. He pulled Derek tight to him, tight enough to squeeze the breath out, had Derek been human.

Derek was not human. He could smell the sweat and scent of other people on Stiles, the alcohol almost like he’d bathed in it. Underneath, he could smell chicken wings from dinner, and peanut butter m&ms, and Stiles’ soap and detergent, and the natural smell of his body.

Derek wrapped his arms around Stiles in response, and Stiles relaxed a little. They stood there a few moments while Stiles’ breathing evened out and the tension slowly slid from his frame. But as he loosened his grip on Derek, his hands began to sooth the places they’d dug in, began to wander. Derek was both surprised and extremely tempted to just… see where it might go. Werewolves were at least as touch-oriented as humans, and Derek knew he hadn’t had much of that, even (maybe especially) platonically in a very long time. As Stiles’ fingers traced the veins on his forearms, dragged against muscle and hair and skin, Derek felt himself melting into it.

Were he a regular canine, he might have rolled over and presented his bell for more.

Finally, though, one of Stiles hands began to make its way down Derek’s core towards his belt, and he worked up the courage to call a halt. It had to be the alcohol. It was too far outside Stiles' usual behavior. Stiles didn't... He'd never acted as if... If he woke up tomorrow and had to remember...

Derek was just as bad as everyone else in the bar.

He firmly planted his own hands back on Stiles’ shoulders and drew away… but not before Stiles leaned in a planted a solid, slightly wet, very alcoholic kiss on the corner of his mouth.

Even as he pulled away the rest of the way, and made the executive decision they were done, nodding to the bartender and steering Stiles out towards the parking lot… Derek was torn. There were few thing in his life, he thought, he was going to both treasure and regret as much as he did that left-of-center vinegar-and-hops flavored kiss.

He took Stiles home.

- -

He took Stiles to his home.

- -

In Derek’s defense, his place was much closer than Stiles’, and much bigger, and he knew he had eggs and orange juice and could feed them in the morning. Not things he had faith would be present in Stiles’ tiny disaster apartment.

Stiles didn't make it very far, at any rate. Derek hardly had him seated on the edge of the bed drinking water before Stiles was out, completely, making little snuffling almost-snores against Derek’s pillow.

Derek would have preferred to have a clean Stiles in his bed, rather than track in all the bar smells… But beggars take their blessings, or whatever. And it wasn’t like Derek particularly deserved it. The bar smells actually served as both warning and reminder to Derek that this was not some kind of dream.

He stripped Stiles down to his boxers, though, and piled his clothing in the bathroom. Returning with a warm wet washcloth, Derek did his best to scrub Stiles down a little, at least. And then he stripped himself, putting on pants and a Tee for propriety’s sake (also because he might actually die if he actually had that much actual skin-to-skin contact with Stiles) and crawled into the other side of the bed, arranging covers over both of them.

It was only logical, after all. Even with his werewolf hearing, Derek wanted to be close enough to Stiles to help, in case something went wrong (he had another panic attack, he suffocated himself, whatever).

And it was totally a big enough bed for both of them. Purely altruism. Not at all creepy.

He figured the jokes And innuendos Stiles would inevitably make would be punishment enough, in the morning.

Stiles had no idea.

- -

Stiles woke up around 4.

Derek felt the bed shift and heard Stiles groan. Sitting up in bed, he looked over to see Stiles slowly shoving himself to his feet, one hand clutching his head. Derek slid out of bed himself, guided Stiles down the hall to the bathroom, and went to rummage in the kitchen. When he returned, quietly triumphant with Gatorade and ibuprofen, Stiles was stumbling back to the bed. Derek got him to take the pills and drink half of the bottle, and then he passed out again.

- -

Derek woke, finally, in the daylight, to Stiles snugged in front him, curled into the hollow of his body. He pulled his head back a little and saw Stiles neck was a little red where he’d, apparently, been nuzzling him in his sleep.

Mortified, Derek quickly but carefully extricated himself and headed for the bathroom again, and then the kitchen, allowing himself just one last glance at Stiles in his bed.

It didn’t occur to him until he was halfway through a mug of coffee, fifteen minutes later, exactly what Stiles was going to think when he woke up.

Stiles was smart. If his brain was functioning anywhere close to capacity when he woke up and he remembered anything about the night before… Derek had left such an incriminating trail. Between A: Derek definitely having a couch, and one of them could have slept there, B: Derek taking his role so seriously the night before that he brought Stiles to his own home and even got up with him in the middle of the night, C: Derek stripping him to his boxers and tucking him in why did he do that oh god, and D: Derek tolerating all Stiles’ intoxicated ramblings and behaviors that night before (including a kiss! Kind of…) and never giving him shit for them, as was their usual routine...

Yeah. Stiles was going to figure it out.

Fuck. Derek was the worst.

- -

Stiles, apparently, figured it out. Derek made it about a foot into his bedroom, mugs of coffee in hand, when Stiles was suddenly there, greeting him with a kiss.

Derek was floored for half a second.

And then he just couldn’t resist. He kissed back. Stiles had his hands on either side of Derek’s face, long fingers playing across his temples, his ears, his skull. Stiles tasted like Derek’s toothpaste. Derek wanted to grab Stiles’ face back, to tilt his head, to chase Stiles’ own flavor deeper into his mouth-

The coffee sloshed a little, and the short sting of pain reminded Derek he was holding them. That was stupid, so he held them out to the night stand, slid them quickly into place, just back from the edge, kissing Stiles the entire time, and then pulled his hands back, going for Stiles shoulders on the way to the back of his head.

And then his hand on Stiles sparked a sharp memory, holding Stiles in place and flashing his eyes the night before.

It came crashing down.

“No,” Derek forced out, breaking the kiss, untangling Stiles arms from his neck, and taking a step back.

“... What why not.” Stiles was breathless, but tried to follow Derek right back towards the wall next to the door.

“Just stop, Stiles.” Derek tried to sound firm and not like kissing Stiles was the only thing he ever wanted to do again in his life.

“Just… you stop!” Stiles looked a little indignant. “Kissy-Mc-Kisser-back!”

Derek stared.

“Shut up. Anyway, you were into it, weren’t you? You reciprocated! With interest!” Stiles did sound genuinely confused. “If you want it too, then why not just-”

“The last time someone tried to get this close to you, you panicked and I had to take you home.”

Stiles did take a step back at that, and Derek immediately regretted his phrasing.

“Well if I’m too much trouble-”

Yeah, no.

“That’s not what I mean and you know it. I just… Stiles. I never want to be the cause of you getting hurt-”

“I’m not hurt-”

“Or even feeling uncomfortable. Of all people, I know how shitty a person can feel during... During. When you’re not 100% on board. Or ready. Or whatever.”

Stiles stepped forward again to put a hand on Derek’s shoulder.

“Dude, I’m seriously fine. That was probably a one-time freakout-”

Derek tried to step back and shrug Stiles’ hand off, but he’d finally hit the wall.

“Stiles, I wouldn’t be okay!” Derek could see the expression on Stiles’ face shift. Maybe he was starting to get it. “If I made you uncomfortable, I am the one who wouldn’t be fine with it... So unless you can explain to me… and you don’t have to say anything, that’s not what I’m trying to do here. But I am not willing to go any further without some kind of… Stiles I can't make you feel…”

Stiles blew out a breath.

“I get it. Okay? It’s okay. I get it.”

“Are you sure?” Because Derek just couldn’t… “Because I don’t want-”

“It’s ‘cause I was drunk, okay? I’m pretty sure it was because of the alcohol.” Stiles sighed, and gave in. “I was fine for a while, it was fun. Hell, Derek, I’ve gotten that close to other people, done things, and not freaked out.

“But last night, yeah, last night was a bad decision. I… I drank too much, and I’ve never had that much to drink, not since… Not since Beacon Hills.”

'Since before the Nogitsune’ is what Stiles didn’t say, but Derek heard anyway.

“Suddenly, everything felt like a dream, like I… like I was moving through water. The fog made everything sound weird, and the lights and probably the booze made me dizzy and I felt… kind of out of body for a minute? And then that dude’s hands were like… I don’t know. Like he wanted into my body while I wasn’t using it. Or something. I don’t know!” Stiles’ flailing hands were in danger of taking out the coffee mugs on the bedstand, and Derek wanted to reach out and stop them, but he also wanted to hear whatever Stiles wanted to say.

“But it just… everything felt wrong and I couldn’t clear my head and I had to get away…”

Derek frowned.

“And then I pinned you to the wall and you really couldn’t get away.”

Of course he fucked it up.

“No, Derek, you pinned me to the ground. As soon as I worked out that it was you, I felt anchored, not stuck. You… you kind of rescued me dude. Or do you think I fall all over everyone like that when I’m drunk…?”

Derek relaxed a little. Maybe he didn’t fuck it up.

“Well… no.” That was mostly true. “But I didn’t want to presume-”

“Derek.” And Stiles carefully put his hand on either of Derek’s shoulders. “I’ve never been that drunk. And I don’t think I’m going to do it again in a hurry. Seriously… I’m really glad you were there.”

It was almost too much, Stiles that close and intense and his hands holding Derek in place, safe. Derek… Derek looked away.

“C’mon, Derek. Please? Look at me? Listen to my heart. Tell me if I’m lying.”

Derek felt the heat on his cheeks and the tips of his ears. But he made eye contact. And listened. Stiles’ heart… Derek thought he could listen to that forever, too. He often thought that. And it was steady.

“I want this.” Stiles eyes said it as much as his mouth and heart did. “I’m not scared of you. I could never- Derek.” Stiles slid his hands along Derek’s shoulders until they were touching his neck, gliding up it, cupping the base of his skull.

Derek wasn’t sure anyone had touched him that delicately since Laura. Maybe since his mother.

“I’m in love with you, Derek Hale.” Derek’s breath caught. “Pretty much completely. And have been for a while. And if you like me back, then I think we should do something about that.” Stiles winked, but then, when Derek still couldn’t bring himself to respond, his face started to fall and he began to pull away. "I'm sorry it took me getting drunk, though, that was-"

Derek pinned Stiles’ hands in place, still cupping his face. He dipped his head a little and kissed one, kissed Stiles’ palm, and then his wrist and then his shoulder and then they were kissing again and Derek had maybe never felt more buoyant in his entire life. He was still a little sweaty from the night before and his breath was probably terrible, what the coffee didn’t cover up, and going to the kitchen hadn’t required him to brush his hair or trim his beard or anything.