#2017-07-02

It hadn’t quite been five months since that conversation, but it had been a good five months. They’d settled into each other’s lives without any major accommodations. Derek did his shifts and Stiles praised his work as a paramedic and the way his butt looked in his uniform. Stiles spent his days coding, and Derek marveled aloud at just what he could do with his hands on a keyboard, and what he could do with them in other places, too.

Stiles had just come back from a week in San Francisco—“I really don’t want to, Sourwolf, but they like proof that their contractors are alive every six months or so, and training courses are the best excuse they’ve got”—and crashed on the couch in his dad’s living room. He’d dumped his clothes out of his bag before deciding he’d take a few minutes to rest before he did anything about them. Half an hour later, with Stiles snoring soundly on the sofa, Derek had had enough of looking at the pile of shirts and jocks and socks and jeans, and scooped them up to get them into the machine.

Stiles basically only wore one color now, so Derek didn’t have to worry about separating them to wash, but on auto-pilot he made sure the jeans were buttoned and the shirt-sleeves were all pulled the right way out.

There was a smear of makeup, holographic and sparkling, right along the collar of one of Stiles’ tightest t-shirts. Stiles, much to the dismay of the women in their Pack, wouldn’t even wear eyeliner. The shit on the shirt was probably foundation and highlighter and some kind of eye stuff. Even a foot from Derek’s face the cloth smelled like alcohol and body spray and a stranger’s sweat.

Stiles had been in the city for a week. There’d probably been dinners out and nights on the town sponsored by the company. Derek sprayed the makeup with a stain-remover John had sitting on the shelf and threw the shirt in the washing machine.

Stiles’ wet-look jeans were the next thing in the pile. They smelled of alcohol and body spray and a stranger’s sweat and Stiles and sex.

“I might not be able to hear your heartbeat, but the fact that you’ve got your claws out says a lot.”

Derek didn’t look at his hands, just willed them back to human. He threw the jeans over the edge of the washing machine and turned around.

Stiles was leaning tight against the doorjamb with his arms folded across his chest. His hair was flat on one side where he’d been lying with his cheek pressed into the sofa. One of his socks was close to coming off.

“Last night, at the end of training, we all went out. I ran into some people I knew from college. They tried, very persuasively, to get me to go to an old hangout of ours. I’d had a couple of drinks, so my reactions to what was being offered were slow. They were still my reactions, though.”

Derek swallowed hard. He wanted to look up at Stiles, but he couldn’t make himself do it. He settled for staring at where Stiles’ arms curled into each other and hoped he didn’t look as if he was focusing on Stiles’ heartbeat. “You don’t need my permission to do anything.” It was a cop out, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“No, I don’t. But I made you a promise. I’ve always understood that our really specific agreement about being exclusive was mostly about me and the way I lived before I came home, Derek.” Derek turned his head as much as he could without moving the rest of his body. He wasn’t proud that he still had those insecurities, he wasn’t okay with the fact that he still worried about being used.

Stiles pushed off the wall and took a step closer. Derek tried to concentrate on the smells of the detergent and boot-polish in the cupboard. “I’m—”

“Don’t you dare say you’re sorry for needing it. I’m so fucking proud of you for asking as soon as you did, and I never would have agreed if I wasn’t okay with it.” He was less than an arm’s length away, and Derek didn’t know if he wanted to pull him in or push him further away. Stiles’ voice was rough. “Fuck. I’m doing this all wrong. I had full intentions of telling you exactly what happened, as soon as possible, but it was so good to be back home and I didn’t realize I was that tired.”

Derek looked up. Stiles wasn’t lying. “Tell me now, then.”

“My reaction to being invited to a BDSM club, and then instead to a participation-encouraged-strip-joint, and then instead back to someone’s place for privacy? They were all the same, Derek. I said no every time. I told them I was in a monogamous relationship, every time. I told them I wasn’t going to cheat on my partner, every time. Eventually, when one of the guys tried to tell me that it was okay and that he’d always wanted me to fuck him and that no-one else, including my boyfriend, ever needed to know, I almost hit him. I was going to break the nose on his perfectly made-up face for not understanding the meaning of No anyway, but then he put his hands on me and I snapped his fingers instead.” There was no skip in his heartbeat. He smelled angry, and scared. “I ended up hitting them all with a mild-memory zap so they’d forget they saw me. I’m not proud of hurting him, or having to resort to magic to cover it up, but I’m kind of glad it all happened. I went back to my hotel alone and jerked myself to sleep thinking about you.”

Derek felt another wash of shame fall over him. He should have known that Stiles wouldn’t cheat. He should have trusted that Stiles would do what he promised. “I’m sorry I—”

“No. Again. Don’t you dare.” Stiles stepped closer now and let his hands fall to his side. His shoulders dropped and gripped into the sides of pants. “I made you that promise with every intention of keeping it. But you had no way of knowing if I could do that or not. You might trust me with your life when we’re up against the monster of the week, but that’s not the same at all. I.” He lifted one hand, tentatively and held it in the air between them. “Can I touch you? I really want a hug, and I can’t admit what I’m about to if you’re looking at me.”

Derek couldn’t smell anger now. There was still fear, but it was morphing into a different kind. He reached out and took Stiles’ hovering hand then pulled his boyfriend in. “It was only a week, but I missed you.” Stiles wrapped his arms around Derek’s waist and pressed his face into Derek’s neck and for a moment all the tension seemed to melt out of him. It didn’t last.

“I missed you, too. When I left for college I had several goals in mind, but only one is important right now. There was someone from Beacon Hills that I wanted to forget. I wanted to fuck him right out of my head and my heart. It didn’t work, at all. I kept doing what I was doing though. I wanted to discover everything that I could about myself and come back and be the best version of me that I could for him.”

Derek’s heart felt as if it was trying to break out of his chest. His own heartbeat was drowning out the sound of Stiles’. “Did it work?”

Stiles’ stubble was a day or two past comfortable, but the rasp and drag was him smiling against Derek’s neck, so it was more than forgivable. “Other than me giving him a heart attack this afternoon ‘cause I’m still not great at saying what I should? Yeah, I think it’s going pretty well, Sourwolf.”

♠ Glitter [v]: to make a brilliant show; [n]: a sparkling reflected light or luster; showy splendor; small glittering ornaments