#bottcmderek

“What?” He squints at Derek, unsure of where this is going. Derek used to be fairly predictable, with all the growling and the anger and mistrust. He could count on him to be an asshole and wanting to do exactly the opposite of whatever Scott was thinking. But now, now Scott and Derek mesh annoyingly well, and they smile at each other and have weird wolfy bonding sessions out in the preserve with Liam and Malia that Stiles wants absolutely no part of. He’s perfectly fine staying back and watching all the movies no one else ever wants to watch with Kira (or the pair of them getting steamrolled by Lydia and her rom coms but whatever. Stiles digs Matthew McConaughey so it’s chill).

“I learned how to read palms when I was in New York.” Derek says calmly, not looking up from the book in his own hands. Stiles narrows his eyes. He’s almost too calm. But Scott, who has reappeared from the kitchen with a bowl of popcorn and three cans of soda, seems to be excited. Which means Derek probably isn’t lying.

“Oh yeah?” Stiles sets his case file down on the coffee table, deciding to take the bait. He shifts closer to Derek, forcing himself to calm down when Scott takes his seat, leaving him in the middle of the couch with so escape. “What do mine say?”

“Are you sure you want to know?” Derek asks, deadly serious as he takes Stiles’ hands. Stiles rolls his eyes, trying to distract himself from the soft drag of the pads of Derek’s fingers across the backs of his hands, his knuckles, Derek’s thick thumb sweeping across his palm. He swallows hard, forcing himself to think of something, anything, other than Derek’s fingers.

“Did they teach you to be dramatic too?” Stiles grins at him. “Never mind, that’s always been part of the Derek Hale package.”

Derek scowls at him, which is much more normal and vaguely comforting. Stiles knows how to handle Derek Hale scowling at him. He lives for this kind of thing, poking and prodding until he gets a reaction. According to Scott they’re too old for pigtail pulling (that is not what this is, by the way), but since when has he ever listened to Scott anyways?

Speaking of Scott, Stiles can feel him breathing down the back of his neck.

“I require neck kisses if I’m going to have to feel your hot breath on me,” he smirks, turning to look over his shoulder and finding himself face to face with Scott. He yelps and lunges forward, which only send him crashing into Derek’s chest. Which is the actual worst place to be when squished between two werewolves who can smell boners on a not nearly big enough couch. This time he squawks and falls back towards Scott, who of course, catches him and straightens him up, brushing off his shoulders.

“Shouldn’t throw stones when you live in a glass house dude,” Scott says easily, settling back into the couch and turning his attention to the episode of New Girl playing softly on the TV.

“What are you trying to say?” Stiles scoffs as he hold his hands back out to Derek, glaring at Scott over his shoulder. All he gets is a shrug. Which is rude as fuck.

“He’s trying to say that you’re dramatic,” Derek grumbles, staring intently at Stiles’ palms. Derek’s intense looks always make him squirm, whether they’re directed right at him or not. It’s just… there’s this depth to Derek’s eyes that makes him feel things that make him uncomfortable. Things that he only feels for a very short list of people. Like his Dad, and Scott and… That’s it. That’s the end of his list. Like, he loves the pack, he does, but that’s a different kind of feeling than what he has for his Dad and Scott, the two most important people in his life. But somehow Derek is inching his way in there, has been inching his way in there for who knows how long. Years, probably.

“Wow, could you tell that from my hands? Color me impressed.” He grins through the sarcasm, enjoying the way Derek’s eyebrows seem to lower by degrees, with every word he utters.

“Shut up.”

Sometimes Stiles wishes that Derek’s growly voice still did anything other than turn him on, but it really, really doesn’t. Instead, it makes him want to jump him, to straddle those thighs and kiss his mouth, fangs and all.

“Scotty, tell me something gross. Birth any puppies lately?” Stiles practically pleads, slamming his eyes shut and praying to the anyone that will listen that the images of Derek’s stubbled cheeks rubbing against his neck will just like, disappear.

“Nah,” Scott sounds disinterested. He’s really pretty rude today. “But I did see Coach Finstock in the showers at the gym today. That was traumatizing.”

Stiles chokes on his own spit as he doubles over laughing, ignoring Derek’s irritated huff in favor of celebrating the fact that sexy make out sessions have now been firmly replaced by the amazing image of Scott and Finstock in the showers in his brain. Oh man. This is the best day ever.

“Oh!” Derek gasps, his fingers tightening around Stiles hands. Stiles straightens immediately, eyes going wide as he takes in Derek’s alarmed expression.

“Oh no,” he swallows, nerves jangling. “What is it? Is my life line short? Is my love line nonexistent?”

“It says,” Derek lets out a breath, looking up at him with solemn eyes. “That you’re a nerd.”

The room falls eerily silent, the only sound is Schmidt yelling something vaguely douchey on the TV. Stiles’ chest starts to hurt and he realizes he was holding his breath, letting it out in a low gasp.

“Oh my god,” Scott whispers from behind him, holding out a fist over Stiles shoulder. Derek bumps it, that slow smile creeping over his face as Scott starts to laugh, that deep belly one where he throws his head back. Stiles isn’t looking at him though, his eyes narrowed as he glares (pretends to glare, really) at Derek.

Who looks beautiful like this, with his eyes lighting up and his nose crinkling just slightly and his smile wide and beautiful and making Stiles’ heart squeeze tight in his chest. His smile only gets brighter the longer Scott laughs, but his hands are still holding Stiles’, still there, warm and steady and big.

So Stiles kisses him.

It doesn’t work, not really.

Their teeth clack together because Derek is smiling, and then Scott yelps which makes Stiles smile, so their chins scrape and teeth clack some more and noses bump. But then Derek tilts his head and pulls Stiles in with handfuls of his flannel. And this time, this time it’s perfect, all soft lips and slick tongues and the warm heat of Derek’s actual mouth. Stiles is going to die, because Derek Fucking Hale is kissing him back like he means it, like he wants it.

He’s considering the merits of just climbing right into his lap when a throat clears behind him.

Right.

Scotty.

“I’d like to propose a toast.”

Stiles is fully prepared to just ignore his best friend, but there’s something cold and wet pressed against the side of his neck. So he pulls away from Derek with a squawk, glaring at Scott as he falls back onto the couch. Scott doesn’t seem to care, still grinning as he passes them each a can of Coke. Derek takes his can with one of his special Scott Smiles, popping the tab before glancing at Stiles. And this glance, this look on his face, all blushing and shy, it’s the most perfect thing Stiles has ever seen in his entire life. He’s done for, is what he is.

Stiles takes his own can and pops the top, raising an eyebrow at Scott.

“To new beginnings!”

“To new beginnings,” Stiles repeats, tapping his can against Scott and Derek’s.

His eyes catch Derek’s as they both drink, and he watches, fascinated, as a flush spreads delicately across Derek’s nose and cheeks.