#sbcomfort

For a few seconds, Stiles just stops, mouth hanging slightly open, as he looks at the picture in front of him. Derek isn't exactly cuddling Isaac - now that would be a sight - but he doesn't look uncomfortable either. He's sort of holding his shoulder loose and steady so that Isaac's head is pillowed comfortably on it, and there's this odd, relaxed look on his face, this little smile that Stiles has never seen before, like he's settled in some way. His other hand is holding a glass of cranberry juice, and he's leaning back into the sofa cushions like he could stay there all day, even though there's no way that he can be completely comfortable.

That's when Derek seems to become aware of Stiles, head whipping around and the familiar flat expression settling onto his face. His arms jerks, and Isaac shifts his head to rest on a cushion instead, and Stiles feels horrible, because there's this look of loss in Derek's eyes, and it's all his fault for walking in.

"What do you want, Stiles?" Derek asks icily, and Stiles realises his mouth is still open.

He shuts it. "Um - nothing? I mean, I have that research on gremlins you asked for - and let me tell you, finding out those might be real is worse than the whole werewolf revelation thing, seriously, these little fuckers are a menace - but it's not. Important, I mean. It doesn't matter. I can leave? I should leave."

The whole time he's babbling, Derek just stares at him like he's crazy. Which, yeah, he's close, but he can't help it; he feels like he destroyed something for Derek just now.

"Okay," Derek says finally. "Leave the research on the table."

"On the table," Stiles repeats faintly, because Derek is using his Alpha voice and there's something incredibly hot about that. "On the table, got it. Will do. Um—"

Derek raises an eyebrow. "Yes?"

"Isaac doesn't look very comfortable," Stiles says, very quickly. Derek frowns and looks at Isaac, who is peacefully drooling onto a cushion. "Like, he looked really comfortable on your shoulder," Stiles presses.

Slowly, Derek looks back at him. "Are you making fun of me?" he asks, sounding oddly hurt.

"No!" Stiles all but yells, lowering his voice at the last second so Isaac won't wake up. "Fuck, no, Derek, I swear, I just meant—" He sighs in defeat. "I'm gonna go," he says.

Now Derek just looks perplexed. "Okay," he says.

Stiles practically sprints out of there, remembering only at the last moment to leave his bundle of papers on the kitchen table.

Now that he's seen it once, Stiles starts noticing it more and more, to the extent that he feels like a moron for not having seen it sooner. They’re all crowded around Derek’s enormous kitchen table, studying the blueprints to the local aquarium – it’s a long story, involving, if Peter is to be believed, an actual kraken – and Erica reaches across Derek’s arm to get at one of the papers. She brushes past Derek’s hand, and Derek – Derek tenses, but not in a bad way. More like he wants to savour the brief contact for as long as he can while Erica rifles obliviously through the blueprints, his chest still like he’s holding his breath. And then, when she does move away, a quiet exhale.

Stiles starts rethinking the look on Derek’s face that time he put his hand on his arm.

When he thinks about it, nobody touches Derek. Like, ever. It’s not as though they’re all a particularly cuddly bunch, exactly, but touching people – it comes naturally, doesn’t it? A clap on the shoulder, a poke in the ribs when someone is being especially obnoxious – which, let’s face it, is all the time in this pack – a fist bump when something goes well. That’s not even coming close to him and Scotty, with their frequent affectionate hugs, high-fives, and hair ruffles.

They’re human beings, albeit with a few added extras. It’s a normal impulse. And yet Derek doesn’t do it at all.

Stiles used to think that that was a conscious choice. That he doesn’t like being touched. But now – he looks at the too-still, almost fragile, set of Derek’s face as Liam trips over his own feet and uses Derek’s shoulder to prop himself up again, and he wonders if actually it might not be the other way around. If maybe Derek thinks that it’s his pack that doesn’t want to touch him.

After all, back when his mom and dad were alive – Stiles has seen how sensory werewolves are. They must have been pretty touchy-feely.

He wonders when the last time that anyone touched Derek on purpose was. The answer is kind of depressing.

Clearly, there’s only one thing to be done, and Stiles maintains that he would totally do it for Derek even if he wasn’t completely head over heels for him. Derek needs some serious touch-time, and Stiles is going to be the one to provide it for him.

He initiates his plan one Sunday when he’s driving Derek, Liam, Mason and Corey home from a totally exhausting fight with – he’s not even joking – some cave trolls. All the grown-ups ­managed to get lifts with other people, so Stiles is stuck babysitting the cubs; Corey is asleep in the back seat with his head on Mason’s shoulder, flickering in and out of visibility, which is really disconcerting if you’re not used to it. According to Mason, he always does it when he sleeps, and it’s ‘really cute’. Stiles rolls his eyes so hard at that that he can practically see the inside of his skull.

Derek, on the other hand, is sitting in the front seat, completely alert and ignoring Liam’s inane questions. Stiles does not blame him; most of the shit that comes out of Liam’s mouth tends to be inane. Derek’s hands are folded in his lap, and Stiles is already contemplating how he can casually touch him without it coming across creepy.

Inspiration strikes when he has to reverse down a side road, because he forgot to drop Liam home before heading back into town.

Casually – yeah, casual, Stiles can totally do casual – he throws his arm across Derek’s headrest while he looks over his shoulder to reverse. That’s normal. He always does that when he reverses. Maybe not quite so dramatically, but still. Totally normal.

Derek gives him a weird look. “You’re clear,” he says.

“Yeah, I know,” Stiles says, just ever-so-slightly aggrieved. He can drive. He doesn’t need Derek to tell him how.

“Your heart is going too fast,” Liam says sleepily from the backseat, which might explain why Derek felt the need to explain that there aren’t any cars to be afraid of.

Stiles shrugs, the movement pushing his arm a little closer to Derek’s shoulder. “Leftover adrenaline, I guess,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady. He reverses slowly, letting his arm slide further across the headrest until it’s practically behind Derek’s head. “Am I still clear?”

Derek rolls his eyes and doesn’t answer, so Stiles just completes the manoeuvre without waiting for a response. When he’s done, he leaves his arm where it is, just driving casually back to Liam’s place as though he’s forgotten it’s there. Carefully, he lets his bare forearm touch the back of Derek’s neck.

Derek doesn’t say anything. It’s kind of hard to keep track of whether or not he’s even noticed the contact, let alone whether or not he likes it, because Stiles does actually have to watch the road while he’s driving, but still. He’s counting it as a win.

“Stiles,” Derek says flatly.

Stiles glances at him. “Yeah?”

“Your arm.”

Okay, maybe not a win. Stiles removes his arm – trying to look as though it had been a total accident, whoops, how did that get there? – and goes back to the drawing board.

The drawing board, as it turns out, is Scott. Which shouldn’t really be surprising to Stiles, because hello, Scotty is his best friend and basically there’s no one better to help him out here, but it still feels like a loss because Stiles was kind of hoping to do this one on his own.

“You want me to do what?” Scott says blankly, when Stiles brings it up one Wednesday night when they’re playing Halo.

“Touch him. Derek, I mean,” Stiles says. On-screen, Scott’s character dies in a blaze of gunfire. Scott sucks at Halo.

For a few moments, there’s silence as Scott tries to figure out what went wrong. “Isn’t that, like, what you want to do?”

“Shut up,” Stiles says quickly, because one of the rules of bro-ship is that they don’t mention their stupid crushes. “It’s not about that.”

“Okay,” Scott says. “So what’s it about?”

“Pack,” Stiles says succinctly. Scott just looks at him; Stiles sighs. “No one ever touches him. Like, ever. And I think it’s bad for him.”

There’s a long pause while Scott dies again, extremely dramatically. Then he says: “Okay.”

“You’re the best, Scotty,” Stiles says jubilantly. “Also, you suck at Halo.”

Scott sighs sadly. “I know,” he says.

Scott isn’t exactly the subtlest of people. At the next pack meeting, after they’ve discussed the cave troll incident in depth, he says loudly: “Good job, everyone!” and gives Derek – whom he’d deliberately placed himself beside – a hearty clap on the back.

Derek looks totally taken aback, but pleased as well, in Stiles’ opinion.

Once Scott has started it, it gets easier for Stiles to keep it going. One Saturday, Boyd is mooching around, kicking a pinecone across the floor of the flat and basically looking pissy at the world. Stiles sidles up to him.

“What’s up, big guy?”

Boyd gives him a flat look. “Fuck off, Stiles.”

Stiles, of course, doesn’t. “You look like you need a hug,” he persists.

Boyd sighs. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?” Stiles says. “Come on, hugs make everything better.”

Boyd levels him with a glare. “I’m not hugging you, Stiles.”

“I didn’t mean me,” Stiles scoffs. He half-turns, looking over to where Derek is leaning sardonically – can you lean sardonically? He totally is, though – against the wall. “Hey, Derek, come here!”

Derek’s eyes flick over to him, and he frowns, even though he must have been able to hear what they were saying. He strides over in a couple of steps. “What do you want, Stiles?” he asks.

Stiles gestures to Boyd, still standing moodily next to him. “Boyd needs a hug.”

Derek does a double-take. “What?”

There’s a really big chance of this crashing and burning. Stiles gulps, but dives in anyway. “A hug?” he says. “You might have heard of them?”

“Stiles—” Boyd begins, sounding pained, but then unexpectedly Derek actually leans in, arms open, and hugs him.

It’s kind of a beautiful sight. Boyd starts out looking totally confused, but it’s clear that Stiles wasn’t actually wrong about him needing a hug, and he sinks into it, putting his arms around Derek’s back. Derek is murmuring something into Boyd’s ear that Stiles can’t hear, and that’s when he realises that this is a private moment. He beats a retreat.

Scott gives him a thumbs-up as he walks into the kitchen.

They start having group hugs after pack meetings. That one was Scott’s idea, and it’s brilliant. Liam, oddly enough, seems to particularly enjoy them, and that gets Stiles wondering how much contact he gets in life. Stiles has grown up with so much affection in his life that it kind of hurts his heart to realise how rare that is.

“Hey, Liam,” he calls out, when they’re gathered in Scott’s living room and Liam is sitting on the floor on his own with his head resting against the armrest of Mason’s chair. It doesn’t look particularly comfortable. “Come sit here.”

‘Here’ means in between Stiles and Derek on the sofa, which is a huge sacrifice as far as Stiles is concerned, because it he was basically internally fist-pumping when he snagged this seat to begin with. Derek gives him a sharp look, but Liam just grins and comes over to sit with them.

Ten minutes later, as Stiles knew she would, Erica comes and sits at the end of the sofa and it’s such a squeeze that Liam is basically squashed right up against Derek’s body. Which is so fucking unfair, because he definitely doesn’t appreciate it the way Stiles would, but whatever. Touch-time comes first.

Liam ends up falling asleep on Derek’s shoulder, and Derek actually gives him a tentative, yet fond, pat on the arm. Double win.

Okay, so maybe Stiles has cottoned on to the fact that Derek basically eats up all the cuddling and touching as long as it’s… well, anybody but him. And maybe that sucks, just a little. But the thing is that Derek? He fucking deserves this, because the more Stiles watches him, the more he realises how fucking good Derek is.

He looks out for everyone. That much has always been obvious, but what Stiles is only now realising is just how much Derek is prepared to do for his pack. He always seems to have a special eye on Isaac, which makes sense because that kid is the softest, most sensitive flower on the planet; not exactly a surprise after everything he’s been through, but still. It’s easy to forget sometimes, when they’re facing monsters every other day. But Derek never does.

God, Derek just… cares. About everyone. He buys about six different flavours of fruit juice so they all have something they like to drink when they come over, and he remembers everyone’s birthdays without being reminded, and anyone new who comes into their lives is subjected to the murder-brows treatment until Derek is sure they aren’t going to hurt anyone.

It’s kind of ridiculous how much more attracted to him this realisation makes Stiles.

Still, the part where Derek is completely turned off by Stiles does kind of suck. It’s about a month after he first decided to get Derek some touch-time when he realises that his goal has been achieved; everyone touches him all the time now. Derek doesn’t look quite as grumpy all the time. There are pats on the back, fist bumps – even hugs. Spontaneous hugs, that Stiles didn’t even have to engineer.

Derek touches everyone. Except him.

Stiles takes a few test-runs to make sure he’s not just being paranoid, partly because paranoia is practically his middle name and partly because he’s hoping it’s not true. He brushes up against Derek when they’re both reaching for a slice of pizza. Deliberately sits too close to him on the couch. Claps him on the back if he comes out with a good suggestion. Offers to high-five him after successful monster fights.

Eventually he just has to stop, because not only are his results depressing, but also he’s starting to move into the creeper zone.

He has to face facts. Derek does not like Stiles touching him.

He tenses up, every fucking time. Goes still and rigid, like someone’s about to hit him. And he always gives Stiles these looks, as though even the idea of Stiles touching him is the craziest thing on the whole fucking planet.

It’s clearly not a touch thing, as Stiles has proved; therefore it must be a Stiles thing.

Stiles finds himself wishing that Derek would go back to not touching anyone at all.

No, he doesn’t really wish that. He’s happy that Derek is finally looking – and hopefully, feeling – like a proper part of the pack. But the fact that Derek is so massively opposed to even the slightest bit of contact with Stiles can really mean only one thing, which is both humiliating and depressing.

Derek must know about Stiles’ stupid crush. And clearly, the concept offends him.

“I mean,” he rants to Scott, lying on his bed with the phone pressed to his ear, “am I that bad? Is the idea of me fancying someone so fucking offensive?”

“No, of course not,” Scott says supportively. “Anyone’d be lucky to have you.”

“Like, it’s fine if he doesn’t feel the same way,” Stiles forges on. “That’s okay. I have a long history of liking people who don’t like me back. But jeez, even Lydia never acted this freaked out by a stupid crush!”

Scott hums, obviously considering this. “Maybe he’s not used to people fancying him,” he offers. “Maybe he’s just freaked out because it doesn’t happen very often.”

“Oh, come on,” Stiles scoffs. “He’s smoking. Everybody fancies Derek.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Scott concedes. Stiles can almost hear him shrugging. “I don’t know what to tell you, Stiles. Derek’s not great at, like, people, is he?”

Stiles sits up in frustration. “Yeah, but that’s the thing, Scotty,” he says eagerly. “He actually kind of is good with people. Like, he cares so much about the pack.” He slumps down a bit. “That’s kind of why this sucks, actually,” he confesses. “He cares about everyone. Except me.”

“Sorry, man,” Scott says sympathetically.

Stiles sighs. “Yeah,” he says despondently. This is so his life.

He’s pretty good at not letting the loneliness take him over, though, especially after so many years of practice with Lydia, so he’s pretty upbeat by the time the next pack night comes around. They’re all over at Derek’s for Chinese and a movie, which apparently it’s Isaac’s turn to pick, so of course they’re watching Harry Potter.

“It’s a classic!” he exclaims, when Stiles turns beady eyes on him.

“The books were classics,” he mutters. “The film is not.”

Behind him, Derek makes an odd, hacking sound that sounds like it could be a laugh. Or a cough. Stiles turns around, surprised; Derek looks away.

Isaac says: “Whatever,” and Stiles decides to ignore the interlude in favour of pointing out the movie’s many flaws and inconsistencies.

Derek doesn’t say anything all. Fucking. Night. It’s getting kind of exhausting by the time they’ve finished the mountain of food they ordered, especially because Stiles has the oddest feeling that it’s somehow related to him. Derek jumps every time Stiles speaks, which, obviously, is often; he won’t meet Stiles’ eye, and he just looks generally uncomfortable. Almost… guilty? But that doesn’t make any sense at all.

“What’s got into Derek?” Scott murmurs at one point, which proves that it’s not just Stiles’ imagination even if Scotty has somehow failed to remember that Derek is definitely able to hear them.

By the time the pack begins to disperse, Stiles has worked himself up into what might be termed a Bit of a State. Derek won’t look at him, won’t even glance in his direction when Stiles glares at him for a solid three minutes, and it’s pissing Stiles off. There’s no need for him to be so high and mighty; hasn’t he ever had a crush before? He should be flattered by the attention, not freaked out by it. It’s not like Stiles is being pushy or rude. It’s not his fault that Derek is a walking lie-detector.

“Derek,” he says loudly. Scott and Kira, both at the door, turn around in almost perfect synchronicity. Erica, still settled in an armchair with a magazine, looks up interestedly. Even Isaac, hovering in the kitchen, raises a curious eyebrow.

Derek totally ignores him.

“Derek,” Stiles says again. Slowly, with a supreme air of reluctance, Derek looks at him.

“Stiles,” he says, dragging the word out painfully.

Stiles smiles. He likes to think it’s a dangerous smile. “What’s your fucking problem?” he asks sweetly.

“I don’t have a problem,” Derek says, too quickly.

Erica points one long-nailed finger at him. “Lie,” she says in a matter-of-fact sort of voice. “He totally has a problem.” She pauses, cocking her head to one side. “He has lots of problems, actually.”

Stiles huffs in frustration. “Yeah, tell me something I don’t know,” he says. “Like this particular, specific problem. With me.”

Derek frowns at him. “I don’t have a problem with you.”

Both Isaac and Scott let out a simultaneous squawk of laughter. Isaac covers his mouth guiltily; Scott does not.

“See?” Stiles crows, pointing triumphantly at Derek. “Problem. You. With me. What is it?”

Now Derek is looking distinctly nervous. “Stiles…”

“You won’t touch me,” Stiles says, and it comes out sounding a lot more raw than he’d meant it to. He coughs. “And you won’t fucking look at me, dude. What’s the issue?”

“Don’t call me dude,” Derek growls.

Stiles actually stabs the air with his finger. “Don’t change the subject.”

“I don’t have a problem with you!” Derek exclaims, sounding both frustrated and just slightly panicked.

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles says. He hesitates; everyone in the room likely already knows anyway, so he doesn’t have anything to lose. “Are you pissed because you figured out I have a stupid crush on you?”

Scott makes a weird, gormless sort of noise. Erica lets out a cackling laugh. Kira, Stiles is pretty sure, looks like she just saw the cutest kitten ever.

Derek makes an odd, choked-off sound in the back of his throat, and looks at Stiles.

Really looks at him.

Behind him, Scott suddenly gasps. “Oh, shit,” he says. Stiles looks up at him, confused, but he’s hustling Kira out of the room, and it looks like the others are following his example. Even Erica uncurls herself from the armchair at some speed, and within a minute, Stiles and Derek are alone.

“Okay, what the hell was that about?” Stiles asks.

Derek is looking tortured. “You have a crush on me?” he says in a small voice.

Stiles snorts. “Derek. Come on. You knew that.”

“I heard you,” Derek says in a rush. He stops, taking a deep breath. “On the phone. The other day.”

It takes a second, but then Stiles gets it. “Oh, shit,” he says.

“Yeah,” Derek says.

Stiles waits. No further comment seems to be forthcoming. He sighs. “Okay, so?” he says. “You know I like you. Big fucking deal.”

“It’s a big deal,” Derek says, his voice unexpectedly strong. “Stiles, you liking me is a big deal, okay? It’s a big deal.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows. “Okay?”

Derek takes a breath. “You’re the reason the pack… touches me now,” he says.

“I never said that on the phone,” Stiles hedges, feeling awkward. Derek wasn’t supposed to figure that out. But then, Derek isn’t stupid.

“I’m not stupid, Stiles,” Derek says flatly. Which, yeah, that’s exactly what Stiles was just thinking! “I notice things.”

“Okay, well, sorry if I overstepped,” Stiles says huffily. “I didn’t mean to freak you out. And I didn’t do it because of the…”

“Stupid crush?” Derek asks.

“Right,” Stiles says. “I didn’t do it because of that, okay? I did it because you’re a good person and you deserve it.”

“Stiles,” Derek says. “I have a crush on you too.”

There’s a silence, a beat that just fucking hangs in the air while the entire bottom drops out of Stiles’ world. He can feel his fingers opening and closing at his sides. “What?” he says finally.

“I have a stupid crush as well,” Derek repeats, enunciating clearly.

Stiles narrows his eyes. “You’re just saying that because of the touch-time.”

“Touch-time?” Derek says.

Stiles waves an impatient hand. “You know what I mean.”

Derek slides a little closer to him on the sofa. “I’m not,” he says earnestly. He hesitates. “Why do you think you’re the only one I don’t touch?”

“Because you know I fancy you and it freaks you out?” Stiles hazards. Derek shakes his head vehemently.

“Touching you would be torture,” he says, so sincerely that it kind of makes Stiles’ heart stop, “because I wouldn’t want to stop.”

“Oh,” Stiles says. He thinks about it. “What if you don’t have to?”

Derek smiles then, a beautiful, shy, genuine smile that reaches his eyes and sets them alight. His knees nudge Stiles’. “I could live with that,” he says quietly.

Derek frowns. No one had said a word about the black cloud hanging over Stiles’ head or the thick scent of misery that’s been clinging to the back of Derek’s throat since Stiles walked through the door, but a low thrum of anger had clung to each of his betas. Scott had repeatedly shot him significant looks while staying pressed to his best friend’s side before Stiles had huffed and disappeared into the kitchen. So, he’s either completely missing something or something happened at school that the rest of them already know about. Derek feels himself bristle because if it’s the latter, it was bad enough that the pack didn’t even tease Stiles about it. Meaning Erica and Jackson held their tongues instead of taunting Stiles further. Unheard of.  

WIthout a second thought, Derek strides down the hall to the big storage closest he’d converted to an actual functional kitchen when he’d decided to stay here. Just like he suspected, Stiles is standing at the sink with his plaid shirt folded up to his elbows and those forearms he’s finally growing into covered in suds as he washes a plate. The amber eyes Derek likes to pretend he doesn’t try to catch every chance he gets are red rimmed and downcast. That perfect, sarcastic mouth turned down at the corners. Those broad shoulders are curved inward like Stiles is trying to make himself smaller. Like he’s trying to make himself less of a target.

That thought breaks something loose in Derek’s chest and he’s across the kitchen in a heartbeat. A high whine escapes his throat, as he slips his arms around Stiles’s waist and molds himself against the human’s back; forming a barrier between Stiles and the rest of the world. It’s only after he’s buried his nose in that soft patch of skin behind an ear that he realizes that Stiles has gone completely still.

It’s not without effort that he pulls his face away from where he’s longed to press it for so long and hooks his chin over Stiles’s shoulder. He’s not good with words. Stiles knows this and usually takes up the slack, but Derek’s going to have to make an effort today.  

“What’s wrong Stiles?”

For one moment, everything is suspended. Stiles is holding himself statue still, despite his racing heart and Derek honestly thinks Stiles will push him away. They’re no strangers to the other’s personal space, that closeness just usually comes during or directly after one supernatural battle or another in the form of carrying, holding up, or tending wounds or on movie nights when they inevitably end up pressed together. Just before Derek thinks he’ll disengage, Stiles goes boneless and sags completely against him. He presses his temple to Derek’s just for a moment then turns and burrows into Derek, head tucked under the wolf’s chin and damp arms bent up and drawn tightly to his chest. Derek adjusts his arms to draw Stiles impossibly closer, ensconcing him completely, and presses his cheek against gelled tufts of chestnut hair.

Then, he waits. Waits while Stiles gets his breathing back under control. Waits while that zealous heart slows back to it’s usual too quick pace. Waits for Stiles to speak.

He would wait forever.

Stiles sniffs and uses his fist to wipe at his nose before he mumbles into Derek’s chest. “It’s stupid.”

Derek feels his eyebrows pinch. “It’s obviously not. You’re upset Stiles. Really upset. Whatever it is, it’s not stupid.”

“If…if I said that I didn’t want to talk about it, would that be ok?”

Stiles’s voice comes out so small that the growl rumbles out of him before he can stop it. “Did someone hurt you?”

He can feel the heat as it builds in Stiles’s face and body, smell the tears that have formed again in his eyes, feel the tremble in his shoulders.

“Hey, Stiles.” Derek’s hands travel up and down the curves of Stiles’s back, one finally settling against the nape of his neck and holding firm. “I’m sorry. Of course you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

Stiles shudders against him, but nods and tucks his face against his closed fists, damp cheek pressed into Derek’s chest. Derek swallows as the scent of misery swells and drips with notes of shame. His own eyes are wet by the time Stiles settles again.

Afraid of making it worse, he carefully lifts his hands until they cup Stiles’s cheeks and gently coaxes him up to meet Derek’s eyes. He’s tear streaked, a little snotty and still the most beautiful thing Derek has ever seen. The wolf in him, hell the man in him, wants to tear the world apart, rend flesh until recompense has been paid. Someone hurt Stiles and someone needs to pay for that, but he stamps those urges down. Stiles needs him here and now, and like hell if he’s going to screw this up.

He reaches behind Stiles for the dish towel laying on the counter and gently wipes the human’s cheeks and nose. Stiles is watching him with a carefully guarded expression. When he tosses the towel across the hall towards the closet with the washer and dryer Stiles breaks his silence.

“Why are you doing this?”

Derek turns back to him keeping his hands loose at his sides, holds his gaze, and says pointedly. “You know why Stiles.”

There’s the slightest quiver in Stiles’s lip. The faintest uptick in his pulse. He swallows and whispers, “Say it...please say it, Derek.”

This is it, Derek knows. The moment they’ve been building towards for the last two years, if not longer. The thing is Derek has said it. Nearly everyday in glances and actions if not in words. He’s been waiting. Waiting for Stiles to be old enough. Waiting for the time to be right. Waiting for the courage to so thoroughly expose himself like he swore he’d never do again, but looking at Stiles now, so earnest and vulnerable, so obviously needing this from him, Derek finds it’s suddenly simple to comply. He may not be able to right all the wrongs made against Stiles or shelter him from all the danger and pain this world might throw at him, but he can offer up this one simple truth. This one wholly honest part of himself.

“I love you.”

Something like relief flashes across Stiles’s face before the corners of his mouth curve up and he’s pressing his forehead against Derek’s. Tears once again gathering in the corners of his eyes.

That same little whine pinches out of Derek’s throat again. “Stiles...baby, please don’t cry.” Derek’s hands frame the younger man’s face once again, thumbs catching the tears as they fall.

Stiles huffs a tiny laugh and the sound of it eases the clench of Derek’s heart. “I’m sorry.” He grips Derek’s wrists.”I’m sorry. I had a really bad day. And yes, someone did hurt me...Said some things to me that just dug in for some reason. I don’t know. But I needed that and I needed you.” Stiles winds his arms around Derek and holds on.

“You’ve got me.” Derek breathes. “I’m pretty sure you’ve always had me...and I’m here when you do want to talk about it.”

“Always?” Stiles smirks.

Derek huffs and pulls him closer, nuzzles against the side of his face. “Always.”

“I love you too, you know.”

Derek presses his smile against Stiles’s temple, his cheek, then finally his lips. The kiss is open and deep and everything he’s wanted and beyond anything he’s imagined.

When they break apart, Derek keeps him close, doesn’t think he’ll be capable of ever letting him get too far away again.

“What do you say we break out that ice cream you think you’ve got hidden in the back of the freezer and watch a movie?” Stiles waggles his eyebrows and adds, “Maybe make-out a little?”

The licking woke him up in a confused jolt. He laid there, blinking blearily as the licks continued. A whining replaced them – high pitched and worried.

Stiles rubbed his hands down his face, sighing. “I'm okay, Der. Just a nightmare.”

The snorting sound told him that his husband didn't believe that in the slightest. So did the resuming of the wolfy licks. Stiles sputtered, the wolf tongue sometimes going where it shouldn't.

“Gak! Derek! Stop! I'm fine! I'm okay! Blegh! Stop! I don't like wolf tongue in my mouth!”

Derek stopped again, his wet nose poking at Stiles' chest. He made a rumbling sound shortly after, resembling laughter. Or what could be laughter in this form. It was a welcoming sound, despite the teasing tone of it. Stiles shoved the massive, black, fluffy wolf off of him, huffing and pouting as the wolf rumble laughed again.

This always happened when he had a nightmare.

The first time was terrifying – Derek absolutely clueless on what to do. All he found himself able to do was hold Stiles as he tried to soothe him the best he could. The second time was worse. A nightmare Stiles had to scream himself awake from.

However, after reading up on and seeing a commercial about service dogs, Derek began to shift into his wolf form whenever he felt or heard Stiles having a nightmare. He'd then lick him awake, and stayed as a wolf all night. When it was morning, he'd make a heaping stack of waffles for them and cuddle Stiles for the entire day. If Stiles had to be at work that day, Derek would call his husband's work place and inform them that Stiles would not be coming in. That he was unwell.

The guy was a bit ridiculous at times.

Then again...when Derek had a nightmare, more specifically one about the fire, Stiles would pull him into his chest and let Derek scent his throat as long as he could stay awake. This was so that when Derek woke up later, he would wake to the smell of his husband rather than phantom smoke. If Derek was having trouble sleeping, they would stay up and talk for a while. Or, well, Stiles would talk until Derek had finally dozed off. Sometimes, Stiles would hum or sing him a lullaby. In the morning, he'd make a huge buffet of breakfast goodies and call into work so he could give his hubby all the love and attention he needed.

Okay...so they were both ridiculous.

Sue them for understanding what worked for the other to beat their demons.

Derek yawned wide, tongue rolling out and back in within a few seconds. It was cute. Made Stiles chuckle and scratch at the wolfy ears. The wolf huffed, seemingly rolling his eyes as he plopped his upper half down on Stiles' chest. Stiles oofed. Loudly. Which brought out a whine from the giant ass puppy.

“I'm good. Just lemme scratch your ears till I pass out. That'll make up for you almost crushing me to death.”

Derek grunted, looking utterly unimpressed. Nonetheless, he allowed his ears to be scratched.

Like always.

Stiles had no idea when he eventually fell asleep. Just knew that when he woke up, the covers were down at his feet. And his shirt had rode all the way up to his armpits. And his sweats were trying to vacate his hips. And the heavenly smell of bacon sneaking through the crack of the door.

Odd. Derek didn't make bacon the morning after a nightmare.

Not that he was complaining! It was just...out of routine.

He rolled out of bed, making sure to adjust his clothing just a smidgen, before wandering out of the room. The smell of bacon smacked him right in the face. Nearly made him fall back into the bedroom! But he persisted, making his way into the kitchen. And, huh. That was...a whole lot more than bacon that Derek was adding to the routine.

It was quite the impressive spread. There were waffles, pancakes, sausage, eggs, bagels, honeydew, cantaloupe, pineapple, strawberries, fried chicken tenders, and the bacon was currently in the process of being cooked. Syrup, peanut butter, powdered sugar, and regular butter were set out as well. It was like the buffet kind of deal Stiles did for Derek's nightmares. With the exception that it was a bit smaller.

“Morning, Mischief.”

He shuddered at the nickname, eyes wandering upon the triskele tattoo.

Ever since his dad mentioned, at their wedding no less, the little nickname  he used to go by before Stiles became a thing, Derek took every opportunity to use it. 'Course...the guy could say his birth name like it was second nature and used it at every opportunity as well. But those opportunities were for more...special occasions.

Anywho...

Breakfast. Not just waffles. Routine broken.

“Mornin', big bad. Um...what's with the big breakfast?”

Derek shrugged, continuing to attend with the bacon.

Oh no. Nuh-uh. None of that! Stiles pressed himself against Derek's back, hands sinking into the pockets of the wolf's sweats. He set his chin on his shoulder, blowing air against his ear. On cue, Derek shivered. Groaned a little, too.

“Why are you making a huge breakfast? You usually make just waffles after my nightmares.”

He could see Derek gnawing at his lip, as if he was scared to get into trouble. This made Stiles perk with worry. He clung to his spouse, nosing at the neck.

“Derek? What is it? You can tell me.”

It took more nosing at the neck, and a few kisses, before Derek exhaled shakily and bowed his head. As if he had been caught with a hand in the cookie jar. Was adorable! Yet still concerning.

“You dreamed of the nogitsune. I heard you say that riddle over and over again...”

Stiles tensed. The riddle. The very one tattooed on his right arm as a reminder. Because the remnants of the mock Lichtenberg figure wasn't enough. Nor the nightmares. At first, Derek was wary of the idea when Stiles told him, but he relented when it was promised that a triskele on the left wrist would be the next tattoo. 

(Which was followed by an ancient Viking compass rune just above the triskele. And the vow to never put himself through all that torture again.)

“You make me a big breakfast when I dream of the fire...” Derek muttered shyly.

Stiles snorted, poking at his cheek. “I make a big breakfast regardless of what nightmare you have.”

Derek grunted, bumping back with his shoulder. “I just wanted to make you your favorite breakfast things. I know how you are after a nightmare with the nogitsune. Especially one that makes you say the riddle. You may not realize it but...you're quiet and a little withdrawn.  It starts out normal, but after breakfast...” He sighed, sagging a little. “I just wanted to make you happy. Treat you. Like you do for me.”

It couldn't be helped. Stiles cooed fondly and kissed the wolf's cheek.

Which, in turn, made Derek's ears go pink.

“You know something? This does make me happy. And, well, if you really wanna treat me...I have a wonderful suggestion. You. Me. Bath tub. With that glittery bath bomb I bought the other day. The one that smells like cotton candy.”

Derek chuckled, turning his head and kissing each of Stiles' eyelids. “Sounds great. We can do that after breakfast.”

“See? I knew you wanted to try that bath bomb as much as I do.”

An eye roll. (Was fond, mind you.) “Shut up.”

~+~

Breakfast was great. Lots of laughter and playing footsies under the table.

Glitter all over the tub and them was worth it. Even if Derek griped about it.

Cuddling on the couch, doing their own commentary for a variety of TV shows was fun as hell.

And when Derek had a nightmare a few weeks later, waking up wracked with sobs, Stiles returned the favor tenfold. Which included not only another bath bomb, but an immaculate flower crown that Stiles made himself.