dying on the pass - seaweedwater (2024)

Chapter 1: can't get back again

Chapter Text

This bathroom is an ocean, with its deep blue tiled walls glimmering their imperfections like dappled sunlight over water. If he holds his breath long enough, he can pretend he’s drowning, surrendering to the blurry edges of his vision as he watches himself in the mirror. And then, instinct kicks in, gasping for air, bowing over the sink with heaving breaths. Red dots burst into the porcelain basin, tiny droplets ricocheting before melting into pink streams.

Tilting his head back, his gaze fixes on his reflection as he pinches the bridge of his nose, his eyes low, his nostrils dark and wet as he sniffles. His throat burns, a bitter, metallic taste that Stiles has grown to crave as the buzzy euphoria sets in.

He cups his hand under the water flow, wiping his face off before snatching a paper towel and stuffing it up his nose.

The door bursts open, Stiles freezing until he realizes it’s only Isaac, the air in his lungs releasing once he eases.

“Hey,” Stiles offers, twisting the paper towel in his nostril before pulling it away. He looks at it with a grimace as he sniffles again, dropping it into the nearby garbage bin as he wipes his nose.

“You should know something,” Isaac says, his eyes skimming over him as they watch each other in the mirror.

Stiles swipes his hand over his bleached buzzcut, smooths over his manicured stubble, and turns to face Isaac fully, drawing him in by the hem of his shirt. “Is it good or bad?”

“Uh, well it’s not good,” he responds, an amused smirk curling his lips as Stiles backs him against the stall.

“Then I don’t wanna know.” Stiles presses against him as their lips meet, Isaac letting out a muffled grunt as Stiles pushes between his thighs. He can feel him smiling as their lips move together, Isaac’s hands slipping around his neck, Stiles’ hands on his hips as he slips his tongue in.

The door bursts open again, their lips breaking apart with an abrupt smack.

Isaac’s eyes widen at the person behind him, and Stiles follows his line of sight as he peers over his shoulder. The air in his lungs turns to lead, fingertips icy cold as blood rushes in his ears.

He looks good, his beard peppered, hair pushed back, mouth open and eyes wide in stupefaction as he glances between the two. He’s… bigger, and older, but he’s still Derek, and Stiles is convinced he would smell the same if he were to press into his neck as his instincts recklessly urge him to. And, as if drawn by an invisible force, Derek strides forward, hooks his fingers around Stiles’ oversized t-shirt, and yanks him back before a fist blurs past him, connecting with Isaac’s cheek.

“What the f*ck, Derek!” Stiles yells, his hands flying to press against Derek’s chest as he slides in between them. Isaac groans, reaching to cover his face in a late reflex as he hunches over in pain.

Derek feels more like a wild animal under his fingertips than ever before, his eyes almost feral as Stiles shoves him. “What are you even doing here, dude?!” Stiles snaps, meeting Derek’s gaze for the first time in three years—since the wedding, to be exact.

Derek regards him as he rears his head back, eyebrows furrowed in bewilderment. “This is my restaurant! What are you doing here?!” His eyes shift back to Isaac when he asks the question, glare intense before noticeably softening as his studious gaze settles over Stiles again.

Compared to the last time Derek saw him, Stiles looks like another person entirely; tattoos embellish his skin, a titanium hoop pierces a nostril and a lobe, and he’s dressed as a f*ckboy in pink, clothes spilling off him as he studies Derek right back.

Stiles is another person entirely.

He scowls at Derek before turning back to Isaac, lifting his chin as he examines the side of his face, the pale flesh already swelling and red. “Are you okay?”

Isaac gives him a curt nod, his eyes pointed down as he avoids Derek’s gaze. His skin flushes in shame, and Stiles whips back to Derek and shouts, “Did you seriously just punch him?! f*cking hell, Derek! Go get him some f*cking ice!”

“Are you f*cking kidding me right now?”

“Do I look like I’m f*cking kidding?” Stiles is f*cking pissed, his high ruined, skin buzzing all wrong. The way Derek is looking at him, his brows all furrowed in puzzlement, fills Stiles with the itch to punch him right back. With how beefy Derek is these days, it probably wouldn’t do his writing hand any favors, yet his fists clench in fury, nonetheless.

When Derek makes no move, Stiles scoffs and snatches a handful of paper towels before wetting them under the cold water, hands shaking as he mutters, “You’re not even supposed to be here today.”

He wrings out the paper towels before gently pressing the makeshift pack against Isaac’s cheek. Isaac winces, glancing between the two as he reaches up to hold the pack in place.

“What the f*ck is happening right now,” Derek wonders out loud, like he can’t believe he’s witnessing Stiles tending to Isaac after assaulting him, or that Stiles looks entirely different than Derek has ever seen him and could ever even imagine, or that Stiles is even here in front of him in the first place.

“I’m gonna… go,” Isaac mutters, sending Derek a rueful look as he starts towards the door. Stiles grabs his wrist but Isaac gives him a hardened stare, shaking his head subtly as he tugs his hand back and slips away.

Stiles clenches his jaw, his gaze following Isaac out before begrudgingly turning to Derek.

“You’re not supposed to be here today,” Stiles repeats, crossing his arms over his middle.

“Again, my restaurant. What are you doing here?” Derek asks, and this time his tone is softer, like he’s in awe of Stiles’ presence as if the heavens ordained it here in this godforsaken bathroom. Stiles can’t help but roll his eyes.

“It’s my birthday. Lydia told you to stay away today for a reason.”

Stiles should have hightailed it out of here with Isaac; why he didn’t probably says a lot about where his masoch*stic tendencies lie these days.

Derek blinks and takes a step closer, his eyes consuming him whole. Stiles could see the hunger in his stare, could feel where eyes lay on his skin. He takes a step back, his ass bumping into the sink.

“You wanted to have your birthday party here?” Derek asks carefully, his eyebrows raising.

Stiles purses his lips, suddenly feeling caught and childlike. Of course he wanted to eat good food on his birthday; it’s guaranteed at dionysus, and all his favorites are on the menu.

And Derek was not supposed to f*cking be here today.

“Would you go help Isaac? Or I’m gonna tell him to press charges, because that was f*cking stupid and reckless. Grow up,” Stiles huffs, and with that he starts towards the door, anxious to get out from under Derek’s eyes. Derek steps sideways to block his path, a pleased and arrogant grin twisting his lips. His smile is as gorgeous as ever, even if Stiles would like to smack it off.

“You wouldn’t do that and we both know it,” he says, and Stiles has to look away, Derek’s gaze is so penetrating.

“Do you really want to test me?” Stiles asks, an eyebrow arched as he faces him again. He doesn’t like being this close to him, only a foot of distance between them. He takes a step back, and when Derek follows him like a f*cking predator, Stiles grits his teeth and glares. “What are you doing?”

“Are you really f*cking my best friend?” Derek asks point blank, eyes on Stiles’ lips.

“Oh, that’s f*cking rich, coming from you. You haven’t talked to him in three years. f*ck you, Derek,” Stiles shakes his head abruptly and shoves him out of the way, completely f*cking done with the entitlement pouring off him. Derek’s hand grips his wrist in his classic gesture to rein him back in, and Stiles snatches his hand back like he touched a hot element, the ghost of Derek's rough fingers seared onto his skin.

“No! You don’t get to f*cking touch me! You don’t get to be jealous, you f*cking jagoff! f*cking… go help Isaac!” he shouts, his voice reverberating off the walls, and he’s so mad he sees red as he swipes at his nose again, itching for another bump as he yanks open the door. He makes determined strides away from… that, his hands shaking as he flexes and unflexes them.

Stiles walks into the kitchen like he owns it (because he does, 49% of it), the air humid and fragrant as he makes his way to the ice machine, snatching a kitchen cloth from the fresh stack and forcing the lid of the ice machine open.

A few workers are watching him, but no one stops as he furiously tucks ice into the provisional pocket of the kitchen towel. They know who he is, Stiles recognizing a few from his previous visits, always on days Derek isn’t here.

He lets the door slam shut as he swings around, and Derek is there, watching him curiously as he hands Stiles a plastic bag. Stiles snatches it from him with a sneer, pouring the ice in before wrapping it with the towel.

“Why are you in my kitchen?” Derek asks, and Stiles can sense the amusem*nt in his tone as Derek watches him. Stiles knows he looks all flustered and angry, his brow in a scowl since the moment Derek walked in on them. The audacity of him, to come in on his birthday, to act like he has a f*cking right to even look at him has Stiles trembling with rage.

Coming down from co*ke doesn’t help, either.

“Look, this isn’t like, some weird gesture to get your attention. I’m here because I didn’t think you would be here today and I wanted to eat good food. So, f*ck off, please,” Stiles drones, his wrist flicking like he’s swatting away an annoying bug.

“So you wanted to eat my food on your birthday,” Derek states matter-of-factly, no attempt at hiding the mirth and satisfaction in his tone—completely unfazed over Stiles’ discernable agitation.

Stiles doesn’t dignify that with a response. He regrets coming here at all today. Derek had a good point—what was Stiles doing here on his birthday, eating Derek’s food, partying with half of Derek’s staff because they also happen to be the people Stiles is closest to these days?

Well, he didn’t lie when he said there would never be a time when he wouldn’t desire Derek.

But he would never act on that desire again. Look where it got him the last time.

“You could have gone anywhere in the world for your birthday, but you chose my restaurant of all places,” Derek continues as he follows Stiles towards the exit.

“Jesus Christ, get over yourself, Hale. It’s the only place I have the authority to shut down for the day,” Stiles spits, and while that may technically be true thanks to Lydia, Stiles has the power to shut down any restaurant in the city, the world, even, with the snap of his fingers, and they both know it.

It’s a lame excuse, but he’s not going to let Derek think he’s here for any other reason than to just eat.

He is not here for Derek.

Stiles knows his party can see them from the floor, the glass wall offering a silent stage as they sit around pushed-together tables. He’s not worried about being recorded or this interaction ending up in a rag, but he’d rather not be seen with Derek at all, would actually prefer to pretend Derek doesn’t even exist anymore because it’s a lot easier than knowing he’s thriving and living his best life without Stiles in it.

Just as Stiles exits the kitchen, Lydia walks in, her eyes wide as she flicks them between them.

“Thank god. Can you get him out of here, please? I’m so f*cking done with him,” Stiles grumbles, shaking his head as he makes his way back to his party. He makes the mistake of looking back, Derek’s face fallen as he watches Stiles walk away, Lydia’s hand on his chest to keep him from following. Stiles quickly looks forward as he takes his place beside Isaac.

“Here,” Stiles says, his voice softening as he passes over the ice pack. He grabs his wine glass, taking a long sip of it before Jackson makes his way over to refill it. At the same time, he surreptitiously slips a fresh baggie into Stiles’ palm, and Stiles can’t help but beam at him.

“My hero,” he purrs, and Jackson winks at him as he moves along, filling the other’s glasses.

“What happened?” Isaac asks, sitting back in his chair as he holds the ice to his cheek. He looks like he wants to leave, but he’s toughing it out for Stiles. Stiles will be sure to heavily reward his suffering.

Stiles smirks as he sips his wine. “He asked me if I was really f*cking his ‘best friend’.” He gestures lazy air quotes and rolls his eyes. Isaac blinks and rears his head back in bewilderment.

“I told him to f*ck off,” Stiles mumbles, the baggie burning a hole in his pocket. His eyes shift to the bathroom again as he takes another drink from his glass.

Isaac laughs, his head falling back in amusem*nt, and Stiles snickers when he winces in pain and presses the pack back to his cheek. “He’s got balls, I’ll give him that.”

“Poor angel. I can’t believe he punched you. He’s easily got at least eighty pounds on you now. f*cking idiotic. Do you wanna leave?”

Isaac shakes his head with a smile before he drops the pack to the table. “I’m fine. I’ve taken hits from Derek before,” he mutters, his hand resting on the inside of Stiles’ thigh as he leans in and kisses under Stiles’ ear. “Besides, we haven’t even eaten yet. That’d make it all for nothing.”

Stiles snorts, scrunching his neck as the tickle shivers through his body. “Isaac,” he warns, even though he loves the attention, and Isaac pulls back with a smirk, his hand still settled inside Stiles’ thigh. Stiles leans in and nips his ear back, whispering, “Don’t worry, I’ll make it all worth it.”

Across from him, Allison gives him a look somewhere between disgust and pity, but Stiles can’t bring himself to care. She’s only here because she’s got Scott on a short leash and he never goes anywhere without her. Whatever she witnesses here tonight, Stiles is sure she’ll share with Derek, so he lets Isaac dote on him and ignores her.

Derek can be jealous all he wants. Good.

From the corner of the floor near the toilets, Jackson waits for Stiles’ eyes to find him, and then he jerks his head towards the restrooms with a smug smile.

“I’ll be right back,” Stiles says, squeezing Isaac’s shoulder as he slips off.

Jackson is waiting for him in the accessible stall, the changing station dropped with a kitchen plate full of fat, crispy white lines.

“You stole a kitchen plate for me?” Stiles teases as Jackson hands him a clean straw.

“Of course. Anything for the birthday boy.”

Stiles smirks and bends over, snorting a line before he leans up and tilts his head back, a pleased hum escaping him as the nasal drip coats his throat. The bitter taste doesn’t even bother him anymore. Jackson takes the straw from his fingers and does the same, and then he’s pulling Stiles in, their lips and teeth mashing as Jackson palms over his crotch.

Jackson pushes him against the wall and drops to his knees, his fingers deftly working open Stiles’ belt and buttons, his eyes nearly luminous in the surrounding azure tile. He licks his lips and takes Stiles like a pro, so pretty with a co*ck in his mouth, lashes on his freckled cheeks as he hums. Maybe he’d be a p*rn star in another life, if he weren’t already selling drugs in this one.

After Stiles comes down his throat, they do another line and slip out like nothing ever happened.

By the time he takes his seat, dinner has been served. He finishes off his wine once again, and once again, Jackson is there to top him off. Isaac feeds him a bite of his meal, wipes off the side of his mouth with his thumb, and talks sh*t in his ear that makes him laugh a little too hard. He’s high and drunk and being spoiled, his absolute favorite thing in the world, so he’s going to enjoy it, dammit, while intentionally not thinking about Derek Hale.

Jackson brings his cake out, adorned with a 3 and a 7 candle, blowing them out before thinking too hard.

When he f*cks Isaac over the side of his bed later that night, he absolutely does not imagine Derek around him.

-

Isaac shifts in his sleep as Stiles slips out of the bed, dropping the covers over him before searching for his clothes littered around Isaac’s bedroom. The floor creaks as he dresses, but Isaac remains asleep, his messy curls hiding his face as he burrows into his pillow.

It’s not that Stiles isn’t a cuddler after sex—that’s one of the best parts. But he never stays the night. He’ll never have breakfast or get coffee or linger. They both agreed on that, and it’s never awkward that way when they’re just hanging out as friends.

His phone vibrates with the Uber notification and he’s out the door, locking it behind him before stamping down the stairs. The driver is a middle-aged black man with a thick accent. He plays sermons in French and keeps quiet as strings of light pass by. Stiles yawns and rubs his eyes, debates doing a bump of co*ke off the back of his hand but deciding against it solely for the benefit of crashing as soon as he gets home.

The driver drops him off in front of his building and Stiles bids him adieu as he shuts the door, reaching in his jacket pocket for his keys. He can’t stop yawning, partially from his withdrawal, partially because he’s just so tired. He fumbles the keys a bit and they slip from his idle fingers, and when he reaches down to grab them, another hand retrieves them before he has the chance.

“It’s three in the morning,” Derek slurs, Stiles’ keys clutched in his big hand.

Stiles blinks, taken aback as he attempts to focus his eyes, brows furrowing. “What the f*ck are you doing here? How did you find where I live?”

“You think I didn’t know?” Derek asks, and his breath reeks of alcohol (Malört? Ew), though Stiles’ breath can’t be any better. Derek sways a bit, reaching out to steady himself with Stiles’ bicep. Stiles wants to pull back, but Derek would surely fall flat on his face if he were to do that. No matter how much he deserves it, Stiles cannot bear to f*ck up that face.

“Did you sleep with him? Did you let him f*ck you?”

Stiles looks into Derek's eyes and feels unsettled; he's never seen Derek like this, so drunk that the lights aren't even on. The only other time Derek was nearly this sloshed was at the wedding, and the birthday party Stiles threw for him that first year.

The memory brings bile to his throat, shoving Derek back before he realizes it. “f*ck you. You’re f*cking wasted. Go home.”

Derek miraculously manages to hold his balance, faltering as his arms fly out to steady himself. He frowns, forehead wrinkled, and says, “Stiles, you’re my home. Let me take care of you, baby.”

Stiles grits his teeth and glares at him. “Give me my f*cking keys, Derek. I’m not doing this sh*t with you.”

“Noo,” Derek whines, his lids low as he blinks languidly. He attempts to hide his belch but fails, leaning over on his knees as his breath starts to thin out with a low groan.

“Don’t you f*cking dare puke in front of my goddamn building,” Stiles huffs, his tone agitated as he lets his head fall back with an exasperated sigh, fingers outstretched at his sides, all body language indicating do not want. He looks up at his salmon-pink building, the painted cloudy sky behind it only adding to the surrealness of it all. He wonders how long Derek has known where he lives.

Stiles reaches for his keys, but Derek is somehow still fast enough in his reflexes to yank his hand back as he mumbles, “C’mon, Stiles, I can’t stop thinking about you, I just wanna talk.”

Stiles shakes his head, his face twisted in a grimace. He wants nothing to do with this man, no matter how much his words make Stiles’ heart swell and his brain mush, he will not listen to them again.

“I don’t have time for this. I’m f*cking tired, give me my keys, Derek,” he grumbles, looking away because Derek is looking at him with sad eyes and he just can’t deal with this right now. Being under Derek’s gaze makes him feel overexposed, a gaping wound with tongues of flesh spilling from his heart. Every look from him shifts his insides, after Stiles spent so much time arranging them back into place all by himself.

The door to his building pushes open, and Jordan steps out, his bulk taking up most of the doorframe. He meets Stiles’ eyes and asks, “This guy bothering you, Mr. Stilinski?”

Stiles returns his gaze to the man before him, swaying and sad, his eyes wet as he stares.

“Please, baby,” Derek begs, brows furrowed. His voice is small and desperate, and Stiles chalks it up to being absolutely faded as he sighs, a distant, shuttered part of his heart unwillingly resuscitated.

Stiles could tell Jordan this guy is harassing him and Derek would be forced off the property. He could also order him an Uber, or if he really wanted to act like he didn’t give a sh*t, he’d have Jordan kick his ass and get his keys back before leaving him in the alley to sleep with the co*ckroaches.

But instead, Stiles shakes his head and swallows. “No, it’s fine. Thanks, Jordan.”

Jordan lingers a bit, watching between them, but nods before reluctantly stepping back inside.

Derek grins, his smile bright under the fluorescent street lamps as he reaches up to cup Stiles’ face. Stiles huffs with a glare and shoves his hands away, causing Derek to stumble back.

“Jesus, you’re pathetic,” Stiles grumbles, hooking Derek’s arm around his shoulders as Stiles drags him towards the door. “Do not f*cking puke.”

Derek smells boozy, like he’s been sitting in a bar and smoking cigarettes outside of it, but his trademark cologne is there underneath it, all resinous and heady. He’s leaning most if not all his weight on Stiles, draping over him shamelessly as they walk through the lobby. Stiles lifts these days but even so, Derek is f*cking heavy, and it’s entirely possible he’s taking full advantage of having Stiles under his arm for the first time in three years.

“You smell the same,” Derek mumbles, his cheek pressing against Stiles’ head as he inhales. Stiles watches their reflection in the polished brass elevator doors, Derek’s eyes fixed on him, the stark contrast of bleached buzz beside inky locks some allegory of their personalities. He never thought he’d be this close to Derek again. He’s not sober enough to think too much on it, being pressed against Derek’s side and nearly enveloped by his mass.

“I need my keys,” he says, and Derek releases them from his grip right into Stiles’ hand. He swipes his fob and presses the penthouse button once they step inside, giving a dejected-looking Jordan a wink with a two-finger wave as the doors slip shut.

“You moved,” Derek states, like he’s not happy about it and has to share that fact out loud, brushing his perpetual stubble over Stiles’ hair.

Stiles tilts his head away, side-eyeing him with a scowl. “Don’t push it, dude.”

They make it inside the apartment, Stiles trying not to pant beneath him, but Derek isn’t making it easy. By the time Stiles lets him drop to the couch, he’s sweating and shaking, swiping the collar of his shirt over his face.

“Aww, where’s the mossy couch?” Derek pouts as he sinks into the creamy leather sofa, his hand grasping Stiles’ wrist before he can pull away.

Stiles loves his new couch. It doesn’t remind him of Derek at all, even if he only got it to replace the couch that reminded him of Derek.

“Gone,” Stiles answers, peeling Derek’s fingers from around his wrist. “Stop touching me.”

“Aw, don’t be like that, baby. C’mere, I just wanna talk,” Derek whines, and Stiles struggles to keep from rolling his eyes; the man has no shame as he begs, but then again, it’s not like begging is out of the ordinary for Derek.

“I don’t wanna talk to you,” he grouses, smacking Derek’s hand away again as he slips out of his shoes and toes his socks off on his way to the kitchen. The cold of the stone floor is a welcome reprieve, and he briefly thinks of laying over it to let it suck all the heat from his body. Maybe then he’ll stop sweating so much.

“Oh, is that why you let me up here, because you don’t wanna talk to me?” Derek asks loudly, his voice carrying as Stiles flips through cabinets and rummages for his meds, popping an oxy and chugging it down with a glass of water. He fills it up again and grabs a few painkillers, pausing when he remembers to grab a large bowl before walking back into the living room. He sets everything down on the thick glass coffee table and Derek's eyes never leave him.

“Just shut up and enjoy it while you can,” Stiles warns him, tossing one of the blankets folded up at the end of the chaise.

Derek catches the blanket before it hits him in the face and huffs, exasperated. “Why are you so angry?”

“You’re f*cking joking, right?”

“Come on, baby, don’t be mad at me. I know I f*cked up,” he mumbles, rubbing fiercely at his eyes as he struggles to keep them open. He offers Stiles a lazy smile, letting his arm fall behind his head as he makes himself comfortable. “C’mere, I just wanna hold you.”

“f*ck off,” Stiles mutters with a yawn, ignoring the yearning in his chest, the instinct to reach out and brush Derek’s hair back as he ungrudgingly falls into his lap.

It’s probably just withdrawal, anyway.

Derek’s hand catches his wrist as Stiles starts towards his bedroom.

“You know you wanna cuddle. I know Isaac likes to be the little spoon.”

Stiles glares at him, knowing full well Derek is only trying to get a reaction out of him, his smile co*cky as his fingers tighten.

“Isaac knows just how to hold me, don’t you worry,” he bites back, and it cuts enough that Stiles can snatch his wrist from his firm grip, the corners of Derek’s lips turning down as Stiles strides away.

-

When he wakes, daylight spilling in through the slits of the blackout panels, a headache sits behind his eyes and his muscles feel entirely spent. It’s no different than any other morning as of late, entirely normal for him to feel like roadkill until he can replenish the chemicals to his system. He reaches up and runs a shaking hand over his face with a low groan, mouth dry, tiny splinters behind his eyelids as he tries to remember his day before. It’s hazy, but he knows he drank throughout the day and did co*ke most of the night, among a few other things too, he’s sure.

He lays in his damp patch of sweat far too long for comfort before he forces himself out of bed, his movements mechanical as he drags his way to the en suite bathroom. He fumbles with the pill bottles on the carerra countertop, his sensitive eyes squinting in the daylight reflecting off every white surface as he gathers his drug co*cktail for the day.

He doesn’t make a habit of staring down the looking glass most mornings, but today, his second day as a 37-year-old, he has to admit for the first time he actually looks it. Bloodshot scleras, the wrinkles of his forehead deepening, grey bags beneath his eyes. He swipes a hand over his mouth after he brushes his teeth, the stale taste lingering regardless, and decides he’ll have his assistant book him a facial, and a massage too, while he’s at it.

Feeling somewhat better after a shower and the drugs settling in, he slips on a pair of boxer briefs before he meanders to the kitchen, passing the creamy walls, the mirrors, the modern art, bookshelves, and plants. He rehired the same designer for the new space, and he said, ‘Just make it the opposite of the other one.’ So here, everything is bright and soft, playing into the rounded windows and endless sunlight, washing everything in gold.

He should have thought that one out better. Half the time he ends up wearing sunglasses in his own home.

It already smells like coffee as he enters the kitchen, and while he’s grateful for its readiness, he can’t remember Mindy being on the schedule for today. He pours himself a mug and heads to the living room, ready to roll a blunt and sink into the couch with cartoons on, where lush, piercing eyes turn to meet him.

“Holy f*ck,” Stiles gasps, his eyes wide after nearly dropping his mug.

Oh, right. In his semi-blacked-out vulnerable state, he let the dog in.

Derek drinks him in, gaze fluttering up and down Stiles’ frame, shamelessly taking in the plethora of tattoos now marking his carved flesh. From his ankles to his torso, his neck to his fingers, Stiles had made quite the canvas out of his skin in recent years.

Derek’s eyes linger on the tattoo at his bicep, brows knitting curiously. It’s what is no longer there that puzzles him, Stiles is sure.

“Turn around,” he orders, lips pursed. Derek tarries before obeying, his eyes blinking in bewilderment, cheeks flushed. Stiles twists on his heel with a smirk, striding back to his bedroom.

The ravioli tattoo started it all—a commemorative piece that claimed Stiles as Derek’s. That was the point of it then. He’d kept it until he couldn’t anymore, and when Poutine died, it was the perfect chance to cover it up. The rest stemmed from there, reclaiming his body as his own, reinventing himself as a person who wants nothing to do with the one sitting in his living room right now.

They say it takes seven years for your cells to completely renew, for your body to replace parts once touched by someone else. Stiles was merely hastening the process. Each scab that peeled away bared fresh skin, untouched by Derek.

The pain was a bonus, if not another driving factor.

Stiles dresses quickly, a pair of sweatpants, another oversized shirt, back in the living room shortly after dumping his coffee down the drain.

He eyes Derek disdainfully, bemoaning his decision to let him in as he drops onto the couch, reaching for the shiny black stash box on the coffee table. He shuffles around his inventory before retrieving a pack of cigars and his grinder.

“You should leave,” Stiles says, avoiding his gaze as he pops open a rillo and dumps its contents into the nearby bin. He can feel Derek watching him and it makes his skin crawl. He leans over, elbows on his knees.

“Aren’t you hungry?” Derek asks, an eyebrow raised.

“My chef is coming soon,” he replies as he crumbles weed into the unrolled tobacco leaf, peaking up from under his eyebrows to catch his reaction.

“I ordered food.” Derek smirks, sipping his coffee as he returns Stiles’ gaze. His hair is somehow still styled perfectly, beard immaculate as always, but his eyes are bloodshot and tired, the wrinkles of time gathering at the corners.

“That was stupid of you.” Stiles brings the rillo to his lips as he licks and rolls it.

Derek watches him silently, mug at his lips, and Stiles ignores it, flicking the lighter and wielding the blunt over its flame.

“I’m guessing nothing happened with us last night?”

Stiles gives him a look, somewhere between what the f*ck and are you f*cking kidding me?

“Did you hit your head or something, Hale? f*ck no, nothing happened,” Stiles scoffs and lights the end of the blunt, bringing it to his lips for a long drag. He holds it between his fore and middle finger as he falls into the cushions behind him, letting the smoke pour from his mouth as he eyes Derek. “I shouldn’t have brought you up here.”

“But you did,” Derek points out, the co*ckiness in his tone spiking Stiles’ blood pressure.

“Don’t read into it. You were causing a scene and I didn’t want my doorman kicking your ass to end up on page six,” he grumbles, bringing the blunt back to his lips. He crosses his ankle over his knee, arm over his abs as he inhales. “You forget you’re followed around too.”

“Laura never lets me forget.” Derek sets his mug on the table before he reaches over and audaciously plucks the blunt from Stiles’ fingers. His brow furrows in a scowl, and Derek smirks triumphantly as he takes a seat closer, flicking the ashes into the molted glass ashtray before bringing it to his lips.

“Where’s Poutine?” Derek asks, eyes wandering around the space he no doubt snooped through earlier. He’s too comfortable here, perched on Stiles’ couch, making coffee, stealing blunts.

“She died. Look, I’ve got sh*t to do today and I don’t want you here. Can you f*ck off?” Stiles snatches the blunt back with a huff, pinching it between his lips as he rises in an attempt to rally Derek out of his living room.

“What’s with all this hostility? We’re just talking.” Derek shrugs, leaning back into the couch with a blasé gaze, giving no indication of leaving any time soon.

“I have nothing to say to you, so. Conversation over. Get out.”

“Fine, I’ll do the talking. Just sit and listen.”

Stiles blinks at him, lips pursed, jaw tense. Whatever he has to say, Stiles doesn’t want to hear it. No apology could tare the scale, could ever make up what Derek did or fix what they had between them. It’s far too late for that.

“Stiles… please?” His eyes are sorrowing and desperate, the lines between his brows deeper than Stiles remembers them.

Stiles sighs indignantly as he drops back into his seat. “You have until the food gets here.”

Derek raises his brows like he wasn’t expecting Stiles to give in so easily, but nevertheless, he leans over his knees and tucks a fist into the palm of his hand, gaze averted from Stiles for the first time as he carefully chooses his next words.

Stiles smokes his blunt, eyes fixed on Derek as he kicks back and rests his feet on the table, chewing his cheek silently.

“I’m sorry, about Poutine. No one told me,” Derek mumbles, and Stiles knows he’s referring to their friends who have been forced to mediate between them. Part of him feels guilty about it, involving them, taking turns with holidays like divorced parents, using Scott as a pawn to keep them separated. It worked, until it didn’t.

Stiles remains quiescent, puffing away.

Derek runs a hand over his beard, his gaze solemn as he turns to Stiles. “I’m sorry. For everything. For letting you go in the first place, and then leaving you at the wedding. I thought—” he shakes his head, looking away again. “I don’t have an excuse. I made a mistake, I f*cked up, and it’s my biggest regret to this day.”

He turns back, their eyes meeting again. “Stiles, I miss you. I miss what we had before everything changed. I did everything wrong, I didn’t keep you a priority. I thought I was doing what was best for you, but I really just gave up because I was scared I couldn’t be what you needed me to be anymore. I’m sorry, and I know that could never make up for what I did, but I swear I’ll spend the rest of my life atoning for it.”

Stiles leans over and ashes the blunt, a coy smirk playing at his lips as he looks up at Derek from under his brow. “You done?”

“I… yeah,” he says, regarding Stiles carefully.

Stiles takes a long drag, and he can’t help the smile, amused at Derek’s words, his sh*tty attempt to apologize and win him back. He knew it would come to this eventually. He knew Derek would only return once Stiles was set on letting him go and moving past it. Isn’t that how it always works?

“You think I’d listen to anything you have to say to me after the last time? What, do you think I’m f*cking stupid?” Stiles scoffs and shakes his head, and he has to laugh so he doesn’t scream. The f*cking entitlement, how Derek just expects him to forgive him after a few short lines and some sad eyes—like Stiles didn’t go through hell and back after losing him twice.

He would not give Derek the opportunity to condemn him again. He’d take hell if given the choice.

“What you miss? It’s gone. That person doesn’t exist anymore. This?” His fingers holding the blunt flick between them. “Never happening. You f*cked it up the last time, you don’t get another chance. f*ck you for even thinking it,” he grits his teeth and has to look away, out the window that overlooks the lake. That view is what sold it for him—being so high up, the daylight spilling from every direction, the water line meeting the sky from a distance so far away it seems illusory, never within reach. He imagined he lived in a lighthouse, leading a different life entirely.

“I’d honestly prefer it if we went back to pretending the other doesn’t exist. So, if you don’t mind.” Stiles jerks his head towards the door as he returns his harsh gaze, eyebrows raised expectantly.

Derek regards him, eyes flicking over his body before his lips curl into an impish grin. “Food’s not here yet.”

Stiles shakes his head subtly, maddened as he flexes his jaw.

The buzzer goes off and Stiles rises before he gets violent, quickly shuffling to the intercom near the elevator doors. He holds the blunt between his fingers and presses the button to talk.

“Hey Jordan, can you take care of that for me? My… visitor will grab it on his way out.”

Jordan was always too eager to respond to him. “Sure thing, sir. Mr. Lahey is on his way up.”

He’s told Jordan countless times to call him Stiles, but he insists on ‘sir’ or ‘Mr. Stilinski’—at least it makes for good sex talk.

“Thanks, Jordan,” he purrs, knowing Jordan will get off on it and Derek will hate it.

When he turns around, Derek is stood in his typical brooding fashion, watching Stiles intently, brows drawn together as he clenches his jaw. Stiles takes another drag of his blunt as he watches right back.

“I’m not going anywhere this time, just so you know. I didn’t expect to be forgiven so easily. But I’m gonna keep trying.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow at him, blowing smoke sideways out of his mouth. “You’re gonna be doing that for a long time.”

Derek tucks his hands in his leather jacket. “I’ll try forever if I have to.”

Stiles snorts and rolls his eyes apathetically, the ding of the elevator interrupting as the doors slide open. Isaac is stunned to see him, cheek red and purple, his furrowed brow asking a silent question as they walk around each other like opposing magnets.

Derek sends Stiles one last penetrating stare, and then the doors slip shut.

Isaac turns to him and waits for an explanation. Stiles doesn’t offer one.

“What was that?”

“A waste of my time,” Stiles grumbles, passing off the blunt as he strides towards the kitchen.

-

Before the wedding, Stiles lived his life believing he and Derek would eventually find their way back to each other. But in the meantime, he took care of Poutine, finished his book, started a new one, traveled, stayed out of the spotlight, and spent time with Scott, his dad, and Melissa, all with the conviction that Derek would come back to him one day. He had to accept that Derek was gone for now, had to train his mind to believe that he was actually okay, because this suffering was only temporary—Derek would realize the terrible mistake he made and inevitably come crawling back. Stiles would milk it, let him think he f*cked up too bad and make him agonize a bit, but he’d have every intention of taking him back. That’s the love of his life, of course he would.

That’s sort of how it went at the wedding. It was small and intimate with a rooftop reception in June, and Stiles was well aware of Derek’s attendance. Scott had been warning him for months like Stiles hadn’t been looking forward to it since the day Scott told him he was proposing. Two years of grieving, of waiting, knowing this would be their chance to try again. This had to be it. Two years was too long.

So when Derek approached him after staring at him most of the night between co*cktails, dinner, speeches, and dancing, it didn’t take much for Stiles to cave, despite his previous promise to make Derek work for it.

“That was a good speech,” Derek said, and he was pretty drunk at that point but still cohesive, a swagger about him as he swirled the amber liquid in his tumbler and leaned against the railing, right into Stiles’ personal space. Stiles couldn’t help but snort and look away as he brought his wine glass to his lips.

Stiles could tell he was different then despite him being so drunk. His confidence had soared, his name was worldwide, and he had made it: Derek Hale, celebrity chef, former lover of Stiles Stilinski. There was a new untouchable air about him, like he had become a god and bathed in the river Styx.

He still felt like home, regardless.

“That’s the line you’re going with?” Stiles asked, staring out at the glittering cityscape stretched before them. Most of the others were under the fairy lights, Isaac abandoning him to humbly dance with one of Allison’s friends on the dancefloor. Stiles noticed the moment he stepped away, Derek followed.

Derek would have a whole book of lines after a few more drinks, talking in Stiles’ ear, things Stiles dreamt about since the day Derek left him. I missed you, baby, I’ve never stopped thinking about you, I was so stupid, I’m so sorry, baby, I love you so much, you’re safe with me, baby, I’ve got you.

Baby, baby, baby.

Stiles missed that word on Derek’s lips. Missed the feeling of belonging to someone, of Derek inside him, the bruises on his neck, the slick of their skin as Derek f*cked him hard and good and called him mine.

Sometimes Stiles dreams of that night and his subconscious takes pity on him. It lets him have his happy ending, waking up beside Derek, covered in kisses and skin, perhaps even a blowj*b if he’d done MDMA the night before. Some dreams have them living lifetimes together.

But more often than the happy ending is the tragic one, when the dream ends as it did in real life—a note with ‘i’m so sorry’ and no further explanation. Except in this one, Eli steals his covers and clothes before leaving him stranded, naked and exposed on a mattress floating adrift in an endless sea.

Any scenario has him waking with wet eyes and barbed wire seizing his heart.

Tonight it’s the bad one. He chokes on a sob as he wakes, the dream tripping his fight-or-flight response, heart pounding wildly in his chest.

It’s nearly four in the morning when he glances at the clock on his nightstand, hunched over the side of his bed as he wearily rubs at his eyes.

“You okay?” Jackson mutters behind him, voice creaking.

“Yeah,” he lies, snatching a xanax from the table beside him before swallowing it whole.

“C’mere,” Jackson sighs, his fingertips grazing the small of his back lazily.

“You should go,” Stiles grumbles in response, the heels of his palms pressing into his eye sockets until the phosphenes glow under his lids.

“Shut up and get over here, Stilinski,” Jackson bites, and for as hard as Stiles acts around Derek, he’s just as soft around the people he f*cks on a regular basis. They aren’t the ones who permanently altered his brain chemistry.

He only feigns it once or twice before inevitably giving in like he always does, Jackson’s arms wrapping around him as Stiles tucks back against him.

It always feels wrong. The arms, the smell, the eyes. Jordan’s were close, but too bright. Jackson smelled too citrusy. Isaac’s arms were long at least, and pressed him the closest.

Jackson is gone by the time he wakes.

He pads into the kitchen where he expects to see Isaac, but not the breathtaking bouquet of bleeding hearts, blue hyacinths, and white fodder taking up half his breakfast nook.

Isaac smirks from over the stove. “They were waiting for you in the lobby this morning.”

Stiles snatches the card poking out of the bundle and tears it up, stamping on the trash can pedal to pop the lid open as he lets the paper pieces flutter from his hands.

“You should have left them there.”

Stiles takes the vase to the door. He’ll toss them later, or better yet, he’ll give them to Lydia to throw it back in Derek's face, even though the blue hyacinths remind him of the ones his mother planted outside his childhood window.

As he sets them down, he notices an incongruous pop of red beneath the bursting canopy, and when he pushes aside the nodding flowers, their cool petal tongues licking his skin, he uncovers a single rose hidden from plain view.

He stares at it for too long and decides if he’s giving these to Lydia, he should at least take that one out of the arrangement. He sets it on the entry table to worry about later.

Isaac doesn’t say anything when Stiles returns, just plates up their food and takes a seat beside him.

“How long are you gonna make him grovel?” Isaac asks, carving a bite out of his omelet.

Stiles gives him a look as he sips his coffee, an eyebrow raised. “Uh, forever? Duh.”

Isaac chews with an irritating smirk, and Stiles scoffs and hovers over his plate as he shovels food into his mouth.

When he crashes into bed that night, well into the morning hours, the rose is stuck in a green-glassed Pellegrino bottle at his bedside table.

He has the good dream that night.

-

The train fills up quickly along the red line, most people stepping on decked out in Cubs attire with their partners and families. Stiles and Scott are among them, tucked away in the front corner of the car as conversation buzzes overhead. He’s got his sunglasses on underneath a snapback as he people-watches, Scott typing hastily into his phone in his peripheral.

“She knows where the seats are, right?” Stiles asks, peering over his sunglasses just as Scott clicks his screen off.

“Yeah, she might be late,” he blurts out, slipping his phone into his pocket. Stiles eyes him suspiciously and pushes his sunglasses back up.

“O-kay.” Stiles will pretend that wasn’t weird, just like it’s not weird that Scott’s on the train with him when they could have easily taken an Uber like they always do on gamedays. Or that they’re meeting Allison there when it would have been easier to pick her up if she was at work like she said she was. But Stiles doesn’t question it, he can’t be bothered today—he’s just along for the ride. He likes the days he doesn’t have to think too much.

They rise as the train slows to their stop, pouring out with the rest of the crowd, thumping down the stairs and out onto the street. It’s the perfect day for a ballgame, sunny but enough of a breeze to forget one still needs to apply sunscreen. Scott keeps checking his phone as they queue in the screening line, swiping the ticket away as soon as he scans it, and starts walking to their seats.

“I’m gonna get food before we sit,” Stiles declares, pausing to the side as he looks around at the concessions.

“Allison ordered for us already,” Scott says, his eyes a bit wide as he grabs Stiles’ elbow before he walks away.

Stiles furrows his brow. “Dude, you’re acting weird.”

“No I’m not.”

“You just said she might be late, now she’s already got our food?”

Scott’s face flushes a bit as he swallows. “Just. Come on, dude.”

Stiles narrows his eyes but follows him up the stairs to their seats. They’re in the outfield, but it’s an early season game so it doesn’t matter too much where they sit. Stiles just likes to eat and get a good buzz off beer from a plastic cup in broad daylight; the game is the added bonus.

He’s not paying much attention as he follows Scott, eyes wandering as he slips his sunglasses back on. Salty meat and beer tint the air as they take their seats at the end of a row, Stiles’ legs sprawling out once he leans back and scans the stadium. The crowd isn’t too thick today, just enough people to make it feel like they’re playing hooky on a school day.

“’Scuse me,” someone says from above him, and he stands automatically to let whoever pass, his eyes trailing upwards to follow the familiar voice.

Derek stands with two full beers in one hand and a pair of wrapped dogs in the other, his smile nearly blinding in the sun.

Stiles’ mouth drops open, twisting abruptly as he snatches his sunglasses off to glare at Scott properly. “What the f*ck. Are you actually f*cking kidding me?”

Allison squeezes into the row with a smirk as she ducks her head, passing Scott his beer and a paper bag of food, a water bottle clutched under her arm.

“Dude, listen. We want to hang out with both of you and taking turns is getting old. Enough time has passed that you can f*cking figure it out yourselves.”

“I can’t believe—”

“Sit down, Stiles. Have a beer and shut up for once.”

Derek barking orders is very bold of him, Stiles thinks, considering he’s supposedly trying to win back Stiles’ affections. Stiles redirects his glare at him as he shoves his sunglasses back on. Scott has the audacity to laugh at Derek’s stupid quip.

“I’m not drinking that.”

“Suit yourself,” Derek says, forcing himself through to take the seat on the other side of him.

Stiles grits his teeth, his fists clenched. He could punch Scott, right now, and he seriously considers it but remembers they’re in public where he’s undoubtedly already been recognized. By now he and Derek have been spotted together and Scott knew Stiles wouldn’t be able to do anything about it without looking like a total dickwad.

He could leave, but he would not let Derek ruin the day he had planned.

All the more reason to get drunk off his ass.

Stiles makes his way to the concessions and buys his own beer and food, refusing to accept anything from Derek on principle. When he returns, Derek is sprawled out, one leg touching Allison’s and the other hanging on Stiles’ side.

“Can you like, switch seats?”

Allison rolls her eyes and snaps, “Oh, my god, Stiles, stop being a f*cking baby. You’re the only one who’s bothered, get over it.”

He shoots Scott a pinched look before he begrudgingly drops into his seat, taking a huge gulp of his beer before unwrapping his Italian beef. He’s determined to ignore the wall pressing against him as he eats, annoyed Scott’s all the way at the other end and he can’t even talk baseball, or flick his f*cking nose off.

Derek ate both of whatever he had, now on the second beer as he leans over his knees and watches the game intently. He would always take it more seriously than Stiles cared to, usually grumbling something about hating pitchers when the batter isn’t hitting right.

“I hate pitchers,” Derek mutters irritably as he adjusts his baseball hat. Stiles smirks, chewing his food as he watches Derek’s profile.

“Only because you can’t bat,” Stiles teases, unable to resist before stuffing in the last bite and wiping his mouth off. He knows how pissed Derek gets when people doubt his athletic abilities, especially when it comes to baseball. But Stiles knows better, he’s seen Derek play, graceful and indomitable on makeshift fields between takes on tour. Derek easily could have gone pro had the cards been in his favor.

Derek peers over his shoulder, lips curled as he regards Stiles. “You and I both know that’s not true.”

Stiles feels a flush rise to his cheeks, taking a sip of his beer to hide his face before Derek smugly turns back to the game. Their bare legs keep barely brushing, both wearing shorts, dark hair coating Derek’s calves. Stiles yanks his leg away each time only for it to drift back, until he finally crosses his ankle over his knee and leans away with a muttered complaint.

A fan approaches and he stands up gratefully, lingering in the aisle as he chugs his beer and chats with the guy. Eventually he asks for a photo, looking at Derek expectantly as he holds out his phone, “Would you mind?”

“Sure,” he answers, standing up with a smile as he eyes Stiles.

The fan’s head rears back slightly, and then he says, his tone incredulous, “Oh sh*t, wait, Chef Derek Hale! Holy sh*t, can you get in the picture too?”

Stiles has to restrain himself from rolling his eyes with a groan. Allison stands up, always listening in, smiling like a saint as she takes the phone from the fan and waits for them to pose for the picture. Stiles’ arm goes around the fan’s shoulders, and Derek’s arm goes over Stiles’. He stiffens and glares over at Derek as she takes a picture then pulls the phone down with a scowl.

“Smile,” she warns, holding it back up to snap a few more photos. Stiles inhales deeply and forces a smile, holding up a few peace signs for the fan’s sake, and finally Allison hands the phone back before taking her seat.

“Thanks, guys! It’s good to see you two together again,” the fan says with a chipper grin and a wave as he walks away.

“Oh, we’re not!” Stiles calls after him, his upper lip curling disdainfully as he side-eyes Derek.

Derek just laughs as he retakes his seat, and Stiles chugs the rest of his beer before deciding it’s time to level up if he’s going to be here the rest of the afternoon. He makes his way to the restrooms, a few lingering stares along the way but no stops, and leans against the stall door after bursting through and locking it. He reaches into the deep pocket of his shorts and retrieves a tiny silver pill box, popping it open and digging through the bars and blues before plucking away an oxy and hiding it under his tongue.

Stiles slips the pill box back into his pocket before undoing his shorts to take a piss, already feeling a soft buzz from his first beer as he shakes and zips himself back in. He tries not to think of how those pictures are probably already on social media and how people will make assumptions and start asking him about Derek again—just when he finally got to a point where they stopped bringing him up in interviews and conversations.

He stands in line for a refill at the concessions, taking his time before dragging himself back to their row. He takes his seat again, swallowing his half-dissolved pill as he guzzles his beer. Derek gives him a long look that he ignores, grateful for the cover under his hat and sunglasses as he licks his lips and looks off at the game.

The crack of the bat hitting the ball splits through the murmur of the crowd, and Derek along with most everyone else in the stadium rises and cheers as the ball soars over the bleachers, the batter taking his home run.

Stiles gives an animated woohoo as he shakes his fist in the air and drinks his beer, snickering as his limbs start to feel heavy, his beloved oxy settling in alongside the beer in his belly. He relaxes back into his chair, his eyes low as his legs spread. When Derek sits back down, his knee knocks against Stiles’ and Stiles doesn’t even care.

His phone vibrates in his pocket, and he grins when he sees the text from Antoni.

toni: i’m in town… wyd tonight?
me: you ;)
me: i’m at the game, i’ll text you after
toni: i made reservations
me: where?
toni: dionysus
me: text me after
toni: come on, it’s the best place in the city and you know it
me: take someone else then
toni: then i’ll go home with someone else, too
toni: stop being a sourpuss and come to dinner with me

Stiles huffs and leans over his knees, phone in his hands as he looks up at the game. It’s not like he didn’t eat at Derek’s restaurant—obviously he was just there for his birthday, and that would be asinine of him, to exist in a city with Derek’s food and deprive himself of it.

He’s petty, but not when it interferes with his hedonistic propensities. Stiles doesn’t deny himself earthly pleasures much these days.

me: fine

Imagine the pablum after dining with his ex at his other ex’s restaurant.

Derek would be pissed.

Stiles pushes his hips up to slip his phone back into his pocket, smiling to himself as he takes a long sip of his beer.

Derek’s face is pointed forward, his jaw tense at the edge of Stiles’ vision.

“Antoni, huh? Won’t Isaac mind?”

Stiles blinks deliberately as he looks at Derek, brows raised in bewilderment.

“You’ve got some f*cking nerve. Mind your goddamn business, Hale.”

Derek shrugs, a hint of an arrogant smile on his lips. “Anyone who comes into my restaurant is my business.”

Stiles scoffs and crosses his arms, his leg bouncing in irritation.

“Just admit you miss my food, Stiles. I already know you do; otherwise, you wouldn’t be sending your assistant to pick it up for you all the time.”

Stiles really hates the way Derek says his name. It’s always softer than the rest of his words, like the thawed wax core of a candle.

“Yeah, didn’t think I knew about that, did you?” Derek turns to face him now, his grin infuriating. “I know everything that goes on in that building, on the floor, in the alley behind it. I know it as well as I know you.”

Stiles narrows his eyes, his jaw tightening as Derek’s gaze burrows into him. He doesn’t doubt that Derek knows when Stiles sends someone or if he’s there. He gave up caring about that a while ago because it doesn’t mean anything. It’s good food, Stiles’ forte, and he’s entitled to it anyway; he owns half the damn business.

But Derek can’t possibly know who Stiles is anymore. He’s not even the same person he was a year ago, let alone five. He doesn’t know Stiles any better than Stiles knows himself.

“You’ve had dionysus longer than you even got to call me daddy. I don’t think you know me as well as you think you do.”

Derek flushes at that, his face turning away as his jaw flexes. Stiles bursts into a wicked laugh, pleased at Derek’s silent acquiescence.

They don’t say a word to each other for the rest of the game.

-

Stiles takes Antoni to an underground club, bodies packed on the dancefloor as they grind against each other, acid on his tongue, a hand on his groin. He feels so good, his mind on autopilot, clothes sticking to his skin as neon colors flash under his eyelids.

The best thing about the underground scene is everyone is too faded to give a sh*t who anybody is. Stiles does not care if he’s spotted basically getting a handy on the dancefloor. He’s not the only one, anyway.

Stiles f*cks him in the early morning hours, gripping Antoni’s scruff and pressing his face against the wall as he gruffs out, “Tell daddy what a good boy you’ve been.”

Antoni snorts and arches his back. “Are you my daddy, Stiles?”

It never sounds right when anybody else says it, no matter how f*cking plastered he gets.

Stiles bucks into him, his other hand on his hip, sweat beading his brow as he breathes out, “Just for tonight, baby.”

Antoni obliges him, and Stiles imagines someone else.

-

Sundays are the only days Scott wakes up at three in the morning to bake for the day ahead. Sweet has done well enough that Scott doesn’t need to be there most of the time, but he gives his full-time bread baker Sundays off and still fills in for him.

Stiles finds himself there on Saturday nights he never goes home. Sometimes Boyd is there and it’s awkward, but tonight it’s just Scott and Stiles in the only lit backroom of the building. He tries to help sometimes but gets the feeling he leaves Scott worse off. Baking was never Stiles’ thing. Too technical.

Scott rounds out boules over the butcher block counter, his apron and hands covered in flour as a speaker plays his tried and trues. Stiles sits on a short stack of twenty-pound flour sacks, his foot shaking as he watches Scott roll out each precut and weighed piece.

He went to some influencer’s party earlier, then back to Jackson’s, and now he’s here, wired and sniffling inconspicuously.

“You know, it’d be nice if you could warn me next time.”

Scott rolls his eyes as he shapes about the hundredth boule in a row. “You’re missing the point, man. Whether you pretend he is or not, we’re all in each other’s lives.”

“He doesn’t have to be. He’s the one who left me, why does he get to keep you, too?”

Scott gives him a look with a curt shake of his head. “We’ve both known Derek longer than you have. He’s the reason Allison and I are even together. I care about him as much as I care about you. He’s not going anywhere, and we’re f*cking tired of puss*footing around you when you’re the one who has the problem with him. It’s time to get the f*ck over it dude.”

Stiles blinks and purses his lips. “puss*footing? Really, Scott?”

Scott tears a piece of dough off a boule and launches it at him. Stiles moves just before it hits him and it sticks to the stainless steel wall.

“I’m so serious right now dude. If you want me to warn you next time, fine, but you’re about to get lonely real quick. He’s family, dude. You are too. Figure it out.”

Stiles’ mouth snaps shut as he crosses his arms with a resentful huff. Scott seems pleased enough with his reaction and returns to shaping the dough balls. The song fades out and for a moment only the electric hum of appliances can be heard in the bread room, the silence of the dark rooms seeping through the windows surrounding them. The next song plays and it reminds Stiles of that time Scott wiped the f*ck out on his skateboard and sprained his wrist in Stiles’ driveway

“Why don’t you take him back? I thought that’s what you wanted,” Scott says, eyeing Stiles from under his eyebrows.

“Why would I take him back just for him to leave again?”

Scott pauses and regards him curiously. “Why do you think he would leave you again?”

“He’s already done it twice. I’m no fool.”

“What are you talking about, dude? When did you get back together the second time?”

Stiles stares at him, his lips parted as he remembers he never actually told Scott the truth of what happened at his wedding. Completely mortified and ashamed, he told no one and suffered that blow in a doldrum silence. Thank god for xanax.

He looks away, his foot still shaking as he rests it over his knee. He needs another bump, and a cigarette.

“Your wedding night. He was wasted and made all these promises and I believed him. He was gone the next morning.”

It hurts to say it out loud—the hollow feeling it brings follows him like a shadow.

Scott gives him a skeptical look and says, “I can’t believe he would do something like that.”

“Neither did I. But I learned my lesson, so. I guess there’s a silver lining.” Stiles has an overwhelming compulsion to cry, but it seems he’s already wept enough tears for Derek. He sniffles and wipes his nose, the gram bottle burning a hole in his pocket.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Scotts still paused in his task, eyebrows furrowed in concern.

Stiles just shakes his head and looks down at his trembling hands. Scott wouldn’t understand. Stiles was utterly humiliated that morning, waking up alone in that hotel room when he thought he was his again. It hurt worse than the first time, the wounds splitting open as though they had never healed at all. Derek didn’t even give Stiles the decency of an explanation.

“You were on your honeymoon. And then I left to film another season. It just never came up.”

“That’s bullsh*t and you know it. It’s been three years, dude.”

“Yeah, and? I’m the victim here. Why don’t you go ask your best friend why he didn’t tell you?”

Scott inhales deeply as he presses his palms on the counter and leans over. Stiles finally meets his gaze, his expression blank.

“I’m sorry, Stiles. I didn’t know.”

There's a lull, Stiles' eyes shifting in and out of focus, a breath caught in his throat.

“It doesn’t change anything, does it? You’ll still hang out with him like he f*ckin’ invented sliced bread and didn’t rip my goddamn heart out.”

Scott goes silent and keeps his head down as he cups a boule and rolls it between his hands, forming it into the perfect ball before setting it on the canvas-lined palette. Scott has tried teaching Stiles the technique, but to this day, he still can’t get the hang of it.

“Yeah, good to see where your loyalties lie,” Stiles scoffs and stands up to leave, digging in his pocket for his pack of cigarettes.

“Stiles,” Scott starts, and Stiles stops and looks at him as he sticks a cigarette between his lips. Scott stares at him as he contemplates his next words, grabbing the kitchen towel and wiping his hands.

“I’d wait until you’re sober, but you never are, so. Allison’s pregnant.”

Stiles blinks at him, his eyebrows raising. “Oh, is that why she’s been such a c*nt lately?”

Scott turns red and snatches another boule before throwing it hard at Stiles. This time it hits him in the shoulder with a smack and nearly knocks the wind out of his lungs, flour puffing into his face as the dough falls to the floor.

“That’s my f*cking wife, dude! What the hell is wrong with you?”

Stiles glares at him and brushes his shirt off as best he can. He’ll admit he deserved that.

“f*ck, dude, I was joking,” sort of. Allison has been a lot c*ntier lately, moreso than Stiles is used to.

Scott shakes his head, his jaw tightening. The music keeps playing, another song they listened to in high school, and Scott puts his hands on his hips as he glowers.

“You need to get your sh*t together, Stiles. Like, who even are you?”

Stiles stares at him, blinking as the cigarette sits between his lips. Scott looks pissed, but beyond that, he looks deeply confused, like he can’t believe the person standing slouched before him is the same kid he grew up with.

He doesn’t offer a response, and Scott sighs heavily as his eyes slip shut. He takes a moment, his jaw tight, meeting Stiles’ vacant gaze again as he says, “You’re invited to the baby shower. Derek and Eli will be there. Do with that what you will.”

Stiles reaches in his pocket, pulling out his lighter before flicking it at the end of his cigarette. “If I get my sh*t together, I’ll let you know.”

-

There’s a fresh bouquet of lavender when Stiles drags himself into the kitchen the next morning. It’s wrapped in a bundle of kraft paper, tied neatly with a jute bow. He could smell the flowers before he entered the kitchen, inhaling as he steps in and pauses, his eyes landing on the carrera countertop where they lay.

Mindy strides in through the other side, brandishing a rag and a spray bottle of cleaner as she makes her way to the sink. She rears back a bit, a hand on her chest in surprise when she catches Stiles standing there, and then follows his gaze to the flowers.

“Don’t they smell so lovely? I was just about to stick them in water,” she says with a small smile, turning the faucet on and rinsing out the rag.

Stiles purses his lips, restraining himself from walking over and tossing them into the trash. Instead, he steps to the coffee pot and opens the top cabinet above it, reaching for a mug.

“You can take them home,” he offers, his tone bitter.

Mindy watches him pour himself a cup and bring it to his lips, inhaling before he takes a tiny sip.

“There’s a note,” she says, regarding him with concern as her brows furrow.

“Throw it away.”

Her lips purse in disapproval. “Stiles,” she starts, an attempt to get him to meet her eyes.

Mindy is one of the few people, aside from his father and Melissa, whom he can't bear to look at anymore. Her motherly aura fills him with shame, and every time he meets her eyes, he feels like a guilty child twisting his hands in knots over the realization he’s disappointed someone he loves. So, he avoids her as much as possible these days, disinclined to face her judgment.

She sighs when he doesn’t meet her gaze, but continues, “I worry about you. You’re shutting yourself off from the world and all those who care about you and want you to be well. I can imagine it must get pretty lonely that way.”

Stiles clenches his jaw and finally meets her eyes before he grits out, “I don’t pay you to worry about me.”

He turns away before he has to witness the look on her face.

When he emerges from his office hours later, the lavender is gone but the scent still lingers. In their place, the note is open and laid bare on the counter, the words too clear to dismiss before he can snatch it away and crumple the paper in his fist.

wherever you are, i’m there, okay?

It’s a call back to when they were falling in love, Stiles’ words to him before the world even knew Derek Hale’s name.

The words feel like a pinprick to his heart, piercing through paper sinew and diaphanous breastbone—they don’t kill him immediately, but they get him halfway there.

Chapter 2: isn't it obvious?

Chapter Text

Derek sits on the fire escape in the alley beside dionysus, smoking his cigarette after the dinner rush, sweat cooling his brow. He leans over his knees, blowing smoke away as he looks up at the strip of inky sky between shadowy buildings. It’s a clear night, just the faintest hint of Sirius and Rigel rising over the skyline.

The metal door bursts open and Eli steps out, his white jacket clutched in his hand as the door swings back and bumps him forward.

“I finished prepping the cream sauce and the soup for tomorrow,” Eli says, pointing behind him with his thumb and a hopeful expression. “Can I go?”

“You soaked the potatoes?”

“Yes, chef,” he raises his eyebrows with a knowing smirk. “And the asparagus.”

Derek takes a drag with nod. “Good work, chef. Clock out.”

Eli pauses, regarding Derek carefully. Sometimes when he thinks too hard his eyebrows pinch together and he goes all quiet. Derek finds it endearing, the way his face reveals when the gears start turning. He may not be the brightest, but his heart is always in the right place. He reminds Derek of Scott in that way.

Eli twists his chef’s jacket in his hands before tossing it over his shoulder, walking towards Derek as the door slams shut behind him.

“Lemmie have one,” Eli requests, and Derek blinks stonily at him with pursed lips.

“Just because you’re twenty-one now doesn’t mean I’m gonna enable you.”

“Dude, come on, you know it’s too late for me anyway,” he says with a huff, smacking Derek’s shoulder with the back of his hand before he holds it out again, palm up.

Derek studies his son as he pulls from his cigarette, just a hint of a shadow where his facial hair is coming in, features sharp as ever in the absence of his baby fat. Sometimes, in the right lighting, he resembles Stiles enough that Derek has to look away and catch his breath.

Eli blinks at him and makes the gimme gesture with his fingers, eyebrows raised expectantly.

Derek just sighs and straightens his leg on the metal stairs as he digs into his pocket, pulling out the pack and tossing it up at him. Eli fumbles a bit, always amusing to watch, but catches the box by slapping it to his chest with a huff. He traps a cigarette between his lips as he holds out another expectant hand, and Derek gives him the lighter as Eli takes a seat beside him.

“S’on your mind, pops?” he asks, holding the flame at the end of his stick until it glows bright orange. Eli passes the pack back to him but keeps the lighter, flicking it playfully before holding his hand over the flame. Derek snatches it away and Eli laughs as he leans his elbow back on the step behind him, plucking the cigarette from his lips with his finger and thumb.

“Nothing new,” Derek offers, taking a long drag, his hand falling between his open legs as he ashes his cigarette with a flick of his thumb. Eli is quite privy to his woes.

“You ever thought about dating apps?”

Derek rolls his eyes. “I don’t need a dating app. I’m too old for that anyway.”

“Dating apps aren’t for dating, dad,” Eli says with a short laugh, smoke blowing from his nose. Derek smiles, just a faint twitch at the corner of his lips, but Eli drops it.

They let the city sounds speak for a beat, sirens off in the distance, a car vibrating with bass driving by. Someone is singing very loud and off-key about a block away—they sound toasted.

“I always thought it’d be endgame if you guys met again,” Eli mutters, bringing the cigarette back to his lips.

Derek looks over at him, his lips pursed. “I f*cked it up too much.”

Eli shakes his head, his elbow planted on his knee, arm hanging lazily as he holds his cigarette. “Yeah, still don’t get that. What’d you do that was so bad?”

With a despondent sigh, Derek sucks the last bit of his cigarette before dropping it on the step and stamping it out with his shoe. The smoke billows from his lips, whipping in the air as the wind picks up, and he leans back on the step behind him, looking up at the sky through the black outlines of the grated fire escape.

The truth of the matter is, Derek was scared. He was scared he wasn’t ready to give Stiles the life he deserved. He was scared that he wasn’t enough for him and never could be—how could he be worthy enough for Stiles when he caused so much pain in the first place?

It was a mistake ever letting Stiles go. At the time, he truly thought he was doing the best thing for all of them. If you love someone, you set them free, right? Stiles was miserable, and Derek felt like he had domesticated a wild animal that just wasn’t meant for this kind of lifestyle. Stiles lying to him was just the nail in the coffin.

Derek gave up, like a coward.

Looking back, he’s realized if he just stuck it out longer, Stiles and Eli eventually would have found their footing. If he just stuck it out longer, he would have gotten over the lies—they were all made in benevolence. He helped Isaac because he knew how much Isaac meant to Derek. He bought the building because he didn’t want Derek to have to make any compromises for his lifelong dream, a dream that wouldn’t have even been possible if it weren’t for Stiles catapulting his name into the spotlight as it did so many years ago. He staked half of dionysus likely knowing Derek would be pissed, but ultimately Derek knew he was only trying to make up for that damning review. Because Stiles loved him and wanted him to be successful more than anything. Stiles loved him and wanted to make his dreams come true.

And Derek left him in that bed all alone, twice.

He does not deserve Stiles.

But he knows Stiles still cares.

Derek figured out who the silent partner was when Lydia wouldn’t tell him, no matter how much Derek pressed her on it. He was ready to buy them out, but Lydia said they’re not interested in selling and never will be, “So stop asking. Just think of them as backup. They’ll never let you fail.”

That was all he needed to hear. “It’s Stiles, isn’t it?”

Lydia has a good poker face, but the flash of panic in her eyes said it all.

It’s why Derek won’t give up. He knows he has a lot to make up for, he knows it won’t be easy getting him back. But as long as Stiles holds a stake in dionysus, Derek has a chance. Why else would Stiles be hanging on to it after all this time? He sold Lydia the building for half the price he paid for it after they broke up, probably because it was the right thing to do more than anything, but he kept the stake, and he’s come through every single time they’ve needed it. There has never been a cap from the silent partner, and as long as Stiles holds it, Derek can’t imagine there ever would be.

Even after Derek tore his heart out and threw it in the sh*tty end of the Chicago River, Stiles still wants him to be successful. Stiles still loves his food. He hopes, more than anything, that Stiles still loves him. The stake he holds gives Derek enough hope to keep trying, no matter how much it hurts to see Stiles look at him with such disdain. The love is there, under all the drugs and drink. Derek just has to figure out how to pull it back out of him.

Derek runs a hand over his face with a heavy sigh and a shake of his head. He doesn’t have an answer for Eli. In his inebriated state, the texts he saw from Isaac on Stiles’ phone were enough to send him reeling right back into that place of uncertainty. Would Stiles lie to him again? Could Derek be enough for him, when Stiles deserves the world on a platinum platter? What if he can’t be the man Stiles sees him as? What if he can’t be there like Stiles needs him to be?

And why the f*ck did Isaac text him i miss you, i’ll wait up for you like that?

“Don’t ever get drunk,” is all Derek offers. He pulls out another cigarette. The off-key singing drifts closer, mixed with drunken laughter and another voice attempting to shush.

“Too late, pops,” Eli says, ruffling Derek’s hair as he rises, a habit he picked up from Laura no doubt but didn’t rub him the same way. He took it for what it was, affection from his son, and he cherished it.

Eli takes one last pull before flicking his cigarette off somewhere, his fingers brushing through his short curls. He regards Derek as he stands, a careful smile on his lips. “Maybe you could create a new dish just for him?”

Derek blinks up at him after cupping the lighter around his cigarette, the tip of it crackling with fire as he pulls on it. It’s not a terrible idea, his mind already racing with the possibilities of new creations solely with Stiles in mind.

“Good idea,” he offers with a small smile. “Love you, kid.”

Eli returns the smile, his expression hopeful. “Love you too, dad. I gotta go, Liam’s waiting up for me.”

Derek just nods and smokes his cigarette as Eli slips back inside, offering a small two-finger wave as the door slams shut behind him.

He rises from his perched position, his legs tight from standing for eight hours, feet sore, and starts to head upstairs when he hears the gate to the alley slam shut with a rattle. He turns around, the bright safety lights shielding the laughing couple like a curtain from where Derek stands, and makes his way back down the stairs, eyes squinting. He really needs to get that lock fixed.

As he steps closer into the light, he hears a soft moan, one that he hears too often in his dreams, and his body freezes when he realizes Stiles is pressed against the brick wall, Jackson holding him there. He wants to look away, like a part of a movie he can’t bear to watch, but his eyes are fixed on Stiles’ expression—lashes casting coal shadows over his cheek, lips parted, neck stretched long as his head rests back against the brick. Jackson is kissing below his ear, a hand pressing against his groin, Stiles’ fingers curled in his hair.

Imagining it is one thing but seeing it in real life makes him wish he were blind.

Derek swallows, ice in his veins, and clears his throat.

Stiles’ eyes snap open, a flush coloring his cheeks as Jackson pulls back, and then as if remembering his disdain for Derek, his soft eyes turn cold.

“Jesus f*cking Christ, do you f*cking live here or something?” His words slur, though Derek suspects Stiles thinks he sounds a lot more sober than he actually is.

Jackson, likely shocked at getting caught molesting his boss’s ex against said boss’s restaurant, looks like he’s caught in a pair of headlights.

“Yes, I do, actually,” Derek offers, bringing the cigarette to his lips as his eyes flick between the two. Stiles’ head rears back slightly, his eyebrows drawn at the unexpected answer. Derek looks up at the apartment above his restaurant, the timed yellow lights casting a false sense of life taking place inside, and Stiles’ eyes follow, his forehead wrinkling as he looks up at the window above his head.

He’d only moved in a few weeks ago, when Eli and Liam got their first place together. It was time for a fresh start, and he figured living above his place of work couldn’t be a terrible idea. Mostly the apartment became available at the right time and Derek didn’t want to live alone in Lincoln Park.

“What are you doing here?” Derek asks, an eyebrow raised. He’s trying to keep his cool, his hands shaking, his jaw tense. Jackson is f*cking done. After already reprimanding him once about selling on his property, and now witnessing this firsthand, there’s no f*cking way Derek can keep him around, or even look at him for that matter.

“Jackson’s wining and dining me.” Stiles smirks, hooking his arm through Jackson’s and pulling him close. Jackson’s eyes wander at everything except Derek, his body language uncomfortable, jaw ticking as he leans away from Stiles. “That okay with you, chef?”

He says it with a sneer, icy and harsh and nothing like what he used to call Derek. Devoid of any love or affection, interchangeable with piece of sh*t.

Derek licks his lips, his heart pausing like it needs a moment alone, and takes a deep breath.

He may still love Stiles, but he does not like this version of him. He’s cold and cavalier, with no regard for his actions to himself or the ones who care about him most. While it hurts Derek to be treated so harshly by him, he knows he deserves it and can withstand it. What hurts even more is witnessing Stiles defaming his body and mind, like he doesn’t care if he lives or dies either way. He almost seems set on the latter.

“Yeah, Stiles. You’re always welcome here,” Derek says, another drag of his cigarette as he watches Jackson squirm.

Stiles doesn’t like that answer, the softness in his voice, Derek can tell. His face pinches in agitation and he squeezes Jackson’s arm. “C’mon, Jackson, I changed my mind. Let’s go somewhere else.”

Jackson looks grateful to be leaving, his chest expanding with an inhale as they start to exit the alley. Derek brings the cigarette to his lips, watching Jackson open the gate for Stiles.

“Don’t bother coming in tomorrow, Jackson,” Derek says as he exhales the smoke.

Stiles nearly snaps his neck to look back at Derek with a glare. “Are you f*cking serious?!”

He knew that would piss Stiles off, and maybe he should have waited to say something until tomorrow, but he just couldn’t resist, couldn’t let Jackson walk out of here with Stiles on his arm and let him think that’s okay.

“Jackson knows what he did. Two strikes. It’s done.”

“Two strikes? Are you f*cking kidding me, Derek? Two f*cking strikes? Or are you just firing him because he gets to f*ck me and you can’t?” Stiles is livid, his eyes dark and vacant as he glowers.

Derek doesn’t point out the irony in Stiles’ stance on two strikes. Instead, he clenches his jaw and smokes his cigarette, watching Jackson glare at him and Stiles lose his sh*t.

“I don’t take these decisions lightly. It’s my restaurant, I’m doing what’s best for my reputation. Like I said, Jackson knows what he did.”

Stiles only scowls at him, eyebrows drawn tight before he turns and grabs Jackson by his shirt, pulling him in and mashing their lips together in a messy kiss. Jackson kisses Stiles back just as fervently, his previous regard for Derek’s feelings no longer a concern.

Derek has to look away, his heart clenching, the muscles in his neck flexing. He hears the wet smack of their lips parting and turns back, brows furrowed.

“Let’s go, Jackson. I’ll make it better, baby.”

Stiles flips him off as they walk away, the gate slamming shut behind them.

Derek rubs a hand over his face and kicks a milk crate to the other side of the alley.

-

An incessant banging sound cuts off Derek’s dream, rudely forcing him into a conscious reality. At first he thinks the sound is gunshots, which usually wouldn’t wake him, but this is Old Town and the banging is too close for comfort. Then the shouting starts, and Derek perks his head up, reaching for his phone with a furrowed brow and squinted eyes. It’s nearly f*cking five in the morning, and the banging continues.

Derek drags himself out of bed, rubbing his eyes as he grumbles out, to himself more than anyone, “I’m f*cking coming, chill.” He snatches his basketball shorts off the floor before slipping them on and making his way down the shadowy hall.

“f*cking open this door, Derek Hale! I know you’re in there!” Stiles yells out just as Derek unlocks and swings open the backdoor. Stiles rears back as if he weren’t expecting Derek behind the door, eyes blinking as he unabashedly skims over Derek’s body. Then he catches himself, his mouth snapping shut as he glares and shoves his way in.

“What the f*ck, Stiles, it’s f*cking five in the morning,” Derek grumbles, his brow still furrowed as he watches Stiles take in Derek’s apartment, eyes wandering the living room, the kitchen, down the hall towards Derek’s room.

Despite his monetary success, Derek remains relatively humble, considering. The verdant couch and wooden coffee table that Eli helped him pick out were enough for him, minor personalized accents sprinkled throughout the space as proof that a real person did indeed live here, even if he is a workaholic who’s barely home. His chef’s jacket hangs over the back of a stool, framed photos sit on the window’s wide ledge, books and journals wait on the coffee table. He's still not done unpacking, a few boxes left and pushed to the edge of the room to worry about on a rainy day.

The only light is from the street pouring in through his open windows, Stiles’ features limned in gold. Derek blinks lazily at him, waiting. He doesn’t seem so out of place here.

Stiles meets his eyes finally, his gaze vacant as he glowers and sways. “Rehire Jackson.”

Derek sighs and lets his head fall back, his eyes slipping shut, allowing himself a pause before he tips his head forward again. “How wasted are you?”

He’s in a different shirt than he was earlier, Jackson’s from the looks of it. It’s tighter on him than the regular kit he drowns in these days, and he smells like that f*cking cologne Jackson wears on nights he isn’t working. The stench of it mixed with Stiles after sex makes Derek nearly gag.

Stiles sniffles and shakes his head. “None of your business. Rehire Jackson.”

“Stiles,” Derek groans and rubs a hand over his face. He’s too f*cking tired for this sh*t. “I’m not rehiring him. He’s selling on my property.”

“Once! You caught him once, and that was his only warning! What was the other one? Tell me, I wanna hear it.”

Derek purses his lips, his jaw tightening as he studies Stiles’ features. His temple is sweaty and if Derek could see his eyes properly, he’s sure his pupils would be blown. He wipes his nose with the back of his hand and raises his eyebrows expectantly.

“Say it. You fired him because I’m f*cking him.”

“Stiles—”

“No, say it! Because I know it’s true and—”

“Stiles, your nose is bleeding!” Derek snaps, his instinct to reach out and pinch his nose taking over, but Stiles flinches away before Derek can touch him, his hand flying up to feel his dripping nostrils. He sniffles again, bringing his hand away to see the blood on his fingertips, droplets of it falling onto Jackson’s pristine white shirt.

“sh*t,” he mumbles, licking the blood on his lips as he sniffles again. Derek turns and makes his way into the kitchen, swerving around the island before snatching a paper towel and wetting it. He turns around and Stiles is there, holding his nose with one hand and reaching out with the other, snatching the paper towel and pressing it under his nostrils.

“Are you okay?” Derek asks, brows knit in concern.

“I’m fine,” he grumbles, walking passed Derek to the sink. He turns the faucet on and holds his bloody fingers under the water, pulling the paper towel away as he hovers over the basin. He cups water in his palm before wiping it over his face with a sniffle.

“Do you get nosebleeds a lot?” Derek asks, unsure of what to do except watch him attempt to temper the flow. The blood continues dripping, no matter how much he sniffles, a rhythmic tap in the stainless-steel basin once he turns off the faucet.

Stiles side-eyes him, the whites of his eyes bloodshot as he licks his lips, his long fingers gripping the edge of the sink as he lingers over it.

“Stop talking.”

Derek covers his mouth with his hooked index finger, thumb pressing under his chin, stare fixed at the broken man before him. It tears his heart, to see Stiles like this—so full of rage, hands shaking in withdrawal, dutifully bowed over the sink as if praying over a sacrificial offering. His pain is nearly palpable.

“Stiles, what are you doing?”

Stiles’ jaw hardens as he reaches for a clean paper towel, ripping it off the roll before wiping it over his face.

Derek stares at him, scanning his features, the sweat on his brow, his shaking hands as he holds the paper towel to his nose.

“I can help you, Stiles. You don’t… it doesn’t have to be like this.” His brows are pulled together, concern in his tone. The limbic urge to reach out and comfort him is overwhelming, but he knows Stiles will only jerk away from his touch.

The way Stiles is watching him is unsettling, eyes black, skin pallid under a sheen of sweat. He steps closer as he pulls the paper towel away, the dark blood in his nostrils congealing. Their faces are inches apart, Derek’s breath caught in his throat as he doesn’t dare to look away. His eyes slip to Stiles’ mouth without his conscious volition, and then return to the glassy, lifeless gaze penetrating through him.

Stiles’ lips curl into a satisfied smirk. “You want to help me, Derek?” he asks, his voice low and soft in a way that reminds Derek of when Stiles would ask something of him—overly sweet, a hint of mischief. Only now there’s a lilt to it that feels more sinister than the impish Stiles he’s used to indulging.

He leans in, just another centimeter, his breath ghosting over Derek’s lips, their eyes locked on each other’s. He’s frozen in place, so close he can count each eyelash, blood bursting through his veins like a wild river, lips parted in a torpor. They haven’t shared breath in three years. Derek can feel his body heat, nearly taste his sweat.

“Rehire Jackson.” He leans back with a sh*t-eating grin, his middle finger hailing between their lips in lieu of the kiss Derek was awaiting in vain.

Stiles laughs himself out the back door.

-

Derek visits Jackson a week later. He deserves to sweat a bit, Derek thinks. When Jackson opens the door, he’s got a smug f*cking look on his face and Derek does not restrain from punching him.

“f*ck!” Jackson yells out, his hand coming up to cover his swelling lip as he glowers.

“You know what that was for.” Derek narrows his eyes, shaking his fist out before clenching it again, watching as Jackson touches his bottom lip. He’s not bleeding but he’ll definitely be f*cked up for a day or two.

“These are the terms. Don’t sell to Stiles, and don’t even f*cking look at him. He does not exist to you anymore.”

Jackson’s jaw works, his blue eyes bright under his glare. “You know he’ll just find it somewhere else.”

Derek isn’t stupid. He knows how addicts work.

“Don’t worry about that. If I find out you’ve sold to him or touched him again, you’re done, and I’ll make sure you’ll never work another day in Chicago.”

Jackson’s nostrils flare at that, his lips pursed, but he nods curtly, an undignified gesture of begrudging acceptance.

He feels infinitesimally better.

-

Derek has had the same routine for the last five years. Wake up at seven, go to the gym if it’s a gym day, shower, make breakfast for him and Eli, and midmorning on Mondays, coffee with Allison. Except Allison can’t have coffee, or smoke weed, so they’re at an ice cream shop instead, sitting at a round table next to a window as Derek spoons into his mint chocolate chip.

“Scott’s doing the solidarity thing but it’s making him c*nty.” Allison rolls her eyes as she takes a bite of her cookie dough scoop, her gaze wandering outside. “I wish he would just smoke and do us all a favor.”

Derek huffs through his nose, a smirk playing on his lips. Scott has been on edge a lot more lately, but Derek can imagine he’s stressing the f*ck out right now, a baby on the way, his best friend falling apart before his eyes. Abstaining can’t be helpful, considering Scott has been an avid stoner for the last twenty years of his life.

“Maybe I can influence him to let loose,” Derek suggests, eyebrows raised.

“Good luck. He thinks he’s being romantic and like, empathetic I guess, but if he really wants to feel how I feel, he’d be smoking for the both of us.”

“I’m sure he’s done enough smoking for the both of you for a few lifetimes, honestly,” Derek says, leaning back in his chair as he licks his spoon with a smirk.

Allison gives him a look, her doe eyes concerned as she nibbles on her bottom lip. “No, but I think he might be doing it because of Stiles, too. Like a role model in his life, you know?”

Derek nods, humming in acknowledgment as he looks down at his ice cream, stirring it around the paper cup.

They’re quiet for a moment, and then Derek looks up at her from under his brows, chewing the inside of his cheek.

“There’s something I haven’t told you.”

Allison’s brows raise as she leans in with a curious smile. “What?”

He inhales deeply, looking down at his cup before taking another bite, licking his lips and meeting her eyes.

“It’s… kind of bad. It is bad,” Derek looks away, his cheeks flushing in shame. He sighs and keeps his gaze down as he says, “Stiles and I… I slept with him, the night of your wedding. I was so wasted. I mean, you saw me.” He shakes his head in small, disappointed movements, absentmindedly mixing his ice cream into soft serve before setting it on the table with a pop.

“I said things, and made promises, and I was so ready to dive in again, I truly wanted that. But then I saw texts from Isaac on his phone and freaked out. It was my worst fear coming true, the two of them together. I couldn’t believe Isaac would do that to me, and then I just spiraled from there and couldn’t handle it, so I left.”

He scratches his cheek before he carefully meets Allison’s gaze, her face soft as she regards him.

“I mean… I kind of had a feeling something happened that night. But Scott confirmed it.”

Derek’s brow furrows, and then he purses his lips in realization. “Of course Scott told you.” He pauses, thinking about it, and then says, “Wait, so you’ve known this whole time?”

Allison shakes her head and scoops another bite. “No, he only told me a few weeks ago after Stiles told him.”

Derek blinks at her, bewildered. He assumed it was something Scott already knew, but was one of the things he kept silent about in order to maintain their friendship. He often wondered why Scott never gave him sh*t about it, but he knew Scott didn’t want to be in the middle of it, and Derek didn’t want to put him there, so he never brought it up either.

“Stiles only told him a few weeks ago?”

She shrugs and licks her lips, chewing her cookie dough bits. “I guess so. They had a fight about you coming to the game, and being invited to the baby shower. Stiles hasn’t been talking to him.”

Derek pauses again. “So Scott finally told him.”

Allison is in her second trimester, and anyone who knew anything about pregnant women, or at least about Allison, would know it just by glancing at her. Aside from the glow, her skinny frame didn’t give her much of a chance at hiding anything, even if she did wear baggier clothes. She’s been pregnant for five months and Stiles had no f*cking clue.

“Yep. Took it how I thought he would. Scott was more optimistic.”

Derek quirks an eyebrow in silent agreement, his head tipping slightly. Scott’s always seen the good in people, and if he were sober, Stiles would be thrilled for them. He wonders how that conversation went.

Allison perks her head up and peaks at Derek’s ice cream cup. “You gonna finish that?”

Derek pushes it her way, the paper scraping along the laminated tabletop. She snatches it up and happily spoons the mixed ice cream into her mouth.

“What’d the texts say?”

He gives her a wary look. As much as he was ready to dive in, there were still lingering thoughts, and seeing those texts had him wondering. If Stiles could lie about hiding Isaac, and Eli smoking, and buying the building, and owning half a stake, what else is he capable of?

He clears his throat. “The first one said, ‘I miss you’ and then right after, ‘I’ll wait up for you.’”

She purses her lips, passing him a sympathetic smile. “Yeah, I guess I’d freak out a bit too.”

“And then it ended up happening. So maybe that makes me a fool, to try and get him back.”

Allison frowns a bit, pausing as she scrapes the bottom of the cup to regard him. “I don’t think that’s true. And I don’t think you do, either.”

Perhaps it is foolish, trying to win him back—that doesn’t mean he’ll ever stop.

Derek has everything he’s ever wanted. A successful restaurant in the city he loves, a Michelin star among other notorious culinary accolades, a name for himself doing what he does best. But none of that means anything if he can’t share it with the person who made it all possible for him, the one who guaranteed his success.

Derek doesn’t begrudge Stiles for his actions, anymore. He’s come to realize he would do the same were the roles reversed. It’s not like he never lied to Stiles, either. Still, the trust had been broken, and thus the seed of doubt was planted.

He rubs a hand over his face and shakes his head. “No, but it feels that way sometimes. Especially when he’s f*cking half of Chicago.”

Allison purses her lips, her eyebrows raised in acknowledgment. “Well.”

Derek clenches his jaw, staring out the window, his eyes following a dog and their owner passing by. His gaze returns to Allison, who leans back in her chair and tugs down the hem of her ridden-up shirt, her hand reflexively falling to her bump.

“Do you think he’ll go to the baby shower?”

“If he does, I really hope it’s before his oxy of the day.”

“Jesus, Al,” Derek scoffs and meets her eyes. “You know this isn’t him. Cut him some slack.”

She crosses her arms with a determined gaze. “Being an addict doesn’t excuse his sh*tty attitude.”

Derek blinks despondently. He knows she’s right, but he doesn’t like it. It’s the same reason Derek ends up taking care of all the addicts in his life—because he knows the addiction doesn’t define who they are, and Derek will always hold out for hope that they will heal and attempt to make amends with the ones they hurt when they were hurting, too. Allison cares about Stiles, Derek knows she does. But she’s been in the middle of it for too long, and she’s had enough.

Derek knows the feeling.

--

The pool hall is loosely packed tonight, a few regulars in place among the early crowd of the muggy spring evening. Isaac lifts his beer as he watches Stiles bend over the green felt and position his cue stick. He knocks a striped ball into a solid, sinking it into his called pocket.

Stiles smiles triumphantly, his eyes gleaming, and Isaac offers a half-baked semblance in return. He tips his beer back and finishes it off, licking his lips as his eyes follow Stiles taking a turn around the table.

The buffer tables between patrons begin to fill out as new people trickle in, but so far, no one has recognized or cared enough to bother them as they pool around in the back corner. The last table, right beside them, remains unclaimed.

“I’m gonna get another beer. You need anything?” Isaac asks, propping his cue stick beside their booth.

“Yeah, me too,” Stiles says, finishing his bottle before passing it off to Isaac as he makes his way to the bar.

Isaac claims the tender’s attention as he sets down their empty bottles, another round, please, looking off at the crowd as their beers are procured. He turns back with a polite smile once they’re placed in front of him, swiping them before returning to their table.

Stiles leans up after taking another shot, his eyes meeting Isaac with a small smile, and then once his gaze slips past him, turning cold.

“You have got to be f*cking kidding me,” Stiles mutters, his head shaking in exasperation.

Isaac whips back to see Derek making determined strides to the last remaining table, Boyd following reluctantly, a pleased smile on Derek’s lips as he meets Stiles’ eyes. It’d be amusing if he didn’t know how much it pissed Stiles off to encounter Derek in the wild.

“Hey,” Derek offers, and he’s clearly happy to see Stiles here, like it was predetermined or something, knowing how Derek thinks. Isaac, he ignores.

Boyd and Isaac share a look, his lips pursed. Boyd hates being caught in the middle of their torrid love affair and really couldn't give a sh*t.

Stiles looks at Derek like he’s just insulted him, gripping his cue stick before switching his gaze to Isaac with a despondent expression. “Are you ready to go?”

“Aww, come on. Don’t leave on account of us,” Derek teases, looking back at Isaac and eyeing the two beers in his hands. Derek’s eyes flash in disappointment, a look Isaac is all too familiar with, before his expression blanks and returns to Stiles. “Looks like you’re only getting started.”

“You wanna play a game with us?” Isaac finds himself asking, despite only having a couple of beers by now—not nearly drunk enough to be blurting things out, though the innate urge to stitch these two back together is certainly the heavier factor in this scenario.

Stiles’ face pinches in scorn as he shoots quiet curses his way, and Isaac bites his lip from grinning as he passes Stiles’ beer along. He snatches it and brings it to his lips, eyeing Derek in disdain.

It goes without saying Derek jumps on the opportunity, picking out a cue stick from the rack with a pleased smile, leaving Boyd to sigh in annoyed acceptance as he slips away to the bar.

To be honest, he’s as tired of this pretense as Boyd. It’s so obvious Stiles is still painfully in love with Derek—the way he tries to deny it has Grandma Lahey’s voice resonating in his brain, denial ain’t just a river in Egypt. For only a second Isaac could see the softness in Stiles’ eyes, his shoulders relaxed as he stared at the first flowers in fond reverence. As quickly as it came it was gone.

Isaac couldn’t help himself from reading the note. It was just… there. No envelope, only a thick piece of cardstock folded in half, not going anywhere written in Derek’s hand.

As obstinate as he is, it’s only a matter of time before Stiles trips and falls right back into Derek’s awaiting arms. Were Isaac in his place, all the warmth and love and home in Derek's eyes would have been enough. How Stiles can deny himself that, Isaac does not know or understand.

Derek chalks his cue stick and stares across the table as Stiles sips his beer contemptuously. He smirks, raising an eyebrow as he asks, “Do you wanna be my partner?”

Predictably, Stiles scoffs and rolls his eyes, shooting Isaac another look indicative of I’m going to f*cking strangle you later. Isaac looks down, amused, before peaking from under his brows, his eyes flicking to Derek and then back.

“Yeah, I wanna partner up with Boyd, anyway,” Isaac says, holding back a smirk.

Derek faces him, his brow stoic, gaze studious as if trying to figure out Isaac’s angle just by reading his face. Inviting them to play, forcing them into a team, and interacting in public. Probably to the outsider, and Boyd, it’s obvious what Isaac’s intentions are (he’s always been a good wingman), but Derek seems to think he’s got an ulterior motive up his sleeve.

This may be true, but the reasons aren’t nefarious like Derek may believe.

Isaac misses Derek, too. He won’t say it outright, but he wouldn’t deny it, either. He never understood why Derek abruptly stopped talking to him after the wedding. Left with a stilted friendship, it was never quite the same after a certain chain of events. The distance didn’t help, sticking around Milwaukee for a few years just to ensure he had a solid grip on life outside the umbra of… Derek. After about the third unanswered text and a few dismissed phone calls, he got the hint and figured he didn’t have much of a right to his ineffable melancholy, anyway.

Stiles convinced him to move back to Chicago not too long after, dubbing Isaac his new private chef, best friend, and eventual f*ck buddy. They only started f*cking to commiserate their loss together—perhaps without the history there could have been something real, but Stiles was profoundly emotionally unavailable, and Isaac was focused on his sobriety, taking what life gave to him one day at a time.

Except, Stiles had turned into someone Isaac should have been avoiding. The resentment and ire that fueled Stiles’ addiction only seemed to intensify with each passing year, sinking into the all-too-acquainted abyss that would forever claim a piece of Isaac’s soul. Hanging around the wrong crowd can only get you so far in sobriety.

Boyd makes it back with their beers, passing one to Derek before taking his stand beside Isaac.

Isaac knocks their elbows together. “We’re partners,” he says with a sly grin, and Boyd gives him a discontented look before taking a long drink and picking out his cue stick.

“Which means nothing, by the way,” Stiles grumbles, reaching in pockets to gather the set before racking them up with the wooden triangle.

Boyd steps next to him, chalking his stick while glancing sideways. “When this goes south tonight, you owe me surf and turf dinner.”

“And if it goes north?”

Boyd blinks at him dubiously, lips pursed.

They’re bickering already, Stiles insistent on Derek moving to the other side to make his shot without bending over in front of him. Derek asks him stupid questions just to get him to talk, like did you just get your hair done, you goin’ to the baby shower, what’s that tattoo mean (spoiler alert: they all mean ‘reclaim me Derek Hale’), and each question makes Stiles grit his teeth and glare as he sucks down his beer.

“I need a goddamn shot,” Stiles snaps, shoving his cue stick at Isaac after taking his turn. He strides away, determined not to look back, but instead of the bar, slips to the toilets.

Derek starts to follow him and Isaac blocks his path before he can go any further, Derek’s gaze piercing.

“So, when are we gonna hang out?” Isaac asks boldly, his eyebrows raised, sipping his beer as he grips the two cue sticks in one hand.

He gets all stony, his face hardening as he regards Isaac in irreverence. “Why, so you can steal my recipes, too?”

Isaac frowns, his head rearing back, confounded as he returns the stare. “What? Why would I want your recipes, dude?”

“Cut the bullsh*t, Isaac. We both know what this looks like,” Derek deadpans, his eyes flicking behind him in reference to Stiles. “How long did you wait before you swooped right in to save him? Was the bed even cold yet?”

With a discerning stare past Derek’s head, Isaac blinks, and suddenly everything makes sense. Derek thinks Isaac was waiting in the wings for Stiles like a vulture diving in for carrion.

He’s caught off by the realization, his eyes shifting back to Derek from the neon sign he’d been unconsciously focused on.

“Oh, like the bed Stiles woke up to, twice?”

He didn’t mean to say that—it was a hair-trigger response once his brain came back online and the opposite of what he wanted to say, which was… oh, what was it?

This is why he should not be drinking. It’s like someone’s taken an ice cream scoop to his brain and he’s not sure the hollows will ever quite fill in again. Drinking satisfies them provisionally, a shoddy excuse for a pothole that’ll never lay flat again. Not unless the road is carved up and repaved.

He shakes his head, “sh*t, I didn’t—”

Derek has always been terrible at masking his emotions. Even with a five-year gap in their timeline, Isaac can still read him like a book, no matter how stoic he makes his face; there’s always a lag before he remembers to shutter his feelings and slip on his mask. The hurt flashes over his features, eyebrows drawn in, and then his expression shifts into carved marble, static and unchanged with time. They’re standing about a foot apart, Derek’s chest puffed out as if he needed to make himself any bigger, hands clenched in tight fists, and then there’s Boyd, pressing a hand between each of them, pushing them further apart.

“I’m really not tryna get in the middle of this but y’all need to figure this sh*t out privately. People are watching.”

Isaac blinks and meets the eyes of a few people not-so-surreptitiously glancing their way, their faces turning when Isaac catches them in the act. Derek slips past them both, his shoulder brush nearly knocking Isaac off his feet as he makes his way to the bar.

Boyd smacks his teeth and gives Isaac a tight look. “Man, I’m just tryna have a chill night out without drama. I’m too old for this sh*t. We’re too old for this sh*t. I’ve got f*cking kids, I don’t need to babysit grown-ass men.”

With a sheepish smile, Isaac cups his shoulder with a squeeze and a sympathetic nod, feeling guilty for ruining Boyd’s night out. “Sorry, man. You’re right. Let’s just play.”

Boyd takes his turn as Isaac watches Derek and Stiles from the bar. It’s obvious Stiles is co*ked up and talking a mile a minute at the bartender who seems thoroughly intrigued by everything Stiles is saying as he shakes a stainless steel shaker for way too long. Derek is tense, a few steps away as he watches in envy and rage, jaw ticking comically. He reminds Isaac of that bulldog from Tom and Jerry, the way he stands, how big his torso is now with his fists at his sides.

They eventually make their way back to the pool table, Derek’s demeanor more sullen now as he sips his beer and snatches his cue stick from its standing position. Stiles has a smug look about him, and it’s quiet between them, the air thick as Boyd sends Isaac an exasperated stare.

Derek takes his turn, pocketing two striped balls before giving Isaac an expectant look. “Your turn.”

-

“God, the f*cking audacity he has walking up to me like that! It pisses me off he thinks he can have access to me whenever he spots me in public. I swear it’s like he’s f*cking following me, he’s everywhere I go!”

Isaac listens to Stiles pitch his fit as they walk the few remaining blocks back to Stiles’ apartment. He’s already said the same thing twice, puffing on his cigarette like some life force as he gestures wildly on the sidewalk. He does that on co*ke.

“You ever think that’s the universe giving you a clue?” Isaac wonders aloud, directly from his brain with the belated afterthought of knowing Stiles would be repulsed by the very idea of it.

He responds accordingly.

“What! That’s bullsh*t and you know it, you know how small this f*cking city is, sh*t like that happens and it doesn’t mean anything,” Stiles scoffs, tossing Isaac a begrudging expression as he shakes his head and sucks his cigarette. “I think it’s suspicious that he’s at this pool house all of a sudden, so close to my apartment in Edgewater. He lives in Old Town. The f*ck is he doing on my territory.”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

Stiles scoffs again as he blows smoke away, sending him a side glance. “What is with you? Are you taking his side too? Jesus f*cking Christ, he walked out on you too!”

“I walked out on him, first,” Isaac mentions, keeping in sync with Stiles’ strides. “I’m not taking sides; I’m just pointing out the patterns. He’s doing what he said he would.”

Stiles shakes his head, jaw twitching. “I want him to stop. It’s insulting. Like, get a f*cking life, dude, don’t you have anything better to do?”

Isaac watches Stiles’ profile, his gaze lingering as Stiles pulls a final drag from his cigarette, brow furrowed in agitation. What Isaac would give to have someone vie for his affections as fervently as Derek.

He lets Stiles’ grumble some more about it, tuning him out with the city sounds as they walk. They arrive at their destination, Stiles winking at Jordan on their way to the elevators.

“What’d you do that made him all pissy the rest of the night?”

Stiles’ lips curl upwards as he swipes his fob. “I told the bartender my ex was a toxic ass and then got his number.” He straight up giggles after that, entirely pleased with himself.

--

Derek maneuvers into a parking spot a house shy from the Stilinski-McCall residence, shutting off the engine with a click and a long stare at the blue house trimmed in white. He turns to Eli with a quick smile, eyeing the gift in his lap that Allison insisted on not wrapping to reduce waste and forgo opening gifts in front of everyone (thank f*cking god). It’s a top-of-the-line baby monitoring system that Derek snagged off her registry, the two-dimensional infant printed on the box smiling up at him.

“It’s gonna be fine, dad. I bet he’s not even here.”

It’s weird either way, returning to this house without the person who first brought him here.

Melissa welcomes them at the door, her smile wide as she reaches up to touch his face in maternal fondness before bringing him in for a hug. “Derek, it’s so good to see you. Eli,” she smiles and moves along, his hug less intimate as she takes the gift from his baring hands.

“Everyone is outside. There’s plenty of food, as I’m sure you know,” she adds with a smile, setting their gift among the others on a table set up in the living room.

“Everyone?” Derek asks, an eyebrow raised. Melissa chuckles with a small, careful smile, but then she nods subtly, herding them towards the backdoor through the kitchen, not giving Derek much of a chance to collect himself along the way.

It’s a sunny June afternoon, but thankfully most of the backyard sits under a giant sycamore and it’s about ten degrees cooler in the shade. There are a few round tables with familiar faces sitting about them, most people chatting over their meals as the radio plays softly on the airwaves.

Erica and Boyd sit with their uninterested squirming kids between them as they attempt to offer bites from their plates. Isaac sits across from them chatting with Kira, Stiles right beside him with a mildly sour expression and his arms crossed over his chest. He’s in purple today, his silver accessories glinting in the afternoon sun, eyes hidden behind his sunglasses. He doesn’t acknowledge Derek or Eli as they step through the threshold out onto the deck.

As baby showers go, it’s a fairly relaxed occasion. More like a backyard party than anything, libations excluded. Near the tree sits a corkboard on a tripod stuck with the baby pictures Lydia requested from each guest pinned into its flesh. Sage green decorations line the tall picket fence, and a table of food sits off to the side à la dionysus, a relaxed menu just for Allison.

“I should have brought Liam,” Eli grumbles, sticking close to Derek when he notices Scott is preoccupied with Noah, Allison, and Chris at the same table. There’s only one seat left at each table once Melissa takes her place beside Noah.

“You can attend an event without your boyfriend for an evening. You two get into too much trouble at social gatherings, anyway.” Derek doesn’t waste time heading towards the buffet table, assembling his plate as Eli follows suit.

“Well, I wanna sit with Scott,” Eli declares as he piles his plate with Brussels sprouts and braised chicken thighs.

“Fine.”

Eli gives him a knowing smirk before grabbing a drink from the ice bucket and slipping away to the last chair at Scott’s table. Derek snags a blue gatorade before making the trek to the last available spot between Stiles and Boyd, Stiles sighing dramatically as he takes his seat.

“Hey,” Derek offers, a smile on his lips as he scoots his chair in. “Did you eat already?”

“I’m not hungry,” Stiles mumbles, his leg bouncing beneath the table, sending uniform ripples through the linen tablecloth. He reaches for his Pellegrino and takes a long sip as he looks towards Isaac on the off chance he’s done flirting with Kira on the other side of him.

Stiles seems annoyed but pretty resigned for his current set of circ*mstances, and Derek wonders what he’s on today for him to be so apathetic as he sits between a Derek attempting conversation and an Isaac disregarding his existence. As he swipes the collar of his shirt over his sticky face, a memory of Stiles poured over his mossy couch in a luster of sweat and fever plays in Derek’s head, a fragmented clip from a beloved archived film.

Derek realizes he’s experiencing withdrawal, then, Stiles’ anxious energy rolling off him like the beads of sweat over his temple.

“Are you okay?” Derek asks, tone laced with concern, restraining another urge to reach out and comfort him. He keeps his voice low as he leans in, lost in the overhead chatter but clear enough for Stiles to hear him.

Stiles gives him a look, his eyebrows twitching into a hint of a frown before he can goad his features back into his standby expression of contrived apathy. If he weren’t wearing sunglasses, Derek is sure he’d see the pain marked in his eyes.

“I’m fine.” He covers his mouth as he yawns, leg still bouncing under the table.

For someone who’s managed a handful of lies for so long, Stiles is actually a terrible liar at face value.

Derek purses his lips, gaze fixed as Stiles shifts in his chair.

“Don’t wanna be here right now,” Stiles offers, his voice a bit strained.

Derek’s heart leaps in his chest—Stiles is actually talking to him.

Condensation drips down his chin as he drinks his Pellegrino, his long, trembling fingers gripping the glass bottle like a ballast, the swell of his Adam’s apple bobbing distractedly.

Derek swallows, his gaze shifting as his pulse speeds up. He’s got to play this cool and not scare Stiles away but the thought of Stiles paying attention to him without bitching at him is pathetically exhilarating. Any notion of ‘cool’ is lost in the wind.

A man’s gotta take what he can get. Derek will f*cking feast on breadcrumbs if he has to.

“Here,” Derek says, snatching the gatorade he brought for himself as Stiles tips the last of the sparkling water into his mouth.

Stiles swipes the back of his palm over his lips and pauses, his gaze far away as he stares at the blue bottle in Derek’s hand. He hesitates, carefully meeting Derek’s eyes over his sunglasses. And then he purses his lips and looks away.

“No, thank you,” he says, crossing his arms over his middle with a stifled yawn.

“Stiles, just take it. I can grab another one, it’s no big deal.”

Stiles seems to mull this information over, likely concluding Derek is right and it doesn’t actually mean anything, accepting a beverage from his ex. He inhales sharply before taking the gatorade from him, cracking open the cap and bringing it to his lips for another long sip of his drink.

Derek can’t resist his tiny smile, an odd sense of satisfaction filling him as he watches Stiles drink from his offering.

-

Lydia makes them play games, and to Derek's surprise, they're more fun than he anticipated. Baby Mad Libs even has Stiles partaking and smiling, albeit a bit wryly. The other game involves the corkboard—they have to guess the ages of the babies in their respective photos, but mostly Allison coos over how cute they are with tears in her eyes and a hand clutching her belly.

It’s easy to identify who is who without even looking at the names, half the photos already familiar to Derek. Stiles is as blonde as he is now, smile bright and wild as he runs on the beach, the lake stretching out behind him. Derek has seen this photo countless times; it's one he saved to his favorites when Stiles sent it to him nearly six years ago. He’s no less captivated by the pure joy radiating from Stiles now than he was the first time he saw it.

Derek wants to see that from him again, wants to hear him laugh and overspill his unbridled joy. As much as he yearns to hold Stiles again, more than anything he just wants to see Stiles as healthy and carefree as that baby on the beach.

His eyes linger on the photo, and when he finally tears his gaze away and settles on its object, Stiles is watching him solicitously; an uncharacteristic trait for him these days. Derek offers a smile, holding his gaze for as long as he is granted, until Stiles turns away.

Allison takes a stand, her soft blue dress (not emblematic of the sex—they decided to let it be a surprise) taut over her stomach as she beams and wipes her tears away. She taps the tines of the fork against her glass bottle, claiming everyone’s attention with a pause. Scott’s hand falls to her lower back, his grin just as brilliant as he gazes up at her.

“I just wanted to say thank you for being a part of this experience with us. It means so much to both of us to have each of you here; you’re our family, and Scott and I are so lucky to have so much love and laughter in our lives because of you.” Her voice catches as a fresh wave of tears overcomes her, her eyes falling on Derek with a tender smile. She clears her throat as Scott soothingly runs his hand over her back.

“If you’re here, you’re already an auntie or uncle to this bun in the oven, but there are two people we’ve asked to be guideparents, and they’ve given us the honor of accepting this sanctified responsibility. Lydia and Derek, we love you so much and know you’ll be the most amazing guideparents. Your love, wisdom, and support mean the world to us, and we couldn’t imagine anyone better to help us raise our child.”

Derek’s heart pounds in his chest, the color leaving his face once he realizes what Allison is announcing to the party. It makes perfect sense that she would share this news now, but it wasn’t on Derek’s mind coming here today—and now, Stiles glowers with his fists clenched in his lap. He shoves out of his chair and tramps over the lawn, up the deck, inside with a succinct slam of the door, and everything is quiet for a moment, heads focused on the disruption.

Derek turns his gaze, witnessing Scott’s bitter expression, Allison’s fallen face, then to Isaac, his eyes wide in shock as he stares after Stiles’ absence.

“I’ll go talk to him,” Derek says gruffly, despite the disapproval evident on Noah’s face. He ignores it and follows the same path, a gust of cool air bursting over him once he steps inside. The kitchen is quiet and empty, and Derek can only assume Stiles either left or went upstairs to his room. Why the Chief still has his room in order well into their late thirties, Derek can’t understand, but that’s where he finds him, nonetheless.

He knocks on the door, and Stiles symptomatically snaps at whoever it is to f*ck off. Derek tries the door handle, pushing it open when he finds it’s unlocked.

Stiles looks up at his intruder, his eyes rolling as his features shift into a scowl. “You’re the last f*cking person I want to see.”

He’s sitting on the edge of his bed, clutching a pillow to his stomach as he doubles over, his breath coming out in short puffs as he stares miserably at the carpet. A grocery bag-lined trash can sits at his feet, a quivering hand coming up to rub his red-rimmed eyes. “Can you just go? I can’t deal with this right now.”

Derek bites his lip, hesitating before taking a further step into the room, now showcasing a treadmill instead of the desk that was once tucked in the corner. The posters are gone, the walls painted a powdery fresh coat of baby blue. The room looks more like a guest room than Stiles’ childhood sanctuary.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he’s not even sure why he’s apologizing but he feels compelled to say it anyway, his jaw tensing as he inhales deeply through his nose.

Stiles just shakes his head, his face turned so that Derek can see a perfect silhouette of his profile, nose tipped red from holding back tears, brows furrowed as he sniffles. “Why is everyone taking your side? I don’t f*cking get it.”

“No one is taking sides, Stiles. That’s why we’re both here.”

“Is that why my best f*cking friend picked you as his f*cking… ‘guideparent’? What even is that?” He scoffs, his hand swiping stray tears as he holds his gaze away from Derek.

“Stiles, you’re in the middle of withdrawal and you don’t even like kids.”

Derek would think after some time he’d have wised up and learned to keep his insensitive mouth shut, but he can’t help but blurt out the obvious when it’s already easy enough to say how he feels around Stiles… even if it is the wrong thing.

Stiles finally turns to glower at him, tears slipping down the slope of his nose as his gaze burns into him with a violent rage. He clutches the pillow, tucked under his chin, his fists squeezing the cotton flesh, his skin pallid and his eyelashes wet—he is a breathtaking sight, redolent of a painted fallen angel.

“f*ck you, Derek. That’s not the f*cking point and you know it,” he spits, voice like venom as he angrily swipes away his unrelenting tears. “And neither did you!”

Derek takes a moment and lets his eyelids drop, pursing his lips with an agitated exhale, more at himself than the situation, before returning his gaze. “No, I don’t know, Stiles,” he says, keeping his tone even as he studies the man before him. “Tell me. What’s the point?”

“Seriously?” Stiles cries, his voice a desperate pitchy whine like he can’t keep it together anymore, bringing the collar of his shirt up to wipe at his nose with a shuddering breath. Derek frowns and finally takes a step forward, snatching a tissue from the box on the nightstand before carefully taking a seat on the edge of the bed beside Stiles. He holds the tissue up, a white flag pinched between his fore and middle finger as he raises an enquiring brow. Stiles eyes it suspiciously before snatching it and blowing his nose.

“Yeah, seriously. What’s got you so upset about this?”

Stiles sniffles and shakes his head, his teeth gritting as he fixes his gaze back on the evidently beguiling carpet. Derek thinks maybe this is as far as Stiles will let him get today when he remains silent for a beat or two, resigned to grant Stiles’ wish and leave him alone with a sigh.

“I never told anyone. About the wedding. I was so…” Stiles inhales instead of finishing that thought, pausing as he swallows. “I just never told anyone, and I never made you into the bad guy, but somehow that ended up backfiring and now I’m the problem. Everyone wants you around and now I’m just supposed to f*cking ‘figure it out’ like I wasn’t the one left behind in the first place.”

His tone is righteously bitter, furiously swiping away fresh tears spilling out like his body keeps betraying him.

Derek's brow furrows as he regards him, feeling a quiet gratitude that Stiles feels comfortable enough to speak to him like this, recognizing for the first time (without making assumptions) Stiles’ reality in the wake of Derek abandoning him. He’s lonely, and feels left behind, ostracized by his friends who still incorporate the perpetrator into their daily lives; meanwhile, Stiles is drowning and doesn’t believe anyone can save him, doesn’t even believe he can save himself. Overlooked and unchosen.

The irony of desiring someone who feels that way isn’t lost on him.

“I… didn’t know that’s how you felt. But it makes perfect sense,” Derek says woefully, holding his gaze. His fingers twitch where they rest over his knee, longing to comfort him, but he curls them into a resistant fist instead. Curiously, calmly, he asks, “Why didn’t you ever tell anyone?”

Stiles chews on his bottom lip for a long time, tearing soggy scales over vermillion skin until he draws blood and stares off at nothing in particular. The flow of tears has been tempered for now, and he faintly shakes his head like he’s coming back online, eyebrows pinched.

“I don’t want to talk about this. I don’t want to talk to you.” He turns to Derek, his stare turning cold. “Get out.”

Derek frowns, his head rearing back softly. “Stiles—”

“Get out!” He shouts, shoving Derek away from him. “f*cking leave me alone, stop sending me flowers, just f*cking stop! Get the f*ck out!”

Derek stands once Stiles shoves him, his heart clenching in his chest as he looks down at him. Stiles’ face is red in fierce determination, shining under a film of sweat as he takes a seething breath.

Derek’s jaw tightens, eyes searching, certain Stiles will hate him for saying it but he can’t stop the words from spilling out of his mouth any more than he could stop loving Stiles.

“I just want you to know… I see you. I see your pain. And I know you hate me but you have to know that you’re not alone. I told you, wherever you are, I’m there.”

Tears well in Stiles’ eyes, his scowl in place as he takes the pillow he’d been hugging and tosses it with as much force as his body will allow. “Get. Out!”

Derek obeys this time.

-

Tuesday lunch is slow, which isn’t uncommon for dionysus—it’s more of a dinner and drinks spot anyway. Derek lets himself have mornings and some of the early afternoons off, knowing his crew is fully capable of handling a minor lunch crowd, but after his gym and wank session, cooking is the next best thing to keep his mind at bay. He’s in the middle of dicing onions, prepping for tonight’s dinner as he hovers over his workstation when a figure pauses in front of him. He looks up, his muscle memory taking over as he effortlessly finishes his task in autopilot mode, laying his knife down once he finishes.

Why does everyone think they can just walk into his kitchen as they please?

While Derek doesn’t mind Stiles barging in like he owns the place, the same bearing does not extend to Isaac standing before him, his jaw set, blue gaze unwavering.

“We need to talk,” Isaac says, gesturing with his thumb at the nearly empty floor behind him. “Can we sit?”

Derek blinks despondently, lips pursing.

“Dude, seriously. It’s time.”

With a sigh, Derek grabs the kitchen towel from over his shoulder, wiping his hands as he looks around the kitchen for Erica.

“I’ll be out in a minute,” he says, tipping his chin up in a subtle nod towards the floor. “Sit anywhere.”

He takes his time cleaning up his workstation, washing his hands, going over tonight’s dinner special with Erica, biding his time, perhaps letting Isaac sweat a bit. Finally, he unbuttons his jacket, peeling it off before exiting the kitchen. He finds Isaac in one of the booths, a beer in his hand that Derek can’t help but disapprove of with a small furrow of his brow as he takes the seat across from him.

Isaac drinks his beer, his gaze penetrating as he licks his lips and leans forward on his elbows. For someone who’s fallen off the wagon, he looks decently well. The years of intermittent alcohol and drug abuse have aged him more than others in their generation, but he seems relatively healthy, more mentally sound and confident, still classically handsome.

“I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” he starts, searching between Derek’s eyes. “I know what it looks like, but it’s not what you think it is.”

Derek raises an eyebrow. “Then what is it?”

Isaac’s blunt thumbnail peels at the corner of the label on his beer bottle, silent as he gathers his thoughts. He takes in a deep breath and says, “This thing, with me and Stiles. It never meant anything from the start. I never saw him that way, because he always belonged to you. Or… whatever,” he shakes his head like he didn’t mean to say that last part, but moves passed it just as quickly. “I just got caught up with him, you know? He had already helped me so much, I felt indebted to him. I still do… he saved my life.”

He scratches the scruff over his cheek, taking another nervous sip of his beer, like perhaps he’s admitting something he didn’t mean to share out loud.

“That doesn’t sound right. We were both willing parties, I didn’t like…” he blushes and clears his throat, and Derek wishes he could just peak inside his head because Isaac can’t seem to hurry up and get on with it. “I didn’t do anything out of remorse or because I felt like I owed him. We just… we both missed you. You weren’t there, and he was. I can say with a hundred percent certainty he felt the same.”

Derek blinks, his stare long as he processes this. The thought that Stiles and Isaac were only f*cking because of a common link that was now missing between them had never occurred to him, and he’s admonishing himself for not coming to this obvious conclusion sooner. But still, it doesn’t change the fact that his life-long best friend slept with the love of his life—someone Isaac had fortuitously admitted to belonging to Derek, meaning he knew better. He knew Stiles was off limits. It’s just bro code and common decency and Derek shouldn’t have to explain that to him.

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better about my best friend f*cking my ex?” Derek asks, eyebrows raised in a quiet challenge. And then Derek pauses, his brows furrowing as he recalls all of Isaac’s words. “What do you mean, I wasn’t there and he was? I was always there for you, I never left.”

Derek knows he wasn’t the best friend to Isaac during dionysus’ first couple years, but he still made time to keep in touch with him, even if it was only every few months or so. He was just so busy, ensuring everything was running smoothly, raising Eli, trying to keep his head above water after the breakup. He could have been better at it, but he never left Isaac hanging, not until Isaac betrayed him.

Isaac’s face shifts into confusion, and then incredulity. “Yes, you did. You stopped talking to me after the wedding.”

“Yeah, because that’s when I found out about you two. I saw the texts you sent him that night.”

Isaac’s expression doesn’t change, his head tilting to one side as he watches Derek peculiarly. “Stiles and I didn’t start messing around until like, a year or two ago.”

“Bullsh*t. Why were you texting him sh*t like ‘I miss you’ and ‘I’ll wait up for you’ if you two weren’t f*cking by then?”

Isaac’s stare is blank for a moment like his riddled brain is trying to recall those exact words he sent in a text over three years ago, and then he blinks and shrugs like it’s a wasted task anyway. “I don’t know, probably because I missed him and wanted to see him? It had been a while since we’d seen each other and I had to leave the next day.”

Derek's first thought is to doubt him. If that were true, then he spiraled that night over his own rash assumptions, costing him what matters most in this existence. Beyond the incessant voice confirming his fears, a rational thought emerged once he was sober enough to take a closer look at the picture—that perhaps his intoxicated brain had read into nothing, or that it didn’t matter if Stiles and Isaac had f*cked because Stiles was clearly ready to commit to him and whatever was between them would be over, surely, but by then it was too late. The damage had been done, and Stiles would not hear it.

“You break my heart and burn the pieces and you expect me to try again?” Stiles' laugh was bitter and broken as if holding back tears on his end.

Derek could hardly get a word out; he could hardly catch his breath between sobs and inundating waves of remorse. He had never cried so hard in his life.

“Don’t contact me. Don’t try to find me. Don’t ask our friends about me. Leave me alone. We are done.”

He never tried again after that, just did as he was told. What he knew of Stiles was always through tabloids and what little information slipped out in the company of their friend group. It wasn’t until he figured out who the silent partner was that he realized he still had a chance, all these years later.

The radical insight swoops through him like gulping down a frozen blast of air on the coldest day of winter, when the temperatures drop below freezing and the wind soughs off the ice-slurried lake. He knows in his soul Isaac is not lying, and he has to lean back into the booth and blink for a minute, his palms damp, pulse rising as the mixed feelings wash over him. He could have saved all this heartache if he had just f*cking chilled out and rationalized there on the spot. If he had just waited and asked. If he had never made such a ridiculous assertion in the first place.

Derek knew he had f*cked up, but it’s only now that he’s realizing just how categorically stupid he was. He lost two people he loved dearly due to pure folly on his part. In his fear, he inadvertently shoved them into each other’s arms. A self-fulfilling prophecy.

“So you guys hooked up at the wedding, huh? And that’s when everything changed again.” Isaac looks off somewhere, sipping his beer as he deliberates, ostensibly more to himself than Derek. “He never confirmed it but I always had a feeling. He wasn’t very subtle about it.”

It’s all Derek can do to sit and stare, and he vaguely wonders if this is what it feels like to be in shock, cement hardening his veins, body frozen. He blinks, eyes searching, lips parted as he takes short, insatiable breaths.

“Whoa, you don’t look so good,” Isaac mutters when his gaze returns, eyebrows furrowing in concern.

After a beat, all he can manage is, “I’m such a f*cking idiot.”

Isaac knocks back the rest of his beer and makes eye contact with Danny at the bar, holding his finger up in a subtle gesture with a polite smile. Danny stops by, eyeing Derek before settling on Isaac again.

“He needs a shot. And I’ll take a water, please,” Isaac tells him. Derek nods in confirmation, and Danny shoots him an apprehensive look before he takes the empty bottle and strides away.

“A water?” Derek asks, a bit incredulously. It’s something else to focus on for a bit, an unexpected turn of events.

Isaac interlaces his fingers together over the table with a smirk as he leans back into the booth cushion. “Believe it or not, I don’t tend to get blackout drunk these days.”

Derek blinks, surprised again. “I do have a hard time believing that, actually.”

He just shrugs, like he doesn’t care what Derek believes anymore.

Danny returns with their drinks, two waters and a shot of whiskey. “It’s the good stuff,” he says with a wink, tucking his tray under his arm as he walks away. Derek expected nothing less; Danny seems to sense people’s needs before they even know. It’s why he makes such a good bartender.

Once he takes the shot, his body softens in its warm wake. He runs a hand over his face, shaking his head to himself before finally meeting Isaac’s eyes. Isaac offers a careful smile and scratches his cheek.

“I know it doesn’t change much to know now, but I figured it’s the least I could do after breaking bro code,” Isaac says, pausing as his eyes flick between Derek’s. “I’m sorry.”

Derek licks his lips and asks, “Are you still f*cking him?”

Isaac colors at that and clears his throat before shaking his head. “No, I… well, ever since you made your intentions clear, it hasn’t felt right. I mean, there’s been a few times, but not since the baby shower. I kind of… met someone.”

Derek’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh,” he says, taken off guard.

“Yeah,” Isaac breathes out, chewing on his bottom lip. “Or, reconnected, I should say. It’s Kira.”

“Oh,” Derek repeats, blinking.

“Listen, Derek,” Isaac starts, leaning over the table once again as he holds his gaze. “Stiles isn’t getting any better. He’s gotten worse, actually, since you’ve been popping up. And I think it’s because he doesn’t want to feel what he’s feeling, which is that he still loves you.”

“Okay…” Derek starts, eyebrows furrowing. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Isn’t it obvious? Just… don’t give up on him. I noticed it’s been a while since you’ve sent him anything. He won’t admit it, but I know he’s disappointed the flowers stopped coming.”

“He told me to stop. I’m just giving him some space. I worry about pushing him over the edge when he’s like this.”

“Do you always do what he says?” Isaac asks, his smile mischievous like he’s got a secret in mind.

“Historically, yes.” Derek answers, point blank. He’s not ashamed to admit he’s a simp for Stiles. It’s not like it’s a rare fact about their relationship, anyway.

Isaac rolls his eyes. “Yeah, you two were made for each other.” He takes another sip of his water and licks his lips, eyes wandering the space for a moment before meeting Derek’s gaze again.

Derek regards him, his fingers twirling the empty shot glass over the solid wood surface. There’s an awkward moment when the music turns over to the next song during their silence, and Derek inhales deeply, looking down at the shot glass and humbly clearing his throat. “I’m sorry, too, for what it’s worth. I f*cked things up pretty royally.”

“Yeah,” Isaac agrees, lips curling upwards. “But you’re still redeemable.”

Derek purses his lips. “You’re still on thin ice.”

“How about we call it even?”

-

Derek had every intention of continuing his courtship with Stiles, he just knew he had to switch up his strategy. Technically, Stiles said ‘stop sending me flowers’ (and just to stop, too, but he’s disregarding that part), and it’s the kind of technicality he knows Stiles would begrudgingly appreciate, even if the gesture has a chance of setting him off. He decides to take Isaac’s word for it and concludes Stiles would begrudgingly appreciate anything Derek sent to him.

One day, a few years ago now, Allison held out an orange and said, “I want this orange, but I really don’t feel like peeling it,” with a gentle sigh and a longing stare at the citrus in her hand.

Derek plucked the orange from her palm and peeled it with ease, the skin spiraling away until the orange was bare. She grinned up at him as she accepted his gift, and said, “You passed.”

He was bemused, eyebrows declaring as much until she explained what the orange peel theory was to him (usually reserved for partners, but platonic friends need validation too!), and it wasn’t until then he had a lightbulb moment—recalling Christmastime at Stiles’, his beaming smile and bright eyes, how grateful he was to accept the peeled orange, as if Derek was bestowing a great gift upon him. Then Stiles shared a segment with him, watching with a contented expression as Derek dumbly continued on with his day like he didn’t just confess his love for Stiles right there in his kitchen. He may as well have.

Derek had no f*cking clue then, only the instinctive desire to please Stiles.

So he sends a basket of oranges and doesn’t include a note this time. Stiles will get the message.

Chapter 3: what, no cuddling?

Chapter Text

Stiles drags himself out of bed around noon, the smell of coffee drawing him into the kitchen, eyes still half-lidded and blinking indolently as he shuffles to the coffeepot. Isaac is there, his smile sated as he passes Stiles his plate of food on his way to the breakfast nook. He sips his coffee and eyes the oranges in front of him, neatly piled within a blonde woven basket, shiny orange-tree leaves tucked in pockets throughout the arrangement.

“Did you go to the farmer’s market or something?” Stiles asks, his voice still rough as he takes a bite of his crispy bacon.

“No. They were waiting for you this morning,” Isaac answers, his gaze careful as he leans over the sink and scrubs a pan clean.

Stiles pauses, his gaze stuck on the basket before him, mouth halting midchew. His heart stutters against his sternum, a swooping feeling asphyxiating his stomach. He’s suddenly nauseated, the bite in his mouth bitter and inedible. He swallows despite this, resisting the urge to gag, tears springing behind his eyes as he takes in a stilted breath.

There’s no note this time, but Stiles doesn’t need one. He knows what Derek is referencing, and he’s mildly impressed that Derek remembers such a thing and even more so, didn’t send flowers this time like Stiles told him not to. f*cker.

Stiles only tested the orange peel theory on him because he knew Derek would pass it. It’s a stupid litmus test and it isn’t exactly indicative of a compatible partner, but the sentiment of it meant the most to Stiles then—Derek would always take care of him. There is no physical thing in this world that Stiles lacks, so the little things, the heartfelt gestures, the priceless moments are the currency of his heart. The moment Derek took the orange from his palm was the point of no return, when he knew what he felt for Derek was deeper than any other connection he’d ever had and ever would. Future men were ruined for him.

Unfortunately, he still feels that way. No man will ever live up to the way Derek took care of him, how he seemed to anticipate Stiles’ needs, knew exactly how to hold him, touch him, make him feel safe. When Stiles waxed, Derek waned, always meeting the other halfway. It’s why Stiles invested in him, lied and went behind his back. It was what he could offer Derek, what he could give in return for everything Derek did for him.

Even now, he’d do it all over again. He’d write that review, he’d buy the stake, he’d buy the building. Even if it meant ending up here, unable to take a full breath as his gaze goes unfocused on the blob of orange in front of him, because it means that Derek is successful and where he is supposed to be. It means all of this wasn’t for naught.

Despite this, he can’t stomach all the feelings rising at once and rushes to the bathroom to vomit them up instead.

-

june 21
scott: the fam is having a cookout for the fourth
scott: thursday at 2

As he looks up from his phone, he very nearly runs into someone, only recognizing it as Derek once he takes a step back with an annoyed huff, slipping his phone into his pocket.

“What are you doing here?” Stiles realizes most of their conversations as of late have started out this way. He slips on his sunglasses and flicks his wrist to not-so-subtly check his watch.

Derek briefly chews on the inside of his cheek, his gaze studious, and then asks, “How about a beach day?”

Stiles blinks at him, his eyebrows furrowing. “What? How…” he shakes his head. “No, I’m busy.”

Derek’s brows shoot up. “So, if you weren’t busy, you’d go with me?”

Stiles purses his lips. “No. f*ck off.” Stiles starts walking in the direction of the red line, trying to put distance between himself and Derek, but Derek does not take the hint.

“Come on, we can get ice cream,” Derek continues, keeping an annoying pace beside him. Stiles is already sweating, and Derek isn’t even breathing hard. He’s nearly busting out of a creamy white linen polo, and Stiles does not admire the way his biceps stretch out the cuffs. He keeps his eyes forward and ignores him, and unsurprisingly, Derek follows him the four blocks to the train stop, pestering him the entire way.

“Where are you going?” Derek eventually asks, and Stiles gives him a jaded look with a deliberate blink that could also be interpreted as an eye roll, shaking his head in a subtle, maddened gesture.

“You think I’m telling you?”

Derek’s gaze falls to the platform steps contemptuously, the red ‘Howard’ sign a glaring indication of where Stiles is headed, and then turns back to Stiles, his eyes searching. His brows are knit in concern, but deeper than that is an anxious desperation that radiates from him, enough that Stiles wonders if something might actually be wrong.

“Don’t go,” he says, his tone matching his eyes now. It’d be nearly pathetic if Stiles didn’t have a niggling brain feeling that maybe he should listen to Derek. But on principle alone, that is out of the question.

“What, you weren’t invited this time?” Stiles teases, eyebrows raising.

“I was,” Derek answers, his jaw setting. “I didn’t think it was a good idea.”

“Oh, look at you, all considerate now,” Stiles scoffs and starts ascending the stairs up to the platform, the metal steps clunking beneath his heavy shoes.

“Stiles,” Derek tries again, the desperation in his voice unmistakable now. Stiles can’t help but look back in his ascent, his eyebrows furrowed in curious bewilderment as Derek falls out of his view.

-

Stiles should have listened to Derek.

He lets himself inside his childhood home, beginning the acquainted trek through the kitchen and out to the backyard, when his attention is caught by someone calling his name in the living room. He turns to witness a full house, every seat taken except for one, five sets of eyes fixed on him as he stands in the foyer. Four of them are familiar faces, and the odd one out looks suspiciously like a mental health professional, a pad of paper and pen in their lap and a calm, expectant demeanor about them.

Instantly, Stiles knows what’s up. His heart leaps into his throat, sweat springing over his brow as he takes a step back.

“Stiles, we just want to talk to you. This isn’t what you think,” Noah says as he rises from his chair.

“Clearly, this isn’t a f*cking fourth of July cookout! What the f*ck?” He looks to Scott as he says this, his expression one of discontentment and betrayal.

“We just want to talk, Stiles, we’re not going to force you to do anything,” Scott says, Allison squeezing his hand as she blinks, rapt concern knitting her brow.

“No. I’m not doing this. f*ck all of you,” he snaps, and he swivels on his heel, ready to yank the door open and sprint back to the train stop, but Isaac is there, his arms crossed as he regards Stiles with a set jaw.

“Stiles, we care about you and just want you to listen to what we have to say. Would you please just sit?”

“Are you f*cking kidding me, Isaac? You of all people?” Stiles scoffs, considering leaving out the back door and through the side gate, but he knows Isaac would beat him there first.

“We’re only asking you to listen, Stiles, nothing else,” Melissa insists, her voice a plea as she watches with trepidation.

In the end, Stiles ends up begrudgingly listening to everyone cry about how worried they are for him, how they can’t stand to see him doing this to himself, how his actions have hurt them, how something needs to change because they can’t keep going on like this. The psychiatrist guides the conversation and Stiles grits his teeth each time they talk, sending daggers through his gaze as his foot jiggles violently over his knee.

“Stiles, do you understand what your family is asking of you?”

He stopped listening by the time Melissa started crying, disassociating instead of dealing with the feelings rising within him.

When he doesn’t respond, the psychiatrist says, “They would like you to enter treatment today. Is that something you’re willing to consider?”

“f*ck no. This is a waste of f*cking time and you’re all hypocrites. Especially you, Isaac,” Stiles scoffs and leaps out of his seat. He turns to look at his father, scorn settled in each of Stiles’ features. “And you. How dare you? After what you did to me when mom died?”

Noah has no words, his eyes full of sorrow and a well of tears as he searches Stiles’ face, and then he says, “I’m so sorry, Stiles, I’m only trying to keep you from following in my footsteps. This isn’t you, son. Please just—”

“I don’t want to f*cking hear it! It’s all bullsh*t, all of it! If you really cared about me, you wouldn’t have done this!” Stiles gestures all around, glaring and shaking his head incredulously because surely if they knew him, they would know an intervention is not the way. All the eyes on him make him feel overexposed, and not in the way he likes, when he commands the attention of a full room or the fourth wall. Their stares aren’t of awe and adoration; instead, each gaze he turns to is met with concern, worry, pity, and Stiles hates it, the bile in his empty stomach stinging his esophagus as his breathing labors in panic.

Noah only shakes his head softly, rising cautiously from his seat as if Stiles were a wounded animal in need of being captured and rehabilitated. That’s how they all see him now, helpless and unable to care for himself, backed against a wall with nowhere to go.

“I couldn’t live with myself if I never did anything to help you, Stiles. You have to know that. If anything were to happen to you—” he chokes on a sob, his hand flying up to pinch the corners of his inner eyes as he presses back tears. “I can’t lose you too, honey.”

“Too late,” Stiles snaps, his glower consuming him as he backs away from anyone close enough to reach him, terrified someone will snatch him and force him into the back of a van and send him god knows where. He can’t do it. He won’t do it. He doesn’t need rehab; he needs a goddamn drink and to get away from these people as fast as possible.

Scott stands, his sad eyes fixed as he searches Stiles’ face. “Stiles, if you don’t accept treatment, we can’t let you be a part of this baby’s life.”

Stiles snaps his head, turning to Scott with a glare. “I’m pretty sure you made that abundantly clear when you made Derek the f*cking guideparent. f*ck you. f*ck all of you!”

“Stiles, please—” his father starts, but Stiles is already over the threshold.

He can’t get home fast enough, his hands shaking as he twists open a prescription bottle over his bathroom sink. He doesn’t read the label, just snatches it off the counter and recognizes it as oxy as he pops two, swallowing them down with his Chicago co*cktail before he wanders around his gigantic flat for most of the evening. Between crying and fits of rage, he cuts his finger slicing a stupid f*cking orange for his co*cktail, drops one of his favorite records on the stone floor, thereby shattering it, and rants and raves to himself, without even so much as a cat for an audience.

Stiles hates it here. He hates this city. He hates the people who say they love him, but betray him any chance they get. He hates how lonely he is, how everyone ends up leaving him, how the void inside him is only satiated enough when he’s so drugged up he can’t tell the difference. It becomes further out of reach each time, the carrot tired to a string at the end of a stick, chasing a feeling that will never consume him how he yearns for it.

He'd have to try something new.

He rubs his eyes as he sinks into the couch, his vision blurring as he stares out the dark window, unblinking. The city is behind him as he faces east, the waxing moon rising over the water, millions of tiny peaks of light reflecting in a shimmery stripe like a path drawing towards him.

At this point in the night is when he’d start doing co*ke to keep from nodding off, but he’s out of the good stuff because Jackson ghosted him and he’s pretty f*cking sure Derek had everything to do with it.

Derek. f*cking Derek.

God, why is Derek the only person he wants to see right now? He hates that, too. Hates that there will always be a part of him that craves Derek, and no substance in the world can’t fill that void. Nothing ever touches it, it’s so deep within him that his genetic makeup is ineffably compromised.

What Stiles doesn’t understand is why Derek tried to warn him not to go but didn’t keep him from going. What was the point? If he knew any better, he’d think Derek planned it that way so that Stiles would want to come running into his arms because everyone else now has conditions if Stiles wants to stay in their lives.

But Stiles knows Derek isn’t insidious like that; even in his persistence, he knows Derek wouldn’t resort to petty stratagems, and he couldn’t pull that off even if he tried. Stiles on the other hand would definitely plot something of the sort (and pull it off), and he recognizes, even in his insobriety, that he’s projecting that onto Derek. So, if that’s the case, he can’t help but wonder why Derek didn’t just tell him he was heading right into an ambush, to turn the other way and run.

He wonders so much that he hardly remembers how he ended up here in this gangway, fumbling up the grated metal steps and hammering on the door as the world spins around him. He’s knocking for what feels like hours before the door swings open and Derek stands there squinting in nothing but his basketball shorts.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” Stiles slurs, his hand leaning on the door frame for support, blinking idly as he attempts to focus on one of the Dereks standing before him.

Derek watches him, his brows furrowed as he steps aside to let Stiles stumble his way in, nearly tripping over one of Derek’s shoes. Derek catches him just before he tips over, his forearm reaching out reflexively, big hand splaying over Stiles’ chest.

“Jesus, how did you make it over here alive?” Derek grumbles, and Stiles scoffs and shoves his arm away once he rights himself, swaying on the spot. Derek raises an eyebrow at him, his hand still held out apprehensively in case Stiles does indeed tip over.

“Answer me,” Stiles snaps, his eyelids weighing heavy as he swallows.

Derek sighs, running a hand over his face and meeting Stiles’ gaze. “I don’t know,” he starts, lips pursing in a pause. “I knew it was a bad idea, but I guess a part of me hoped it might help. They’d keep trying, anyway.”

“Should have listened to your instincts,” Stiles gripes, and he’s trying to remember why he’s here, standing in Derek’s living room once again, blinking indolently, his heart pounding out of his chest because he knows exactly why he’s here but even now, he refuses to acknowledge it. His hands flex and unflex, his jaw works as he remembers to glower, and Derek just watches him, Stiles’ pain reflected in his eyes as he waits patiently.

That’s why he’s here—Derek knows his pain. He’s seen it his entire life, from his father to his uncle, his best friend to his ex-lover. It seems pain is all Derek knows, too, and he’d never disparage Stiles for it. Derek doesn’t look at him in disappointment and shame like his parents do, like Scott or Allison, or even Isaac. Derek just looks at him like he can see him, and Stiles hates him for it. It’s not f*cking fair that the one person he doesn’t want to give anything to is the one who cares about him in the only way that matters. The only one who understands that an intervention is the last thing Stiles would succumb to out of pure obstinacy on his part.

The thought is enough to make him start rage crying. He’s so f*cking angry he can’t do anything to stop it, his jaw aching from grinding his teeth, fingernails cutting into the skin of his palm.

“I hate you,” Stiles snaps, shoving Derek back, tears spilling over his cheeks. “I hate you more than I ever loved you. You ruined everything. You f*cked it all up.”

Derek stumbles back, barely, his weight a giant ballast in the middle of his living room as he easily recenters himself. “I know,” is all he says, like it was the only obvious answer, as if he’d been expecting this outburst from Stiles and had it armed and ready.

Stiles frowns, his forehead wrinkled, and he shoves Derek again like he didn’t do it far enough the first time.

“You lied to me. You said you would never leave me again. And then you left.”

“I know,” he says, his eyebrows furrowing.

Stiles glowers at him, his fists clenched by his sides, eyes wet and searching. “Why? How could you do that to me?” The I never would have done that to you is heavily implied.

Derek looks down at his hands like they held all the answers, his eyebrows knit tight, his head shaking slightly. He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out as he meets Stiles’ eyes again, searching desperately.

“f*cking answer me! I deserve to know,” he cries, taking a step forward to shove Derek back again, except this time Derek catches his arms, his hands cupping his elbows, his touch so gentle Stiles wouldn’t even know if it weren’t for Derek’s body heat searing into him. Stiles hates how calm Derek’s touch makes him, his hands instinctively gripping around Derek’s forearms in return, tears blurring his vision as his bottom lip quivers.

Derek flushes, biting his lip, and then he closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath before meeting Stiles’ gaze once again. “You’re right,” he says, his voice low and steady. “You do deserve to know, but I don’t think it’s the right time to have this conversation.”

“Just f*cking tell me,” Stiles sobs, fingertips digging into Derek’s flesh as though trying to prove to himself that Derek is really here in front of him, every muscle in his body lit like a live wire, trembling as Derek holds his gaze. “Why’d you f*ck it all up?”

“Stiles—”

“Just tell me!”

Derek purses his lips, his eyes flicking between Stiles’, and then finally he says, “I saw texts from Isaac on your phone and made a f*cking stupid, drunk assumption. I thought… I thought you and Isaac—” he swallows, shakes his head. “I… I tried to tell you when I sobered up and realized it didn’t even matter what I thought. I know I f*cked it all up, I’m so sorry, Stiles.”

Stiles blinks, his brows furrowing as he attempts to comprehend this information, his head shaking as it rears back. “Texts? You left me over texts?”

“I—” Derek clears his throat, his head lowering in shame, a flush creeping up his neck. “There’s more to it than that. Stiles, can we please have this conversation when you’re sober? There’s so much I want to explain to you.”

Stiles shakes his head, every feature on his face expressing a deep, innate disappointment. This entire time, he thought it was something he said that night, or that Derek decided he wasn’t worth it, that Stiles wasn’t good enough for him after all his lies. For it to be a simple misunderstanding, for Derek to be a drunken idiot making assumptions over stupid texts when Stiles had been waiting for him that whole time… it makes him sick, his stomach churning as he clings to Derek, his breathing erratic as tears slip over his cheeks.

“I’m gonna be sick,” Stiles breathes out, swallowing the creeping feeling rising in his gut, and Derek’s arm swoops around his waist as he effortlessly drags him to the couch. He releases his grip around Stiles and carefully lets him sink into the sectional before rushing off somewhere behind him. Stiles isn’t paying attention as he holds his head in his hands and sobs, his face wet, body moist with sweat, his breaths short as he holds back the contents of his stomach.

Derek sets a giant bowl in front him, and Stiles is reminded of the big orange bowl his mom would use for popcorn on movie nights and to mix brownies in but also place near him when he was sick, and the memory of it is enough to let go as he hugs the bowl to his chest and heaves, every muscle in his body seizing in racking pain that seems to go on forever despite having nothing but bile and brandy to offer it.

There’s rustling and other noises from behind him, and then Derek is there again, placing a wet towel around his neck as Stiles attempts to catch his breath. Derek takes the bowl from him, and Stiles notices a glass of water on the table where he sets the bowl down. His body trembles as he grips at the reprieve of the cool towel hanging over his chest, using the end of it to wearily wipe his mouth. He feels like he’s just been pulled out of the water after nearly drowning, shaking with aftershocks and shuddering breaths as he blinks and attempts to focus.

Derek is silent beside him, his presence grounding, and Stiles realizes he’s been watching Derek’s chest rise and fall, syncing his breath with the steady crests and troughs of Derek’s. He sinks back into the couch, no energy left to maintain his posture, the weight of his eyelids consuming him as he slips into oblivion.

-

Stiles blinks his eyes open as he wakes, his view entirely unfamiliar as he tries to remember his night before and how he came to end up… wherever he is. His face is pressed into a pillow, only one eye accessible to scan the room he’s in instead of making any movement. His head is pounding, his mouth acrid and dry, the blanket covering him suddenly too hot and heavy against his skin. He sits up abruptly and immediately regrets it, his brain swimming around his skull as he pushes the covers off him and swings his legs over the side of the couch.

“Morning,” Derek says from behind him, and Stiles blinks again, noticing the emerald sectional that yields him, the heavy coffee table in front of him, the photos lined on the oversized windowsill. Derek’s apartment looks different in the daylight, the colors more vivid than he remembers.

Stiles groans and lets his face fall into his hands, rubbing his eyes like it’ll ease the prickling behind them, but it only makes the pain worse. Fragments are coming back to him, tiny slide photographs of how he ended up here slotting into the rotary tray carouseling around his brain. The orange bowl in front of him reminds him of the one his mom used to stick in front of him when he got sick, and then the memory of puking right before passing out slots into place, projecting on the screen behind his eyes.

“There’s a new toothbrush in the bathroom,” Derek says, and Stiles finally cranes his neck around to see Derek standing over the stove in his kitchen, the smell of coffee and breakfast food finally registering to his olfactory senses. He’s so not hungry, but he knows he should eat, his stomach howling at him, his muscles weak and atrophied as he forces himself up. He looks around, feeling lost, body quivering, and Derek points down the hall, watching him in amusem*nt as he flips over a slice of French toast in the cast iron skillet.

Stiles drags himself through the long hallway, passing a door on his left and a bare wall on his right before reaching the end of the hall at what he assumes is the bathroom door. Instead of pushing through, he steps into the open door of Derek’s bedroom to his right, eyeing the unmade bed, the clothes hanging out of the laundry hamper, the books to the side of his bed in a haphazard stack. The morning sun pours through the windows, and the bed looks tempting enough to fall into, a white cloud in the center of the otherwise plain room.

He steps into the bathroom, taking care of his morning business, brushing his teeth despite knowing the flavor of his mouth won’t change much. He splashes his face with water and stares at himself in the mirror, eyes sunken, skin parched, beard disheveled, before he searches through the medicine cabinet behind the looking glass. Derek only has flu meds and ibuprofen, and Stiles considers chugging the bottle of nighttime meds but miraculously decides against it. When he digs into his pocket, his little silver box isn’t there, only his dead phone and a vape pen that he sucks on voraciously. He sighs, his breath a shuddering exhale of damp smoke as he leans over the sink. His head is absolutely killing him, withdrawal setting in, and he knows the ibuprofen won’t do much for him but takes a handful anyway, hopeful for a placebo effect.

When he finally drags himself back into the living area, Derek’s leaning against the counter, sipping from his coffee mug and scrolling through his phone.

“You hungry?” Derek asks, eyebrows raised expectantly.

“Not really,” he grumbles, voice hoarse as Derek points to the plate and coffee mug set for him at the island counter.

Stiles eyes it suspiciously, but decides since he’s already here, he may as well drop the pretense. He’s too exhausted anyway, and so he takes a seat at the counter and sips his coffee. He rips small bites off his French toast without any syrup, chewing slowly so as not to gag as he watches Derek load his dishwasher. He tries not to shake but that only makes it worse, his hands cupping the mug as he inhales the scent before bringing it to his lips.

Finally, Derek wipes his hands off on a kitchen towel and leans over the counter, meeting Stiles’ gaze.

“Do you want to talk about yesterday?” he asks, his brackish eyes searching Stiles’ face.

“I don’t remember yesterday,” Stiles says, and he’s telling the truth for the most part. Usually bits will come back to him throughout the day, never the full scenario, just pieces that he fits together based on context clues and the information that people share with him, a vague memory of something like that taking place once it’s mentioned out loud. He typically doesn’t take the time to remember what happened the day before anyway.

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

Stiles pops a bite in his mouth, chewing as he stares off and tries to recall yesterday. He didn’t wake up until noon, so he basically had to get ready for the cookout as soon as. Isaac was off so he didn’t eat, thinking he’d be eating soon enough anyway. Then the intervention, coming home, mixing pills with alcohol, and the rest is hazy at best. Raging. Cutting his finger—he looks at his hand, a blue band-aid wrapped around his forefinger he has no memory of applying... Feeling lonely, like he always does, and it seems this time it led him here as though it were inevitable.

He meets Derek’s gaze, tearing another bite off his dry French toast and shrugging. “Not much after the intervention. Puking and then passing out.”

Derek nods, sipping his coffee as he stands on the other side of the island. He’s in a soft, overworn t-shirt from the athletic club he belongs to, the same basketball shorts he wore last night as Stiles now recalls, his hair pushed back, beard immaculate. He always manages to look so good in the mornings, meanwhile, Stiles rolls out of bed looking like a confused, grubby gremlin in daylight.

“The first thing you asked me was why I didn’t tell you about the intervention. And then you asked why I left you,” Derek says, his tone calm but firm. “Well, first you told me you hated me, and then you asked me why I f*cked it all up.”

Stiles can feel his skin get hot, a blush sweeping over his cheeks as he takes a sip his coffee, the fuzzy words coming back to him out of order in a haze. Texts. Derek left him over texts.

“Well?” Stiles prompts him, raising his eyebrows as he sets down the mug. He’s only eaten half of one of his slices but he’s already full and doesn’t want to push it as he dolefully eyes his plate.

He misses the way food tasted before he dove head-first into opiates and barbiturates. The way he’d get a dopamine hit during a satisfying meal. Actually feeling sated, because he can’t even remember what that feels like anymore. He no longer does restaurant reviews because all food tastes essentially the same to him now—it’s just something to fill his stomach and placate the nagging, empty feeling of his body telling him to please eat something, anything that’s not a garnish from an alcoholic beverage.

Derek takes in a deep breath, gripping his mug to his chest as he leans back against the counter. “I made a stupid assumption after I saw texts from Isaac on your phone.”

“Right,” Stiles affirms, fully recalling their conversation now, why he got sick in the first place. “You said there are things you need to explain,” he says, taking another sip of his coffee. “Explain.”

Derek brings a hand up, rubbing the back of his neck as he sets his mug down. “Right,” Derek echoes, clearing his throat before crossing his arms over his chest. Stiles waits patiently, the silence comfortable enough to do so without having to awkwardly insert hums or words of acknowledgment.

“I don’t think…” Derek starts, clears his throat again, runs a hand over his beard, and continues. “I don’t think I’d ever been as drunk as I was that night. That’s not an excuse, just an explanation. When I saw the texts, I immediately freaked out and thought…” he sighs, frustrated as he rubs a spot between his brows, the one Stiles would smooth over with his thumb when Derek would get too worked up about something.

“I assumed you and Isaac were f*cking, and then I thought of the lies, and I got scared of everything, like maybe I couldn’t be the person you needed me to be, or that you deserved better after what I put you through, or what else you’re capable of lying about, and it was too much to handle then, so I just left. I didn’t even think of how stupid it was until the next day, when I called you and tried to explain.”

Stiles blinks, looking down into his mug, his face reflected off the surface of his black coffee. A migraine sits behind his eyes, his muscles twitching and painful after exorcising himself last night. He works his jaw, his gaze slipping from his coffee to Derek’s weary face.

“You thought Isaac and I f*cked,” Stiles says, a statement devoid of emotion, just a simple fact. Then he smirks, because he can’t help it, at how ironic it is. Stiles never had an interest in Isaac—he was just sad, and Isaac was the closest thing to Derek, the only person who felt an iota of the emotions that plagued Stiles. He was there when no one else was.

The lies he could understand. He has nothing to say for that part, silently acknowledging what he knew all along—Derek’s trust had been broken, and they never had a chance to repair it before they fell apart. If Derek lied to him, Stiles would have the same reservations (even though Derek did lie, for three weeks about Eli, but he got a pass for that one).

Still, Stiles wouldn’t have left him. Derek could be a f*cking spy, or the world’s best con artist, or even a politician, and Stiles would have followed him to the ends of the earth, knowing Derek would never lie when it came down to what mattered most.

“Yeah,” Derek breathes out, his jaw clenching as he studies Stiles’ face.

“You’re an idiot,” Stiles grumbles, shaking his head and tearing another piece off his French toast just to have something to do with his hands. “I never had eyes for anyone else. I was waiting for you.”

He’s not sure why he feels comfortable enough to share these parts of him in Derek’s presence, his defenses down yet again whenever the chef is around, but the words fall out of his mouth before he has a chance to think of their true meaning.

Derek visibly stops breathing, his lips parted, eyes wide. He blinks and shuts his mouth with a swallow, eyebrows raised, and Stiles looks away, a flush creeping up his neck as his eyes settle on the door to his left.

“You waited for me?”

Stiles scratches his cheek with a subtle shrug. He doesn’t want to confirm or deny it now, suddenly overcome with the undulating fear of opening himself up to Derek, feeling exposed with nowhere to go under his gaze. The fear of handing himself over only to be left behind once again.

He wishes he could take it all back.

His jaw hardens, hands clenching under the counter as he keeps his gaze averted. The energy in the room shifts and all Stiles wants to do is flee before anyone else has the chance to leave him first, his heart speeding up, palms tacky with sweat as he swipes them over his knees.

Derek must sense it, his movements deliberate like a predator sneaking up on his intended prey, and Stiles shoves out of the barstool, panic blooming in his chest as he lands on his feet.

“I gotta go,” he says, his head whipping around to find his shoes.

Derek inhales sharply, his intense gaze fixed on Stiles as he stands firmly in place on the other side of the island, and Stiles thinks for a second Derek might try to stop him and that only makes him feel more panicked—instead, Derek only says in a steady voice, “They’re under the coffee table.”

Stiles is there in an instant, slipping his shoes on before striding towards the door, twisting the lock and snatching it open.

Derek says, “I’ve only ever had eyes for you, too.”

Stiles doesn’t look back as he leaves.

-

As soon as the brass elevator doors glide open, Stiles rushes through the foyer, the living room, the long hallway, and through his room to the bathroom sink. He snatches a pill bottle off the counter, swallows a few blue pills down, and turns on his heel to start the shower.

Trying not to think about something only ensures thinking about it. Stiles tries to find other things to guide his mind to, anything, but every thought leads back to Derek, the last words he said before Stiles bolted. He sits on the marble floor of his shower, tepid water pouring over him, his mind stuck on an obsessive loop that he can’t seem to break out of when Isaac steps through the threshold, his body blurry through the water-streaked glass.

“You’ve been in there for an hour,” Isaac says, his head tilting. “You didn’t even see me when you came in.”

“f*ck off,” he mumbles, licking his lips as he hugs his knees to his chest.

Isaac does not f*ck off, instead he crouches down and meets Stiles at eye level, elbows on his knees as his hands fall listlessly between his spread legs. His eyes pierce even through the hazy glass.

“You had to know it’d happen at some point. I don’t think you realize how bad it’s gotten.”

Stiles’ eyes slip away from the blur on the other side of the glass, settling on a particular vein in the marble that stretches out like a lightning bolt. The oxy has kicked in, the hackling pain of withdrawal slipping into the drowsy haze that mellows out his spikey exterior. He peels the blue bandaid off his forefinger, revealing a soggy, bone-white cut with a gaping crimson center. He probably should get stitches, but he won’t—he’s got superglue around here somewhere.

Isaac remains in his squatting position beside him, and he wishes he would leave but Stiles knows he won’t, not unless he says something truly atrocious. He blinks and shakes his head subtly, his jaw tensing.

“Do you remember when you got into that car accident? Valentine’s Day in the hospital?”

Isaac is silent for a beat before he nods. “Yeah.”

Stiles keeps his gaze ahead of him as he speaks, arms wrapped around his legs. “I knew you were in love with him then, before he even told me. And on the way there I knew he’d be devastated if you had died, but a part of me couldn’t help but hope for it.”

The pattering of the shower echoes throughout the bathroom, the water running cold, and Isaac is quiet again before he reaches out and slides the glass door open, his long arm stretching to turn off the water. Stiles meets his gaze, looking for any signs of hurt or dejection as he expected, only Isaac’s eyes are soft, his brows knit in concern.

“And then you turned out to be the one who saved my life. Funny how that worked out,” he says, his tone almost facetious as he offers Stiles a somber smile. “I just hope it doesn’t take a car accident for you to want to get better.”

With that, he rises to his full height and holds out his hand as he looks down at Stiles with a raised brow. Stiles turns away from him and shakes his head, but Isaac doesn’t move, just stands there for who knows how long, until Stiles can’t feel his ass anymore. He finally gives in, decidedly over being an uncomfortable sodden mess on his shower floor as he reluctantly takes Isaac’s hand.

Isaac wraps a towel around his shoulders once he’s on his feet again, his hand splaying over his back as he brings Stiles in for a hug. Stiles allows it, his eyes slipping shut with a drowsy sigh as he grips the edges of the towel around his body and shivers.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles mumbles, his voice small and disconcerted as he rests his head on Isaac’s shoulder. He didn’t mean it, really. He had the thought, it's true, but it was so fleeting it hardly counts.

“I know.”

They end up on the couch with a nostalgic movie and a blunt in rotation, and Stiles falls asleep before the movie even peaks. When he wakes, Isaac is gone, the late afternoon sun spilling into his already blinding living room. He notices his phone on the coffee table, found and charged by Isaac, his arm reaching idly before snatching it and scrolling through the barrage of missed calls and text notifications. He blocks Scott and Allison without a second thought, deleting their text threads and removing himself from the group chat before deleting that thread, too. He contemplates blocking his father but his conscience decides against it, muting him instead.

me: what are you doing tonight?
jordan: i’m off at 9

With Jackson ghosted and Isaac in the midst of a budding relationship, Jordan has been his only convenient f*ck for the last few weeks. He’s starting to get clingy, but Stiles really can’t be bothered to find another set of f*ck buddies. More often than not he hasn’t been able to finish lately, even when he does (not) think about Derek, so it saves him from being too embarrassed with strangers at least. Jordan is all too eager to try, flipping them over when Stiles is too tired to f*ck into him anymore, and then finally Stiles shoves him off out of frustration, his dick oversensitive and nowhere near satisfied.

“It’s not a big deal,” Jordan says after he’s caught his breath, entirely satiated after f*cking himself on Stiles’ co*ck.

“Shut up,” Stiles grumbles, his forearm resting over his eyes.

“It’s not,” Jordan insists, sitting up on his elbow to look down at Stiles. Without even looking, Stiles knows he’s got a stupid, soft smile on his lips, his voice thick with it. Jordan is entirely too soft with him.

Stiles really should have thought this one out; f*cking his doorman who’s been in love with him since day one was not one of his brightest ideas.

“You should go,” Stiles mutters, running his hand over his hair. He looks up at the ceiling and thinks about Derek’s last words to him before he fled this morning, nearly thirteen hours ago now he realizes after peaking at the clock on his nightstand. He reaches for a handful of tissues before wiping Jordan’s mess off his stomach, tossing them near the trash bin.

“What, no cuddling?”

“No,” Stiles snaps, sitting himself up and snatching his boxer briefs off the floor before slipping them back on. Jordan’s shirt is at his feet, and he snatches it up before tossing it behind him. He rises from his bed, striding towards his bathroom as Jordan scoffs and grumbles to himself while he dresses in his now-wrinkled uniform.

Stiles takes two ambien and when he walks back out, Jordan is still there, taking his time getting dressed. He suppresses the urge to groan, rubbing his eyes instead.

“Can I see you tomorrow?” Jordan asks, slipping his suit jacket back over his shoulders.

Stiles can’t suppress anything now, his mouth a tight line as his eyebrows lower into a scowl. “I’m busy.”

Jordan steps over, adjusting his tie as he meets Stiles’ gaze. “Okay, how about we set a date then?”

Stiles grimaces at that, his nose scrunched and upper lip curled as his eyes scan from Jordan’s feet, all the way up to his face. He’s suddenly got the ick and briefly considers moving buildings so he never has to see Jordan’s face again. Maybe he'll skip over to the Netherlands where they openly tolerate all recreational drug use.

“No. This isn’t a thing, you know that,” Stiles grumbles, starting back towards his bed to crash for the night when Jordan catches his arm and tugs him back in.

“Really? Because I know you haven’t been bringing anyone else up… just me.” Jordan smirks, his eyebrows raised.

Stiles scoffs and narrows his eyes, snatching his arm back. “You’re not special, Parrish, just convenient. f*ck off and lose my number, loser.”

Jordan’s face falters at that, and Stiles continues his trek to his bed, falling into the unmade mess.

“You’ll know where to find me,” Jordan says eventually, his footsteps echoing as he strides away. It’s the first time Stiles has told someone to ‘f*ck off’ and they actually followed through.

Stiles thinks of clouds as he drifts into unconsciousness.

-

“Did you know?”

Lydia purses her lips, her hazel eyes flicking over Stiles’ features. They sit in a booth at an eccentric café in Lakeview that Lydia took pity on before they went out of business. She’s in the midst of flipping it.

“Seriously? You too?” Stiles asks when she doesn’t provide a verbal response.

“There’s a reason I didn’t go,” she says, bringing her paper cup to her lips.

Stiles scoffs and crosses his arms, brows furrowed as he glares. “And that same reasoning didn’t extend to you warning me?”

She blinks in the way she does when the answer is apparent to nobody but herself. “It wasn’t my place. Your family has every right to intervene—I just knew that method would backfire and couldn’t take part in it. You’re the most stubborn person I know.”

Stiles’ leg jiggles under the table, his teeth clenching as he regards her. He scratches at the skin on his thumb, peeling back a layer that starts to bleed when he pulls too much dead skin off at once. He brings it to his mouth to chew on.

“Derek tried to stop me,” he tells her, watching for her reaction.

“I know,” she says easily, sipping her tea again.

“You seem to know everything but hoard it all to yourself.”

Stiles narrows his eyes at her as she sweeps her hair over her shoulder. She’s too good at keeping secrets. It works in his favor most of the time.

He remembers the morning after the wedding, bumping into her in the hotel lobby. He had been trying to get away from there as quickly and undetectable as possible, but the moment he saw her face, he couldn’t hold back his tears.

She asked what was wrong and Stiles couldn’t get the words out, but knowing Lydia, she likely already knew. They had been close enough acquaintances up until that point, but now she’s one of Stiles’ best friends, if not his only friend aside from Isaac since blocking Scott and Allison. She’s just not in Chicago, or even the state of Illinois, very often anymore, so it’s rare when they actually get to sit down and chat.

“If it was pertinent for you to know, you’d know,” she offers, her eyes following a worker as he passes by with a bin of dishes. He keeps staring at Stiles like he’s the second coming, and it’s obvious he’s finding sh*t to do on the floor just to keep walking by their booth.

“I feel like you’re hiding something else from me,” he says, ignoring the café worker as he uncrosses his arms and reaches for his coffee.

Lydia just eyes him, her head tilting with a tiny curl of her lips. “I feel like you’re projecting to avoid the conversation we should be having.”

He furrows his brows in disfavor, his nose scrunching as he sips his coffee. “I don’t want to talk about Derek.”

“That’s not what I’m referring to.”

“Then what?”

She taps her fingertips on the table, quietly regarding him before pursing her lips again. “Just because I didn’t support the intervention doesn’t mean I don’t care about you getting the help you need.”

“That’s off the table, too,” he snaps, his leg twitching as he sets his cup back on the table.

She inhales deeply, her eyes piercing as her arms fold over her middle. “Stiles, you’re killing yourself.”

Stiles grits his teeth, the muscles of his jaw aching. “Don’t make me block you, too.”

Her brows knit in a frown, gaze forlorn as she studies him in the way that she does—like she can read his soul. She drops it.

-

The ding of the elevator doors doesn’t set any alarms off in Stiles’ head—he’s used to Isaac or Mindy popping in, but typically he knows their schedules and when to expect them. Nevertheless, he doesn’t flinch in his lackadaisical position sprawled over the couch. He’s got a record on and a blunt between his fingers, having already taken a few oxy to start his day. At this point, smoking weed doesn’t really do much for him. It’s just a habit like all the other ones, something to keep his hands busy in his idle time. He’s got a lot of it lately since he doesn’t have any active projects going on and only two busy friends to inconvenience.

When Allison’s head comes into view from over the back of the couch, Stiles’ brows furrow in bewilderment. How did she get in here?

“What the f*ck,” he starts, sitting up from his laying position as he pulls on his blunt.

“Can you put that out? We need to talk,” she says, her lips pursed as she eyes the blunt in his hand.

“Can you get the f*ck out? I have nothing to say to you.”

Allison inhales deeply as if to keep herself calm, blinking expectantly as she waits. Stiles watches her right back, bringing the blunt back to his lips and taking a drag, blowing the smoke out of the side of his mouth. She makes her way from behind the couch and takes the furthest seat away from him, setting her purse down on the coffee table before lacing her fingers together and resting her hands over her bump. She’s a lot bigger than the last time he saw her even just two weeks ago.

He lets her know that.

She just purses her lips again and crosses her legs. “Yes, that tends to happen when you don’t see a pregnant person for a while.”

He rolls his eyes and leans back into the cushions, puffing away.

Allison sighs, long and exasperated.

“Where’s your dog of a husband?” Stiles asks, his tone short and bitter as he raises an expectant eyebrow.

“We both thought it would be best if I was the one to visit,” she replies, her gaze penetrating as she watches his movements. He brings his ankle over his knee, his foot tapping rhythmically to the music.

“That’s dumb. It’d be best if neither of you ever visited again.”

“Do you really believe that?” she asks, her head tilting slightly.

“Apparently so. Can’t be in that f*cker’s life anyway,” he says, vaguely gesturing to her stomach before bringing the blunt back to his lips.

“That’s not true. Scott and I would love nothing more for you to be in this baby’s life, but it wouldn’t be very responsible of us as new parents to allow an addict anywhere near them.”

“Oh, but it’s okay for an ex-drug dealer to be their stupid f*cking guideparent? What do you think I’m gonna do, slip them a goddamn xanax?” Stiles snaps, his tapping foot speeding up in irritation.

Allison blinks and lets his words settle between them. She adjusts her body a bit, leaning further back into the cushions, looking entirely uncomfortable no matter what position she contorts her body to. Being pregnant looks like it unreservedly sucks and Stiles can’t fathom how anyone would want to do that to their body, let alone bring a child into this f*cked up mess of a world.

“Derek hasn’t sold a drug to anyone in nearly twenty years. You can’t even go a few hours without withdrawal kicking in. And there’s no competition, Stiles. Be realistic here. Would you even want to be the guideparent?”

Stiles clenches his jaw and turns to look out the window, pulling on his blunt as he watches a boat on the water, a tiny speck in the distance. She has a point and he knows it, but he will not admit that out loud. “It doesn’t matter. It’s just proof you’re choosing Derek over me.”

Allison exhales a frustrated sigh, her eyes closing for a moment before she opens them to meet Stiles’ gaze again. Her jaw is set, just a hint of her dimples peaking in the wake of her flexed facial muscles, her inky eyes blinking back at him.

“I promise you, no one is picking sides, Stiles. We all want you to be healthy and happy so that you can be involved. We’re not doing this to spite you, we’re doing this in hopes that you’ll want to get better.”

“If you cared so much about my livelihood, why do you two keep forcing Derek and I together when you know I want nothing to do with him?”

Her face falters at that, a flash of guilt flickering over her features as her eyes cast down. She tugs at the hem of her shirt, her lips a tight line as she subtly shakes her head. “I admit I crossed a line when I invited him to the game. I just thought…” she inhales deeply, her shoulders rising as she brings her gaze back to Stiles. “Derek loves you more than anything in this world, Stiles. And I love both of you, you’re my brothers, and you two were so happy. You deserve to be happy. I just hoped maybe if we pushed you together again, you’d see that and want to get better.”

Stiles scoffs and rolls his eyes, blowing smoke from his lips before leaning over to ash the blunt. “Well, you’re wrong. And there’s no way Derek loves me more than Eli.”

Allison huffs out a frustrated sigh, her fists clenching. “It’s not a competition, Stiles! Why do you keep comparing immeasurable concepts? You’re setting yourself up for disappointment every time. Not everything is a game.”

“You had no right to push us together like that. You crossed a boundary I had in place for years and now Derek thinks he’s got a chance and won’t leave me the f*ck alone.”

She studies him intently, her brows furrowing. “Aren’t you tired of being alone?”

Stiles glowers at her, puffing on his blunt, his foot twitching of its own volition. “I wouldn’t be alone if you didn’t decide my existence in your life is conditional.”

“Your presence in our lives wouldn’t be conditional if you were healthy. What kind of friends would we be if we didn’t want you to get better? If we didn’t do anything to encourage you to change? This isn’t you, Stiles. We want our friend back.”

“Would you say that if I got fat, or dying of cancer?”

Allison’s face pinches in agitation as she quietly regards him. “Fat people can be healthy, Stiles, and you’ve been skinny your whole life, anyway. If you gained weight you’d want to change for yourself. If you got cancer you’d want to seek treatment to get better.”

“You don’t know that,” Stiles snaps.

Allison’s eyebrows raise as she blinks in shock, her eyes wide. “You mean to tell me you’d allow yourself to suffer? You’d let your family witness your decay, when you know there’s something you could do to get better?”

Stiles is stunned into silence, swallowing as he grits his teeth and glares at her. Yet again, she’s got a point, and Stiles wants nothing more than to slip away from this conversation. He would, if he weren't already in his own f*cking home.

“It doesn’t matter. It’s my choice,” he settles on.

Her eyebrows knit together, her gaze solemn and wet as she studies him. She must decide that she’s said all she can, and she would be right—nothing she says will change Stiles’ mind, if not for his pure bolishiness, then just to spite her. She reaches up and wipes her eyes before she makes the concerted effort to rise out of her seat, grabbing her purse from the table as she stands there in pause.

“I’m sorry I forced you and Derek together. I only meant to help, but it seems I’ve made it worse,” she says, her voice small and unsteady as she holds back tears. “I want you to be a part of this family as much as Derek will be. I want this baby to have an uncle who is just as important as a guideparent. But it’s not fair to any of us who love you to witness you killing yourself. No one deserves to see someone they love falling apart.”

Stiles turns away from her, decidedly done with this conversation. He hears her take in a shaky breath, her footsteps fading as she walks away. The ding of the elevator doors echoes between his ears, and he drops back onto the couch as he pulls on the blunt between his lips.

-

Stiles drinks after that, the sun falling in the west and the moon rising in the east as the day slips away from him. He resents Allison's concerns, her position on the matter, even though he knows she’s right despite denying it to himself. He couldn’t stand watching his father drink himself to death. He couldn’t stand it if Scott ate pills like candy and withered away before his eyes, no matter how mad he is at him right now. As much as he hates to admit it, he could not stand to see Derek follow the same hypothetical path, either. He is too talented, too young, too tenacious in his craft to be anything but where he is now.

At this point, Stiles doesn’t feel there’s any hope for him to get better, even if he wanted to. The searing pain of withdrawal and the very idea of having no vice to rely on when unwanted emotions surfeit petrifies him beyond belief. Even if he can’t reach the nirvana he once was capable of, the high is better than allowing his emotions to rise to the surface like jetsam washing up on shore. He can’t do it; he isn’t strong enough. He is resigned to destroy himself instead. If he’s dead, he won’t have to deal with any of it, anyway.

If that’s the case, he may as well have a good time in the interim.

Derek opens his door, clad in, once again, nothing but his black basketball shorts. Stiles expected nothing less as he lets himself in.

“I need you to f*ck me,” Stiles declares, his fingers pressing over Derek’s chest, and Derek visibly swallows, his mouth dropping open as his eyes fall to Stiles’ lips.

“Stiles, you’re drunk—”

“Did I ask?” Stiles licks his lips, pushing his hips against Derek’s as he sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, swaying only slightly as he anchors himself against Derek’s steady weight. Derek grits his teeth, a tiny whine from the back of his throat as his jaw hardens and he looks away.

“It doesn’t feel right, I can’t… I don’t want—”

“You can’t stand there and tell me you don’t want this,” Stiles says, letting his breath ghost over Derek’s ear, his hands trailing up his pecs, over his shoulders and down again to grip his biceps. He squeezes, and he swears Derek flexes for him, a small huff of laughter bursting from Stiles’ lips as their cheeks brush together. Derek’s hands settle on his hips, fingertips pressing firm as Stiles flicks his tongue out to lick along the tendon up to Derek’s ear.

“Stiles, don’t do this to me,” he all but whimpers, and Stiles can’t help the smirk creeping on his lips, his head falling to Derek’s shoulder as he grinds against him, already feeling Derek's co*ck thicken in his stupid f*cking basketball shorts.

“You want me to stop?” Stiles teases, beginning to pull away.

“No,” Derek breathes out, his hands slipping lower, fingertips pressing into the flesh of his ass as he holds Stiles in place, which is conveniently right against his erection.

“Hmm, good boy,” Stiles murmurs, sucking Derek’s earlobe between his teeth, and Derek shudders at that, his head falling forward to Stiles’ shoulder as he rolls his hips, his hands slipping under the hem of Stiles’ shirt.

“Oh, f*ck, baby,” Derek moans, and Stiles pulls back, his hand falling from Derek’s bicep to palm over Derek’s co*ck as he waits for Derek to meet his gaze.

“Ground rules first,” Stiles says, Derek’s mouth falling open as Stiles cups him through the slinky fabric, his brows knit as he bucks into Stiles’ hand.

“Ground rules?” he asks, his voice a despairing whine as his big hands grip Stiles’ waist and press him close, calloused fingertips sending shivers through his spine like every cell within him was awakening.

“No kissing. No calling me ‘baby’ or ‘daddy’. No marking me. And no finishing in me,” Stiles declares, watching Derek’s face carefully with each rule he sets in place, the desperation and arousal apparent in every one of his features as Stiles strokes him through the fabric of his shorts.

“But—”

“Those are my non-negotiables. Take it or leave it, Hale,” Stiles says, an eyebrow arched in a silent challenge. He knew Derek wouldn’t refuse, would take whatever Stiles offered him, and Derek gives in just as Stiles expected, nodding in reluctant acceptance as he pants, eyes on Stiles’ lips.

Stiles half(fully*) regrets making up the rules on the spot, considering anytime he’s able to get himself off, it’s when he thinks of Derek’s lips all over him, the marks he leaves, the way he calls Stiles ‘daddy’ like his life depends on it, the very idea of Derek filling him up pushing him over the edge. He’s basically set himself up for disappointment, but it doesn’t feel that way with Derek’s hands all over him like he can’t get enough of him at once, like Derek’s mapping out a new atlas of Stiles’ body, his tattoos, his muscles, his moles.

Stiles rolls over on his stomach, looking over his shoulder as Derek’s hands glide over his thighs, a smirk playing at his lips at Derek’s ridiculous expression, flushed and entirely confounded that this is happening, that Stiles is in his bed, that Derek gets to touch him like this. Stiles always loved how Derek worshipped him, not one square inch of his skin left untouched or unloved when they were together, his touch gentle and firm as Derek all but devoured him.

“Do you have a condom?” Stiles asks, and he feels Derek’s hands pause, can hear his breath catch.

“I don’t,” Derek mumbles remorsefully, and Stiles gives him a look, his eyebrows furrowed.

“What, you just raw dog anyone who ends up in your bed?”

Stiles can see Derek color even in the darkness of his room, the only light source from the streetlamps on the street below them. He swallows, his thumbs stroking just below the tuck of Stiles’ ass. “I haven’t… I don’t bring anyone home,” he says.

“You expect your lays to have a ginormous condom lying around?”

Derek huffs, squeezing Stiles’ thighs, his hands pushing up to cup his ass, thumbs spreading Stiles’ cheeks open. It’s enough for him to drop his head and pant onto the mattress.

“I told you, I only have eyes for you,” Derek says, and Stiles jerks when Derek spits on his hole, his thumb teasing.

“f*ck,” Stiles gasps, rutting into the bed, his co*ck already leaking, his legs spreading as he angles his ass to feel more of him. The spitting is hot, yeah, but even hotter is knowing Derek hasn’t had anyone else. Stiles almost doesn’t believe it, considering the kind of libido Derek had in the past and his new godlike status, but it’s not out of the ordinary for Derek to practice celibacy after a breakup.

“Okay, just—” Stiles moans when Derek’s finger rubs over him, his head dropping to the bed. “f*ck, Derek,” he pants, his arms stretching above his head as he grips at the sheets. “I haven’t gotten tested in a few weeks.”

“Okay,” Derek says, his tone a bit short as he considers his options. He pulls his hands away, and Stiles chokes back a whine at the loss of contact, his head twisting back to meet Derek’s gaze. Derek offers him a tiny smirk as he reaches into his bedside drawer and pulls out a bottle of lube. “I’ll finger you and f*ck your thighs, sound good?”

Stiles blinks but nods, a smile creeping at his lips as he drops his head back to the mattress. “Yeah,” he says, and Derek’s hands are on him again, soft caresses entirely inappropriate for f*ck buddies, but Stiles says not a word to prevent it. Derek’s slick fingers tease at his hole, his other hand splayed over the small of Stiles’ back, big and warm and tender, and suddenly Stiles can’t get enough of him.

Derek finally presses a finger in, Stiles’ gasp swelling into a throaty moan at the intrusion, every hair on his body standing on end as Derek stretches him open.

Stiles certainly wasn’t celibate after the last time Derek left him, f*cking anyone who showed interest within the first year after the fact. Eventually he shortened the list of people he was willing to risk his health with, which isn’t saying much, but after the second STI he realized it was worth it if he wasn’t always using a condom. That’s all to say, Stiles hasn’t had a real co*ck in his ass in three years, occasionally his own fingers and a silicone imprint of some random p*rn star’s dick, but nothing more. Even so, only one of Derek’s thick fingers doesn’t feel nearly enough.

“f*cking hell, you’re so tight, baby,” Derek murmurs, his finger pressing in up to his knuckle, and Stiles can’t even be bothered to scold him, the word slipping out like the whimpers falling from Stiles’ lips. He grips the sheets, his eyes rolling to the back of his head when Derek’s finger strokes over the gland inside him, and it’s all he can do not to beg for more, his back arching as Derek’s free hand grips his hip to nudge him up. “On your knees.”

Stiles lets Derek guide his hips as he tucks his knees under himself, now at the perfect angle for Derek to cup his balls and finger f*ck him, Stiles’ face pressed into the cloudy sheets as he pants, already close enough to hold himself back—Derek’s hands over him, inside him is almost too much at once, his skin prickling with sweat, nearly oversensitive to Derek’s touch.

“Derek I—” he groans lowly, long and guttural when Derek presses in another finger, and Stiles swears he can hear the f*cker chuckle under his breath, his fingers spreading before he builds up a rhythm, and just as Derek reaches between his legs and wraps his hand around the base of his co*ck, he comes.

Stiles can’t even remember the last time he came prematurely, his skin flushing in humiliation as he rides his wave, hips twitching, muscles tensing around the two fingers inside him as mutters out curses under his breath.

If Derek is judging him, he doesn’t make it known, his fingers slipping out of Stiles as his other hand grips his hip. Another whine crawls out of him at the loss, the empty feeling cutting his afterglow as he breathes heavily into the sheets.

“You good?” Derek asks, and it’s all Stiles can do to grunt out an affirmative sound, nodding lazily. Derek’s hands guide him gently into position, Stiles’ lower half hanging off the edge of the bed, his arms splayed out above him in a daze. He can hear Derek lubing himself up behind him before he wipes his hand off on the inside of Stiles’ thighs, and then he presses Stiles’ legs together, locking them in place between his own thighs.

Derek’s hips press against Stiles’ ass, the length of his co*ck slipping into the diamond between his thighs, brushing against Stiles’ sac as his mass crushes Stiles against the bed. The weight of him is comforting, Stiles’ eyes slipping shut as Derek begins to build his rhythm, course hair tickling the erogenous skin under his ass cheeks, his co*ck already hardening again each time Derek’s brushes along the underside.

If Stiles was in his right mind, he’d be mad about it—coming early, getting hard so soon after his climax. His latest hook-ups have ended in embarrassment and disappointment, disdainfully unsatisfied he couldn’t get off no matter how long or hard he thought of Derek instead of the body in front of him. He blamed the opiates, but he knew that’s not what it was. While most people on them might experience a complete lack of libido, Stiles’ was tenfold and just as insatiable as he was when he was a horny teenager. He knew it had everything to do with Derek, feeling safe in his hands, his touches deliberate and thoughtful, his noises pouring out of him as the obscene slick sounds mix in the room.

Derek’s hand splays over the small of his back, his breaths becoming more labored as he gets close, Stiles’ co*ck already leaking again. Derek presses his torso against Stiles’ back so that every inch of their skin connects, his arms hooking under Stiles’ armpits, his forehead dropping to the wing of Stiles’ shoulder as he groans, f*ck, you feel so good, Stiles, so good baby.

So much for ground rules.

With Derek pressing all around him, their co*cks brushing with each stroke of his unfettered hips, the vice-like grip of his arms and thighs locking Stiles in place, it’s not long before they both climax, Derek first with deep groans and desperate whimpers that register straight to the pool swirling in Stiles’ groin, and then Stiles again, stars behind his eyes as Derek’s hot cum coats his co*ck in thick spurts.

The feeling he chases with drugs and alcohol never quite compares to this. If Stiles could bottle up the noises Derek makes, the way his touch sends shocks through his nervous system, the overwhelming feeling of security in his arms, he’d binge it, too.

As much as Stiles loves being crushed under 250 pounds of Derek, his lungs beg to differ. He lets Derek catch his breath and then makes exaggerated, short panting sounds as he nudges Derek’s forehead with his shoulder. “Can’t breathe, big guy,” he says, and he swears Derek’s lips brush the skin there before he pulls away and drops beside him.

Stiles crawls further up the bed, his limbs trembling as he pulls his lower half up. They lay over the bed diagonally, cum drying on his skin, their breaths falling in sync, and then Derek shifts beside him as he reaches for something on his bedside table. The flick of a lighter and crackling of burning paper cut the silence, and Stiles peaks his head up to witness Derek pull on the blunt between his fingers as he crosses his legs and leans against the wall.

Derek gives him a lazy, sated smile, and Stiles rolls his eyes before letting his head drop back to the mattress. He can’t help the tiny smirk pulling at the corners of his lips, so he rolls his head until his face is planted in the sheets.

“I gotta go,” Stiles murmurs, though his body makes no attempt to do so. He doesn’t really want to leave, wants to curl up against him instead and share the blunt in bed before they get horny enough for round two.

“What, no cuddling?”

“No,” Stiles snaps, maybe too quickly, his head rising to glare up at Derek. Derek’s lips curl upwards as he blows the smoke away, then he holds the blunt out to him with a raised brow.

Stiles looks at the blunt, then Derek, then the blunt again before pursing his lips and accepting it after he rolls onto his back. He takes a long drag, eyes at the ceiling, his other hand coming up to slot under his head as he blows the smoke away.

“This isn’t a thing,” Stiles says, more to himself than Derek, keeping his gaze fixed on the ceiling, away from Derek’s stupidly handsome face. He always looks so good after sex, the intrinsic urge inside of him screaming to run his fingers through Derek’s hair, touch his chest, press their lips together and melt into him.

He won’t do it. This was a one-time thing, a fluke he should have given more thought to before booking the Uber over here, even though he knew exactly what he was doing the whole time. The drunk excuse could only go so far—if anything, it was part of his reasoning to show up here in the first place.

“So what, I scratched an itch and that’s it?”

“Yup,” Stiles answers, taking another drag of the blunt before passing it back. Their fingers brush and Stiles knows it’s intentional, just like everything else Derek does.

Derek is silent, and when Stiles chances a look at him, his eyebrows are furrowed as he draws from the blunt, eyes dark once Stiles meets his gaze. “So you’ll let me f*ck you, but won’t let me take care of you.”

Stiles glares back at him, sitting up on his elbows. “I can take care of myself.”

He’s met with silence again, ribbons of smoke obstructing Derek’s face as he leans back against the wall. He blows smoke sideways out of his mouth, his gaze unwavering.

“Is that what you’d call it?”

Stiles grits his teeth and sits up all the way, his eyes flicking over Derek’s features. “It’s better than being left behind all over again.”

Derek purses his lips before he takes another hit and passes the blunt back. “I told you I’m not going anywhere.”

“And I told you I don’t want to be with you, but you won’t leave me alone. In a lot of societies that’s considered stalking.”

Derek rolls his eyes and purses his lips. Stiles hits the blunt and looks down at his thighs, a mixture of their cum drying into his leg hair. He exhales the smoke and grabs the top sheet to wipe his skin off.

“Why are you here then, Stiles? You’re the one who always shows up at two in the morning. You have expectations of me whether you realize it or not.”

“No, I don’t. I just know you’ll always be here. It’s pathetic, honestly.”

Derek smirks at that and Stiles hates it, his jaw hardening as his brows weave together in irritation.

“So you admit it, then,” Derek says, taking the blunt back from Stiles.

Stiles exhales a sharp huff, exasperated as he starts to shuffle out of the sheets that suddenly feel too hot on his skin. Derek sighs, smoke pouring from his lips as Stiles starts searching for his clothes in the piles on the floor. He finds his boxer briefs lumped in with his pants and slips them back on, somehow managing to not tip over as he does so.

“For someone who points out my leaving all the time, you sure do a lot of it.”

Stiles snaps his head back to glare at Derek. “Because we’re not together, Derek. I can leave all I want. You’re the pit stop, not the destination.”

Stiles watches his face crumble, his brows knit in a frown, sad eyes washing over Stiles as he blinks dolefully. Stiles can’t bear to look at him, his heart sinking at the hurt in Derek’s gaze. He snatches his shirt up and leaves before Derek can respond.

-

“I want you to meet Kira,” Isaac says, watching Stiles over his plate as he crunches on an apple slice.

Stiles narrows his eyes, chewing his food as his brows knit together. “I know Kira, Isaac.”

Isaac purses his lips, the muscles in his jaw flexing. “You know what I mean.”

Stiles swallows his bite and looks down at his plate, still half his food left over but no appetite to finish. “So it’s getting pretty serious.”

“Yeah,” Isaac says, a smile curling the corners of his lips. “We’re playing pool tonight. Do you want to come?”

Stiles inhales deeply, his shoulders rising before he releases his breath and leans back into the booth. “Sure, why not.”

Watching the two of them makes Stiles feel sick, yet he knocks back a beer and plays along. He’s not jealous of Isaac per se—they’ve both known from the start that whatever their situation was, they weren’t in love and it would never go anywhere. What he’s envious of is seeing two people falling in love, clearly devoted and happy to be in the other’s company. The beginnings of relationships are always the best part, and Stiles will never have that again even if he wanted it. No one could ever be enough for him.

It's why he’s here once again, swaying on the grated metal steps as Derek opens his door and steps aside to welcome him in. Derek doesn’t need to know that, though.

Chapter 4: okay

Chapter Text

Stiles is gone by the time Derek awakens, never staying past sunrise as though once daylight casts upon them cuddled in the same bed together, they’d be frozen that way for the rest of time. Derek wishes that were true.

Baby steps.

He reaches for the pillow on Stiles’ side of the bed, pressing his face into it and inhaling deeply, Stiles’ spicy pheromones mixed with weed and his cologne. Derek’s got a bottle of it somewhere, pulling it out every once in a while to smell him, even though it only smells right when it’s on his skin.

Derek takes one final inhale before forcing himself out of bed, tossing the blanket off and gathering up the soiled sheets to start a load of laundry. Stiles came three times last night, but Derek’s not complaining.

It’s Sunday, which means Eli and Liam will be coming over for dinner. He hasn’t gone grocery shopping in a while, keeping himself busy with work even though he really doesn’t have to. Most chefs of his caliber don’t work in the kitchen anymore, but dionysus is his baby and he’s not ready to let go and make Erica head chef just yet. He’s not sure what else he would do with all his free time, anyway.

Derek spends the morning cleaning his apartment, despite it already being spotless. He writes his grocery list in his notes app, makes breakfast for himself, smokes a blunt with a YouTube show to fill the lonely silence, and finishes his laundry. By the time he’s worked himself up to head to the grocery store, his phone vibrates in his pocket as he slips on his shoes.

“Hey, Cor. I’m just about to head out, can I call you back later?”

He hears a sniffle on the other end, and then she says, “Okay,” her voice strained and broken.

His eyebrows furrow in concern. “What’s wrong?”

She’s quiet for a beat, a sob cutting her off before she can even speak, and Derek lets her cry it out a bit as she attempts to regain control. “Cora, tell me. Are you okay? What’s going on?”

Finally, after more sniffles and a few ragged breaths, she says, “Illana wants a divorce.”

Derek’s shoulders drop as he frowns, his eyes set on the window over the kitchen sink. “Sweetheart, I’m so sorry.”

This seems to activate more sobs on her end, and Derek can only imagine what a blubbering mess she is right now. He sets his keys down on the entry table before settling back on the couch. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I—can’t… I just—” she hiccups through sobs, incapable of getting out anything comprehensible.

Finally, Derek just says, “I have a guest room. Come stay with me.”

She sounds all soggy on the other end, sniveling and bawling, and then she says, “Okay,” like she’s drowning, her voice high and tight. “Don’t tell Laura.”

-

Cora is usually a very vibrant drunk, giggling and much kinder than she is sober. Tonight, however, that is not the case. She’s already had half a bottle of wine and can’t stop crying.

“Do you want me to tell Eli not to come over?” Derek asks, eyeing her carefully with a furrowed brow.

“No, no, I want to see him,” she insists. She’s only been here for a few hours, the sun just now setting. She still hasn’t managed to tell him the whole story, distracting herself with drink and whatever’s on tv.

“Liam’s coming with him. Are you up for a full house?”

She swipes tears from her face as she nods desperately. “I want to see him too. I need a distraction.”

Derek eyes her dubiously, sinking into the couch as he listens to her explain the events leading up to Illana requesting the divorce. Derek knew they’d been fighting a lot more for a while now, the stress of handling a farm weighing on their relationship and driving a wedge between them. Apparently, Illana has better things to do with her time than homestead chores and tending to her wife.

He texts Eli to warn him of what he’s walking into and gives him the option to bail, but he’s all too excited to see Cora despite the circ*mstances. Upon their arrival, Cora squeezes Eli until his eyes bulge at Derek in desperation, moving on to Liam once Eli pats her back to encourage a safe release.

“I love you two so much. But please don’t ever get married,” she cries, and Derek purses his lips and blinks indignantly. Eli laughs a bit awkwardly, his left hand rubbing his neck before he holds it behind his back, surreptitiously hiding Liam’s propositioned ring.

“Cora, cut it out. Why don’t you go set the table?” Derek asks, and in her vulnerable state she nods before a fresh set of tears spill over her cheeks. She goes to her room instead.

-

Stiles only ever shows up after midnight.

Cora went to bed as soon as Eli and Liam left, and even though Derek is sure she’s completely passed out, he winces at Stiles’ obnoxious knocking, slipping into his shorts before sneaking quickly through the hall.

“God, took you long enough,” he slurs as Derek steps aside to let him in. He clicks the door shut and switches the lock, turning to Stiles as he holds a finger over his lips.

“What, am I gonna wake the ghosts?” Stiles asks, blinking indolently, his voice a higher volume than necessary. He wobbles as he kicks off his shoes and lets them thud somewhere near the door.

“Cora’s here,” Derek whispers, his hand settling on the small of Stiles’ back as he guides him to his room. Stiles huffs, glaring at him with a thoroughly displeased expression.

“Why didn’t you tell me she was coming?” he asks once they’re in his room with the door shut.

“Because you still have me blocked,” Derek says, an eyebrow raised as he purses his lips. “It was a spur-of-the-moment thing, I didn’t know she’d be coming. And I never know when you’re coming, either.”

Stiles smirks and wriggles his eyebrows. “I doubt that, Hale,” he says, pleased with his lame joke. Derek rolls his eyes fondly, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“I guess I could unblock you…” Stiles says, feigning apathy as he sighs melodramatically. He reaches over and hooks his fingers under the band of Derek’s shorts, tugging him closer before pressing his clammy hands against Derek’s abs.

Derek’s hands cup his face and pull him in close, their lips inches apart. He meets Stiles’ gaze, eyes flicking between Stiles’ as he leans in closer, Stiles’ breath ghosting over his mouth, and just as he dips in to kiss him, Stiles tilts his head and Derek’s lips land on his jawline.

Stiles still won’t let them kiss, but he never opposes Derek’s lips anywhere else on his body, so Derek indulges in pressing them wherever Stiles allows. Their cheeks brush, scruff bristling in the quiet room as Derek kisses along his jaw, his thumb pressing underneath the hinge as he tilts Stiles’ head further to continue down his neck. Stiles’ hands slip from Derek’s abs to his hips, fingertips skimming beneath the elastic band before dipping them lower to squeeze the pulp of his ass.

“You have to be quiet,” Derek murmurs against his neck, licking salt from his skin as he laps his tongue over the tattoo there. Stiles lets out a low moan, pressing their hips together, and Derek can already feel his erection in Stiles’ attempt to melt into him. Derek remembers how sensitive Stiles is, but it seems now more than ever anywhere Derek touches is an erogenous zone, the way Stiles reacts whenever their skin connects. Stiles is like putty in his arms, sinking slowly. Derek builds him up just for him to soften right back into a puddle.

“Can’t make any promises,” he replies, grinding their hips together, their erections brushing through unnecessary layers of fabric.

Derek gets him undressed and on his knees in no time, his ass in perfect view as Derek stretches him open with his slicked fingers. Stiles’ face is pressed into the mattress, his whimpers and moans muffled but still loud enough that if Cora weren’t passed out drunk, Derek is sure she’d be able to hear them. He pulls his fingers away before Stiles can come, because Derek certainly can tell when he’s about to, and Stiles whines and writhes as he grips the sheets.

“Derek,” he pouts, his eyes peaking back over his shoulder. For as disdainful as he is towards Derek outside of this room, his act is all but dropped once he falls into Derek’s bed.

Derek smirks as he rips the condom open with his teeth and rolls it over his length. He hates wearing it, but Stiles insists.

“Yeah, baby?”

Derek can’t help the word from slipping out, he never can, but Stiles hasn’t chided him once for it. The only ground rule he enforces is no kissing on the lips, and no coming inside him. Obviously, Derek hates both rules, but he doesn’t test them too much, grateful for what Stiles does allow and the other rules he’s already disregarded.

“Stop teasing and put your dick in me,” he whines, arching his back just so, giving Derek the perfect view of his hole, pink and puffy from his previous attentions, and it’s all Derek can do not to lean in and lap his tongue over him. Instead, he grips the base of his co*ck and brushes the tip there, and Stiles jerks and spreads his legs wider as he pants.

“You need my co*ck to fill you up, baby?” Derek asks, his voice low and teasing as he barely presses the tip in.

Stiles groans, frustrated as he presses back, letting out a needy yes, and Derek pushes in as soon as the word leaves his lips.

“Oh, f*ck,” Stiles gasps out, Derek taking his time, his mouth dropping open in a silent moan as he inches the full length of himself inside, one hand settled on Stiles’ hip as the other guides his co*ck in. He is so f*cking tight, it’s almost unbearable, his hot heat pressing and pulling Derek in as his muscles spasm to accommodate.

Once he’s fully buried, his breathing coming out in short pants as he lets Stiles adjust around him, he leans in to wrap his arm around Stiles’ torso, pressing Stiles’ back against his chest as they kneel on the mattress, their bodies vertical. Oh f*ck seems to be the only words Stiles can recall, the ring of muscle convulsing around Derek’s co*ck as his head falls back on Derek’s shoulder.

Derek brushes wet kisses along his neck, one arm holding Stiles in place over his stomach while his other hand cups beneath Stiles’ jaw, his palm resting over the expanse of his throat. Stiles’ hand covers his, his breath shuddering. He kisses the shell of Stiles’ ear and whispers, voice gravelly and low, “Be a good boy and stay quiet.”

Stiles whimpers at that, and Derek looks down, past the flushed skin over Stiles’ chest, his co*ck leaking against his abdomen as he lets Derek mold his body against him. When he starts f*cking into him, Stiles doesn’t resist moaning, and Derek’s hand slips from his neck to cover his mouth.

It seems the more Derek tells him to shush, the more noises he wants to make; soft whimpers and whines that vibrate against his hand, and Derek loves those noises, his quick breath ghosting over his fingers, the way Stiles melts against him. With a condom on, it takes longer for Derek to reach climax—he decides in the meantime, he’ll get Stiles off, knowing full and well he’ll harden up again before Derek can even come the first time around.

“Shh,” Derek whispers, stilling his hips as his nose brushes along the curve of his ear. Stiles whines, breathing sharply through his nose, pressing back against Derek as Derek’s hand skates over his soft skin, fingertips grazing the hair leading to his co*ck. Stiles quiets, and Derek can feel Stiles’ heart thudding against his forearm pressed over his chest.

“Good boy, just like that,” Derek mumbles, and he starts moving his hips again.

His fingertips brush through the hair at the base of Stiles’ co*ck before wrapping his hand around him, squeezing as he pulls up and swipes his thumb over the soaked tip.

“Mmm, you’re so wet, baby,” Derek whispers, and Stiles nearly chokes on a sob, his hips twitching as desperately as his muffled cries. Derek circles his thumb over Stiles’ co*ckhead and pumps him once, twice, and that’s all it takes before he’s tensing up, hips jerking as he spills over Derek’s fist. One of Stiles’ hands grips tightly around Derek’s wrist, the other reaching behind him as he palms over Derek’s ass, fingernails digging into his skin instead of the typical curses that would be decanting out of him if Derek’s hand wasn’t over his mouth.

Stiles trembles in his arms in his aftershocks as Derek nuzzles the side of his head, breathing in the sweat and shampoo on his scalp as he builds his rhythm up again. Stiles doesn’t even soften in his hand as Derek finishes milking him through his first org*sm, wriggling and whimpering against Derek as his cum-coated hand releases his co*ck and slips lower to cup his balls. He taps Derek on his ass, and Derek pulls his hand from his mouth, letting it settle back over Stiles’ throat as he f*cks into him, Stiles panting as he attempts to fully catch his breath.

Derek comes not long after, the tightness too much when Stiles clamps around him. His breath catches in his throat as he shudders, his head dropping to Stiles’ shoulder as he groans lowly, f*ck, Stiles, you feel so f*cking good, baby, his grip tight around Stiles as he rides out his org*sm.

He carefully pulls his hands away, letting Stiles fall back to the mattress before he pulls out. Stiles whines when he does, insatiable as always. Derek drops beside him, his chest heaving.

“Not done with you,” Stiles murmurs. He’s caught his breath by now, rolled over and stroking himself as he licks his lips and watches Derek’s chest rise and fall.

Derek smirks as him, reaching to meticulously pull the condom off before he ties and tosses it somewhere for him to worry about tomorrow.

“What do you need, baby?” Derek asks, wiping his hand off on the sheets.

“Your mouth,” Stiles breathes out, bucking into his hand, and Derek doesn’t need to be told twice before he settles between Stiles’ legs and takes as much of Stiles’ co*ck into his mouth as he can—his gag reflex has nearly ceased to exist in time, so it’s more than he’s used to. Stiles doesn’t have any complaints.

He edges Stiles, pulling off him anytime he makes a sound above a certain decibel, stroking him in the absence of his mouth, and Stiles hates it, cursing at him between his whimpers and pleas. Derek squeezes relentlessly before he can come and Stiles glares at him, sweat beading his brow, his chest heaving.

“Derek I sweartof*ckinggodifyoudon’tletmecome,” Stiles grits through his teeth after the third time Derek tamps down his climax, and Derek can’t help but grin as his tongue flicks at the slit, watching Stiles’ striking, flustered expressions from beneath his brows.

Finally, Derek takes pity on him, swallowing him nearly to the root as he fondles his sac. He doesn’t pull away this time when Stiles moans out, Stiles’ fingers gripping Derek’s hair and holding him in place to prevent it anyway, hips twitching as he releases down Derek’s willing throat.

Derek wipes his mouth off with the back of his hand after he pulls off him and swallows, more bitter than what he remembers Stiles tasting like as he drops beside him. As Stiles attempts to regulate his breathing, Derek reaches for a pre-rolled blunt and the lighter at his bedside table, sparking it up as he tucks his arm behind his head.

Stiles plucks the blunt from his lips after he inhales, and Derek eyes him shadily as he blows smoke out of the side of his mouth. Stiles brings it to his lips with a satisfied smirk, one leg bent as the other relaxes against Derek’s.

“So why’s Cora here?” Stiles asks eventually, an eyebrow raised as his knee rocks back and forth in a stimming motion. Some part of him has always got to be moving, or he just might explode out of his skin, Derek thinks.

Derek studies him, watching the smoke rise in tendrils from his lips. He wants to kiss them.

Stiles holds the blunt out for him to take, Derek’s fingers pinching it before taking a hit.

“She’s going through a divorce,” Derek answers, clearing his throat as he waves smoke away from his face.

Stiles’ lips curl into a devious smirk, his eyes dark. “Huh. Interesting,” is all he says, and Derek rolls his eyes as he brings the blunt back to his lips.

“Is that what you’d call it?”

“No, actually. It’s funny is what I’d call it,” he snorts.

Derek misses when Stiles wasn’t so blatantly mean. He’s known Stiles was a brat since day one, entirely capable of being a total bitch if he wanted to be, but at least he had the sense to mask it when it was socially necessary. Derek doesn’t grant a reaction to that, just takes another hit before passing it back to him.

“Why are they divorcing?”

Derek is quiet as he decides whether he should tell him, and Stiles nudges his ribs with his elbow.

“Tell me,” Stiles huffs.

Derek purses his lips but inevitably relents. “I think Illana cheated, but I don’t know if Cora realizes that or if she’s just in denial.”

Stiles furrows his eyebrows curiously and shifts his body so that he’s on his side, facing Derek as he props his head up with one hand and rests the other at his hip, the blunt between his two fingers. “What do you mean?”

“She said Illana has been hanging out with a set of friends a lot more than they used to, staying out late or sometimes not even coming home. They’ve been fighting for months over stupid sh*t. It sounds like Illana’s projecting a lot onto her.”

“So why haven’t you told her that?” Stiles hits the blunt again before passing it back, an eyebrow raised. Derek ashes it before drawing it to his lips and pulling, shrugging as he exhales smoke and turns his head to meet Stiles’ gaze.

“Would you want to be the bearer of bad news to Scott?”

Stiles rolls his eyes before dropping his head on Derek’s chest, letting his arm settle over Derek’s abdomen. “f*ck Scott. Yeah, I’d tell him. f*ck Allison, too.”

Derek inhales deeply through his nose, his arm falling around Stiles’ shoulders as he reaches to tamp out the blunt, exhaling as he turns to press as much of his skin against Stiles as possible. “They miss you,” Derek says carefully. Well, Scott mostly misses him. Allison seems pretty apathetic at this point.

“I don’t care. I don’t want to talk about them,” he says, nuzzling into Derek’s neck as his leg settles between Derek’s.

Derek lets his eyes slip shut, pressing his nose against Stiles’ scalp, lips at his hairline. He’s let the bleached part grow out, now just a crisp buzzcut that fades into the scruff framing his face. Derek likes it. He liked the bleached cut, too, convinced that Stiles would look good with any hairstyle.

The fan hums as it oscillates, their skin cooled enough now that it’s chilly without cover. He shifts and drags up the top sheet up with his foot, covering their bodies as Stiles’ fingertips mindlessly graze at his side. They fall asleep that way, and just like every other night, Stiles slips away as dawn breaks.

Derek swears he feels lips brush over his forehead. Once he manages to drag his eyes open, Stiles is gone.

-

Cora is somehow awake when Derek returns from his run. She sips from a coffee mug at the island, her eyes following Derek as he kicks his shoes off and heads towards the bathroom.

“Seriously, Derek?”

Derek looks around like perhaps she’s talking to another Derek in the vicinity with the attitude dripping from her words, his eyebrow raised in question when he meets her gaze. “What?”

She purses her lips, setting her mug on the counter with her hands clasped around it. “I saw something very interesting this morning.”

He blinks in response, pulling up the bottom of his ribbed tank to wipe the sweat from his face. “Okay, good for you?”

She scoffs and narrows her eyes. “What is Stiles Stilinski doing leaving your apartment at five in the morning?”

Derek’s face pinches in agitation as he starts walking to the bathroom.

“We’re not done with this conversation!”

When Derek eventually emerges from his cold shower, Cora is now sat on the couch. The tv is on but she’s not paying much attention to it, brooding with her arms crossed as she waits for Derek to acknowledge her. He doesn’t. Instead, he starts on breakfast.

“So what, you’re back with him?”

Derek purses his lips as he gathers his mise en place. “Not exactly.”

“I can’t believe you’re messing around with him. He’s a total f*ckboy, Derek,” she snaps, and Derek takes a deep breath as his eyelids flutter in frustration.

“Is it really so hard to believe when you know how I still feel about him?”

“And how does he feel about you?”

Derek doesn’t respond, just flicks on the gas element.

“Exactly, Derek! He’s just f*cking with you, can’t you see that? This will not end well, just like it did the last time.”

Derek’s jaw hardens as he works on cracking eggs into a bowl. “It ended last time because of me. I won’t make the same mistake again.”

“You’re gonna end up with a broken heart. He’s not well. God, haven’t you seen the sh*t he’s pulled lately? He’s a hot f*cking mess and he’ll just drag you into it and taint your name. You’ve worked too hard for this, Derek!”

Derek slams the bowl down on the granite counter and glowers at her, a finger pointing in allegation. “My name is esteemed because of him—I wouldn’t have any of this without him. He’s not well because of me. And you’re one to talk, Cora, your wife is leaving you and you’re too blind to see she’s been cheating!”

Cora’s mouth snaps shut, her brows furrowing as tears crowd her eyes. Her bottom lip quivers and she shakes her head in denial. “How could you say that?”

Derek’s nostrils flare as he inhales and runs an exasperated hand over his face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t…” he sighs and studies her face. “It’s just a hunch, I don’t know if it’s true.”

She snaps up from her seat, avoiding his gaze as she covers her face and cries. She hides in her bedroom until Derek leaves for work.

-

Derek’s out back breaking down boxes, cigarette in his mouth as he multitasks on his quick break. He tosses the boxes in the recycling before he takes the cigarette from his mouth, blowing smoke as he starts walking towards the back door. He leans against the brick wall and enjoys his last couple of minutes with his cigarette in the mid-summer evening, pinching the fabric of his shirt and flapping it over his chest to circulate the humid air pressing against his body. He’s just about to head back inside, dropping his cigarette butt before dragging it over the pavement with his shoe, when a tiny kitten sprints up to him and howls at the top of its lungs, a long drawn out thing like it had been waiting for Derek this whole time—and where have you been?

He chuffs a bit, his lips curling into a grin as he squats down to hold his hand out, letting the calico kitten get a good sniff before he inevitably scoops it up.

“Hi, kitty. Where’d you come from?” he asks, and it sits easily in the palm of his hand, blinking and sniffing the air curiously in a modest solicit for food. It’s got to be no older than ten weeks, puffs of downy fluff sticking out oddly in the way fresh fur tends to on baby animals, a layer of Chicago grime matted into parts of its coat. It meows again, another drawn-out cry as its eyes squint up at him, sharp teeth hungry and exposed. Derek rests his other palm on the kitten’s head, and it quiets a bit, gruffing out tiny, exasperated mewls like mollifying pets are the last thing it wants.

Derek looks around the alley, and aside from the buzz of cicadas and the flap of the pigeons nearby, there are no other signs of life. No mama kitty or kitten siblings mewling—just this one.

He looks back at the cat, her (Derek assumes since it’s a calico) green eyes staring back expectantly, tiny paws with razor-sharp claws kneading the flesh of his palm with loud, reverberating purrs, and knows it’s already too late. Derek has been well aware of the cat distribution system for some time now, having never adopted one with the staunch belief a feline friend would find him if it was meant to be. His patience seems to have paid off.

Most of her body is white, large patches of black and orange erratically patterned into her long-haired fur—one orange patch covers a quarter of her face and a black patch takes over her ridiculously tiny ear. She is certainly a kitten but has the archetype of an owl, her sage eyes wide and blinking, her mouth tiny when it’s shut. She looks perpetually surprised and curious, her eyes never leaving Derek’s face.

“You look like a ravioli,” Derek says, scratching behind her ears, and she seems to agree with soft blinks and rolling purrs. “Ravioli it is, then.”

-

“You got a kitten?” Stiles asks the next time he’s over. It’s been nearly a week since Derek has seen him, his distance kept in the wake of Cora’s presence. He must have realized Cora wasn’t going anywhere any time soon, and since he won’t allow Derek over, Stiles has resigned himself to the off chance of bumping into her again.

“It’s more like… she got a Derek,” he says with a smile, holding her against his chest as he kisses the top of her head. She loves to rub her scent against Derek’s beard, her whiskers bristling against his, and Stiles bites his lip from grinning too wide as she does so.

“What’s her name?” Stiles asks, his astounded gaze glued to her as he reaches out to pet her.

“Ravioli,” Derek answers, and it’s not even until now that the implication of her name registers in the pit of his subconscious mind. He eyes Stiles carefully in this realization, but Stiles only smiles, his focus more intent on the cat in Derek’s arms than anything else.

Derek lifts her from his chest, cupping her in the palm of his hand as he passes her along. Stiles accepts her willingly and immediately nuzzles his nose into her fluff, his long fingers stroking from the top of her head to the tip of her tail. She soaks it up, scenting Stiles’ scruff too, her tail flicking curiously as she nosily sniffs his face. He all but giggles, his laughter surprised and candid as the kitten purrs happily in his arms.

Derek can’t even remember the last time he saw a smile so wide on Stiles’ face.

-

“She’s taking the farm, Derek,” Cora says, her voice strained as she attempts to hold back tears. She leans over her knees, her gaze vacant as she stares at the phone in her hand. The call she was on ended right as Derek stepped into the living room.

The kitten sits in a bun on the cat bed that’s taken over the end of the sectional near the window, and he drops on the couch beside her, adjacent to Cora, his big hand instinctively covering Ravioli’s little body.

“You’re not gonna fight for it?” he asks, rubbing the delicate skin of one of her ears between his finger and thumb.

“She’s got a really good lawyer already. I don’t know what to do,” she cries, sniffling as she wipes her eyes. He can’t remember a time when she was so weepy and emotive, but he can’t blame her. Illana was the love of her life turned into the evil soon-to-be-ex-wife. Derek couldn’t imagine what she was going through—her partner of ten years cheating on her, pulling the rug out from under her feet, taking the life they built and keeping it all for herself.

His eyes wash over her, and he wishes there were something he could do to ease her pain. He chews on the inside of his cheek, his fingers idly stroking soft fur as Ravioli purrs contentedly, oblivious to the tribulations of the humans surrounding her.

“I bet Lydia knows someone. You know I’ll help you however I can,” he says, reaching over to rest his hand over her shoulder. He gives a light squeeze, and she looks up at him dolefully, eyebrows knit in despairing confusion.

“I just don’t understand how she could do that to me. I would never…” she trails off, tears slipping over her cheeks before she returns her gaze to the floor.

Derek brushes back the curtain of hair that falls over her face before he shifts closer to her, pulling her against him as she quietly cries. His arm falls around her shoulders, her head on his chest as he rubs soothing circles over her arm.

“It’s gonna be okay, Cor,” he mumbles, kissing the top of her head. He can imagine she doesn’t believe that.

-

“Are you going to Melissa’s surprise birthday party?” Allison asks, leaning back in her office chair as Derek sits in the chair on the other side of her desk. She sips her herbal tea, still bitter about no caffeine seven months into her pregnancy, and waits for his response.

“Is Stiles invited?”

She purses her lips and sets her mug down. “He’s not… not invited?”

Derek eyes her stomach. She opts for leggings and loose t-shirts stolen from Scott these days and still manages to look uncomfortable.

“He should be explicitly invited,” Derek replies, crossing his arms as he leans back and meets her eyes.

Allison inhales deeply, using her foot against the desk leg to bounce the back of her chair. “He blocked us, and last time Scott tried to visit him, the doorman kept him out.”

“I wonder why,” Derek says dryly, gaze flicking over her features. “I told you it was a bad idea.”

Allison’s face pinches in agitation. She does not like this topic and refuses to talk about it anymore, going as far as changing the subject or straight up leaving the conversation. Today she seems incensed enough to allow it.

“What would you have done, then? Just let him keep getting worse?”

Derek sighs, his eyes closing in exasperation. He runs a hand over his mouth, lips pursed when he meets her gaze again. “He’s not going to want to get better if it’s forced on him. You’re supposed to be a part of his support system—ambushing him and making demands is not supporting him.”

“I am supporting him, Derek! I wouldn’t even care enough to stage an intervention at all if I didn’t!”

Derek studies her intently, gathering his thoughts, trying to think of the right words, but it seems whatever he says will fall short. Allison is set in her stance, unwilling to give any slack in the line she’s drawn in the sand. His jaw hardens and he leans over his knees, his fingers interlacing in front of him. “If you truly care about him, you’d support him even if he still chooses not to do what you want him to do.”

Her brows furrow at that, lips pressed in a frown. “I’m allowed to have boundaries. I don’t want to be around him when he’s like this. He’s mean, Derek.”

“He’s in pain, Allison. And what are you, five? You know it’s not like him to act like this. Cutting him out of your life is not helping—he already feels left behind.”

She’s silent, her eyes searching his, and when she opens her mouth to speak, Lydia strides into the office, her perfume greeting them before her words. She looks between the two, wide eyes blinking, and asks, “Where is your sister? She was supposed to meet me thirty minutes ago.”

Derek’s brows furrow, and he looks at the clock on the wall behind Allison’s desk before rising, his hand falling to Lydia’s shoulder as he mumbles I don’t know, let’s check upstairs while they begin to shuffle out of the office. He looks back at Allison, jaw set, and says, “Send him an invite. Even if he doesn’t go, he should be invited. That’s his family, too.”

She doesn’t look pleased, but Derek steps out before she can fully respond, following Lydia through the quiet kitchen and out the back door.

-

Derek wakes up with a tickle in his throat and a dull ache behind his eyes. He takes in a deep breath, his hand covering his face with a wheezy, frustrated groan, the sheets damp with sweat beneath him. He’s pretty sure whatever Eli had last week is plaguing him now, and what’s worse than being sick is being sick in the thickest part of summer.

Ravioli sleeps tucked under his chin and her body heat is not helpful. He’s resigned to it though, always feelings too guilty to move her as his hand rests over her loaf-shaped form. He reaches for his phone and texts the dionysus group chat to let everyone know he’ll be out sick for a few days, kicking the covers off and taking reprieve in the fan blowing over him. He texts Stiles too—it’s been a few days since he’s seen him, but he shows up randomly enough that it’d fall under the odds of him arriving when Derek can’t give him what he comes for.

Eventually he’s able to override his guilt and lift the cat off him before he pulls himself out of bed and heads straight for a shower. Cora’s beauty products have taken over his bathroom, sort of how she’s taken over the whole apartment, but she’s been splitting her time at Laura’s to help with the kids and it’s nice to have his solitude when she’s gone. It figures the one time he gets sick, she’s not here to take care of him—not that he expects it, he just knows she would if she were here—but he’s used to it anyway. Always the caregiver, never the receiver.

He spends most of the day resting on the sofa with a MasterChef marathon after taking some meds, and no matter how many times Derek tries to keep Ravioli from touching him and sharing her furnace-like body heat, she ends up on his chest, or at his head, or in the pocket between his covered legs.

It’s midafternoon when he gets a knock on the door, pulling him out of his quasi-nap that he’s been in and out of most of the day. Ravioli gets the hint to move when Derek sits up, his head stuffy and achy as he makes his way to the door. When he opens it, he’s entirely surprised to see Stiles on the other side of it.

“Hey…” he says, eyebrows furrowed as he does a full body scan—he’s not convinced Stiles is really here in daylight.

“Hey,” Stiles answers, raising an eyebrow when Derek doesn’t move out of the way. He’s got a takeaway bag in one hand and a grocery bag in the other. “You gonna let me in before I melt or what?”

Derek steps aside, and Stiles makes his way in, looking around the space as he steps into the kitchen and sets the bags down on the counter. “Is Cora here?”

Derek shakes his head softly, a bit dazed as he watches Stiles make himself at home. He starts pulling plates from the cabinet when Ravioli strides up to him and rubs against his bare leg, happy to interrupt his task to pick her up and press his face into her fur.

“You’re gonna get sick,” Derek warns him, his voice prickly.

“Go sit,” is all Stiles says, kissing the kitten on her head before placing her back on all fours. Derek eyes him for a moment before obeying, taking his seat once again as Stiles dishes up whatever it is he brought over. Chinese food, Derek realizes when Stiles hands him a loaded plate, and it feels so bizarre and out of character for his current personality that Derek can’t help but regard him like he’s a manifestation in his living room.

“Thank you,” he says carefully, and Stiles doesn’t respond, just sits adjacent from him as he picks up his fork and starts eating. MasterChef continues, holding their attention as they eat, and Derek is surprised to see him finish most of his plate before giving up and setting it on the coffee table.

Derek is tired after their meal, but he’s too enamored with Stiles sitting in his living room before the sun has even gone down to want to close his eyes. He starts to get up to take the dishes back to the kitchen when Stiles beats him to it, returning with a cold gatorade as he takes a seat closer to Derek.

“You don’t have to take care of me, you know,” Derek says, accepting the electrolyte beverage, and Stiles blinks cynically, an eyebrow quirked.

“Would you prefer it if I leave then?”

“No,” Derek answers quickly enough.

“Then shut up,” he says, peeling his eyes away from Derek as he returns his gaze to the television.

Derek’s lips curl upwards, his confused scowl gradually softening into quiet admiration as he blinks dreamily.

He tries to keep his eyes open after that, but eventually they slip shut without him even realizing. Each time he remembers Stiles is here, his heart beats wildly and his eyes snap open just to be sure. Stiles hasn’t moved from his spot on the couch, Ravioli taking ownership of his lap until eventually he falls asleep, too.

She ends up waking them both up when it’s her dinnertime, sprinting over their sprawled bodies on the couch with loud, encouraging purrs and tiny reminder chirps. Stiles is up before Derek can convince his limbs to do anything about it, eventually returning with more meds and a glass of water.

“C’mon,” Stiles says, his head tilting towards the bedroom once Derek sets the cup down.

It’s dark now, the tv off and streetlights pouring in, and the hardwood floors creak beneath their feet as they trek down the solitary hall. Derek undresses like a snake shedding its skin, clothes trailing behind him as he drops into bed with a lengthy sigh, exhausted after a long day of rest. The pressure has built up in his sinuses, making it hard to breathe with his mouth closed, but he manages to make himself comfortable enough to drift again, Stiles slipping in beside him.

“Thank you,” Derek mumbles, just on the cusp of unconsciousness. Stiles presses against him, his skin cold compared to Derek’s before their shared body heat can warm between them. He doesn’t say a word, just tucks himself under Derek’s chin, his fingertips brushing through the hair on Derek’s chest, and falls asleep.

At one point in the night, Stiles shifts away, and Derek mutters don’t go as he reaches out reflexively. He thinks he’s having a fever dream when long fingers brush through his hair and cold lips press against his forehead.

Stiles is gone when he wakes.

-

On the first Tuesday of every month, much like the warning sirens stretching across the city (and state) at ten a.m. on the dot, dionysus closes its doors for the day to ensure everything is working properly. It’s a field day in deep cleaning, maintaining equipment, and front-of-house and back-of-house coming together to review next month’s menu of chef specials. The tradition is a bonding experience that fosters equanimity between the two houses, ending in a family dinner when everything is said and done. Back of house does not cook on this day—instead, pizzas are delivered and drinks distributed, and everyone talks over each other like a real family on Christmas Day. Perhaps a better example is Super Bowl Sunday, depending on how rambunctious the group gets.

While Scott isn’t staff, he tends to meander wherever Allison subsists, and since she’s nearly eight months pregnant, picks up her slack. He says he does it because he doesn’t want her moving too much, but Derek knows Scott would do anything for free pizza, as if he can’t make it himself any time he wants it.

“So, I heard something through the grapevine,” Scott says next to him, his cheeks full of food as he talks and chews. It’s amazing he and Eli aren’t blood-related.

“Oh yeah?” Derek responds, an eyebrow quirking in curiosity.

“Yeah,” Scott says with a smirk, taking a long sip of his drink instead of continuing with the news.

When Derek doesn’t take the bait, just chews his food and stares apathetically, Scott leans in and whispers—or at least, he thinks he does— “Stiles seems to be spending a lot of time elsewhere lately.”

Derek halts in his chewing, his face freezing before he can give much else away, but Scott’s smirk turns into a full-on grin before he takes another bite of his pizza.

“Dude, that’s so great! I’m glad he’s not all by himself all the time. Do you think you’re getting through to him?”

Derek’s lips purse, his jaw hardening as he inhales deeply through his flared nostrils, visibly displeased. Beside Scott, Allison is now intrigued as she leans in curiously, a knowing smirk curling the corners of her mouth.

“Who told you that?” Derek asks, his eyes flicking between the two of them and settling on Allison when her skin flushes.

“Lydia mentioned something in passing…” she says, a small shrug of her shoulder as she looks away and sips her water.

Derek’s gaze goes out of focus, his head rearing back slightly as he tries to figure out how Lydia could know anything. He was sure he hadn’t let it slip to anyone, careful to keep whatever their relationship was a secret because Stiles asked him to. It’s not like they hang out in public together, and he only ever comes in the middle of the night, leaving before dionysus even opens. How could she know?

Allison clears her throat, her lips pursing as her eyes trail to where Lydia sits beside Cora. They’re leaning in close to each other, sharing words evidently not meant for anyone else to hear, and then it clicks.

He thought they’d been hanging out a lot more, but never put two and two together, figuring Lydia was another shoulder for her to cry on in her time of grief. Clearly, crying hasn’t been the only activity between them, and it seems Derek and Stiles have been a topic in their clandestine pillow talk. Which, weird, but also… what the f*ck. Cora’s not even technically divorced yet.

“So, how is he?” Scott asks, either oblivious or intentionally ignorant to the shift in Derek’s energy as he stuffs his face. When Derek doesn’t respond, he asks, “Are you two back together?”

“No,” Derek gruffs out, wiping his fingers off on his napkin, his appetite quickly dissolving. He’ll have to tell Stiles about this, and he really doesn’t want to. Whatever is between them, it’s been nice to keep to themselves, notwithstanding how much Derek would love to take him out in public—but he’s sure Stiles won’t be happy about Scott knowing anything regarding his affairs.

“It’s okay dude, I’m sure he’ll come around soon enough. I knew he would eventually,” Scott babbles, and Derek is having a hard time not making a disgusted face as Scott continues talking and chewing at the same time. The topic he’s lingering on doesn’t help. And then he says, “You guys will be guideparents in no time.”

Derek’s teeth click when his jaw locks, and he turns to glare at Scott, his head shaking in disbelief. “Is that all you f*cking care about?”

Scott’s eyes widen when he realizes how pissed he is, every line in Derek’s face contorted in repugnance. “No, dude, of course I care about him getting better… it’s just. Well, if you got back together, that’s what would happen,” he says with a shrug, like that’s the most obvious conclusion one could come to in this situation.

Derek’s lips are a tight line as he regards Scott, then Allison, their eyes wide and blinking. He shakes his head again, turning away from them incredulously as he stares off and contemplates his next words before turning back to them with a glare.

“You know what, I don’t want this stupid ‘guideparent’ responsibility. It’s caused more harm than good and it’s like that’s the only reason you want him to get better. Do you even realize how much it’s affected him? He already thinks he’s not good enough and then his best friend goes and chooses his ex of all people!” Derek snaps, and all eyes surrounding the table settle on him, the susurrus of overhead chatter ceasing in favor of the scene before them. He huffs out a frustrated exhale, his brows furrowed as he stands and snatches his paper plate off the table. “I don’t know what you two aren’t getting. He’s hurting because of me and all you’re worried about is having your perfect little family when he’s been your family this whole time! f*cking find someone else to do it!”

With that, he tosses his plate in the trash and exits out the back door, letting it slam shut behind him.

-

It’s a few days until Derek sees him again. It’s almost like he forces himself to stay away a couple of nights a week, and Derek wonders what he does in the meantime—if he’s still seeing other people, or if he’s nodding off by himself in agony. He hates to think of either scenario.

They smoke their after-sex blunt in bed, Stiles curled against him as they lean against the wall. Derek thinks about getting an actual headboard just to make this new ritual more comfortable.

“I have to tell you something,” Derek starts, and this makes Stiles’ head pop up to regard him, his gaze fretted and impervious. Derek brings the blunt to his lips and takes a drag, his thumb brushing over Stiles’ side where his hand cups his ribs in an attempt to calm him. He blows the smoke away from Stiles’ face before passing him the blunt.

“It seems that word has gotten out about… us. And… well, everyone knows,” Derek says, chewing the inside of his cheek as he watches for Stiles’ reaction.

“What do you mean by ‘everyone’?”

“I mean, Scott, Allison, Lydia… probably your parents, too, if I know Allison,” Derek grumbles, his brows pinching in aggravation as he looks away.

“But… how?” Stiles asks, genuine concern knitting his brow, and Derek wonders if he thinks he’s being followed because that’s not entirely outside the realm of possibility.

He clears his throat and swallows, his eyes trailing towards his closed door in reference to the hallway leading to Cora’s bedroom. “I guess Cora and Lydia have gotten pretty comfortable.”

He expects Stiles’ expression to twist into discontentment; instead, Stiles pulls on the blunt, the corners of his lips twitching upwards as he follows Derek’s line of sight, amused. “Cora’s a f*cking slu*t.”

Derek’s lips roll between his teeth as he holds back a burst of laughter, forcing an obnoxious snort out through his nose instead. Stiles’ response is wholly unexpected, and Derek can’t even be mad at someone calling his sister a slu*t because it’s sort of true, considering—nothing against slu*ts. He knows Stiles despises her, but his tone is playful and demur, not entirely serious but just enough deadpan that the joke lands. Stiles watches him, his lips now fully curled into a pleased smile as he takes another drag from the blunt.

“I knew Lydia was hiding something from me. Sleeping with a married woman. Huh…” Stiles trails off, smoke blowing from his mouth as he passes the blunt back to Derek. “How did you find out?”

Derek purses his lips, taking the blunt and ashing it before pulling. “Scott brought it up at field day dinner.”

“What’s that?” Stiles asks, eyes washing over Derek’s face in child-like curiosity. Derek can’t help but pull Stiles in closer, smiling as he resists the urge to plant a sloppy kiss on his lips. He’s so cute.

“It’s when we close on the first Tuesday and deep clean, then have dinner after. Scott’s been picking up Allison’s slack.”

“Sounds about right,” he says brusquely, accepting the blunt when Derek passes it back. He lets his head rest against Derek’s chest, tucked under his chin. Derek’s fingers trace over his skin, down his side and over his bare ass.

“You’re not mad about it?”

“Not currently,” Stiles responds, reaching to tamp out the blunt in the ashtray on Derek’s nightside table before resituating himself against Derek’s side. Derek knows that means he’s too high to really care right now. He leans in and nuzzles against his scalp, lips brushing over his hair.

“He asked how you’re doing,” Derek says carefully, keeping his voice low like it’ll help keep the current tone of the conversation. Stiles hums in response, indifferent as Derek continues grazing over his skin.

“So, how are you doing?”

Stiles stiffens a bit against him, quiet as his arm wraps around Derek’s middle. After a beat he says, “I’m okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he confirms, his hand splaying over Derek’s side. And then, his tone careful and discreet, “How is he?”

Derek’s eyebrows shoot up as he peers down at Stiles under his arm, but Stiles keeps his face hidden, pressing closer against him.

“I don’t know, actually. I’d imagine he’s pretty upset after our last conversation.”

“Why’s that?”

Derek takes in a deep breath, his heart speeding up as he chews on the inside of his cheek, stalling a bit as his fingertips continue stroking over Stiles’ skin. “I told them I don’t want to be their guideparent anymore.”

Stiles snaps his head up so fast Derek is worried about whiplash, brows furrowed as his eyes flick between Derek’s. “You what? Why?”

“Because,” Derek starts, reaching up to smooth Stiles’ scruff back into place, and Stiles lets him, waiting. “It’s caused too much tension and it’s not worth it. You’re more important to me.”

“What do I have to do with it?” Stiles asks, a bit dumbfounded.

Derek’s thumb swipes over his jawline, his lips curling into a soft smile. “Everything, Stiles. It seems like they’re more concerned with having their perfect family than taking care of the one that’s right in front of them. I didn’t want to be a part of it.”

Stiles blinks, his eyes wide and searching as he swallows. For a brief second, Derek is sure he sees tears crowding his lashes in the dim light of his bedroom, but Stiles tucks himself back under Derek’s chin before he can get a better look. Derek rests his cheek over Stiles’ head, drawing undistinguished patterns in his skin, and if he feels a few tears against his neck, that’s neither here nor there.

-

Derek never in a million years thought Stiles would agree—if he’d made a bet, he would have lost it. But somehow, Stiles is in his passenger seat, fiddling with the radio on the way to Evanston, the ac on full icy blast. He hasn’t explicitly said it, but Derek gets the feeling Stiles wants to see Melissa and his offer tipped the scales for him.

When Stiles agreed to it, Derek told Eli to find his own ride.

“I thought you’d have your Camry for another fifty years,” Stiles says, his legs spread out as he takes up as much room in the wide passenger seat as possible. The FJ Cruiser has dark tinted windows, way past the legal limit, an all-leather interior, and Derek’s favorite part, manual drive. When he decided it was time to trade, he did not skip any bells and whistles.

“Figured I could treat myself just this once,” he says, a small smirk twitching his lips. It was his gift to himself after he received a star for his ravioli. Aside from nicer clothes and a bigger gaming system, Derek hasn’t dropped any major cash on spoils for himself. He’s got accounts and the like set up for Eli, and his sisters are well taken care of—that’s really all he could ask for. That, and Stiles.

Stiles only smiles partially, ducking his head as he swipes his palms over his shorts. He’s anxious, Derek can tell, his knee jiggling so hard the car shakes whenever Derek comes to a full stop.

Derek pulls up to the familiar house and turns off the engine, the sudden quiet deafening in the cabin. Stiles takes one look at the house, shakes his head, and sits back in his seat. He crosses his arms, his trembling hands tucking under his armpits, and says, “I don’t want to go in there.”

“Okay,” Derek says, turning the engine over before they’ve even unfastened their seatbelts, Stiles’ anxious energy melting away as soon as they’re back on the main road to the city.

“You wanna stop somewhere to eat?” Derek asks as they get closer to Edgewater.

Stiles turns from his long stare out the window, his gaze scanning over Derek in trepidation. “Can we just go through a drive-thru?”

Derek peaks at him from the corner of his eyes, Stiles’ hands anxiously twisting in his lap. “Of course. Where do you want to go?”

Stiles shrugs, quiet for a beat, then says, “Portillo’s?”

“Portillo’s,” Derek confirms, adjusting the navigation in his head for the nearest one. They get way too much food that Derek ends up eating most of, and as much as Derek bitched at Eli for eating in his car, he’s done none of it as they nosh on hot dogs and fries with their cake shakes in the parking lot. They easily could have gone in to eat, and it would have made more sense in this god-awful heat, but Derek won’t push it—he knows Stiles still doesn’t want to be seen in public with him. It sucks and sends miserable stabs through his heart, considering how often they’ve been hanging out together in the privacy of Derek’s apartment. But it’s been nearly two months since the first night they had sex (or rather, relations), and they’ve gotten thus far.

It feels like they’re dating. They do dating things, like this, and sometimes Stiles doesn’t even want sex when he comes over, just wants to cuddle with Ravioli in his lap and Derek pressed against him. If Cora isn’t there, they’ll even venture into the living room and watch a movie with their post-sex blunt, which tells Derek a lot. It’s really a lot like what they used to do together, and it’s nice. But he’s determined to let Stiles figure it out for himself, however long that takes. Derek isn’t going anywhere.

-

Derek pulls up to the pink building and offers a smile, his hand on the stick shift instead of Stiles’ thigh. Stiles reaches for the handle and pauses, turning to regard him, and then asks, “Do you want to come up?”

Derek’s brows shoot up in surprise, blinking as he grips the wheel. “Uhh… yeah, sure,” he says, trying to play it cool, but by the smirk on Stiles’ face he knows he sounds like a lovesick idiot, having only muttered three syllables.

“Make a right up here, the garage is on the other side,” he says, leaning back in the seat.

Derek follows his directions and slips into the parking garage under the building, matching Stiles’ pace along the maze to the elevator after parking in his guest spot. A frosty wave washes over them once they’re in the lobby, the doorperson someone different from the last time he was here—a woman who doesn’t eye Stiles like a piece of meat, but sends them a friendly smile when Stiles greets her.

Stiles passes his fob over the reader, and soon they’re stepping into the bright space that Derek hasn’t bore witness to for nearly six months. It feels less like a dream walking in here this time around, his head clear and his heart thumping as Stiles gazes back at him with a tiny smile.

“Welcome to my crib,” he says, and Derek huffs out a laugh through his nose, shaking his head in fondness. He is forever an MTV kid. “You want a tour?”

“Yeah,” Derek answers easily, and Stiles holds out his hand, Derek’s fingers slipping between his as their palms press together. Derek can’t take his eyes off him, despite Stiles leading him around and pointing out things that he wants Derek to take notice of. He’s seen the living room, the dining room extending off it, and the kitchen, but Stiles takes him further down a seemingly endless hallway where they pass several closed doors, art hanging off the lofty walls, built-ins for random bric-a-bracs to fill in the spaces. This place is huge, far too big for Derek’s taste, and he wonders how Stiles manages to not feel so lonely in this giant dwelling all by himself—then remembers exactly what Stiles does to tamp down the loneliness. He can’t think of it if he’s not even cognizant enough to fathom it in the first place.

Stiles brings them to the end of the hall, stalling in front of his bedroom door as he looks back at Derek with a cautious smile, and then he pushes the door open with his fingertips, the late afternoon sun spilling in through the arched windows. The bed looks heavenly, creamy linens laid smartly over a king-sized cushion, a shaggy area rug beneath adding a layer of warmth against the cold stone floors. There’s a marbled fireplace in the corner of the room, a vacant reading chair beside it that looks disused, and a lot of open space that only seems to expand within the high walls and curved ceilings. In a word, the apartment is monolithic. Even with the furniture lining the walls, it feels empty.

“It’s big,” is all Derek can say. It’s not that he doesn’t like it—it’s a beautiful space evocative of its time, an old Art Deco co-op that’s been well-loved and maintained. It just doesn’t feel very Stiles. The Greystone was dark and vibrant, colors bursting in every room that came to life as its own character. It doesn’t feel like that here. It’s almost transitory, in a way, a liminal space he’s passing through.

“Yeah,” comes Stiles’ response, stepping closer so that their faces are inches apart. His cola eyes flick over Derek’s features, his lids low as he gazes from under his plumy lashes. Their two-inch height difference never seems like it’s that much of a variance until Stiles looks at him like this, chewing his bottom lip into pink and puffy oblivion. Derek swallows, his heart swooping into his stomach, pulse quickening as his lips part in awe. He is so beautiful that it's appallingly unfair, and Derek would love nothing more than to cup his face and kiss him.

Stiles rests his hand on one of Derek’s pecs, his smile careful but teasing, his other arm slipping around Derek’s neck as he asks, “Aren’t you gonna kiss me?”

Derek’s heart stutters, his breath an echo as he searches Stiles’ eyes in earnest. He leans in, holding his gaze, their breaths merging as he stills just before their lips touch—he half expects Stiles to turn away as he reaches to hold his face, his thumb gently sweeping over his short bristles. Their noses brush first, and then finally their eyes slip shut as Derek closes the gap and presses their lips together.

The kiss is so tender at first, Stiles soft and pliant under him as Derek’s arm wraps around his middle, their lips lingering against the other’s before a series of wet, prolonged pecks. Derek had forgotten how velvety his mouth is, hardly able to restrain himself from licking his bottom lip and sucking it between his teeth as he inhales through his nose like tasting him isn’t enough; he has to breathe him in, too.

Stiles clutches to him, his fingers threading into Derek’s hair at the nape of his skull, pressing them together so tight that their mouths can’t even move anymore. Stiles’ body quivers against him as they support each other, connected from their knees up, and Derek is sure Stiles can feel his heart thrashing in its cage as their breathing quickens, both grasping frantically at flesh and fabric.

Derek licks into his mouth, Stiles humming softly as the kiss deepens. Stiles’ free hand palms over Derek’s side, squeezing at his hip before dipping under his shirt and splaying over the small of his back as the kiss grows needier, more desperate. Derek can’t get enough of him, can hardly breathe but refuses to pull away for fear of never being able to kiss him again, only Stiles seems to have the same sentiment as he sucks Derek’s tongue into his mouth like he wants to devour him.

Finally, Stiles is the one who breaks away for air, panting heavily as their foreheads press together, their chests heaving. Stiles kisses him again, and again, and again, his grip in Derek’s hair unrelenting, and mutters between breaks, “Wanna feel you, chef.”

The pet name falling from his lips takes Derek’s breath away, tears springing behind his eyes as he clutches Stiles against him. He mashes their lips together again as his heart stutters, the blood in his veins pumping so fast he feels lightheaded and heavy all at once. “Okay, baby,” he says, and pulls away reluctantly, their eyes meeting, Stiles’ lashes wet as his breath washes over Derek’s face.

After that, it’s a race to get their clothes off, drawing back together like rare earth magnets, hands everywhere as Stiles pushes him onto the bed and lays over him. They’re already rock hard, their erections brushing as they frot against each other in frantic jerks and wild rolls of their hips. Stiles’ lips latch onto his, his hands gripping around Derek’s wrists, pinning them above his head before he breaks away to kiss along his stubbled jaw and down his neck.

Stiles settles between his legs, and Derek spreads them wider to keep as much contact against him as possible, groaning lowly as Stiles sucks a bruise along his collarbone and rocks his hips down.

Stiles has f*cked him a few times within the last few months of their affair, but never like this—Derek is usually bent over the edge of the bed, their faces turned away as Stiles holds him down by his scruff and thrusts into him. While that’s hot and all, this… this is much better. Getting to kiss him, to see his face as his long fingers stretch him open, watching his mouth fall open as he presses inside of him—it’s like a drug that can’t be manufactured. It only exists between them, when Stiles is inside him, Derek’s legs wrapped around his middle, eyebrows knit as he holds his hands above his head.

“You feel so f*cking good, chef,” Stiles pants out, sweat beading his brow, hips rhythmically f*cking into him as he licks his lips and watches Derek fall apart beneath him. He’s leaking precum all over his abdomen, his muscles contracting with each thrust as he gets closer and closer. Stiles’ hand settles over his cheek, thumb brushing his jawline before pressing it under the hinge, holding him in place. His is gaze penetrating as he asks, his voice gravelly and low, “Can you come like this, baby? Come without me touching you?”

Derek whines at the thought, his entire body aching for Stiles’ fingers to wrap around him, but yes, it is entirely within the realm of possibility for him to come just from Stiles’ co*ck alone, filling him up, sating him from the inside.

Stiles laughs at that, the corners of his lips curling into a devilish grin as he sucks his bottom lip between his teeth. “Show me, Derek. Be a good boy,” he says, his hips stilling as he presses in up to the root, brushing over the gland inside him. If that didn’t do it, the ‘good boy’ was more than enough.

“Oh, f*ck, Stiles—” he chokes on the last bit, his back arching as he spills over his stomach, and Stiles starts moving again, pressing their foreheads together as he looks down at the mess between them, that’s it, baby, just like that… good boy, Derek, his words only adding to the fire in his belly as he groans with each rolling wave of pleasure passing through him. His muscles spasm around Stiles’ co*ck, and then Stiles is gasping out, his rhythm erratic as he comes, filling Derek to the brim with low moans and twitching hips in his aftershocks.

Stiles slumps over him, their breathing ragged as they enjoy their haze, sweat and cum slick between them as Stiles’ body trembles. Derek wraps his arms around Stiles’ shoulders and presses his lips against his salty skin, heart pounding in his ears. Stiles eventually regains enough composure to pull out of him, his cum leaking out between Derek’s cheeks as he drops beside him onto his stomach.

Derek, feeling greedy, gathers Stiles back into his arms, and Stiles lets him, lets him kiss his lips again and again, brush his hand over his hair, hold Stiles against him as their legs interlace, Derek’s cum drying them together where their stomachs connect. Their heads rest on the same pillow, the locus of their noses never breaking apart. Derek is granted a kiss in return each time he leans back in, checking to make sure it’s still okay, that this is real, his heart seizing before thumping wildly all over again until the cycle repeats.

Usually they’d be smoking by now, but Derek doesn’t want to leave this bed, and Stiles seems content right where he is, sated enough to drift as Derek’s fingertips graze his skin.

He looks down at Stiles’ decorated skin, brushing over a wolf on his chest, and Derek asks, “What’s this one mean?”

Stiles smirks, peeking one eye open to meet Derek’s gaze. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Derek returns his cheeky smile, his hand resting over Stiles’ heart where the wolf in black lives. All of Stiles’ tattoos are in black ink, stark against his pale skin, but somehow this one stands out from the rest.

“Yeah, I would,” Derek responds, and Stiles leans in to seal their lips together as if in answer, his hand settling over Derek’s cheek, fingers splayed over his ear. Derek doesn’t press it.

They end up kissing until the sun goes down, wrapped up in each other in the middle of Stiles’ bed like an island at sea, until eventually Stiles reluctantly drags himself off the island, his hands trembling as he eyes Derek carefully. If Derek knew any better, he’d think Stiles was ashamed, the way he walks despondently into his bathroom, his shoulders curled in as he shivers and hugs himself before clicking the door shut.

--

Stiles leans over his bathroom sink, watching himself in the mirror, eyes red, limbs shaking as sweat spikes over his skin. He looks at the glut of orange prescription bottles that line his sink, and he hates them, his teeth gritting as he grips the edge of the stone counter. The more he tries to keep himself from shaking, the more his body wracks with it, and it makes him so f*cking angry that he doesn’t have control over his own body. That was the whole point of taking them—to let the drugs take over, leaving him nothing to worry about.

But he doesn’t want to feel out of control anymore. He doesn’t want pill bottles garnishing his sink. He doesn’t want to feed the ghost that haunts his veins, bitter and vicious until he sates it. He doesn’t want to part from his bed with Derek in it for something he thought he loved but leaves him worse off than Derek ever did.

He loves Derek more.

The ghost won’t have that, though. His fingers tremble so hard he can barely get the bottle open, and when it finally pops, little blue pills scatter all over the sink and floor, and Stiles can’t hold back the tears that have been welling at the bottom of his heart.

“Stiles?” Derek calls from the other side of the door, and he scrambles to cover his mess and scoop the pills back into their container, sobs besetting his body as he tries to take in a proper breath. Every movement seems to make it worse, until finally he gives up and sinks to the floor, drawing his knees to his chest, arms around his legs as he cowers in shame and misery. He rocks back and forth in an attempt to soothe himself, snot and sweat dripping from him as he takes in stuttering breaths.

“I’m coming in,” Derek warns him, giving pause for Stiles to protest. He couldn’t even if he wanted to.

Derek slides the pocket door open, and from where he curls in on himself, Stiles can only see his feet until he crouches down beside him.

“Baby,” Derek says softly, his hand cupping Stiles’ elbow, and Stiles knows he means well but it hurts, everything hurts, the stinging pain of withdrawal pushing him to the edge as his fingernails dig into his flesh, anchoring him there before he tips over.

“Don’t touch me. Don’t look at me,” Stiles cries, rolling his head on his knee to face away from him, voice trembling as hard as his body.

“Okay,” Derek says calmly, his hand pulling away even though every bit of Stiles wants it to linger. Stiles can’t see him but he knows Derek is sitting beside him now, his body heat radiating, and all Stiles can do is sob and sway, shame washing over him like the sweat dripping from his pores. He does not want Derek to see him like this. He feels grotesque and undesirable, a monster in his own skin, and he can’t imagine anyone would want him if this is who he truly is. Pathetic and weak and worthless.

He cries, and cries, until he has nothing left to give, and when he rolls his head to the other side, he sees that Derek is sitting turned away from him, his back muscles strong and taut, his butt planted on the floor. Stiles sniffles and wipes his nose along the length of his forearm, body still quivering as it begs for reprieve. He grabs a few pills from the floor and woefully shoves them in his mouth; his pound of flesh for the ghost inside.

“You okay?” Derek asks carefully, his head turning slightly so that Stiles can see his profile, but he doesn’t fully look towards him.

“No,” Stiles mutters, his hands covering his face.

“Can I look at you?”

Stiles remains quiet, his bottom lip trembling. “I don’t want you to see me like this,” he mutters, his voice gritty and weak.

“Okay,” Derek says. He places his hand on the floor next to Stiles, and Stiles eyes it, the skin around his joints more wrinkled than he remembers. It makes his heart ache, to think of all the time they lost from each other, to miss out on the sneaking lines around his eyes, the skin slackening from a life lived. He sniffles again and lets his hand rest over Derek’s, curling his fingers under his palm. Derek’s fingers curl over his in return, a gentle squeeze sending a tranquil swell through him as his breathing evens out.

They sit like that for a while, Derek’s thumb brushing over his knuckles as the splintering pain subsides.

Stiles’ voice is small and reserved, and he almost doesn’t say it, his mouth opening and closing, his jaw tightening. Saying it would mean holding himself accountable, but the words spill out of him regardless: “I want to get clean.”

Derek’s head turns, his breath hedging, and Stiles is scared now, scared that Derek will make a big deal about it, that Derek will hold him to it now that he’s said it out loud. But all he says is, “Okay, baby.”

Derek brings their clasped hands to his mouth, holding Stiles’ hand there, his stubble tickling as his lips linger against the back of his palm. Stiles is exhausted now, his pain mellowed as the oxy sinks in, weighing his lids and limbs. Derek rises and tugs on his hand, and Stiles wobbles as he grips tight and pulls himself up. Pills are embedded into his skin where he sat on them, and Derek wipes them away, letting them rattle onto the floor as he pulls Stiles into a tight embrace. Stiles lets him, sighing contentedly as he presses into his neck, Derek’s big arms enveloping him in a crushing hug. Stiles missed his hugs.

“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up,” Derek mutters against his scalp, and Stiles shakes his head, clasping his arms around Derek’s neck. He doesn’t want to let go.

“At least let me wipe you off. You’ve got ji*zz all over you, stinky.”

Stiles’ lips curl against his neck, his fingers tangling in Derek’s hair. “Okay.” He missed his candor, too.

Derek gets them cleaned up and hauls him back into bed where Stiles presses against him, Derek’s hand stroking over his hair until Stiles is drifting again, neither here nor there. The string tied around his heart tugs him back in each time he starts to float away, blithely unconcerned and not a care in the world. Derek’s got him now.

-

Stiles never intends on waking up at the peak of dawn, but his body has become accustomed to it, despite having no semblance of a habitual sleep cycle to speak of. Except for this one, apparently.

Derek snores softly beside him, his face planted into the downy pillow, and Stiles feels a swell of nerves edging him overboard, fearful to wake up beside Derek in his own bed with nowhere to go. The hair-trigger part of his brain activates—panic rising in his chest, the compulsion to leave before Derek has the chance to leave him switched on in his post-traumatic psyche. He shuffles out of bed unceremoniously, his hackles raised as withdrawal already begins to seep in.

He pads into the bathroom awkwardly, the pills he dropped the night before now in a neat pile on the counter, and remembers Derek sitting with him, holding him, taking care of him, the vice in his chest yielding just a fraction around his heart. Derek must have cleaned them up in the middle of the night, and instead of flushing them down the toilet like Stiles would expect from Scott or his father, he gathered them in plain view.

Stiles takes in a shuddering breath, plucking one from the pile before turning on the faucet and cupping his hand under the water to swallow it down. He blinks at himself in the mirror, watching his chest heaving as he leans over the sink, and when he feels calm enough, brushes his teeth before hopping in the shower. He never realizes how long he’s under the water until it starts to run cold.

Derek shuffles into the bathroom and Stiles freezes, eyes wide as he watches Derek take his morning piss from the other side of the glass. He doesn’t seem to notice Stiles as he stands over the toilet, one hand on his dick and the other one rubbing at his face, his bare ass out and hair all wild, but when he flushes and turns, he mutters, “Come back to bed,” as he shuffles languidly back to the bedroom.

When Stiles approaches the island apprehensively, Derek stretches out his arm and murmurs, “C’mere,” and the hold around his heart dissolves as he slips in beside him under the covers, eyeing him carefully until Derek gathers him in his arms once again.

“Mmm, you smell much better,” Derek teases, his voice still gravelly as he presses his nose against Stiles’ wet hair. Stiles can’t help the smile stretching his lips.

-

“I can’t believe you’re f*cking the enemy,” Stiles says, pulling on his cigarette as they sit out on his balcony facing the water. “A married enemy, no less.”

Derek had to leave to feed Ravioli, and Stiles doesn’t want to feel like a clinging, lovesick sucker, so he declined the invitation to go back with him despite every fiber of him wanting to follow along. He called Lydia over as a distraction.

Lydia purses her lips and crosses her legs, her plastic cup in one hand over her knee as the other rests in her lap.

“You have nothing to say about that?” Stiles prods, an eyebrow raised.

“I could say the same to you,” she says, sipping her iced matcha.

“Derek’s not married. And Cora’s a bitch,” he says, blowing smoke away. Lydia’s face pinches in begrudging acknowledgment, and she turns away to watch the water.

“They're technically separated,” she mutters, her jaw hardening. Lydia connected her to the best lawyer in town, and from what she’s shared, Cora’s not even concerned about keeping the farm anymore… probably had something to do with falling into a certain strawberry blonde’s bed in the city. Theoretically, the process should be a lot easier, except now Illana seems to be in over her head and refuses to cooperate.

She turns to meet Stiles’ gaze again. “And she’s not a bitch once you get to know her.”

“Yeah, well. She’s not trying to lick my puss*.”

Lydia grimaces at that, sending him an appalled glare. “Why do you have to go there?”

Stiles just smirks and takes another drag of his cigarette. This high up, it’s a lot windier, a break from the oppressive heat rippling over them and whisking his smoke away. They sit together in silence, watching the water and the people on the beach, until Lydia breaks the quietude.

“How are you?”

He turns to face her, studying her features as he brings the cigarette to his lips. Derek and Lydia have been the only two people to ask him that within the last few months, and while it’s nice to feel concerned over, he doesn’t really know how to answer that.

“I’m okay,” he says. It’s the relative truth, considering. He’s falling in love with Derek all over again, and it’s nearly up there with his highest high, but he’s scared sh*tless for whatever that means. He’s drinking less, which means he’s not mixing chemicals, and feels more aware of his surroundings. He can remember things better that way, but he tends to make up for the lack of alcohol in his system with more of his prescription drugs. He’s anxious to detox, but he doesn’t want to tell anyone his choice just yet, for fear of failing and disappointing them. He already regrets telling Derek, but of all people, he’s the one who wouldn’t judge him for it.

“You seem to be doing well,” she says, sipping from her iced matcha. “Does a certain chef have anything to do with that?”

Stiles bites his lip to keep from smiling, turning away as he draws from his cigarette. Lydia doesn’t push it.

-

They sit on Derek’s couch, Ravioli in Stiles’ lap as she purrs contentedly, the spoiled cat that she is. Derek made them dinner, but Stiles couldn’t force himself to eat more than a few bites, so they’re smoking a joint as they watch a movie and wait for his appetite to resurface. He strokes his hand over Ravi’s fluff, his knee touching Derek’s thigh as he puffs on the joint before passing it along.

“So, I’ve been doing some research,” Derek says, eyeing Stiles carefully as he pulls on the joint between his fingers.

“On what?” Stiles asks, meeting his gaze with a quirked eyebrow.

“Okay,” Derek says quickly, his brows knitting in concern. “I just don’t want you to be in any more pain than necessary, baby. You don’t have to white-knuckle it.”

Stiles shakes his head again, his fingers burrowing under Ravioli’s thick coat, his skin buzzing with nerves, ears warming in shame. “I don’t want anyone to know I’m there.”

“No one would know, Stiles. A lot of high-profile people use them, their staff is really discreet.”

“If they’re so discreet, how do you know high-profile people go there?”

Derek’s lips twitch as he holds back a smirk, his eyes flicking between Stiles’. “You got me. There’s actually an entire list on their website because they for some reason don’t fall under HIPAA jurisdiction.”

Stiles narrows his eyes, resisting the urge to smile before looking down at the cat in his lap, rubbing her black-tipped ear between his fingers. “No. I wanna be at home. And I want you there.”

“Okay,” Derek says, passing the joint back to him. Stiles takes it, and Derek’s big hand settles over his thigh, squeezing tenderly.

The movie fills their silence, and Stiles finishes off the joint, reaching to tamp it out in the ashtray before picking up Ravioli and holding her against his chest. He presses his face into her fur, and she lets him, her purrs reverberating soothingly against his sternum as he inhales her kitty scent. He missed having access to a cat.

Derek’s thumb strokes over the skin on the inside of his knee, and he looks at Stiles expectantly, chewing on his cheek. Stiles kisses Ravi on her head before setting her down on the cushion beside him, Derek’s gaze still glued to him.

“What?”

Derek licks his lips before he asks, “Can we at least have a doctor on call? It can be dangerous, and they can prescribe suboxone to take at home.”

Stiles stares at the television as he peels skin from his bottom lip. “Okay.”

Derek leans in and presses his lips to his temple, and Stiles’ eyes slip shut, his hand settling over Derek’s before he turns to plant a quick kiss on his lips. Derek’s nose nudges against his, returning the kiss before hesitantly pulling away and meeting his gaze once again.

The way Derek is looking at him makes him feel like he still has something to say, but he’s not sure how to word it as he worries on the inside of his cheek, the line between his brows deepening. After a beat he finally asks, “What do you think about therapy?”

Stiles turns away, eyes on the screen as he shrugs. “I don’t know,” he answers honestly. He doesn’t see how it would do him any good to go over his problems with a fine-toothed comb, retriggering his wounds when he knows what the therapist would say anyway. He’s tried it before, after his mom died, and then a brief stint after Theo broke up with him—he can’t say any of the exercises really stuck or made that much of a difference for him in the long run. Depression and anxiety is inherent with ADHD, and he’s always managed just fine with meds and the acceptance of life’s natural ups and downs. Even in his worst episode, he knew it would get better because it was the only choice, the alternative being out of the question no matter how much he didn’t want to exist anymore. And life did get better, eventually, without therapy. So what’s the point?

“It’s never really been helpful before.”

Derek hums in response, his eyes burrowing into the side of his face. “I don’t think you need Dr. Melfi or anything. But, you know, there’s different kinds of therapy, if CBT wasn’t helpful for you.”

Stiles purses his lips and pans back to face him, blinking indignantly. “Yeah, I know that.”

Derek smirks and playfully pinches the inside of his thigh. “Okay, smart ass, then tell me why you haven’t tried any of them?”

Stiles scoffs and crosses his arms with a scowl. “Tell me why you haven’t tried any of them, Mr. Savior Complex?”

Derek’s smirk lingers as he studies Stiles’ face, pursing his lips when he can’t give an answer. “Okay, how about this: I’ll try it if you do.”

Stiles studies him right back, his expression relaxing when he realizes Derek is serious. If Stiles knows anyone who needs therapy, it’s Derek. He knows he’s never tried it before, despite him being well-versed on it. Perhaps he’s had the same sentiments—what’s the point if life always has its curveballs anyway?

Rationally, Stiles knows it’s deeper than having a bad day, or month, or year. Considering Derek has been around addicts his whole life, it’s no surprise he knows a thing or two about therapy, perhaps even working on self-exercises in his own time. That seems like something Derek would do, like his problems aren’t that big of a deal, a waste of a professional’s time compared to the people surrounding him. And then Stiles realizes, his heart sinking, what if Derek believes he doesn’t deserve to get better?

Stiles blinks, looking away at the wall behind Derek’s head as he ponders this, then meets his eyes again before nodding brusquely, determination settling in his features. “Okay, deal.”

Derek’s lips curl into a satisfied smile as he wraps his arms around Stiles’ middle, tugging him closer and showering his face in wet kisses. Stiles grins, small snickers bubbling in his throat that he seems to have no control over. Derek’s last kiss lands on his lips, and Stiles returns it fervently, reaching up to hold his face, his thumb swiping over his peppered stubble.

“I’m so proud of you,” Derek mumbles once they break away, their foreheads resting together.

Stiles hasn’t heard those words in a long time. He’d forgotten the warm feeling it brings, almost like the first shot of the night (or day) spreading through his veins, and he savors the feeling, biting his lip as he grins and looks down. Derek kisses his forehead as he pulls away, arm snugly around Stiles’ waist as he turns to face the television.

After a while, Stiles starts feeling hungry again, and he reaches for his plate on the coffee table, his food long cold since he sat it there nearly an hour ago.

“You want me to reheat it?” Derek asks, his thumb stroking over his ribcage.

Stiles shakes his head, “It’s fine, I’m used to it,” he mumbles around a bite, and Derek swoops in to kiss his cheek, grabbing Stiles’ plate in the same motion as he stands up and makes his way to the kitchen.

It was really hard not to fall in love with him again. Stiles tried not to, tried to temper his intensifying feelings despite being fully aware they never went away in the first place. It was more difficult to maintain the façade of bitterness and anger when Derek did sh*t like this, his actions almost nauseatingly relentless, confirming that he was indeed here to stay, doting on Stiles as he used to before Eli came along, prioritizing him over anyone else in his life—loving him the way he needed to be loved, when everyone else had abandoned him. In the end, it would have been idiotic not to accept the adoration that abundantly flows out of him. How could anyone resist that?

They weren’t perfect, and Stiles still has resentments and reservations, but the love that’s there eclipses any of the bitterness he held in his heart for so long. After all… this is what he wanted all along.

Derek hands him his plate back a few moments later, taking his seat beside him again, his hand settling on the inside of Stiles’ thigh like it belongs there. He ends up eating more than he thought he would, now exhausted as he presses against Derek’s side, his eyes slipping shut as Derek’s fingertips rub calming circles over his recently shorn hair. Ravioli makes an appearance again, taking up residence in Stiles’ lap, and as he’s petting her he wonders out loud, “Can she come, too?”

“Of course, baby,” Derek says, the smile evident in his voice as his lips press over Stiles’ hair.

-

They go through Stiles’ stash, from his bathroom counter to the kitchen cabinets, Derek following him with a plastic Jewel bag as Stiles mournfully drops in bottle after bottle. Derek never presses him when it’s clear he’s reluctant with each drop, but every time Stiles looks up at him, his gaze adoring and sympathetic, not a lick of judgment in his eyes, Stiles knows he’s doing the right thing. He knows it’ll be worth it. A rebirth.

The same doctor who prescribed Stiles all his favorites also prescribed Stiles the suboxone from the comfort of his own home thanks to the modern magic of telehealth. Derek picks it up for him, trading the plastic grocery bag worth thousands of dollars for just one bottle of hexagonal orange pills.

Just before he steps onto the elevator, Stiles stops him with panic in his eyes, chewing on his bottom lip. “Maybe I should keep one, just as my backup.”

Derek eyes him carefully, the plastic bag gripped in his hand as he steps closer. “Are you sure?”

Stiles’ gaze slips from his face to the bag by his side, his lip nearly raw. “Yeah,” he says with a hesitant nod.

“Okay,” Derek says, without a slip in judgment as he holds the bag out for Stiles to take his pick. Stiles stares at it again, his brows furrowing as his eyes flick back to Derek’s face, heart speeding up.

“I think… no, actually,” he says, shaking his head. “No.”

“You sure?”

Stiles nods, more intentional this time, anxious tears filling his eyes.

Derek leans in, his palm over Stiles’ cheek, fingers over his ear as he presses a kiss to Stiles’ lips. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

Stiles just nods again, saline slipping over his cheeks as he follows Derek’s lips before he pulls away, and then Derek embraces him, his arms enveloping him wholly. The tears flow as he presses into Derek's neck. He has never been so scared in his life.

“You’re so strong, Stiles. I’m so proud of you.”

One more kiss, and they’re gone.

It's only been five hours since his last dose and he’s already feeling the genesis of withdrawal, his skin clammy, nerves anxious just at the idea that… this is it. That was the last one, and there’s no more oxy to sneak under his tongue, his empty bathroom counter sending jabbing palpitations from his heart to the tips of his fingers and toes. This part he’s used to, usually able to withstand the creeping pain knowing a tiny little pill will take it all away. Not this time—he can’t even take the first dose of suboxone until he’s in the throes of it.

Derek draws him a bath, and it scarcely thaws the ache in his bones, shivering despite the water being hot enough to blush his skin. A few minutes later, it’s too hot, and he jumps out of the tub like the water will claim him if he doesn’t get out of it right now. He is hot and cold all at once, existing in only his boxer briefs and a blanket around his shoulders that he’s constantly shedding or pulling back over himself.

Twelve hours in and he can’t stop trembling, his entire body on edge, static in his veins that he can’t shake no matter how much he tics his limbs to get rid of the restlessness. Every orifice is weeping, his nose runny, eyes watery, either vomiting up literally nothing or sh*tting his brains out, sometimes both.

For his part, Derek lingers nearby, watching him closely but maintaining his distance, untouching. If he did, Stiles is certain he’d burst from his hypersensitive skin, even the lightest breeze sending him into a fit of rage and tears. He imagines this is what a cat feels like when their fur is pet the wrong way, every inch of his skin goose-fleshed and all-consuming. Despite this, he’s horny beyond belief, convinced he might feel better if he can just come, but he’s entirely too exhausted to do it himself, his limbs pathetic wet noodles.

“Just touch me, please, please,” he cries, and Derek’s brows are furrowed in distress as Stiles writhes in the middle of his bed, a perpetual sheen of sweat all over his body, his dick uncomfortably hard, as hypersensitive and stinging as the rest of him.

“Okay, baby, shh,” Derek soothes, finally giving in after more begging, his big hand stroking him until he comes—it’s the most ephemeral, inadequate org*sm of his life and that only makes him angrier as the tears flow.

Hurt is an understatement. Muscles he didn’t even know existed ache unsparingly, seeping into the marrow of his bones—no position he twists into offers reprieve. He is so tired, but any time he tries to sleep, his body perpetually rocking in a fetal position as he soothes himself, the smallest disruption will pull him back into unrelenting consciousness. If he is somehow granted the purgatory of half-sleep, he wakes up in a disoriented panic, the reality sinking in as he remembers his circ*mstance, sending him into a sobbing fit of ceaseless melancholy and despair.

Stiles had meningitis once. He would trade that pain over this one in a heartbeat.

The mental anguish is a merciless mirror to the physical torment that coincides within his flesh prison. As dense as his body feels, his heart is a burning black hole, any glimmer of hope sucked away in favor of every self-loathing thought that has ever crossed his mind; he is worthless, he is ashamed of himself, this is all his fault, life is futile, he hates himself more than he has ever loved anyone in his entire life, he wants to die. Dying would end this misery. Please, please, please let me die. There is no mercy, his thoughts an endless loop, feeding the fire. It must be true, why else would he be suffering?

More than anything, he wants another hit. He would kill for it. He would trade Derek for it, bring his mother back from the dead just to bury her again, even if it’s the last pill on earth and only resets this entire god-forsaken, insufferable process. He would bite his arm off for just one. What’s another pound of flesh for the ghost inside?

He ends up crawling on the stony floor of his bathroom, hoping Derek missed one when he cleaned them up the other night. The effort is as futile as his future.

Stiles is convinced the suboxone is only meant to be a placebo effect, the lemon-lime pill dissolving under his tongue crudely teasing his demoralizing agony. It makes him gag and sends him into another fit of retching, and he can’t take another one for at least an hour.

It’s all he can do to lay there and cry. He doesn’t even have to actively think of anything for the waterworks to flow, they just fall out of him, the aquafer of tears exasperatingly abundant. Derek sits beside him on the edge of the bed, his giant hand heavy over the small of Stiles’ back, somehow the only plane of his skin that doesn’t prickle with shards of glass and the burning of a thousand Julys. An anchor amidst the agony.

“How can you even stand the sight of me?” Stiles asks, his voice breaking as he clutches his pillow. He stares out the window away from Derek, unblinking. He’s uncomfortable, the bed too hot beneath him, the air too cold against him, but anything he does is useless, energy wasted, so he does nothing.

Derek is quiescent, his thumb stroking over the vellus hair, and Stiles thinks he has no answer to that because Derek can’t stand him anymore, and he wants to leave and never see Stiles again after bearing witness to the unbridled mess before him. The thought brings more tears to his eyes, his pillow sodden with them.

“The same reason you let me back in,” he finally says, his voice steady and strong, vibrating over the airwaves.

Because he loves him.

Chapter 5: love on the menu

Chapter Text

“Just f*cking leave like you always do!”

Derek’s eyes flick over his curled body as Stiles sobs into the mattress, his fingers gripping the sheets as he rocks back and forth in agony. The worst of his symptoms may be over, peaking on day three, but he’s cranky and irritable—exhausted from detox and weak from lack of nourishment.

“I’m not leaving you,” Derek says calmly, and Stiles rolls on his forehead to face him, tears in his eyes as he glowers.

“It’s all you’re good at. Better than cooking, even. So just f*cking do it. Just f*cking go!”

Derek can’t help but frown at that, turning away despite knowing Stiles is just hurting and inflicting his pain on the only person around; vulnerable and seeking reassurance in the only way he’s currently capable of.

“I’m not going anywhere, Stiles,” Derek insists, meeting his gaze once again. His lashes are all wet and clumped together, eyebrows furrowed in an angry scowl.

“f*ck you. I f*cking hate you. I wish I never f*cking met you. Your food is sh*t! You’re a piece of sh*t, Hale!”

It’s like Stiles is testing how far he can go, probing how deep he can dig before Derek cracks and proves what Stiles thinks he already knows: that Derek will leave him, despite everything they’ve been through even just in the last few months.

His words hurt, but he knows Stiles doesn’t really mean them.

“There is nothing you can say or do that will make me leave, Stiles. Stop wasting your energy,” Derek says, lips pursed, brows furrowed as he regards the tangle of sweaty limbs swaying inertly in the middle of his bed.

This throws Stiles into a fit of sobs, cursing under his breath as his face presses into the linen sheets like he’s trying to make himself disappear. Derek rests his hand near one of his clenched fists, their pinkies brushing, and Stiles uncurls his taut fingers, his breath stuttering as he grips Derek’s smallest finger with a tight, desperate squeeze.

“I’m here, baby. I promise I’ll never leave you.”

Stiles just cries, much like he has been this whole time—like there’s an ocean inside him. Derek had a dream, in a fleeting hour of sleep, that he created a dish using his tears as the only seasoning. When he ate it, he cried along with him, a river flowing into his sea.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry chef.

Derek shushes him, running a hand over his hair. “I know, baby.”

Stiles’ symptoms break on day five. He emerges from his den, skinny and haggard, just to drop onto the couch, a change of scenery as he cuddles Ravioli to his chest. It’s the first time he’s left his room—Derek can imagine he’s sick of those four walls.

Derek cuts up pieces of fruit and encourages him to eat, but he can only force down a few grapes and strawberries before he pushes the bowl back into Derek’s hands. It’s the first thing he’s eaten and kept down in five days.

He tries to get Stiles to drink a gatorade, and he manages a few sips before passing that back, too. Stiles sits with his sunglasses covering his photophobic eyes, despite today being a cloudy, dreadful day, raindrops cascading over the windows.

“You wanna smoke?” Derek asks, and he nods softly, Ravioli rubbing her face over his cheek as she purrs. Derek catches a hint of a smile as he starts rolling up.

-

Derek took two weeks off to take care of Stiles, leaving Erica in charge in his absence. It’s the longest time he’s taken off since he worked for Stiles. That never felt like work, anyway.

As Stiles improves, they spend all their time in his gigantic penthouse, Derek doting on him, ensuring he’s as comfortable as possible. He hardly moves once he drops wherever he lands for the day, drifting in and out, still unable to sleep properly but too exhausted to really do much of anything else. His feet are in Derek’s lap as they sprawl over the creamy leather couch, Derek massaging one foot tenderly as a movie allays the silence.

Derek’s phone buzzes on the coffee table, and he squeezes Stiles’ foot before letting it rest in his lap as he reaches for his phone. He expected the restaurant to need him more, but it seems they’re doing just fine without him—most texts he’s received have either been from Eli or Isaac checking in on Stiles.

eli: can you come with us to look at a venue
eli: you know, since i don’t hold the esteemed ‘hale’ name
me: yes. when and where?

Derek purses his lips, his jaw hardening as he peeks at Stiles, who happens to be watching him with one curious eye open. His lips curl into a hesitant smile as he flexes his foot.

“What is it?” he asks, opening his other eye. Ravi sits on his chest, rising and falling with his breaths, entirely unfazed.

Derek eyes him carefully, wondering if he should say anything about Eli, worried about bringing him up so soon in Stiles’ recovery knowing he’s a sore subject.

“Tell me, chef,” Stiles huffs, playfully shoving his thigh with his heel.

Derek squeezes his foot again as he slips his phone into his pocket. He licks his lips and says, “Eli wants me to check out a venue with him at two tomorrow.”

Stiles’ brows furrow. “A venue for what?”

“For his wedding,” Derek answers, his gaze diffident as he chews on his cheek.

Stiles, despite lying down, manages to rear his head back, bewildered. “Eli’s getting married? Since when?”

Derek takes in a heavy breath, his shoulders rising with tension. “Liam proposed a few months ago.”

“What? That kid he met at school? Wait, Eli’s gay?” Stiles sits up fully now, his feet drawing under him as he crosses his legs. He holds Ravioli against his chest, brows furrowed as he studies Derek’s face.

“Well, he’s pan, or whatever the kids are these days,” Derek shrugs, scratching at his cheek uneasily. “But yeah, they’ve been together since they graduated.”

Stiles’ expression is utterly baffled, his lips parted in a stupor as his eyes flick between Derek’s, the lines between his brows deepening. “Why haven’t you told me any of this?”

Derek sighs, rubbing his hand over his face as his eyes wander before eventually settling back on Stiles. “I know it’s a difficult topic for you, so I don’t bring him up.”

“What, so you’re just gonna hide that part of your life from me? Your son is getting married, Derek, and I’m somehow just now finding out about this?”

Derek’s heart stutters, swallowing as Stiles regards him, raising an expectant eyebrow, his head tilting as he waits.

“This isn’t gonna work if you don’t share what’s going on in your life with me, Derek,” Stiles says, setting Ravi down on all fours. “You can’t hide sh*t from me just because you think it’s gonna hurt my feelings. You have to trust that I can handle things on my own.”

Derek rips skin away from the inside of his cheek as he searches his eyes, nodding slowly.

Stiles purses his lips, his eyes narrowing. “You don’t trust me, do you?”

“Yes, I do,” Derek says, too quickly as if to cover up the truth—that no, he doesn’t trust Stiles, not entirely. There are too many things he hid from Derek that were part of their downfall, and as much as he loves Stiles, it doesn’t make up for the betrayal. He’s forgiven, but he can’t forget.

Stiles’ gaze is scrutinizing, his brows furrowed. “No, you don’t. Otherwise you would have told me.”

Derek inhales deeply, exasperated, his lips a tight line. He’d really prefer not to have this conversation right now with Stiles barely stabilized in his sobriety, but if they’re gonna go there, he may has well lay it all out.

“Can you really blame me?”

Stiles glares, but he seems to be at a loss for words, his eyes flicking over Derek’s features.

“I suppose not, but if we’re doing this, you’re gonna have to.”

“Are we?” Derek asks, an eyebrow raised.

“Are we what?”

“Doing this,” Derek reiterates, his tone apprehensive.

Stiles purses his lips, brows drawing together. “Really, Derek? You just spent the last two weeks with me in detox and you’re asking me if we’re really doing this?”

“Yes, I’m asking if we’re really doing this.”

Stiles scoffs and looks away, crossing his arms over his chest as he sulks. “You shouldn’t have to ask me that.”

“Would you just f*cking tell me, yes or no?”

With an exasperated huff and his new trademark scowl, Stiles throws his hands up in the air and shouts, “Yes, you f*cking idiot!”

Derek can’t help the grin overtaking his face, reaching over and tugging Stiles against him, planting a kiss on his cheek as he mumbles, “Okay, jeez, say it so the whole world can hear.”

Stiles’ jaw hardens, but there’s a hint of a smirk at the corner of his lips. “Do not quote Napoleon Dynamite to me,” his expression softening as he turns to meet Derek’s gaze. “And don’t withhold from me.”

“I won’t if you don’t,” Derek says, searching his gaze.

Stiles purses his lips, narrowing his eyes again, his smirk lingering. “Deal.”

Neither of them mentions Stiles’ stake in dionysus, but Derek decides that’s a secret for another day. For now, they bask.

-

“You have to go?” Stiles pouts, arms around Derek’s neck, eyes wide and searching. Derek can’t resist leaning in to kiss his bottom lip.

“I won’t be gone long. You want me to ask Isaac come over?”

Stiles’ brows draw together with a glare. “I don’t need to be babysat.”

Derek smirks and reaches up to smooth the line between his eyebrows. “Of course not, I just know you hate being alone.”

His face returns to his pout, and Derek huffs out a laugh through his nose, biting his lip as his thumb swipes over Stiles’ scruff. “Do you want to come with me?”

Stiles pauses at that, his head tilting as his eyes search over his features.

“I mean, you don’t have to, I just thought—”

“Okay,” Stiles answers before Derek can make a big deal about it, leaning in to press their lips together.

“Okay,” Derek echoes, his heart stuttering in his chest.

-

Stiles lingers close by, their elbows bumping as they walk along, anxious energy bleeding off him as the host goes through her spiel. He relaxes once Derek settles his hand over the small of his back, leaning into Derek as Liam asks questions, the host’s eyes constantly flicking to where Derek and Stiles stand a few paces away. Some of the staff run through the space with vases and other wedding fodder simply for the benefit of casting their eyes upon them, and Derek gets the sense Stiles regrets leaving his house.

“We can go if you want, babe,” Derek murmurs lowly in his ear, his hand shifting to squeeze Stiles’ hip. Stiles shakes his head and remains quiet, watching the boys as they talk with the host.

“What wedding date do you have in mind?” the host asks, her head tilting as she forces herself to keep her eyes on the newly engaged couple.

“We were thinking June 1^st next year, but we know that’s cutting it close. We have a few other venues we’re interested in, too,” Eli says, their clasped hands swinging gently between them as his eyes wander around the open space.

“Oh, well I’m sure we can arrange something if you decide to choose us,” the host says, smiling wide as she looks back at Derek and Stiles, and Derek can’t help but snort and bow his head to hide his amusem*nt. He’s almost positive if he had been the only one to show up, the host would not be as accommodating.

They go to lunch afterwards, and without the distraction of a tour, Liam’s clearly on edge as they sit across from Derek and Stiles, his hands constantly swiping over his thighs between nervous sips of water. Eventually, he excuses himself to the restroom, and Eli scoots over to the center of the booth with a smirk as his eyes flick between the two, hands clasped in front of him over the table.

“So,” he starts, eyes settling on Derek. He looks like Stiles when he smirks like that.

“So,” Derek repeats, blinking intentionally with pursed lips.

Eli’s eyes switch to Stiles as he asks, his lips still curled, “What are your intentions with my father?”

“Eli,” Derek grits out, his voice firm as he glares.

Stiles can’t seem to hold back his smirk as he takes a sip of his water, eyes lowering before setting the glass back down and meeting Eli’s gaze again. His hand squeezes over Derek’s thigh under the table.

“You don’t have to answer that,” Derek grumbles, his eyes narrowed at Eli, who seems pretty pleased with himself as he snickers and sips his drink.

“I’d imagine they’re pretty similar to yours and Liam’s,” Stiles says bluntly, his tone nearly apathetic, like this sentiment should be obvious. Derek’s eyebrows shoot up and he turns to regard him, his perfect profile in view as Stiles holds Eli’s gaze.

Eli seems just as shocked, but he’s still got a wild smile stretching his lips as he turns his gaze to Derek.

“Oh, okay, just making sure,” he answers easily, his skin reddening a bit as he shifts in his seat.

Derek can all but lean in and brush his lips over Stiles’ cheek with a ridiculous smile.

-

Derek palms a hand up Stiles’ side, his thumb brushing over the ladder of his ribcage, the skin warm and soft. Stiles nuzzles under his chin as they press together on the leather sofa, Peep Show humming in the background.

“I thought you were just resting your eyes,” Derek murmurs, his tone teasing as his lips brush over his hair.

“Mm, I am,” Stiles insists, a soft sigh purling over Derek’s collarbone as Stiles curls against him, their legs slotting together.

Derek’s fingertips stroke his skin delicately, curving along the pronounced contours over his back, down his spine, the pert slope of his ass. His fingers pause, and then he presses his palm against the small of Stiles’ back, feeling the heat there, reveling in the touch.

“Don’t stop,” Stiles mutters, his voice scratchy as he presses into Derek’s neck. “Feels good.”

Derek smiles, fingertips stroking from hip to hip, dipping into the perfect dimples within their path, the tips of his fingers ghosting over the fine vellus hair. He feels so warm, so solid, pressing against Derek, fitting against him like he belongs there. He feels like home.

His fingers slip under the elastic band and he pushes it beneath the pulp of his ass, continuing his attentions over fresh erogenous territory. Stiles hums softly, his fingers curling into Derek’s shirt, fabric brushing against his side as his lips press against Derek’s neck. Derek kisses his temple, his eyes slipping shut as he softly traces over his skin, trailing his fingers over the seam of his ass.

“Mmmdon’tstop,” Stiles mutters, his fingers spreading out as his hand settles on Derek’s waist, thumb brushing up the fabric of his shirt. Derek obeys, fingertips grazing over the wild hair, sending a shiver along Stiles’ spine and goosebumps over his flesh. Stiles’ thigh presses against his crotch, Derek’s co*ck already thickening as Stiles licks the skin at his collarbone before pulling it between his teeth.

Derek sucks in a sharp breath, his other hand cupping the base of Stiles’ neck. His eyes drift open as he lets his middle finger dip between Stiles’ cheeks, teasing the puckered skin there. It pulls a low moan from Stiles, vibrating through his mouth against Derek’s neck.

Derek rolls the pad of his finger against his entrance, hardly pressing the tip inside the ring of muscle, and then he holds it there as he leans in, their bristled cheeks brushing as Derek whispers in his ear, “You feel like velvet right here baby,” his finger wriggling in tiny, teasing strokes. “So soft, I could do this to you all day. Could you come like that, Stiles?”

“Oh, f*ck—yeah,” Stiles whines as the muscles contract and retract against Derek’s finger, imploring for more as his back arches into his touch. Derek presses his nose against his scalp, inhaling deeply. He smells like shampoo, herbal and lush, and he can’t help but savor this, the feeling of Stiles’ entrance at his fingertips, the hot heat throbbing against him as he mischievously holds it there, unmoving, just touching as Stiles writhes against him.

“Chef,” he breathes out, rocking his hips, their erections brushing. Stiles’ blunt nails dig into his skin.

“You need me to take you to bed, baby?” Derek asks, his tone teasing, his lips curled upwards in a guileful smile.

“Yes,” he gasps. “Please, chef, I need you.”

Derek kisses his ear lobe, his finger stroking over him once again, sending Stiles into a frenzy, his hips rutting as tiny whines spill out of him.

“I wanna come on your pretty hole. Right here,” Derek says, his voice low, fingertip stroking over him.

“f*ck,” Stiles hisses, suddenly insatiable, though Derek can’t say why, unable to contain his smirk. “Yeah… yeah.” Stiles licks his lips, his chest heaving in small pants. “Yeah, do that,” he says, his tone only slightly exasperated. “Take me to bed, chef.”

Derek huffs out a fond laugh through his nose, his lips pressing against Stiles’ forehead. He starts to pull his hand away, and then Stiles stops him, leaning back to meet his eyes, his skin flushed, pupils blown.

“I said take me to bed. I did not say take your finger off me.”

Derek’s eyebrows shoot up, his eyes searching with an amused smile. “Heard.”

Stiles grins and wraps his legs around Derek’s waist as they sit up, Derek’s finger resting right where Stiles ordered it. He heaves them both off the couch, Stiles latching to him like a sloth on a tree branch. Their lips meet as Derek walks them to Stiles’ bedroom, an arm around his waist, finger stationary, the wrinkled skin impressing into Derek’s finger pad as Stiles’ salacious tongue slips into his mouth.

Derek’s knees hit the edge of his bed, pausing as Stiles sucks on his tongue, a low moan rumbling in his chest. Stiles squeezes his legs before unraveling them from Derek’s waist, Derek’s finger fixed between his ass cheeks as he applies pressure. Stiles breaks the kiss with a small gasp, oh, resting their foreheads together as his breath ghosts over Derek’s lips.

“Tell me what you need, baby,” Derek says, leaning back to meet Stiles’ gaze. His eyes are half-lidded, lips parted and shiny. Stiles’ fingers slip into the hair at the base of Derek’s neck, gripping gently as he forces Derek’s head back, his neck exposed.

They hold each other’s gaze, Derek looking down at him, waiting. Stiles licks his lips, his voice low.

“I need my good boy. Are you daddy’s good boy, Derek?”

Derek swallows, his mouth watering, co*ck twitching. Stiles is letting Derek call him daddy for the first time in years, and Derek has imagined this moment countless times since then.

He nods, his eyes glued to Stiles. “Yes, daddy.”

No words have ever felt so right pouring from his lips.

Stiles’ hole flutters at that, his eyes dark pools, his grip in Derek’s hair unrelenting. His fingers slip away, releasing as his hands fall to his shoulders and down the length of Derek’s arms.

“Undress for me,” Stiles says, and Derek hesitates, eyes blinking, unsure if Stiles wants him to attempt to get undressed without removing his finger, and Stiles beams in proud admiration, reaching up to pinch his chin. “My sweet boy. Yes, you can take your hand back.”

Derek licks his lips and carefully pulls his hand away, stepping back to pull his shirt over his head, Stiles watching him with amorous devotion the entire time. He pushes off his sweatpants along with his briefs, kicking them to the side as his rock-hard dick bounces against his abdomen. Stiles remains clothed, his sweatpants low on his hips, t-shirt pouring off him.

“Kneel,” Stiles commands, and Derek obeys, dropping to his knees effortlessly, gaze fixed on Stiles above him. He looks so pleased with Derek, a smile curling his devilish lips, his hand reaching to cup under Derek’s chin. “Good boy.”

Derek is breathless, his shoulders dropped as he inches closer on his knees as if drawn by a string, the rug beneath him burning away the top layer of skin as he drags himself over it. His knees sting but he doesn’t care, just swallows and rests his hands on Stiles’ hips, Stiles holding his gaze. Derek’s fingers slip under the elastic band, eyebrows raising in a quiet question. Stiles gives him a soft nod, and Derek barely tugs before they slip from his hips and pool at his feet before kicking them away.

Stiles’ hand is still cupped under his chin, thumb brushing over his cheek, squeezing gently as he takes a seat at the edge of the bed. Derek’s forearms rest on Stiles’ thighs as he settles between his legs, and Stiles sweeps his fingers through Derek’s hair, his head tipping back with the motion, lips parted as his heart pounds in his chest. It almost feels surreal, being planted before him, moonlight spilling from the windows as he rests at his feet. He’s had this dream before, he swears.

“Did you think of me like this, baby? All by yourself?” His voice has dropped a register, gravelly and full, setting Derek’s veins on fire as the vibrato licks down his spine.

Derek nods, palming down Stiles’ thighs, feeling as much as he can at once, hair bristling between skin.

“Tell me, baby,” he says, his tone soft and domineering, his thumb swiping over Derek’s temple. Stiles tilts his head, his eyes low as he waits.

“I thought of you, daddy,” Derek says, his skin flushing, heat creeping down his chest. His heart stutters, and he closes the gap between them as he presses his cheek against Stiles’ stomach, arms wrapping around his waist. “I thought of this,” he whispers, tears prickling his eyes as he pushes the fabric aside to nuzzle against his bare skin, Stiles’ co*ck standing proud. He inhales deeply, the burning spice on his skin, his mouth watering as he kisses along Stiles’ trail.

“I thought of you, too,” Stiles confesses, fingers settling in Derek’s hair as Derek moves along, tears spilling as he kisses down the inside of Stiles’ thigh, over tattoos and moles, to his knees, wet, sloppy, his tears mixing with his saliva as he kisses down to Stiles’ ankles, his feet. He sniffles, cradling the ball of Stiles’ foot, brushing his cheek over the top in ablution, and he feels Stiles’ hand fall to his shoulder, fingertips pressing.

“Derek,” he says, his tone full, his finger hooking under Derek’s chin, gently guiding his face upwards. Stiles’ brows are furrowed, his eyes wet and searching as he says, “I forgive you.”

Fresh tears spill over Derek’s cheeks, and Stiles swipes them away, his gaze tender.

“Kiss me, chef.”

Derek obeys, his arms wrapping around Stiles’ middle as he presses back between his thighs. Their lips meet, faces wet, noses grazing as Stiles’ hand cups the back of his head and holds him there, licking into his mouth like he owns it. Derek relaxes his jaw and lets Stiles take him, tongues brushing fluidly before Stiles pulls away, lips smacking.

Stiles waits until Derek opens his eyes, their gazes meeting briefly, Stiles’ doe eyes flicking between Derek’s through his absurdly charcoal-limned lashes. He looks like he has something to say, his lips parted, a small intake of air as his brows pinch. Instead, he presses their mouths together again, soft, lingering pecks that pull Derek in each time Stiles pulls away, until finally Derek just hooks his arms under Stiles’ knees, trapping him between his weight and the bed as he lays over him, stealing another sumptuous kiss.

Their erections brush, Stiles humming blithely beneath him, his arms wrapping around Derek’s neck as Derek ruts against him, an uninterrupted flow of precum dribbling as he wraps his big hand around them both with a tight squeeze. He breaks away to kiss along his jaw, down his neck, biting at the juncture of his shoulder, sucking skin between his teeth, savoring his scent, his taste. His hand slips lower, teasing Stiles’ pulsating hole, reveling in the noises falling from his lips, Stiles’ hands gripping at him desperately.

This must be the place, Derek thinks, between Stiles’ thighs, the man spread out before him heedless and writhing as Derek works him open, a hand on his slick co*ck, pink and leaking. His bitten lips match the tip of him, flooded and gorgeous, and Derek edges him along, desperate beads of precum spilling out of him, little gasps and low, heady whines as Derek’s fingers tickle the bundle of nerves inside of him.

Derek makes love to him, his big hand never leaving Stiles’ co*ck, hips rolling into him, buried deep as he sinks into the satin soft tightness.

“Derek,” Stiles gasps, his head pressing back into the mattress, neck exposed as he bucks into Derek’s hand with a deep moan. “I want you to come in me. Fill me up, baby,” he breathes out, his muscles clenching, legs tightening around Derek’s waist.

Derek’s breath catches in his throat, hips sputtering as he squeezes Stiles’ co*ckhead, sweat beading his brow furrowed in deep concentration. He gets to come inside Stiles again, gets to fill him with his seed, gets to mark his insides and claim him once again, and Stiles is letting him, demanding it from him.

Stiles flips them over, legs bracketing Derek’s sides as he rises up, back arched, fingertips pressing into Derek’s pecs as his mouth drops open.

“Oh, f*ck, you’re so good for me, aren’t you, baby? Daddy’s good boy,” he pants out, f*cking himself on Derek’s dick, clenching as he rises and relaxing as he falls.

Derek groans, yes, daddy, a ragged tear from his chest as his hands fall to Stiles’ hips, thumbs pressing into the crease where his thighs hinge, fingertips digging into the flesh of his ass.

“Tell me, baby. Tell me you’re mine,” Stiles rocks his hips down, his gaze bottomless as he stares into Derek’s eyes, working over him.

“I’m yours, Stiles, always,” he whimpers out, hips bucking up, skin buzzing, stomach swirling. “I’m your good boy.”

“Yes, baby. So, so good,” he says, licking his lips as he reaches behind him, fingers curling over Derek’s balls as they draw into him. Stiles stills over him, watching through a lidded gaze, and Derek can feel his eyes crossing as Stiles' fingers massage over the loose skin, slipping further down to tease around his hole.

Derek chokes out a desperate moan, his brows furrowed as he holds back, still accustomed to waiting for his permission, muscles fluttering, fingertips digging. “Stiles—”

Stiles shushes him, his free hand moving to his own co*ck as he strokes himself, fingers working deftly at Derek’s entrance.

“Please, daddy,” he tries, his voice breaking, hips working of their own volition each time Stiles strokes over him.

Stiles grins down at him, his bottom lip bitten between his teeth, his hand working over his co*ck. “Come for me, chef.”

Once again, Derek obeys, eyes falling back as he lets go, moaning with each org*smic wave that crescendos through him, Stiles murmuring praises to him, that’s it, baby, just like that, so good, yes, good boy, good boy. The last word is a drawn-out rasp as he comes over his fist in languorous spurts, his hot sem*n dripping on Derek’s abs, his muscles fluttering around Derek’s pulsing co*ck.

They both heave as Stiles all but pours his body over him, sweat and cum slick between them. Derek’s hands splay over Stiles’ spine, one at the small of his back, the other at the nape of his neck as he presses Stiles tightly against him, cheek to chest.

Derek nuzzles his nose into his grown-out buzzcut, tasting sweat on his lips as he kisses his scalp, his heart pounding.

“I love you, Stiles,” he murmurs, his eyes falling shut.

Stiles is quiet for a beat, his ear pressed against Derek’s heart. He rolls his head, kissing where his ear just lay before lifting his face and meeting Derek’s eyes. He wipes his hand over his thigh before reaching to cup under Derek’s jaw, thumb pressing into the hinge, his gaze studious. He leans in, pausing just before their lips meet, their eyes centimeters apart, breath ghosting over Derek’s lips, and says, “I love you too,” their sealing in a binding kiss.

-

The oppressive summer heat breaks in the second week of October. In true Chicago fashion, today is crisp and cool, the opposite of yesterday’s unrelenting humidity.

Allison’s all but ready for fall, dressed in a slubby cardigan and her suede boots, caramel apple spice gripped in one hand, the other clutching her cardigan over her chest as she shivers and waddles her way into the back office. She’s due in four weeks but insists on working until she can’t bear it anymore—Derek wouldn’t be surprised if she went into labor in the middle of his kitchen.

Derek flips through sheets on a clipboard, counting out portions and checking dates as he goes through the lowboy refrigerator inventory, giving her a curt nod of acknowledgment before she disappears around the corner. Eventually he makes his way to the office and drops the clipboard on Allison’s desk, and she jumps a bit in her chair as she turns to meet Derek’s gaze with wide, rueful eyes.

“Derek, would you just talk to me?” she asks, pushing back from her desk as she crosses her arms.

“Sure,” Derek answers, an eyebrow raised as he leans against the doorframe.

She takes in a deep breath and eyes the chair in front of her desk, meeting his gaze again as she quirks an eyebrow in silent query. Derek blinks and remains standing in the threshold.

With a long sigh, she grabs the end of her braid and twists it between her fingers, her gaze lowered as she ponders her next words, and then she releases her hair before clasping her hands over her stomach and meeting Derek’s gaze once again.

“Scott and I both owe you, and Stiles… especially Stiles, an apology. Would you like to come over for dinner?”

Derek studies her intently, his eyebrows furrowing, his arms crossed. After a beat, he finally says, “I’ll come, but I don’t speak for Stiles.”

“Can you try to get him to? Or at least just ask? There’s no way for us to contact him except through snail mail and that feels… weird.”

Derek offers her an indignant blink, his lips pursed. “I’ll ask, but snail mail wouldn’t hurt. At least try to make it seem like you care.”

“Come on, Derek, I am trying, okay? I do care. We… I,” she corrects herself, licking her lips as she swallows. “I started therapy and I’ve realized some things, and I just…” she sighs again, her skin flushing as she looks away. Allison isn’t one for admitting her mistakes. “I’m sorry. I did everything the wrong way. I thought—” she starts to tear up, and Derek resists rolling his eyes. She cries at everything things days.

“Whatever you have to say, just save it. I’m not the one you should be apologizing to.”

Her eyes are glassy with tears, but she nods solemnly, her gaze lowered as they slip over her cheeks. She wipes them away with her sleeve. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Derek inhales deeply, letting his arms unfold with an exhale as he makes his way behind the desk. He squeezes her shoulder, which in hindsight was a terrible idea, because now she’s full-on sobbing as she stands to hug him, a hand covering her face in shame as she presses into his chest. It’s an awkward hug, considering her stomach between them, but Derek wraps his arms around her shoulders and soothes her.

“I feel so terrible—” she cries, her breath catching between sobs as she shakes her head. “I’m just—I’m so glad you were there for him. What if you weren’t? I could have—” she can’t finish the thought, more tears spilling. “I’m glad he’s still here.”

Derek’s hand rubs up and down her arm as he stares at the wall, his gaze shifting out of focus as he imagines what her unfinished thought may be—she could have been the one who triggered him to the point of no return.

“Me, too.”

-

Stiles lets himself into to Derek’s apartment, beelining towards Derek standing over the stove before embracing him from behind. Derek chuckles a bit, tapping the wooden spoon against the pan before setting it down, then turns in Stiles’ arms before returning his hug, arms squeezing around him as he presses his nose into Stiles’ lengthening hair.

“Hey to you, too,” Derek murmurs, his lips curled in a smile. He still can’t believe Stiles is here—they’ve finally gotten to the good part.

“The tabloids have got us,” Stiles mumbles, his face pressing into Derek’s chest as he clutches around Derek’s torso, fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt over his shoulders.

Derek hums in acknowledgment, knowing it was bound to happen sooner or later. They’ve hardly been out together, but there have been whispers of their reconciliation in gossip rags that Laura never lets Derek forget about. Nevertheless, it seems their intermediary time out of the spotlight has come to an end. Laura sent him the screenshot earlier today: Love on the Menu: Foodie Stiles Stilinski and Chef Derek Hale Spotted Together After Lengthy Split. Is Sterek Back on the Front Burner?

The photo was an obvious phone snapshot taken by another patron at the restaurant they visited just a few days ago, Eli and Liam conveniently cut out of the frame—which Derek is fine with, he’d rather not pull his sons into the spotlight any more than they already are.

“Yeah,” Derek sighs, his hand cupping the back of Stiles’ head as he presses his lips against his temple.

“I wasn’t ready for everyone to know,” Stiles mumbles, his breath washing over Derek’s chest.

“I’m sorry, baby,” Derek says, his fingertips rubbing soothing circles over Stiles’ scalp. He feels partially responsible since he asked Stiles to tag along, but Stiles easily could have said no, regardless.

Stiles sighs and lifts his head, meeting Derek’s gaze as his hands settle to Derek’s hips. “I just want to live in a cave in the middle of nowhere with you.”

Derek smirks and leans in, their noses brushing before he presses their lips together. “We can arrange that, I’m sure.”

He feels Stiles smile as their lips linger, and then Derek breaks away, cupping his face with one final crushing kiss before meeting his doe eyes. “You hungry?”

Stiles nods, stealing another kiss before Derek pats his ass and sends him out of the kitchen.

They eat at the table for once, Stiles talking about his day—he didn’t do much except order a bunch of candy off GoPuff and miss Derek, his words—before asking Derek about his day as he stuffs a bite in and chews contentedly.

“It was fine. They seemed to be running just fine without me,” Derek answers, perhaps a bit miffed about it, but it’s only a testament to the great crew he has and how tight he runs his ship. Stiles tells him as much, and Derek smiles as he bumps knees with him, chewing slowly as he recalls his conversation with Allison.

Derek sips his drink before licking his lips, watching Stiles carefully. “So, I talked to Allison today,” he starts, an eyebrow raising as he waits for Stiles’ reaction.

“I guess that makes sense, considering she… works for you,” Stiles smirks a bit as he gathers another bite on his fork.

Derek chews on the inside of his cheek before he just comes out with it. “She invited us to dinner. She wants to apologize.”

Stiles halts in his chewing to study his face, fork posed in his hand as he swallows. His brows furrow and he shakes his head before his gaze falls back to his plate. “No.”

Derek purses his lips but doesn’t push it. “Alright.”

They finish their meal and end up cuddling on the couch, their favorite activity outside of f*cking, Stiles pressing back against him as Derek burrows into his hair. Stiles’ fingers slip between Derek’s as their hands rest against his chest, and just because he can, Derek kisses his ear and mumbles I love you, squeezing his arms around him. Stiles turns to kiss the corner of his mouth, a smile curling his lips.

“I love you too, chef.”

--

Stiles leans over his bathroom sink, turning his head to the right, then the left, his eyes remaining stationary as he gives himself a once over. The bags under his eyes are fading, the flush of life returning to his cheeks, fat sticking to his body—that one was inevitable with his newfound sweet tooth and Derek’s cooking. He needs a haircut, but mostly just to shape it up, and a shave for the same reason. Otherwise, this is the healthiest he’s seen himself in… years. He can actually recognize the person in the mirror, and it almost feels like a homecoming. It’s enough to bring tears to his eyes, like everything tends to these days.

He still hurts, he still craves, and he wonders if that will ever go away. The thought terrifies him, to have to live like this for the rest of his life, always wanting, always withholding. But then Derek caresses his face or threads his fingers through his hair, his lips brushing over his temple, his rough hands holding him like he’s made of glass or a precious stone, his touch a balm that leaches his pain away, and it’s enough. More than enough. That makes Stiles tear up, too.

Stiles couldn’t imagine doing this without Derek—he wouldn’t have the desire to, anyway. Maybe that’s f*cked up, but it’s the truth. Derek fills the void Stiles had been trying to fill with drugs, the one that was left by him in the first place. It’s nearly poetic in the most maladaptive, symbiotic way that irks Stiles when he sees it in media, but he doesn’t give a sh*t when it comes to his own life. Derek is his again and he’s never letting go, codependency be damned.

Instead of the surplus of orange pill bottles lining his sink, he’s got vitamins his doctor recommended to make up for his malnourishment, plus the meds he’s been taking most of his life: Adderall, Ativan, Wellbutrin. No prescription for pain, though, condemned to a life of over-the-counter drugs that never seem to touch the source.

He goes through each bottle one by one, gathering his co*cktail, the simple endeavor of it triggering a craving intense enough for him to grip the edge of his sink as he takes in deep, shuttering breaths. Derek’s voice rattles around his brain, you’re so strong, Stiles, I’m so proud of you, Stiles, I love you, Stiles, his eyes screwing shut, teeth grinding. I don’t need it, I don’t need it, I don’t need it.

Derek steps into the bathroom, his hair a mess, dressed in only his boxers as he squints against the daylight spilling in through the frosted window. Stiles tends to be up before him these days, having never truly fallen asleep in the first place.

He swallows and releases his grip, his jaw hardening as he rubs a hand over his mouth and watches Derek in the mirror. Derek’s hand settles on the small of his back, and Stiles immediately turns to press his face into the chef’s neck, the edge of ache subsiding as Derek’s arms circle around him.

“You okay?” Derek asks, voice sticky with sleep, and Stiles nods as his fingertips dig into the flesh of Derek’s back, inhaling his scent, savoring the skin-to-skin contact, heart pounding hard enough he’s sure Derek can feel it. They stand there as long as Stiles needs, Derek’s arms a coveted vice around him.

The next morning, his pill bottles are gone, replaced with a purple pill organizer much like the one his babcia once used—thick bold letters indicating each day of the week embellished over each plastic compartment. Tears fill his eyes, and the craving wanes.

-

Stiles sucks on a watermelon lollipop, pulling it from his mouth with a wet pop as he licks his lips and shuffles through the mail Mindy left on the kitchen counter. Derek’s watching him, Stiles can tell from the corner of his eye, as he whisks eggs and nearly drops the whisk when Stiles' lips wrap around the sucker again, a smirk teasing the corners of his mouth. Swallowing the saccharine saliva, he looks up at Derek with raised brows.

“You good?” Stiles asks around the lollipop, his tone only slightly facetious as Derek’s jaw hardens, his stare glazed over.

“Yeah,” he answers, pursing his lips as he narrows his eyes, and Stiles smirks, the candy tucked against his cheek as he looks back down at the pile of mail. A brown kraft envelope sticks out from the rest, and when Stiles tugs it from beneath the pile, he instantly recognizes the bubbly curls of Allison’s handwriting.

He bites down on the candy, shards of sugar bursting over his tongue, his eyebrows furrowing as he stares at the envelope, debating on throwing it away before tearing it open. His curiosity and lack of impulse control gets the best of him, slipping a finger under the unsealed section of the flap as he chews and rips the paper open gracelessly.

Stiles—

Words cannot express how sincerely sorry I am. I would love the chance to make it up to you. I miss and love you unconditionally, truly. Please have dinner with us?

—Allison

Stiles rereads the words over once, then twice, his brows furrowed in vexation, and when he looks up, Derek is watching him carefully, the metal bowl gripped against his chest as he waits.

“What?”

Stiles chews the gum with engrained bits of hard candy before releasing the letter onto the counter for Derek to peek at. Derek sets the bowl down to read it, then glances up at Stiles from under his eyebrows.

“What are you thinking?” he asks carefully, gently chewing on the inside of his cheek, his finger tapping over the letter.

Stiles inhales deeply, taking the paper stick out of his mouth before dropping it on the torn open envelope and crumpling up in one movement. He stomps on the trash can pedal, the lid flicking open, and drops it in the bin, snatching the letter before condemning the paper to the same fate.

Derek watches this with a raised brow, his lips a tight line, but he doesn’t say a word, just returns to his whisking.

-

“Say it,” Stiles pants out, his thighs working overtime as he rides himself over Derek’s co*ck, fingertips pressed into his chest, skin slick with sweat as he watches Derek’s brow furrow and his mouth drop open with a strangled moan. “C’mon, baby, tell me,” Stiles breathes out, muscles constricting as he pulls up, only for Derek’s hips to follow and buck back into him.

“I’m your good boy, daddy,” Derek whines, his hands tight around Stiles’ waist, his gaze desperate and searching as he waits for Stiles’ validation, and Stiles can’t hold back his grin as he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, his head tilting coyly as he reaches up and presses his palm over Derek’s cheek, thumb swiping over his bottom lip.

“Yes, you are,” Stiles confirms, leaning in to seal their lips as he cups Derek’s chin. “You’re mine. My good boy.”

“Yours,” Derek agrees, his voice cracking, his fingernails digging into skin, hips stuttering as he f*cks into Stiles’ hot heat, desperate to fit every inch inside.

“Touch me, chef,” Stiles orders before licking into Derek’s mouth, claiming every part of him as Stiles f*cks his mouth with his tongue. Derek obeys as he mewls beneath him, his big hand wrapping around Stiles’ length, his breaths sharp as he pants through his nose with soft whines creeping from the back of his throat, muscles tightening as he strokes blithely over Stiles’ co*ck. He’s close and raring, his back arched as his other hand squeezes Stiles’ waist, a silent plea as Stiles sucks on his tongue and rocks his hips down.

Stiles breaks their kiss, their foreheads pressing together as their noses brush, breaths melding. “Fill me up, baby.”

“Oh, f*ck,” Derek gasps out, his head pressing back into the pillow as he ruts up one more time, eyelids fluttering as his mouth drops open in a long moan. Stiles can feel him coming, his thick co*ck pulsing with each spurt as Stiles clenches around him, watching Derek’s face in besotted awe.

“f*ck, yeah, just like that, baby. God you’re so beautiful, Derek, so good for me,” Stiles babbles, his thighs quivering as Derek’s hand strokes him dutifully, the web between his forefinger and thumb squeezing tight around Stiles’ co*ckhead, the fullness of him sending ripples through his spine, swelling in his groin. One final stroke, and he’s releasing too, eyebrows drawn, a whimper escaping him as he paints over Derek’s abs, the wave washing over him before his limbs turn to jelly and he slumps over Derek’s chest with heaving breaths.

Stiles’ forehead presses against Derek’s collarbone, eyes slipping shut as they both attempt to level out their breathing, bodies shaking in their aftershocks. Derek’s hands splay over his back, one between his shoulders, the other at the base of his spine, before he flips them over and brushes kisses along Stiles’ jaw. Stiles tilts his head to catch his lips, fingers threading through his hair, their mouths moving together in a tender kiss.

“Love you,” Derek mumbles, mashing their lips together one final time before resting their foreheads together. Stiles smiles lazily, fingers gently tugging in his hair, noses brushing.

“Love you more,” Stiles returns, wrapping his legs around Derek’s waist as he bites his lip and opens his eyes to meet Derek’s gaze.

“Love you most,” Derek says with a smirk, just as Stiles expected him to, and he rolls his eyes playfully as he draws tiny circles over Derek’s scalp. Derek steals another kiss, and then another, letting their lips linger before tucking his head under Stiles’ chin, nuzzling into his neck.

They stay like that for a while, Stiles’ fingertips stroking over Derek’s shoulders, his back, through his hair again as Stiles gazes up at the ceiling, their breathing eventually falling in sync as the sweat cools over their skin. Derek’s hand curls around the back of Stiles’ neck, scruff bristling as Derek strokes along his jaw, and Stiles turns to press his lips to his forehead, inhaling his scent—heady and green and resinous under the salt of his perspiration. Stiles would bathe in it if he could. He doesn’t want to exist outside of this room, without Derek inside him, the safety of his bulk nearly crushing but oh so welcome, besought even.

“Move in with me,” Stiles murmurs against his skin, and Derek’s head pops up, his brow furrowed, eyes searching as the corners of his mouth slowly twist upwards.

“Okay,” he says, sealing their lips together in another series of lingering pecks, small huffs of laughter escaping through Stiles’ nose as his arms wrap around Derek’s neck.

Stiles never thought he could be this happy.

-

The two of them are at Derek’s, packing up his living room that he moved into only seven months ago, and Stiles remembers when there were only seven months left until his lease was up, the dreadful hollow feeling it left in his chest knowing it’d be that much longer before they could wake up together every day. He still feels that tinge, the insecurity of Derek not being by his side, of Derek choosing Eli over him, but he shoves it away as he watches Derek wrap up photo frames in newspaper and stuff them in waxed produce boxes averted from the downstairs dumpster. Stiles asked him to move in only two days ago, and Derek started packing as soon as. There’s no room to feel anything but hopeful, gratified and elated—they are finally going to live the life they were always supposed to have. He’s having a hard time believing it.

Stiles pops a jawbreaker in his mouth as he fills a box with Derek’s video games, music filling the airwaves as he flips over a case to read the back. Cora walks in through the back door, pausing when she spots Stiles kneeling in front of the media console, and Stiles purses his lips, his eyes shifting away suspiciously as he pointedly ignores her.

“Hey,” Derek greets her, his gaze flicking from Stiles to her frame as she shuts the door behind her, her eyes lingering on Stiles.

“Hey,” she responds shortly, dropping her keys on the entry table as she shucks off her coat. “Can’t get out of here fast enough, huh?”

Stiles can feel her gaze on him but he chooses to ignore it, sucking on the candy between his teeth and cheek as he stuffs more games into the box in front of him.

“Don’t start, Cora,” Derek deadpans, his voice gruff as he shakes his head in a subtle, solemn movement, brows furrowed.

“I’m not starting anything, Der,” she says with a nonchalant shrug, hanging her coat over the back of the barstool as she makes her way into the kitchen.

Stiles rolls his eyes, annoyed she’s even here in the first place. Doesn’t she have a wife she needs to divorce or a redhead’s bed to crash? He still doesn’t get what Lydia sees in her and he can’t help but feel embittered at how she’s seemed to unsolicitedly insert herself into his life. He never even saw this much of her when him and Derek first got together, and he wishes she’d go back to bumf*ck Blono and f*ck a goat or something.

Cora starts rummaging around in the kitchen, making as much passive aggressive noise as possible as they continue filling up the boxes, only the music dispelling the obstinate tension between them. She fills up the teapot with water, clicking the element on before placing it over the stove and leaning against the counter, her gaze boring into the side of Stiles’ head.

“Are you gonna rent this place out, or keep it open just in case?” Cora asks, and Stiles grits his teeth, turning to glare at her.

“Cora, I swear to f*cking god,” Derek snaps, his glare matching Stiles’ ferocity as he drops a wrapped-up tchotchke into the box before him.

“Are you gonna bum out your brother’s apartment, or crash Lydia’s place until your cheating wife signs the papers?”

Cora’s brows furrow, much like Derek’s, lips pursing as she glares back. “Are you gonna ship Isaac off again and lie about it for the better half of a year?”

“Enough!” Derek shouts, rising from his spot on the floor as points a rageous finger at her. “Cora, cut the sh*t. Stiles isn’t going anywhere, so sort it out or f*ck off. I don’t need this bullsh*t and neither does he.”

The teapot starts whistling on the stove, Cora’s face pinched in animosity as she glowers at her brother, her eyes flicking to Stiles as his lips twitch into a gloating smirk. She scoffs and spins around, her hair whipping as she removes the teapot from the stove before pouring herself a cup.

Stiles watches as she eyes her brother, clearly humiliated as her cheeks flush in resentment, but she slips away without the last word for once, the door of the room she claimed slamming shut behind her.

It’s refreshing to be chosen over everyone else in Derek’s life, or chosen at all, for once. He savors the feeling, exulting quietly to himself, tears rimming his eyes as Derek drops beside him again. Derek’s lips press against Stiles’ temple, and Stiles all but launches onto him, arms wrapping around his shoulders as he presses into his neck. Derek’s arms squeeze around his middle, holding him firmly in place, and Stiles cries quietly, happy tears gathering along his lashes.

dad: please call me
dad: melissa is in the hospital
dad: she’s asking for you

Stiles hates, hates, hates hospitals. The antiseptic smell that wafts over them as they walk through the halls reminds him of his last lugubrious days with his mother. Claudia looked directly at him, her gaze ascient, confusion etched into each of her withering features—she didn’t recognize her own son, enraged like she knew she should know who this scrawny crying kid is, screaming bitterly at him to get the f*ck out.

This so happens to be the same hospital she died in, and Stiles feels the familiar sense of insoluble dread sweeping over him, his hands trembling as Derek slots their fingers together. What if Melissa dies here, too?

Just before they open the door, Derek turns to face him, his hands coming up to hold his face, thumbs brushing over his cheeks as Stiles meets his gaze. He’s been on the verge of tears since he got off the phone with his dad, barely holding it together, unable to take in a full breath because surely that’ll set off the waterworks and he’s kind of tired of crying.

“She’s gonna be okay, baby,” Derek says, his voice gentle and low, and Stiles’ bottom lip wobbles, his brows furrowing as the tears start to flow.

“You don’t know that,” Stiles insists, his voice breaking, vision blurring as he frowns.

“She’s a nurse, she’s got the best team in town, and she’s got you. They’re going to treat her like the Queen of England.”

“The Queen of England died!” Stiles sobs, and Derek purses his lips, brows drawn as he studies Stiles’ face.

“Yes, and she lived a very unreasonably long life. Melissa will live a lot longer—people actually love her.”

Stiles can’t help but snort at that, his lips twitching into a reflexive smile as Derek wipes his tears away. He leans in, sealing their lips together, seemingly unbothered by the snot Stiles keeps trying to sniff back and swallow. When he pulls away, Stiles reaches up and wipes his lips off with his thumb, his tiny smile lingering as Derek regards him with the utmost of adoration, one final kiss to the tip of Stiles’ nose before they push open the heavy door.

Melissa beams as they walk in, her smile bright and unfitting in the hospital gown she’s dressed in, and Stiles starts crying all over again as he makes his way over to her, crawling into the hospital bed and pressing against her side. She welcomes him with open arms, squeezing him tightly as she kisses his forehead, and Noah’s hand settles on his elbow as he presses into her neck.

“It’s good to see you, kiddo,” she murmurs, rocking him gently, just like she used to when his mom died—the thought prompts a fresh wave of tears, and he can’t make any words out other than please don’t die, please don’t die as he clutches to her. He cannot lose another parent, he just can’t. She runs her fingers through his hair, and Stiles feels ridiculous that she’s the one comforting him when she’s got ovarian cancer for Christ’s sake, but it’s all he can do to accept her soothing caresses and words of affirmation, almost as if she’s saying them to herself: I’m not going to die, Stiles. Not for a long time.

Derek ends up on the other side of her bed and offers his hand, and she takes it with a tender squeeze.

“It’s good to see you, too, Derek,” Melissa says, and Stiles closes his eyes, her soft voice vibrating against his cheek as he savors this moment with her. He’s angry with himself, for all the years wasted in his haze, taking his family for granted, ignoring their attempts to connect when all they wanted was to love him. It feels like time is slipping away, and no matter how hard he clutches to her, he knows it’s supremely useless. If the angel of Death wants to claim her, all the money in the world cannot keep him from taking her away. Nevertheless, Stiles’ grip around her is unyielding.

Finally, Stiles is able to catch his breath and sit up to regard her, sniffling as he blinks back his persistent tears. “What are the doctors saying? What stage is it?”

She smiles carefully, reaching up to wipe his tears away. “We caught it in stage 2. I’m scheduled for surgery, and then I’m sure a few rounds of chemo will do the trick.”

Stiles frowns and reaches up to touch her curly locks, wrapping one around his finger as he smooths over the cuticle with his thumb. “But your hair.”

She laughs at that, shaking her head softly. “What, you don’t think I can pull off a Stilinski buzzcut?”

He smiles somberly at that, looking down as he swipes his thumb over the lock of hair between his fingers.

“Stiles, I’m going to be fine. There’s a seventy percent survival rate for the type of cancer that it is. I’m not even worried about it, okay? Now, let’s look at you,” she says with her untiring smile, tipping his chin back up with a curled finger as she studies his face. “Much healthier these days, hm? Sure wish I had a chef on tap.”

Derek huffs out a laugh through his nose from the other side, and Stiles meets his gaze with tender regard, his lips slanting in a puckish smirk.

“Yeah, I guess it’s nice. Nothing like your cooking, though,” he teases.

“Hey, your father has gotten a lot better since I insisted on splitting the cooking labor, give him some credit, too.”

“Oh? You mean his boxed mac and cheese has improved?” Stiles says sardonically, finally turning to meet his father’s gaze. Noah stands over them, his arms crossed as he hugs himself, his expression wary despite the smile curling his lips, lines deeper than Stiles remembers. Stiles wipes his face and gathers himself, climbing out of the bed before stepping in to hug his dad, and Noah’s arms wrap around him easily, a heavy sigh escaping him within their embrace.

“Yes, actually. I mix the powder first—makes a world of difference,” Noah says, and Stiles snorts and shakes his head, squeezing his dad tightly as Noah kisses his temple. “You look good, kid. I’m so glad to see you,” he murmurs, and if Stiles could see his face, he’s sure there’d be tears in his eyes, too.

-

Stiles sits on his leather couch, hunched over as he stares at his phone screen, chewing the inside of his cheek while he contemplates messaging Scott. He’s already unblocked him, but Scott wouldn’t know that, only the last messages in their string of texts from July staring back at him. Ravioli sits beside him, pressed and purring against his thigh, paws tucked under her fluffy body as she blinks indolently at nothing. It must be so nice to be a house cat, or any animal a human is willing to take care of, for that matter. Derek hasn’t fully moved in yet, but Ravi has been here full-time, Stiles’ emotional support animal in his absence.

He inhales deeply, thinking of what he would even say. He misses his best friend, and with Melissa amid treatment for a life-threatening disease, the realization hit him that there’s only so much time on this Earth and he doesn’t want to spend any more of it neglecting the people he loves—even if they were dickhe*ds when he needed them most. Stiles feels, for the most part, sure that Scott and Allison are rueful over how they handled the quandary. If his memory serves him right, it’s not like Stiles was the best of friends to them, either. They all owe each other an apology. And if Scott feels anything like Stiles does in the wake of Melissa’s diagnosis, he knows they need each other now more than ever.

Another deep breath, and Stiles starts typing, soon interrupted by a phone call from ‘chef’. He smiles and swipes the green button immediately, bringing the phone to his ear.

“Hey, chef,” Stiles answers, tucking the phone against his shoulder as he leans back and rests his hand over Ravi’s body. Derek doesn’t respond; instead, Stiles only hears rustling and muffled voices on his end.

“Babe?” he asks, brows furrowing, and again, no response. Derek must have butt-dialed him. Stiles starts to pull the phone away, but hears his name among the muffled sounds and brings it right back to his ear, curiosity taking hold of him. He knows Derek is with Eli right now, planning out the details of his wedding that Derek’s footing the bill for, so it’s not like the conversation should be that riveting. He clicks the volume bar up on the side of his phone, straining to hear their conversation, unable to help himself. All he’s getting is muffled words, fragments of sentences, but once he hears leaving the country, his heart rate spikes.

“What about Stiles?” Is Eli’s response to whatever Derek just said, and then Derek’s answer is: “Don’t worry about Stiles.”

“But you’re leaving him…” Eli says, and it’s enough for Stiles to scramble and end the call, his heart beating wildly as he springs up from his spot. Ravi jumps away, clearly disgruntled over the disruption as she skitters off somewhere, and a small voice in the back of his head says don’t make assumptions, Stiles, he’s said over and over again he’s never leaving you, Stiles.

Unfortunately for him, the louder voice overrides his logical reasoning, intrusive thoughts pervading his post-traumatic, opiate-impaired brain: Derek is leaving him, again. Why else would he be taking so long to move in? It’s already been two weeks since Stiles asked him, it’s not like he has to bring his furniture. What if Cora finally got through to him, and he changed his mind? What if they’ve moved too quickly and Derek still doesn’t trust him? What if he’s decided that Stiles isn’t enough for him after all, his broken body and mind too much to tolerate?

Sweat sprouts over his skin, the aching yawn in his chest as wide as a bottomless cavern, tears springing in his eyes as he paces back and forth in front of his couch. Derek’s leaving him again, and there’s nothing he can do. He should have known; it’s all Derek ever does. Why would that ever change? People don’t change. People don’t get better. People show who they are, patterns manifest and exist for a reason, and Stiles is a fool to ever think anything good could come of this.

A sob wracks his body, and he falls to his knees, unable to keep himself up as he covers his face in humiliation. He hates himself. He should have f*cking known. It’s all he can do to sit there and cry, the overwhelming urge for a hit taking hold of him as his body quivers. He feels like he’s in detox all over again, every joint aching, every muscle trembling, every pore dripping. There’s only one thing left for him to do: he has to leave before Derek leaves him.

Stiles has never done fentanyl before. It would have been the next step for him, the oxy too superposed in his system to do anything other than make him feel ordinary, despite taking upwards of eight oxy 30s a day. He knew it would either come to sticking himself with a needle, a thought he still can’t bear, or switching up his drug of choice. The only reason he held out for so long was because he knew how dangerous it was, and his drug dealer insisted on taking the smallest dosage possible, “Even smaller than what you think.”

He knew once he tried fent, it would only be a matter of time before it claimed him. There was a point in time where he had accepted it, welcomed it even. The last bridge before his suffering ended once and for all. Since Derek was back in his life, that feeling gave way to the euphoria of being in love, of feeling desired, of being chosen above anyone else. But now the familiar ache of despair creeps back, and he strokes his finger coated in the gel over his tongue to dissolve the pain away. The unmatched ecstasy washes over him, his vessel sinking into the mattress beneath him, his conscience on another plane entirely. Not even Derek’s love could contest with this.

If this is what death feels like, he’s only resentful he didn’t try it sooner.

Chapter 6: trade mistakes

Chapter Text

One moment Stiles is sinking, a warm hug enveloping him from the inside out, and the next, he’s in a hospital bed, Derek by his side with his head in his hands. There’s an IV in Stiles’ arm, and his mouth tastes like sand, head aching as his brows furrow in disconcertment.

“What’re you doing here?” Stiles bites out, his voice raw as he reaches up to touch his throat. Derek’s head snaps up to regard him, his eyes red-rimmed and puffy. He looks like he hasn’t slept, still in the same outfit he left in yesterday, hair ruffled like he’d been pulling at it all night.

“Stiles,” he says in relief, reaching to grab Stiles’ hand, his eyebrows pulling down as tears flood his eyes. “Of course I’m here, baby, I told you I’m not going anywhere.”

Stiles pulls his hand away, eyes flicking over Derek’s features as he shakes his head. “You were leaving me again.”

Derek’s head rears back, bewildered as he blinks and shakes his head in return. “Where did you get that idea?”

“You pocket-dialed me. I heard your conversation with Eli. He said you’re leaving, and you said don’t worry about it,” Stiles alleges, his tone bitter, defenses up.

Derek only shakes his head again, pausing as he absorbs this, his eyes shifting away as he recalls the conversation with his son. His gaze returns to Stiles, grabbing his hand and squeezing before Stiles can pull it away again.

“Stiles… no. That’s not what you thought it was. I was telling Eli I’m ready to leave dionysus in Erica’s hands because I want to spend more time with you.”

Stiles blinks at that, his eyebrows drawing together in an unconvinced scowl.

“He said you’re leaving him,” Stiles insists, gaze studying for the cracks in the façade. Derek’s grasp on his hand is unrelenting.

Derek’s head cants to the side, his gaze curious. “Did you happen to hear the rest of that sentence?”

The blood drains from Stiles’ face, his jaw hardening in preemptive mortification.

Derek squeezes his hand again, bringing it to his lips, and Stiles allows it, his limbs like jelly, his heart pounding.

“He said ‘you’re leaving him in the dark while you take care of things’, as in… I have something I’ve been working on that I didn’t want you to know about yet,” Derek says, his thumb stroking over Stiles’ knuckles, his briny gaze flicking over his features. “Stiles, the only way I’ll ever leave you is in death, I swear. If you ever want to get rid of me, you’ll have to leave me or kill me.”

The last bit he says so seriously that Stiles is inclined to believe him.

Tears burn his eyes, his cheeks hot and stinging. His free hand shields his face, ashamed and embarrassed and utterly mortified as the tears begin to overflow. He really overdosed over misheard information. Didn’t even bother to call him back to confirm, just jumped to the worst possible conclusion and decided, f*ck it, might as well use again.

“Hey,” Derek starts, his thumb swiping over the back of Stiles’ palm. He brings Stiles’ hand back to his lips, his soft beard bristling over knuckles. Stiles can’t bear to look at him, he just wants to curl into a ball and die, because surely it’s what he deserves after making such a ridiculous assumption. Suddenly he understands what Derek must have felt that night when he left, and the realization crushes him, so heavy he can hardly breathe.

“Baby, breathe,” Derek insists, his other hand reaching to pull Stiles’ away from his face in an attempt to meet his gaze, but Stiles only turns his head, his lungs on fire, head swelling. “Stiles,” Derek begs him now, his hand cupping Stiles’ jaw, forcing their eyes to meet. “Breathe.” His voice is desperate, gaze imploring, and it’s enough for Stiles to suck in a ragged breath, the air splintering inside his lungs as his chest finally expands, and now he’s hyperventilating, too much too fast at once, tears pouring out of him as he sobs uncontrollably.

“Stiles, you’re okay,” Derek tells him, his thumb wiping the tracks over Stiles’ cheeks as tears start spilling from Derek, too. He rises from the chair before straddling Stiles’ legs, a hand on each of Stiles’ damp cheeks before he leans in and seals their lips together, wet noses brushing. You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay. He says it like he’s saying it to himself, as though he was convinced the opposite was true.

Stiles takes in another stuttering breath, hiccupping as he starts to calm down, his fingers hooked around each of Derek’s wrists as he continues holding Stiles in place. Their foreheads press together, and Stiles can’t tell the difference between the tears on his face anymore, mixed with Derek’s in a slurry of relief and sorrow.

“I’m sorry, chef,” Stiles gasps out once he manages to collect himself enough, his voice weak and frantic as another sob takes hold of him.

“Shh, it’s okay, baby. You’re okay,” he says, and he reaches over and swipes a tissue before wiping off Stiles’ nose and shifting to lie beside him. Stiles makes enough room for him before pressing into his side as Derek’s arms squeeze around him. It’s all Stiles can do to weep and hide under his chin, Derek’s fingers threading through his hair, his lips pressed against Stiles’ temple.

He can’t even fathom what it’d be like to come home and find Derek on the edge of death. He can’t let himself linger on it or he’ll never stop crying.

After a while, the tears subside, his head pounding, limbs aching. He knows they won’t give him anything more than tylenol with a familiar orange sublingual, and it feels futile to even accept it when the nurse eventually comes in to complete her hourly rounds. He swallows bitterly as the television plays droning reruns of Friends, the lime-flavored tablet dissolving under his tongue. He forces himself not to gag.

The nurse punches her notes into his chart and tells him to order lunch before the kitchen closes. Eating sounds like a task on his list he’d rather save for another day, but Derek casts him a weary gaze, and Stiles begrudgingly reviews the menu and orders chicken broth just to get that look off his face. He’s already disappointed him enough.

A social worker visits and goes over his options for continued recovery treatments once he gets released, and Stiles tries not to cry all over again as he thinks of all the progress he’s lost. He’d been clean for a little over a month, and now he’ll have to do it all over again—withdrawal symptoms and all. At least this time he’s being observed, the saline keeping him hydrated, the suboxone keeping the sharpness of the ache in his bones at bay.

This withdrawal isn’t nearly as bad, perhaps because he knows what to fully expect, or maybe because he knows this is the last time he’ll ever touch opioids, or anything for that matter, and he just has to get through to the other side—though more than anything, it’s probably the zofran injected into his IV catheter to keep from vomiting.

As much as his body craves another hit, his mind does not. He is done. He has to be. He cannot do this to Derek again. If Derek is as set on sticking around as Stiles wants him to be, there is simply no room for error.

Hi, my name is Stiles, and I’m a recovering addict.

The thought of saying that out loud makes him nauseous.

Finally, they’re alone again as Stiles sips his chicken broth once before resigning it to the tray beside him. Derek started to climb out of the bed and take his seat again the first time the nurse came in, but Stiles insisted he stay right where he is, keeping himself tucked up against his wall of heat. Even with the four layers of blankets, he’s freezing.

Derek’s fingers rub circles over Stiles’ shoulder, and he leans in and kisses some part of him every few minutes or so; his ear, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, like he’s checking to see he’s still here and alive, and Stiles feels like he doesn’t deserve it, like he should have died and shouldn’t be here because Derek deserves so much better. He deserves a healthy partner who doesn’t lie and doesn’t hate his sister and doesn’t f*ck his best friend and doesn’t overdose over a misheard conversation. Someone who honors his wishes, even if the act is meant in good faith. Someone who takes care of him instead of the other way around. Someone who trusts him when he says over and over again he’s never leaving.

“You deserve someone better,” Stiles mutters against his neck, clutching Derek’s shirt as tears fill his eyes again. He’s so tired of crying, a perpetual flow of saltwater stinging his cheeks. He’d cry if the wind blew the wrong way, and trying to prevent it from happening only makes it worse. So he allows it, resigned to a watery mess until he can figure out another way to process his overwhelming emotions.

“If we’re going off what I deserve, I wouldn’t be with anyone,” Derek says, his voice rumbling in his chest. Stiles’ hand splays out over Derek’s pectoral, nails bitten to shreds. He shakes his head and swipes his thumb over the fabric.

“That’s not true. You deserve anything you want.”

“Then I do deserve you,” Derek replies, his tone absolute, his hand settling in Stiles’ hair, fingertips drawing over his scalp. Stiles closes his eyes with a slow exhale, savoring Derek’s scent, his body heat, his touch.

“I’m the silent partner,” Stiles says, swallowing as his jaw hardens. Time feels like it’s stopped, his heart slowing and speeding up all at once.

“I know,” Derek answers, a teasing lilt to his tone. Stiles lifts his head to meet his gaze, eyebrows knit together.

“You know?”

Derek smirks and reaches up to wipe his cheeks. It’s futile, Stiles is sure he knows, but his touch is so tender, and Stiles will never deny him again, ever.

“Why do you think I started annoying you again? I told you, I know everything that goes on in that restaurant.” His eyebrow raises as he gazes at Stiles in amusem*nt, his finger and thumb squeezing Stiles’ chin as he pulls him in for a kiss.

Stiles returns his kiss before pulling away, eyes flicking between Derek’s. “How long have you known?”

“Since like… January. I’d been trying to buy you out, but Lydia wouldn’t let me. That’s how I figured it out.”

Derek looks pretty pleased with himself, his lips pressed in a line to ineffectually keep from smirking. Stiles can’t resist the laugh building up, his mouth splitting into a smile as he shakes his head with a snort.

“What happened to no withholding?” Stiles asks, his face pinched in feigned irritation as his smile lingers.

Derek purses his lips, reaching up to smooth the lines between Stiles’ brows. “I could ask you the same thing. How about a clean slate?”

“Fine. Now tell me what you don’t want me to know yet.”

Derek huffs out a laugh through his nose before leaning in and pressing their lips together.

“Just be patient,” he starts, pulling back to regard Stiles, his expression turning solemn, his hands curling around the back of Stiles’ neck as his thumbs press under the hinges of his jaw, tipping Stiles’ head up to meet his eyes. “I think we really need to work on trusting each other. And not jumping to conclusions.”

Stiles swallows, his gaze locked with Derek’s as he bites his lip and nods.

“And I think we need to actually start therapy.”

Stiles inhales deeply with another nod, his lips a tight line as he lowers his gaze. They’d talked about it but in true avoidance fashion, didn’t follow through. Stiles knows Derek is right. At this rate, their relationship isn’t very sustainable, and they run the risk of damaging each other further instead of building each other up like two people in love are supposed to do. Self-awareness isn’t enough—they must do the hard part. Stiles still isn’t convinced it’ll do him any good, but he knows they have to try.

The thought makes Stiles prickle with sweat and tuck back into Derek’s side.

Derek’s nose buries into Stiles’ hair, his warm hand slipping under the hospital gown to palm over his side. “It scares me, too. But what scares me more is us not working,” he mumbles, and all Stiles can do is nod in agreement, clutching to Derek’s side as his wet eyes fall shut.

The TV dispels the silence, and it’s not long before Derek is snoring softly, his limbs relaxing as sleep claims him. Stiles tries to sleep too, but it’s useless. Derek wakes when Scott makes an appearance, and he looks as rough as Derek does, bags under his eyes but a smile there, too.

“You should go get some rest,” Stiles tells Derek, and he starts to protest but Stiles shakes his head and mentions Ravioli, and that’s all it takes for Derek to nod in acceptance with a long yawn.

“Alright, but I’ll be back,” he insists, pressing their lips together in a series of lingering pecks. He offers Scott a nod and a quick hug, and then he’s gone, Scott taking the chair beside Stiles’ bed as the door clicks shut behind him.

Scott rubs his eyes and leans over his knees as he meets Stiles’ gaze with a careful smile. “How are you?”

Stiles shrugs. “Could be dead, so I guess I’m okay. Would have been cool to die on Halloween though. How’re you?”

Scott purses his lips disapprovingly before he looks down at his hands, twiddling his thumbs as his jaw flexes. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he says, drawing his gaze back to Stiles in earnest, “I’m… alright. Life is so strange, dude.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, because he’s not sure what else to say. They haven’t talked in four months, a record for them, and so much has happened within that time. He bites his lip, and at the same time he says, “I’m sorry,” Scott says, “I owe you an apology.”

Stiles’ lips twitch into a small smile, and then he shakes his head, eyeing his best friend—his brother, and Scott mirrors him until both of their faces split into a grin.

“Truce?”

“Truce.” Scott raises his fist, and Stiles pounds it with his own before Scott stands to hug him. It’s an awkward angle, but Stiles welcomes it, tears once again betraying him. At least they’re warranted this time, and nothing more needs to be said between them. Stiles is grateful for it—he really doesn’t have the capacity for a heart-to-heart right now.

Scott takes his seat again, and Stiles wipes his pestering tears. The television program has switched to Seinfeld, and it’s all water under the bridge.

“Hey, wanna see something cool?” Scott asks him as he digs out his phone.

“Absolutely.”

Scott swipes through a few screens before he lands on a picture, twisting his phone around to reveal an unfamiliar baby swaddled in blue, red skin and squished features with Scott’s nose cut and pasted onto his tiny face.

“No way,” Stiles laughs, snatching his phone to zoom in on the baby’s face, a new wave of tears overcoming him. “What’s his name?”

Scott beams with pride as his head peers in to view the photo like he hasn’t seen it before. “Sebastien Stiles McCall.”

“Shut the f*ck up,” Stiles laughs again, his tone wobbly with disbelief as he regards Scott in awe. “You’re kidding.”

Scott shakes his head. “Nope. We had that name picked out before she even got pregnant. So don’t go thinking it was in your memory or anything.”

Stiles blinks deliberately, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “I can’t believe you named your kid after me.”

Scott shrugs with a smirk. “I’m sure you’d do the same if you had one too.”

Scott sticks around for another hour or so until the nurse comes back to administer Stiles his meds. He squeezes Stiles a little too tightly before he leaves and says, “Come visit us when you’re feeling better,” and then Stiles is alone for the first time since overdosing. His body is jittery and tight with nerves, and he wishes Derek were here as he stares out the window overlooking the city, his brain giving way to the melancholy that inevitably creeps in during withdrawal. The uncomfortable physical symptoms can be treated, and Stiles is grateful for it, reproving himself for not just entering a program like Derek encouraged him to the first time—but there’s nothing that quells the sadness, the despair, the shame overwhelming his nervous system. Even if Derek were here to negate any of it, Stiles wouldn’t believe a word. He can’t help but think Derek would be better off without him.

Before he can wallow in any more of his despair, Isaac pops in head-first clutching an arrangement of purple and yellow flowers, his smile tiny but discernable as he approaches the hospital bed.

“You look like sh*t,” Isaac tells him as he sets the flowers on the bedside table. Stiles’ lips twitch into a smirk, watching Isaac take the seat beside him.

“You don’t, for once,” Stiles teases, rubbing his eyes with a yawn as his head falls back against the propped-up mattress.

Isaac crosses his arms and peers up at the television, his foot tapping over his knee as they sit in silence. Eventually, he turns to Stiles and asks, “You wanna talk about it?”

Stiles shakes his head, his lips pursing into a displeased frown.

“Okay. I’m here if you ever do,” Isaac responds, and Stiles offers him a slight, grateful smile. He supposes if anyone knows what he’s going through, Isaac has a clue, but he’s not ready to bond over unremitting vices right now, the wound too fresh for picking. It’s quiet for another beat as they stare aimlessly at the hanging television. “Where’s Derek?”

“I sent him home. He hadn’t slept all night.”

Isaac nods with a deep inhale, his gaze settling over Stiles. He looks like he wants to say something but decides against it as he exhales and turns back to the television.

“What?”

With pursed lips, Isaac turns to him once again, his eyes washing over Stiles’ features, his brows furrowing. Stiles hasn’t looked in a mirror, but he’d imagine Isaac wasn’t lying when he stepped in.

“If you’re feeling anything like I did…” Isaac pauses, chewing the inside of his cheek, his blue gaze penetrating. “Whatever you’re thinking right now—if you think you don’t deserve him, or that he’s better off without you. It’s not true. Don’t make that decision for him like I did.”

His expression is full of remorse and grief, and Stiles’ eyes well up all over again as he blinks, his lashes clumping with tears. Isaac reaches for his hand, his fingers squeezing. “Even if that were true—and I promise you, it’s not—I know what you’re capable of. I know you can be the partner you think he deserves, because you’ve done it before. It’s cliché, but it gets better.”

It's all Stiles can do but nod fervently and squeeze his hand back in response. He may not feel like it now, but he knows Isaac is right. Leaving Derek won’t do either of them any good, no matter how much he believes Derek can do better. In his heart of hearts, he knows Derek would never want to—and the thought of Derek being alone instead of being loved and exalted only sends a fresh wave of sorrow crashing against his sternum, snatching his heart back in with the high tide. Derek has done so much for him. It’s his turn to be taken care of now.

So that leaves Stiles with the only option left; he must build himself back up to be the man and partner Derek deserves.

--

Derek has been on autopilot since coming home to find Stiles’ nearly lifeless body in bed, barely a pulse to indicate he was in fact alive but only hanging on by a thread. He thought he’d lost him all over again, the overwhelming dread nearly crippling as his hands cupped Stiles’ blue face. The paramedics told him if he hadn’t administered CPR, he likely wouldn’t be here, and still Derek admonishes himself for not having narcan on hand. Then again, he had enough faith in Stiles, and still does, to hope that wouldn’t happen. He can’t decide if that was foolish or not.

The ambulance ride was a blur, the emergency room a blur, and he’s honestly fine with that because it was the most traumatizing experience of his life. Worse than finding Peter dead, than his mother dying, than Isaac disappearing. He’s hardly ashamed to admit his first thought was to overdose alongside him, had Stiles truly been gone. Even when they were apart, there was not a moment Derek could imagine living in this world without him in it.

Derek crashes in his clothes as soon as he feeds Ravioli and doesn’t wake up until it’s dark, lissome fingers gently brushing through his hair. His brows furrow, a bit disoriented as his head perks up in the dark room, Stiles hovering over him with a careful smile.

“You’re home already? Why didn’t you call?”

“I knew you’d be sleeping. It’s fine, chef. I asked to be discharged,” Stiles answers, his thumb reaching to smooth over Derek’s brow.

Derek regards him, his gaze a bit flustered as he blinks. “Why?”

Stiles shrugs before he leans in and kisses Derek’s forehead. “I’m so over hospitals. And I feel better when I’m with you.”

Derek finally sits up to meet him at eye level, his eyes still stinging with sleep. “What time is it?”

“A little after eight,” Stiles answers. Derek rubs his face, feeling greasy and disgusting with a layer of Chicago grime over him. He’d slept for almost ten hours and he’s still exhausted. “Are you hungry?” Stiles asks him, his fingers stroking through Derek’s hair.

“Yeah. Are you?”

Stiles shrugs again, indifferent as he presses their foreheads together, his eyes slipping shut. Derek’s fingers hook behind the column of his neck, thumb brushing over Stiles’ scruffy cheek as their noses bump and their breaths coalesce.

“I’m so sorry you found me like that,” Stiles whispers, his voice uneven.

Derek doesn’t know what to say to that. He’d rather not think about it anymore, but he knows how remorseful Stiles is and figures he’d feel terrible, too, were Stiles to come home and find him unresponsive. He leans in and presses their lips together instead, squeezing Stiles’ neck tenderly.

“Just please… call me, or anyone, if you ever feel like relapsing. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.”

Stiles nods avidly, his arms wrapping around Derek’s neck. “I promise, chef.”

They end up showering together, washing each other’s hair, wrapped up under the cascading hot water as they grasp one another. If Derek knew any better, he’d think Stiles was taking care of him despite the copious amount of pain Derek knows he’s in, washing his body, ordering the food and eating none of it, insisting on making Derek as comfortable as possible as they lounge in front of the tv after popping an edible. Derek’s too tired to object, and he’s inclined to let Stiles do whatever he wants—within reason. Derek’s head rests in Stiles’ lap as Ravioli sits on his chest, Stiles’ clammy fingers threading through his hair as he drifts asleep.

-

A switch flipped in Stiles after his overdose. It’s almost as if, instead of caring for himself, he pours all that energy into Derek. He cooks more now, and dotes on both him and Ravioli like it’s his job, and sex is constant and the best it’s ever been—they’ve always had a salubrious sex life, but it’s like Stiles can’t even get off until he tells Derek he’s his good boy, and Derek is completely okay with that. Stiles even runs with Derek like he’s about to break out of his skin, constantly moving, keeping his hands and body occupied, his brain on autopilot. He says he has to do something as soon as he thinks of it or he’s convinced he’ll relapse, and that scares the sh*t out of Derek. He knows relapse can be a part of recovery, but he hopes it's not in the stars for Stiles. They’ve got a healthy stash of narcan just in case. Even if Stiles never needs it, it’s just good to have on hand.

Stiles seems more determined than ever to get better and stay that way, and Derek is so proud of him, how he’s thrown himself into the formidable Sisyphean task. He’s spending a lot of time in his office, writing in his journal, sorting out things Derek assumes he had on hold while he was indisposed, and undergoing therapy. Lots of therapy. It took him a few therapists before he found one he actually liked, but once he found Marin, Derek could see a difference even after their first meeting—he walked out of his office with an air of relief and couldn’t stop talking about Marin this, and Marin that. Stiles really likes her, even when he’s pissy after one of their sessions. They were pretty mild at first, and Stiles would emerge grumpy and agitated because ‘it doesn’t feel like anything is happening and she keeps digging where I don’t want her to.’

“Isn’t that kind of the point?” Derek asks, an eyebrow raised as he chews on his almond croissant. Once Derek said he missed going on dates with him, Stiles showered and got dressed and dragged Derek out of the house. Being holed up with Stiles has been a dream but getting to actually date him again makes it feel like they’re more official and settled. Derek loves being seen in public with him, in awe that Stiles is even gracing him with his presence. He knows Stiles would rather walk around with a paper bag on his head if he has to be in public at all, but he seems more determined to make Derek happy than to surrender to his anxiety and act dead to the world. It’s easy to pretend nothing exists outside of them, anyway.

Stiles scoffs, his face pinching in disdain as he crosses his arms over his chest, his foot twitching over his knee. They’re at one of Lydia’s cafes, where most eyes are on them as they sit beside each other in a booth tucked away in the most private corner they could find. Derek doesn’t mind so much anymore, but Stiles doesn’t seem to welcome the attention like he used to. Ever since his overdose, people look at him differently; either with pity or antipathy, and Derek doesn’t blame him for wanting to stay locked away in his tower all day.

“Sometimes it feels like a racket. Like she’s just trying to know my past to sell to people or something,” Stiles grumbles, his eyebrows furrowing as he looks away. The direction he looks has people’s heads whipping back to their private exchanges.

“I don’t think she can do that without your consent,” Derek says with a smirk, taking another bite of his croissant. Stiles has been a lot more paranoid lately, with good reason. Ever since he left the hospital, people have been dying to know just how is Stiles Stilinski doing? Derek is always quick to shut down his delusions before he can take it too far.

Stiles’ eyes flick back to him, his expression softening from his scowl into an amused smile. He reaches over and swipes the corner of Derek’s mouth with his thumb, pulling it back to lick the powdered sugar off before leaning in for a kiss. Derek drags him back in before he can pull away, his lips curling, and Stiles lets him, his face flushed once they break apart. Stiles rubs a hand over his scruff before lowering his flustered gaze and sipping his coffee.

“But what if she puts out a book about her clients and people can figure it out?” he asks after a beat.

Derek blinks dramatically, an eyebrow raising in disregard. “Babe, you’re overthinking this. She’s not gonna write a book about you. Even if she did, I’m pretty sure she’d have to change enough things around so people couldn’t figure it out.”

Stiles inhales deeply as he nods, his hand settling on Derek’s knee with a tender squeeze. “Yeah, you’re right,” he mumbles, taking a sip of his coffee. He stares off, and Derek knows he’s still thinking about it on top of the anxiety being in public brings, his foot twitching between compulsive sips of coffee—which certainly don’t help with his anxiety. Derek stuffs the rest of his croissant in his mouth, brushing his fingers off before holding out his hand as he rises.

“C’mon, let’s get out of here,” Derek says through a mouthful, and Stiles smirks up at him before rising to meet him, reaching over to wipe his mouth off once again. They slip their jackets back on and crumple up their trash, tossing it as they exit the café. The cold isn’t too biting just yet, the weather soggier more than anything in the holiday interlude between Thanksgiving and Christmas.

Derek glances over at him as they sit in traffic, the radio and blasting heat alleviating the silence.

“I think you could write a better book than she could,” Derek says, and Stiles turns to him, his eyebrows lowered incredulously.

“Why would I do that?”

Derek shrugs, shifting into gear once the light turns green. “Could be an outlet, just to get it all out.”

“But I specifically don’t want people to know the details.”

“You don’t ever have to share it. I just think it’d be a cool thing for you to do for yourself.”

Stiles remains quiet after that, his hands fiddling with Derek’s fingers whenever he’s not shifting gears. When they get home, Stiles pulls his journal out to write while Derek plays his video games.

-

When Marin suggests Narcotics Anonymous, Stiles throws a fit.

“It’s not anonymous when half the world knows my name!”

He waxes poetic about how his recovery is a personal experience that he doesn’t want to share with anyone because it’s ‘none of their f*cking business’ as Stiles so eloquently puts it. And Derek gets it, having been a private person his entire life. He’s never been addicted to anything aside from weed, and the dopamine rush he gets when he accomplishes his goals, and maybe working out, and perhaps even Stiles if his codependency has anything to contribute to the pile—but if he were in Stiles’ shoes, Derek knows he would feel the same. It’s his and he doesn’t have to share it if he doesn’t want to.

He does, though, eventually. He asks Derek to tag along for the first time, and Derek obliges, happy to hold his hand as they listen to the other member’s stories. Stiles meets Malia, who he brings back home sometimes and they drink sugary coffee instead of wine and laugh or cry about stuff at their meeting that Derek has no clue on, but he’s happy to see Stiles connecting with peers and showing up. Some days are tougher than others, but that’s just life. Sometimes he talks about giving up, all watery and pitiful as he wallows in his misery, Ravioli clutched to his chest.

“Everyone always says how hard it is, but they never say it’s like this,” Stiles cries, sniffling and wiping his cheek over his shoulder as the cat purrs contentedly in his arms. He’s been in intensive therapy for a little over a month at this point, all within the comfort of his own home—a luxury many can’t even dream of. Derek doesn’t point that out to him though.

Instead, he indulges Stiles and validates his feelings until inevitably he cups Stiles’ face and looks into his eyes and says, “You’ve already come so far. I’m so proud of you, baby.”

That seems to be enough for Stiles to carry on, offering him the reassurance he unconsciously seeks, his tears drying as he presses into Derek’s neck. Despite the dark cloud that follows him once he drags himself away each day, Derek has noticed a patent difference in him. It was marked the first day he returned from the hospital and his determination has only grown each time he reaffirms his decision to stay clean, like a self-fulfilling prophecy. It’s funny how that works once motivation takes hold. The hardest part is showing up, and he’s taken it in stride, his cross to bear.

Derek’s therapist is a woman who doesn’t baby him like he had anticipated. Braeden is empathetic and listens, but she holds him accountable and asks him questions like, ‘What does that remind you of?’ when discussing Isaac and ‘Have you ever had a time where you felt safe and comforted?’

And Derek says, “Of course,” but then his mind draws a blank. He cannot think of a single time, outside of his relationship with Stiles and perhaps even Paige, that anyone has offered him the kind of comfort he so readily gives away. His father never laid a hand on him, in a good or a bad way, and his mother, while she did her best with what she had, didn’t fulfill his emotional needs as a child. She was always working to ensure they had a roof over their heads and food in their bellies; how could she have time for anything else?

“You don’t have to make excuses for her. It’s okay to acknowledge that her best wasn’t enough.”

Derek is stunned into silence by that one. He’s offended, even—how dare she say something so controversial yet so true—but the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes it wasn’t enough. Sure, his mother loved him and his sisters, and he never felt otherwise, and sure his caregiver met his basic human needs, until he was the one who had to keep the roof over their heads and food in the refrigerator. The roles were never reversed from that point on; now Derek just lives his life that way, taking care of anyone who shows him a modicum of affection, showering them in praise and getting none in return. Not until Stiles came along.

They take care of each other like they said they would, and it’s more than Derek could ever ask for.

-

The farm Derek had toured fell through, which is exactly why he didn’t want to bring it up to Stiles yet. It was right outside city limits and nearly perfect, the property just didn’t have the pond Stiles talked about, but he figured they could just dig one out themselves. Derek stopped the search when he realized Stiles was doing really well with his meetings and the newfound community he’d thrown himself into. Perhaps those dreams would be for later down the line.

“When are you going to tell me about the thing you didn’t want me to know yet?” Stiles asks, scooping a heaping spoonful of mint chocolate chip ice cream into his mouth. Derek ducks his head to hide his smile when Stiles’ face pinches in a brain freeze.

He bites his lip before he peeks up at Stiles from under his eyebrows. Stiles blinks expectantly and purses his lips. “Well?”

With a sigh, Derek smooths over his beard as he shrugs. “I was looking at a farm, but it fell through. And then figured since you’re doing really well being in the city with your peers, it’s just not the time for that yet. Plus, you don’t know how to drive.”

Stiles regards him with a perplexed scowl, licking his lips as he absentmindedly swirls his ice cream into soft serve.

“I could learn how to drive.”

Derek cants his head to the side as an eyebrow raises with curiosity. “You want to learn how to drive?”

“Yeah. Why not? It can’t be that hard.”

“I have a stick shift,” Derek points out, his eyes narrowing as his lips twitch into a smile.

“I think I know my way around a stick. How hard can it be?”

Derek huffs a laugh out through his nose as he shakes his head, gaze locked on Stiles in amusem*nt. “Alright, I’ll teach you.”

Stiles beams, his cold lips pressing against Derek’s cheek. “Don’t stop looking.”

“You still want me to look?”

“Yeah. I still want that with you. I think…” he trails off, his spoon scraping over the bottom of the bowl. “I think I’m ready for the next phase. There’s meetings everywhere.” He turns his gaze back to Derek, the corners of his lips curling. “I’m ready for us to have our own thing together.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

-

“Happy birthday, chef,” Stiles murmurs in his ear, his hand stroking Derek’s co*ck beneath the covers. Derek inhales sharply, his hips twitching as Stiles’ hand works around him, a low moan rumbling from his chest as his eyes flutter open.

Stiles shifts between his legs, the covers falling away as his finger and thumb squeeze around the tip, Derek’s hips bucking into his hand.

“What do you want, baby?” Stiles asks him, his other hand cupping his balls, and Derek’s eyes roll back as he breathes out and grips the bed sheets.

“f*ck me,” Derek replies, his voice grainy as he swallows and drinks in the man between his legs, hair wild, tattoos stark against his pale skin. Stiles grins, his grip squeezing around Derek’s dick.

“Okay,” he says, reaching up to press his fingers into Derek’s mouth, and Derek obliges, his eyes glued to Stiles’ face, tongue lapping salaciously around his skinny fingers as he holds his gaze. Stiles’ eyes darken as he watches, replacing his fingers with his lips over Derek’s mouth, his hand reaching between them as his fingers prod over Derek’s hole.

Derek hums and pushes down, his legs wrapping around Stiles’ waist. “Don’t tease me,” he mutters, biting on Stiles’ bottom lip before sucking it into his mouth. Stiles huffs out through his nose, smiling as his tongue laps into Derek’s mouth, a finger pressing in at the same time, eliciting a low moan vibrating from his chest.

Stiles stretches him open, his fingers teasing over the nerves inside him, his hand stroking as Derek gasps and writhes beneath him. “Stiles, you’re gonna make me—” he moans out, eyebrows drawn, mouth falling open as Stiles’ thumb rubs circles over his co*ckhead.

“Yeah?” Stiles teases, his co*ck hard and flushed and leaking against Derek’s abdomen, that mischievous glint in his eye. “What, you don’t want to come until I’m inside you, baby?”

Derek nods heartily, “Yeah,” he breathes out, clenching around Stiles’ fingers that never quite stretch Derek open enough to match his girth.

“Okay, baby,” Stiles coos, squeezing the base of him, and Derek whines once Stiles removes his fingers to lube himself up, his eyes never leaving Derek’s body as he licks his lips and strokes over his co*ck. “Look at you, all spread open for me,” Stiles murmurs, his hand palming the inside of Derek’s thigh, the hair bristling in the susurrus of their beating hearts and heavy breaths. “You’re so beautiful, Derek.”

Derek swallows, his face flushing as blood hums in his ears. He never knows how to respond to that—Stiles is the only person who has ever called him beautiful and his brain still short circuits over it.

Stiles lines himself up, his hand curling over Derek’s hip as he wraps his legs around Stiles’ waist, and then Stiles presses in, just the tip of him as he waits and watches Derek’s face.

“Stiles,” Derek grits out, brows knit in a scowl, hands gripping Stiles’ biceps, and Stiles simpers down at him, all deviant and pleased with himself as he slowly inches inside. He loves making Derek beg and can’t seem to resist even on his birthday of all days.

“What is it, my love?” Stiles asks, his tone facetious, an eyebrow raised as he holds himself back. “Tell daddy what you need.”

Derek huffs out, fingertips digging into Stiles’ flesh. “I need you to stop f*cking teasing me and f*ck me, hard,” he grunts, Stiles’ hand palming up his side, fingertips caressing over his chest.

“Is that all?” Stiles asks, blinking expectantly.

Derek’s face flushes again, his thighs squeezing. “Please, daddy,” he whines, because he knows Stiles loves it when he whines and whimpers and begs, and this seems to satisfy him enough to press the rest of his length inside, Derek’s mouth falling open in a long, ragged moan.

Stiles’ forehead falls to his chest as he lets Derek adjust around him, hot puffs of air washing over his abs as Stiles pants above him. “f*ck, you feel so good, baby.”

Derek’s thighs squeeze around him for encouragement, and Stiles finally starts moving, the burn subsiding as he pulls out. He adjusts his angle just so before thrusting back in with a drawn-out moan catching in his throat as Derek clenches around him, his eyebrows knit, his gaze unremitting. Derek’s head presses into the pillow, limbs already shaking as he holds himself back. Stiles indulges him, his hips slapping against the back of Derek’s thighs as he builds his rhythm and f*cks him, hard. He kisses along Derek’s neck, sucking a bruise into his skin, Derek’s fingers slipping into his hair, his co*ck pressed between their stomachs, precum cooling on his flesh.

“Tell me,” Derek says, his voice breaking, clenching around Stiles as he drives into him, their skin slick with sweat, electricity swirling behind his navel with each thrust.

Their foreheads press together, Stiles’ free hand curling behind Derek’s neck, thumb swiping over his jawline. “You’re my good boy, Derek. You’ll always be my good boy,” Stiles breathes out before sealing their lips together in a sloppy kiss, inhaling sharply through their noses as Derek whimpers and holds himself back with an aching shudder.

“Look at me,” Stiles commands, breaking their kiss as he pulls back, his neck red, skin glowing under a sheen of sweat. Derek meets his gaze, hardly able to keep his eyes open, and Stiles grabs his hands, lacing their fingers together before holding them above Derek’s head. “Come for me, chef.”

Stiles ruts his hips, his brows pinched in concentration as he holds Derek’s gaze, and Derek can feel his eyes crossing as he lets go, hot spurts painting his skin as he groans out with each pulse.

“Good boy, Derek, just like that, baby,” Stiles coos, and Derek swears it only drags out his org*sm when Stiles praises him, like his pleasure is all Stiles is after and he pokes and prods to get every bit of it out of him, Derek’s back arching as his balls draw inside him. “Daddy loves you, baby, you’re my good boy, so good for me,” he babbles, hips rocking as he breathes heavily.

“Fill me up, daddy,” Derek rasps out, thighs trembling as he watches Stiles above him, fingers squeezing Stiles’ hands as he falls out of rhythm, brows knit tight. A heady moan falls out of his mouth as he buries himself up to the root, hips twitching erratically as he comes. Derek can feel his co*ck throbbing with each spurt, and it sends shivers up his spine, clenching and unclenching as he drags out Stiles’ org*sm and savors his sounds.

Stiles slumps over him, both of their chests heaving, Derek’s legs spreading as he lets his muscles relax. He gazes up at the ceiling, eyes half-lidded as Stiles releases their hands to thread his fingers into Derek’s sweaty hair. Derek feels Stiles lick up his neck before pressing their lips together, their beards brushing as their mouths move languidly in a tender kiss.

Derek’s hands splay over Stiles’ spine as they nip and lick at each other’s lips, noses grazing, smiles curling the corners of their mouths. Derek would be perfectly content to stay in bed like this all day, Stiles filling him up, marking his insides, hands all over him, bodies slick with cum and sweat—alas, it’s Christmas, and they’re due to be at the Chief’s house by noon. It never bothered Derek that his birthday landed on Christmas until this very moment.

“I have a surprise for you,” Stiles mumbles against Derek’s lips, hands cupping his face, thumb tugging at his bottom lip.

“Hmm, whatever it is, it’ll be hard to top that,” Derek teases, his fingertips tracing along Stiles’ spine.

Stiles pecks his lips before breaking away, a smug expression on his face as he starts to pull out. Derek pouts, something he doesn’t do very often, and Stiles huffs out a laugh as he maneuvers from between Derek’s legs. He reaches into their bedside table drawer and turns to Derek with a smirk, his hand hidden.

“Turn over,” Stiles orders, an eyebrow raising when Derek eyes him curiously. He obeys, like he always does, earning him another good boy as Stiles shifts back to straddle Derek’s thighs, something heavy dropping beside him. Stiles’ hands cup his ass, spreading his cheeks apart, and Derek blushes as he buries himself into his pillow, his hole fluttering, hot cum leaking out of him. His fingers run from Derek’s balls back to his hole, pressing any stray sem*n back into him, and Derek gasps, his hole clenching.

“Stiles,” he grits out, his face hot, and Stiles chuckles behind him, something cold pressing against his entrance.

“Relax, baby,” Stiles tells him, one of his hands squeezing at Derek’s hip, and Derek inhales deeply, forcing his body to relax despite the foreign object teasing him. “Mmm, just like that. Good boy,” he says, and Derek keens, his mouth watering, co*ck hardening between his stomach and the sheets. “Do you trust me, Derek?”

Derek nods vigorously, his back arching in declaration of this, and the sound of Stiles’ pleased laugh vibrates in his chest. “Tell me, chef.”

“I trust you,” Derek breathes out, fingers clutching his pillow, and Stiles praises him once again, the smile apparent in his voice. It’s true—Derek trusts him with his whole being. They’ve been through too much at this point to have any leftover reservations. He knows Stiles would never do anything to hurt him. He knows he’s safe with Stiles.

Stiles’ fingers brush over the delicate skin at the small of his back, and he waits until Derek exhales as he presses the object in. Sweat spikes over Derek’s skin as he whimpers, the base of the butt plug wider than Stiles’ co*ck, tears welling in his eyes as Stiles presses it all the way in. Relief floods him once the stopper sits snug against his hole, panting as his muscles tremble, and once he realizes Stiles has plugged him up, his cum trapped right where it belongs, he licks his lips and bucks into the mattress.

“f*ck, baby. You look so good like this,” Stiles declares, his hands gently squeezing over Derek’s hips, slipping over his cheeks before spreading them again. Derek swallows, feeling exposed under Stiles’ gaze, but safe and loved and secure all the same. “I want you to keep this in all day. And then when we get home, I’ll f*ck you and fill you up all over again, mkay?”

“Okay,” Derek agrees, his voice breathless, co*ck already painfully hard.

“Good boy,” Stiles says, leaning down to kiss between Derek’s shoulders. “Go start the shower and I’ll suck you off.” He pulls himself off to lay on his side, head propped up against his hand as he watches.

Derek obeys.

-

Derek has a hard time not blushing every time Stiles gives him that look, smug and sneaky like he knows all of Derek’s secrets—which, at this point, he does. He has to keep his dick flipped up into his waistband and turn away anytime Stiles stares at him, and he swears his humiliation only makes Stiles more deviant. His fingers slip in the hair at the nape of Derek’s neck as they open gifts, his hand settling at the small of Derek’s back as he noses himself into Derek’s business in the kitchen, and his kisses are entirely too spicy to be appropriate at a family gathering despite being out of sight anytime Stiles steals one from him.

“You’re a f*cking menace,” Derek growls in the bathroom he had to slip away to, only for Stiles to follow him. “They know something is up.”

Stiles only smirks up at him, his gaze blissom and hungry as he reaches out and snaps open Derek’s denim. “No they don’t,” he says coolly, but Derek knows Stiles doesn’t even believe that, his fingers curling around the waistband of his boxer briefs before tugging them down just enough for Derek’s co*ck to fall out. The cold air makes him hiss, his hands gripping the edge of the bathroom counter he leans against as he grits his teeth and watches Stiles’ hands. One cups his balls as the other squeezes over Derek’s length, and Derek’s face gets all hot again, muscles clenching around the plug—just the thought of Stiles’ cum filling him up sending him to the edge.

“Aw, poor baby, you’re all wet,” Stiles teases, gently pushing back the foreskin, the tip of him glistening and swollen. Derek’s already panting, helpless as Stiles squeezes his co*ckhead, the palm of his hand rubbing over the tip.

“Oh, Jesus, f*ck, Stiles,” Derek chokes out, his hips twitching as Stiles drops to his knees. Stiles’ tongue replaces the palm of his hand, fingers gripping just below the head as his lips wrap around him. Derek’s mouth drops open in a silent moan, his brows knitting as his chest heaves, and Stiles sucks him just like that, pulling the third org*sm of the day out of him like it’s the most natural thing in the world to suck his boyfriend off in his childhood home, their entire family downstairs and un-oblivious because they’re not f*cking slick about anything.

Stiles gazes up at him from beneath his lashes, lips perfectly pink and lush, eyes dark as the point of his tongue laps into Derek’s slit. Derek holds himself back from f*cking into his mouth, fingers squeezing the edge of the counter as he futilely suppresses the whimpers Stiles draws out of him. Stiles doesn’t move his hand, just squeezes the shaft and suckles on the tip, his other hand pressing against Derek’s hip to hold him in place until Derek chokes out his name and releases over his tongue. Stiles milks him clean, swallowing as he pulls back and wipes his mouth, lips curled in a satisfied smirk as he tucks Derek’s co*ck back into his underwear.

As he rises, he zips Derek back up, leaning in to press their mouths together before pushing his tongue past Derek’s lips. Derek breathes sharply through his nose, tasting himself as Stiles strokes his tongue over his own. He pulls back, their lips smacking wetly, his arms wrapping around Derek’s neck.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” Derek breathes out, hands settling on Stiles’ hips, eyes heavy as he slumps against the counter.

Stiles huffs out a laugh through his nose, fingers settling in Derek’s hair. “Mm, you love me for it, though.”

Derek reaches up and places a palm against each of Stiles’ cheeks, his thumbs brushing over Stiles’ stubble as he meets his amber gaze. “I love you, regardless. Your mouth just sweetens the deal.”

Stiles laughs again, his head falling back, and Derek catches his lips in another kiss, this one more tender and innocent than the last.

“I love you too, big guy. Let’s go eat some pie before Scott and Liam bogart it all.”

-

True to his word, Stiles has Derek pressed into the bed as he straddles Derek’s thighs and f*cks into him, fingers gripping the scruff of his neck. Of course, Derek only comes once Stiles tells him what a good boy he’d been all day, and Derek thinks Stiles has ruined him—he’ll never be able to get off without his praise.

Derek is perfectly okay with that.

-

Stiles gets a barrage of texts requesting his presence at various New Year’s Eve parties, his temper rising each time his phone vibrates. Derek turns the phone on silent and hides it in the couch cushions before he ends up throwing it over the balcony.

The fire crackles as a Christmas movie plays, Stiles scribbling in his journal before tearing out a stack of pages and crumpling them up. He tosses them angrily in the direction of the fire but misses, and Ravioli takes this chance to play with her new toy as Stiles presses his palms to his eyes, his jaw hardening.

“What is it?” Derek asks him carefully, looking up from his phone where he leans on the couch cushion beside Stiles.

Stiles just shakes his head silently, and Derek can tell he’s trying to keep himself from crying, his neck flushing as he hides his face. Derek sits upright, his feet falling to the floor before he wraps his arms around Stiles’ waist and tugs him into his lap. Stiles immediately buries his face in Derek’s neck, sniffling as the tears fall, and Derek lets him cry it out, whatever it is. While he’s gotten better at managing his emotions, the smallest things can trigger him and send him spiraling, and sometimes he just needs to cry.

Derek’s fingertips rub comforting circles where each of his hands press against Stiles, one on his thigh, the other at his side just below his ribs.

Eventually, Stiles lets out a shaky breath and wipes his cheek over Derek’s shoulder, his fingers gripping the fabric of Derek’s shirt. Technically, it’s one of Stiles’ oversized shirts, but Derek wears it around the apartment.

“I feel like pieces of my brain are missing. Writing is different now,” he says, his voice breaking. “Like, I can’t remember words I’ve used my whole life. It’ll be on the tip of my tongue but it never comes to me and my writing is f*cking sh*t for it.”

Derek hums in acknowledgment, his fingers bunching the thick heather fabric of Stiles’ sweatpants as he offers a tender squeeze. “It’s only been a couple months, babe. They say it can take a year or more to feel normal again.”

This seems to be the wrong thing to say, and Stiles starts crying all over again as he tucks against Derek’s chest.

Derek frowns and kisses his temple, his nose pressing into his short hair. “I’m sorry. I know that’s not what you want to hear. Healing takes time, but that’s okay. We’ve got plenty of it.”

Stiles just nods feebly as he exhales, his tears dampening Derek’s shirt.

Later, after Stiles eats an edible and passes out on the couch, Derek grabs the wadded-up balls of paper that have found their way into the liminal hall space. He flattens them out over his thigh, his eyes scanning over the first few enrapturing lines. Derek doesn’t know much about writing, but he’s read Stiles’ books and enjoyed the tone and narrative, just as charming on paper as he is in real life. Stiles’ words are still noteworthy and provocative, whether he believes that or not. Derek slips into his office and places the papers on his desk, scooping up Ravioli on his way out to start dinner.

-

“You remember that episode of Spongebob where Patrick tells him to use his big toe?”

Stiles grits his teeth as he turns to Derek with a glare. “Are you really f*cking using a cartoon to teach me how to drive?”

Derek’s lips roll between his teeth as he keeps from smiling. Stiles narrows his eyes, his lips pursed.

“Yes, I am. Pressure on the clutch is everything. You don’t want to floor it or you’ll end up riding the clutch too much between gears.”

“I have no idea what you’re saying to me,” Stiles grits out, his grip on the steering wheel turning white as he glowers at the Jewel-Osco on the other end of the parking lot.

As amusing as Stiles is when he’s pissed off, Derek doesn’t want to push him over the edge. They’ve been at it for about thirty minutes and Stiles has stalled the car three times. Even turning off the radio hasn’t made much of a difference.

“Okay, let’s give it one more shot before we take a break,” Derek suggests, and Stiles has that determined scowl on his face as he takes in a deep breath and nods.

“Okay,” he agrees. He wiggles the stick shift, ensuring it’s in neutral as if it’ll summon up the mojo he needs to figure this driving thing out. Derek has all the faith in the world that Stiles can drive—it’s not like it very hard to do, but many people these days don’t even know manual cars still exist, let alone how to operate them.

“Alright, clutch to the floor as you switch in first gear,” Derek tells him, watching his profile.

“You just said don’t floor the clutch!”

“Only when you’re switching gears, first gear is different,” Derek says calmly. Stiles inhales deeply, his shoulders rising, and then exhales with a huff. He does as he’s told, his foot on the break as he turns to Derek for guidance.

“Okay, now as you’re releasing the clutch, ease on the accelerator. Think of it like a seesaw. Press one pedal down as the other one eases up.”

Stiles follows through, the car jerking as it begins to accelerate. Stiles has gotten this down for the most part—it’s switching between gears he’s struggling with the most. He swallows and bites his lip, the engine revving as it works past its first gear.

“You feel that, right? That means it’s time to switch gears. Use your big toe on the clutch and switch to second gear.”

Stiles completes the task successfully, his lips twitching into a minuscule smile after Derek praises him. He does fine in second gear, nearly whipping around a barrier as the car stutters along, but Stiles seems to find a rhythm as he switches to the third gear. Then Stiles breaks without shifting the car back to neutral, and it stalls once again.

He punches the steering wheel and accidentally honks as someone walks by, and Derek runs a hand over his mouth to hide his amusem*nt as the person jumps and nearly drops their groceries.

“You’re doing a good job, baby, really. You’ll be a master at it one day.”

“f*ck off,” Stiles snaps, and they switch seats for Derek to drive them home.

Derek buys him an automatic Prius the next day.

-

Historically, Valentine’s Day hasn’t been the best holiday for them. In an attempt to circumvent a disastrous date, they offer to babysit while Scott and Allison take their first night out since Sebastien was born. Derek can’t decide if this date is better than what they could have cooked up for themselves.

Seb’s tears put Stiles on edge, fear in his eyes as he attempts to calm the tiny human in his arms. As soon as Derek takes the wailing baby from Stiles, he calms down, his red face turning white again as he hiccups and sucks in a stuttering breath.

“Oh my god, he hates me. He’s named after me and he f*cking hates me,” Stiles mutters, his tone bitter as he watches Derek hold the baby against his chest while patting his back.

Derek purses his lips and offers him a deadpan stare with a slow blink.

“You’re being dramatic. He’s probably just hungry again,” Derek says, his hand splaying as he rubs over the infant’s back. “Wanna warm up a bottle?”

“Do I look like I know how to warm up a bottle?” Stiles drops into the couch, crossing his arms over his chest as he glowers at the blank television screen. “He’s not even crying anymore, you don’t have to try to make me feel better about it.”

Derek sighs and sits down beside him just as Sebastien starts crying again, his head wobbling as he leans back to wail properly. “See? It’s not just you,” Derek says over his cries, an eyebrow raising. “Here, take him while I make the bottle.”

Stiles gives Sebastien a disdainful look, his arms still crossed before he sighs theatrically, accepting the baby as Derek holds him out. Derek leans in and kisses his cheek, Sebastien wailing louder once Stiles takes hold of him.

“Please hurry up,” Stiles grumbles, his face pinched in a grimace. Derek can’t help but snort as he runs off into the kitchen to make a bottle. When he returns, Sebastien isn’t any happier.

“Oh my god just take him, I’m done,” Stiles snaps, his arms outstretched with the crying baby, and Derek huffs out a short laugh and shakes his head.

“Stiles, come on. Just hold him up. You can feed him,” Derek insists, pressing the baby back against his chest. Stiles glares up at him, his jaw hardening as he holds Sebastien begrudgingly. Derek hands him the bottle, and as soon as Stiles places the nipple in his mouth, silence washes over them as Seb contentedly drinks away.

“See? Just hungry. I know someone who gets pretty cranky when they’re hungry, too,” Derek says with a smirk, taking his place beside Stiles again as his arm settles around Stiles’ shoulders. Stiles side-eyes him, his lips pursed as he holds up the bottle.

“He still hates me. He’s just too occupied to care now.”

“Yeah, well you don’t like him all that much, either. He can probably sense it.”

Stiles’ brows furrow as he looks down at Seb, the baby staring back up at him as his hands wave in the air and grasp at nothing.

“That’s not true. I just… don’t know what to do with babies.”

Derek reaches over and lets Sebastien grasp one of his fingers, smiling down at the baby as he sucks on his bottle. “Maybe he doesn’t know what to do with you, either. You are Stiles Stilinski, after all. He’s probably just shy.”

Stiles’ lips twitch in a tiny smile as he stares down, the baby’s eyes slowly blinking as he struggles to keep them open. “He’s alright when he’s quiet, I guess.”

“Hmm. I know someone like that, too.”

Stiles huffs and nudges Derek in his side, a smile curling his lips. Derek eventually shows Stiles how to burp him, and he tries not to be ireful when Sebastien spits up over his shoulder.

-

“What’s our anniversary?” Stiles asks out of the blue as they lounge in the living room. It’s been an awful week weather-wise, but that doesn’t impede their regularly scheduled activities. A trivial thing such as a snowstorm doesn’t affect homebodies all that much. Derek’s playing a video game and Stiles is reading a book, his finger holding his place on the page as he looks up at Derek and waits.

“Uhh,” Derek starts, his eyebrows furrowing as he pauses his game and turns to meet Stiles’ gaze. “I don’t know. Depends on what you count as us getting back together.”

“Well what do you count as us getting back together?”

Derek shrugs and reaches for the pre-rolled joint set in the ashtray before sparking it up. He leans back into the cushions as he brings it to his lips, eyeing Stiles as he puffs. “Well, it was pretty obvious we were back together even though there was no label for it. At least until you called me a f*cking idiot for even asking if we were really doing this again.” Derek smirks, taking another hit before passing it to Stiles, blowing the smoke out of the side of his mouth. “That was the beginning of October.”

“You don’t count our first anniversary?” Stiles asks, pinching the joint between his fingers as he draws it to his mouth.

Derek shrugs, his hand settling on the inside of Stiles’ thigh. “Do you?”

“I don’t know. What’s the protocol for relationships with a five-year gap?”

“I don’t know,” Derek says with a short laugh, his gaze flicking over Stiles’ features. “How about we make up our own?”

Stiles takes another puff before passing the joint back to Derek with a smile and a nod. He pulls Derek in by his shirt, pressing their lips together as he exhales the smoke into Derek’s mouth, and Derek does his best to keep any from going to waste, inhaling as he squeezes Stiles’ thigh. They pull away, both of their faces smug as they regard each other before they both laugh, smoke pouring out of his nose.

“Okay. October 3^rd it is then,” Stiles declares.

“What’s the significance of October 3^rd?”

Stiles huffs and furrows his eyebrows. “Seriously, Derek? It’s October 3^rd.”

Derek blinks, his eyebrows raising. “Okay then.”

With pursed lips, Stiles snatches the Xbox controller, saving Derek’s game before navigating back to the landing page. He puts on Mean Girls and tosses his book to the side before pressing up against Derek, making himself comfortable as Derek pulls on the joint and settles in.

“Oh, right, I remember now,” Derek says once the opening credits start. He takes another hit before ashing the joint and passing it back to him.

“We’re not changing it.”

Derek sighs melodramatically, entirely unfazed and happy to oblige, and Stiles reaches up and playful pinches his nipple. “Ow!”

-

Rain pelts against the windows, a low rumble of thunder passing overhead pulling Derek the rest of the way out of his slumber. Today is supposed to be a gym day, but cuddling during a thunderstorm is an opportunity not to be missed.

Derek presses against Stiles’ back, nuzzling into his hair as his arms wrap around his middle, but instead of Stiles pressing back against him, he pulls away with a disgruntled huff, shoving the covers off and dragging himself out of bed. Derek blinks sluggishly, eyebrows drawing in as his eyes follow Stiles’ naked figure to the bathroom.

“Babe?”

He’s met with silence before the bathroom door slams shut, and Derek blinks again before lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling in bemusem*nt. He rubs a hand over his face with a long sigh, tossing the covers off before he pads over to the bathroom door. He knocks gently, gets no response, and rubs his tired eyes.

“Are you okay?”

“f*ck off.”

Derek purses his lips, regarding the door like it’s the one who offended him. He sighs disdainfully before making his way to the other bathroom down the hall.

-

When Derek returns from the gym, Stiles is in the kitchen, slamming cabinets and wares as he angrily prepares breakfast. Derek drops his gym bag and heads to the kitchen, regarding Stiles carefully as he lingers in the threshold.

“Why are you so mad? Did I do something?”

Stiles glowers at him before turning his gaze back to his task, scraping the bottom of the pan as he scrambles eggs.

“What did I do?” Derek asks in earnest, standing at the other end of the kitchen as Stiles wields a spatula like a weapon. Stiles still doesn’t respond, and Derek purses his lips, his teeth gritting. He walks up to Stiles and grips his shoulder, gently turning Stiles to face him.

“You have to talk to me. I can’t fix whatever this is if you don’t tell me what I did.”

Stiles scoffs and looks up to the ceiling as he shakes his head in a maddened gesture, like the very idea of telling Derek anything at all is the bane of his existence.

Finally, Stiles looks at him, his face pinched in irritation, and says, “Nothing.”

“Okay,” Derek says, drawing out the vowel as an eyebrow raises incredulously, “So what’s with the attitude?”

Stiles inhales sharply through his nose before huffing out his breath, exasperated as he turns off the element. He plates up the eggs alongside the bacon and toast already prepared, and Derek blinks, eyebrows raised expectantly.

“I had a dream you left me,” Stiles finally answers, shoving Derek’s breakfast into his hands before grabbing his own plate and making his way to the breakfast nook.

Derek resists the urge to roll his eyes before he follows Stiles and sits adjacent to him. He understands it’s an insecurity, but it’s getting exhausting having to constantly prove otherwise. “And then you realized it was only a dream, and I’m still here.”

Stiles can’t seem to wipe the scowl off his face as he takes a bite of his crispy toast. “Yes. But I’m still upset about it.”

Derek purses his lips instead of telling him how f*cking crazy he’s being before taking a bite of his bacon. Obviously, Stiles isn’t mad enough to starve him, so that’s a good sign, and it’s clear he’s aware of how ridiculous it is to be upset at Derek over a dream he has no control over. Derek decides to let him be mad about it—it’s a fear that still lives deep within Stiles’ subconsciousness, and the only thing Derek can do is validate his feelings and keep showing up.

“Okay then.”

They finish their meal in silence, and Derek goes to take a shower. When he emerges from the bathroom, naked and toweling his hair, he’s met with Stiles sitting on the bed with his arms crossed, foot twitching over his knee. The scowl has softened but there’s still a level of uncertainty etched into his features as Derek regards him.

“You feeling better now?”

“Don’t patronize me,” he snaps, and his scowl hardens again.

“I’m literally just asking you a question,” Derek starts, wrapping the towel around his waist as he steps closer. Stiles looks away, arms still crossed as he pouts, and Derek sighs. “Would you please just tell me what you need me to do so we can move past this?”

Stiles turns back to him, his eyes scanning over Derek’s body before meeting his gaze. He frowns and drops his arms and says, “Just hold me and never let me go.”

Without a word, Derek grabs his hands and tugs him up, wrapping his arms tightly around Stiles’ middle as Stiles exhales and rests his head on Derek’s shoulder. He relaxes into Derek’s hold, and Derek hugs him so hard his spine pops, Stiles’ hands circling around Derek’s hips as he presses into Derek’s neck.

Derek kisses his temple, his thumbs stroking over Stiles’ back through his thick hoodie. “What do I have to do for you to understand I’m not going anywhere?”

Stiles remains quiet, the air turning heavy, and Derek thinks he might have asked the wrong question until Stiles finally speaks up.

“Marry me.”

“Okay.”

It’s the fastest answer he’s ever given.