yodas-yo-yo:

Your wish is my command, nonnie. Except for the hair licking. I could’t work out a way to include that, 😉

They’ve been researching chupacabras for hours, Stiles curled up in the enormous brown leather armchair Derek bought a couple years ago. Derek sitting on the floor by his feet, back leaning against the arm of the chair, legs stretched out under the fancy-schmancy coffee table that Stiles thinks looks like something from a pottery barn catalog, but that Derek insists is handmade by a master carpenter from reclaimed wood.

Five years ago if someone had told Stiles that Derek Hale, the dude who once spent three months living out of a rusting train car in an abandoned depot, was a snob about interior design, he would have laughed.

Now he’s sitting in Derek’s refurbished loft apartment, with its exposed brick walls, high ceilings and large windows that let in plenty of light. Everywhere  Stiles looks there’s bare wood, expensive leather furnishings and flashes of polished chrome. It’s decorated in neutral colors, slate grays and storm-tossed blues that have been accented with the odd flash of brighter color here and there. Everything feels sharp, and sleek and natural all at once. It feels grown up and very masculine, and Stiles is kinda secretly in love with it. Derek has bookshelves and organic coffee and prints hanging on the wall from old movies. He has an expensive waffle iron and an omelette pan. He has a fucking ficus. A ficus. Stiles cannot.

Not that he ever tells Derek how weird he finds it. Even three years ago, he might have done. But seeing Derek get to the point where he’s no longer hyper-vigilant or consumed by anger and guilt has changed things. Derek actually takes time to care for himself and the space in which he lives– and, well– now when Stiles feels the urge to comment on that stuff he squashes it back down. He never wants to make Derek feel bad about taking good care of himself. Not ever. So when Derek produces some newfangled kitchen implement Stiles has never heard of before, or Skypes with Kira for half an hour, discussing with perfect seriousness whether Windblown Clouds or New York City Winter would be the better shade of gray for the living room in her Chicago apartment, Stiles watches on indulgently and says nothing.

Currently, it’s almost one in the morning; one of Derek’s large chrome lamps casts a golden puddle of light over them both, keeping the shadows of night at bay. For the past half hour Derek’s head has been gradually lolling back onto the armrest of Stiles’ chair, edging closer and closer to Stiles’ knee. Stiles keeps getting distracted by it, half tempted to reach out and scritch the fine hairs on the nape of Derek’s neck. He avoids the impulse though, and eventually Derek starts to snore gently.

Stiles is debating whether to wake him up and make him go to bed when Derek startles awake with a sudden snort. Stiles snaps his book shut and places it on the end table next to him. “Okay,” he says, “time for you to go to bed.”

Derek looks round at him, blinking blearily. “S’okay,” he says, “I c’n–”

“You’re dead on your feet,” Stiles says, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “You had a full day at work, then got gutted by a weird hairless dog lizard thing, and now you’ve spent the last three hours reading ancient grimoires trying to research the weird hairless dog lizard. You’ve done enough.” Experience has taught Stiles that extreme healing always makes the wolves tired eventually, although it tends to be a delayed reaction. Sure, they seem fine in the initial aftermath, but the sheer amount of energy it takes to regenerate skin and muscle and regrow bone takes its toll eventually. After a ‘big heal,’ within a few hours they almost always need a ‘big sleep’. Frankly Stiles is amazed Derek’s kept going this long.

“S’late,” Derek says, “You wanna stay over?”

“Was planning too,” says Stiles with a yawn.

“Cool. I’ll get–”

“I know where the bed linen is,” Stiles says forcing himself to his feet, and then reaching out a hand and tugging Derek up. “Don’t worry. I can sort myself out.”

More often than he cares to admit he ends up sleeping on Derek’s couch, too tired to drive back to his dad’s after a long night of research. As the only two original pack members living in Beacon Hills at present, they started out being thrown together for supernatural emergencies. Over the last few months, though, they’ve begun to just hang out just for the sake of it, enjoying each others company. Sometimes they’ll watch a movie, or eat a meal together, sometimes they’ll just talk. It’s been happening more and more. Case in point: This will be the third time this week Stiles has stayed over and the only one that’s been preceded by a supernatural crisis.

If he’s honest with himself, now that Scott is post-grad in Wisconsin, finishing up his veterinarian training, Derek Hale has officially graduated from pain in Stiles’ ass and reluctant ally, to one of his best friends. Who’da thunk?

If sixteen year old Stiles could see him now he would be shocked.

It’s become so commonplace for Stiles to sleep over now, they have a whole routine which they perform almost on autopilot. Load the dishwasher together. Sort the recycling. Box up any leftovers from dinner and put them in the fridge to take to work tomorrow. Close the big window so the noise from early morning traffic doesn’t wake Stiles before he’s ready. Double check the apartment door is locked. Pour two glasses of water, one for each of them.

It’s a perfectly choreographed dance, they both know their parts, and tired as Derek is, he still insists on contributing, even now. The only difference is that this time it’s Stiles who goes and collects the spare bed sheets from the linen closet, and the extra pillow from Derek’s bed.

He’s just reached the bottom of the twisty spiral staircase, his arms full of bed linen, as Derek shuffles towards him, shoulders slumped, eyes heavy lidded, a glass of water clutched in one hand.

“Got everything?” he asks, barely repressing a yawn.

“Yeah,” Stiles grins sleepily.

Derek nods. “‘K,” he says. “Night.” And as he passes Stiles he leans in and presses a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Stiles goes perfectly still, mouth falling open, eyes following Derek’s progress up the stairs. He sees the moment when Derek realizes what he’s done because he pauses, his back to Stiles, hand clenching the rail in a white knuckle grip, posture totally rigid.

“Night,” Stiles says, voice coming out a little hoarse.

After a beat Derek continues his progress up the stairs. He doesn’t look back. Doesn’t say anything else. And eventually Stiles goes and makes up his bed on the couch, even though he’s certain it’s a pointless exercise, because right now he’s certain the last thing he’ll be able to do is relax enough to fall asleep.

By the time Stiles finally manages to shut his brain off and drifts into restless slumber, the sky is pink, and dawn is creeping over the horizon.

He’s woken the next day by the sound of Derek moving around the kitchen.

Stiles cracks an eye, reaches out a hand for his phone and jabs roughly at it, the screen flickers to life.

It’s afternoon. They’ve both slept in. Stiles clenches his eyes shut, feigning sleep.

He doesn’t quite know what to do. Are they going to talk about what happened? Or just ignore it? What did it mean? Was it a friend thing? It didn’t feel like a friend thing. But it was hardly a declaration of romantic intent either.  Stiles had spent last night with all these questions buzzing around his head like a swarm of confused bees. Now he’s awake again and he still doesn’t have any answers.

Stiles groans inwardly. This is exactly the kind of situation that he hates, and in an ideal world he would have woken early and sneaked out to avoid any awkwardness.

Except, no. That’s not true. He wouldn’t do that.

Not to Derek.

Maybe there would have been a time– but not now.

He’s so lost in his own thoughts he doesn’t hear Derek’s soft footsteps, and he almost jumps out of his skin when Derek looms over him, carrying two steaming cups of coffee. Stiles flails, almost tumbling off the couch in surprise.

“Hey,” Derek says, smirking slightly.

“Hey.” Stiles wrestles himself into a seated position, and pulls his sheets around himself in a blanket burrito. Then he sticks out a hand and takes the offered coffee.

With a sigh, Derek takes a seat opposite him on the coffee table, and cups his own mug between his palms. For a long moment neither of them say anything.

“So,” Stiles says, clearing his throat awkwardly, eyes darting around the apartment. “How ‘bout them Mets, eh?”

Derek raises one eyebrow and stares at him. “Stiles–”

“Did you see deGrom–”

“Stiles.”

Stiles sniffs. “Yeah?”

“Is it weird?”

Stiles clutches his mug to his chest with one hand, the other twisting the bed sheets nervously. He isn’t sure what he’s supposed to say. In the end he goes with the truth. “It was weird because it wasn’t weird,” he admits, chancing a glance at Derek.

Derek lets go of a breath and it seems to whoosh out of him, shoulders slumping, maybe in relief. “Yeah.”

“I mean–” Stiles says, “I haven’t ever consciously thought about us like that before, but it felt– It felt right.”

“Natural,” Derek agrees.

“Like we’d always been doing it. Or we could have been.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

They sit in silence, and then something occurs to Stiles. “Are we–” Stiles pauses. Considers. Takes another run at the sentence. “Have we been dating?”

Derek scrunches his face up thoughtfully. Eventually he says, “I think maybe we have.”

“Huh.” They both take a sip from their respective coffees.

“So, are we gonna keep doing– that–” Stiles gestures between them. “then?”

“Yeah,” Derek says, nodding. “Obviously. Unless you don’t–”

“No. It’s good. I’m good. Just checking.”

“Good.”

Stiles takes another long sip of his coffee, and opposite him Derek does the same.

“You want some breakfast?” Derek asks.

“Do we have bacon?”

“And eggs.”

“Noice.”

Derek scowls at that word, but he gets to his feet, and Stiles drains the rest of his coffee, then stands too. He still has the bed sheet cocooned around himself.

“Can we have waffles too?” he asks.

Derek nods.

“Will you use your fancy pants waffle iron?”

Derek rolls his eyes. Smiles. “Yeah,” he says. “Of course.”

Stiles leans into him a little nudges their shoulders together. “Your waffles are the best waffles.”

“Thanks,” Derek says gruffly.

“I’m serious. I spent most of last night awake thinking about it and they’re pretty much the only waffles I want from now on.” Stiles stares at him seriously. “They’ve basically ruined me for all other waffles.”

Derek snorts. “You’re ridiculous,” he says, but he looks pleased.

Stiles shuffles closer, leans in a little further, presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, an echo of the first kiss Derek gave him. Derek turns into it a little, so their lips finally meet just so. When they finally break apart, they’re both smiling.

Together they head into the kitchen and make breakfast.