It's late, or early depending on how you look at it, and Derek is practically dragging Stiles home from Lydia's birthday party. He has no idea why Stiles chose to call him other than the thought it might have been a drunk dial; a five times in a row drunk dial. Stiles is talking about absolutely nothing and everything at the same time; he's got an arm slung up over Derek's shoulders and the other waving around to emphasize his words.
The stairs are a sincere challenge for a one hundred and forty-seven pound light weight drunkard. That's when Stiles finally gets quiet and Derek assumes it's his way of concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other since he's had his fair share of verbal warnings that there was no way in hell Derek was about to carry him.
Stiles' bedroom door slams open with the pressure of Derek's palm flat against it, once the bed is in plain sight Stiles seems to think he regains the ability to walk in a straight line; he goes down hard face first into the mattress with a groan. Reluctantly, Derek drags himself to the edge of the bed and pushes Stiles onto his side with a huff, tossing a few pillows and clothes from the floor behind his back to keep him from rolling over too far; he didn't need him puking in his sleep.
The V of Stiles' hip is partially exposed and Derek notices a huge gash and some road rash along the taut skin. Curiously he lifts the cotton fabric upwards towards Stiles' sternum, there's scabs forming over the scraped skin but its the deep purple bruising that gets Derek's eyes to pop open.
"What the hell did you do?"
"Huh? Wha-oh. Yeah, that. Just...being stupid. It's uh-fine", Stiles waves him off and tries to push down his shirt again; he winces in the process.
Derek gets his first good look at Stiles since he picked up him: his eyes are sunken in, skin flushed in a mix of pink and green. He looks tired and sick, as if he hasn't slept in days. Try as he might Derek can't shake the fact that he's worried, he hasn't been back to Beacon Hills in months and to come home to a tattered up Stiles has him concerned. Ignoring Stiles' request to drop the subject, Derek pushes his flimsy hand away and flattens his own palm along Stiles' belly; taking away some of the obvious pain.
Even drunk Stiles knows better for when to fight Derek and when to just accept the stubborn wolfs help. The pain decreases significantly, allowing Stiles to sink into the mattress with a relieved sigh. His face buries into the pillow in a slight embarrassment over his willingness to let Derek sooth away his pain but man did his ribs feel better.
There's a void that floods through Stiles' body the moment Derek's hand lifts away from his skin, callused fingers tugging the fabric back down over his lithe frame. Honeycomb hues are anchored to Derek's soft simper, Stiles can't believe Derek actually answered the phone. Not only that but he drove him home, nearly carried him inside /and/ took away some of the immediate pain; without Stiles having to ask.
He catches the wolfs gaze for a split second and lets out a nervous laugh, "Thanks..?"
Derek fully ignores him, leaning over to grab another pillow to keep this idiot from choking on his own bile in the middle of the night. On the way back to his kneeling position their proximities are too close, Derek's face is hovering just above Stiles'. For what its worth, Stiles does his best not to stare right into Derek's eyes but he does watch speckled green and gold orbs take notice of his parted lips; gulping down every sarcastic remark zipping into his head. Out of habit, Stiles' tongue flickers across his lips with a breath that reeks of whiskey swarming over Derek's features.
"Don't do that", Derek hisses out, "it's distracting..." He's referring to the motion of Stiles' tongue, of course.
"I didn't...wha-you-I-but-...okay", Stiles' mouth snaps shut as he bravely makes eye contact.
There should be more tension between them right now, besides the butterflies flapping around in Stiles' stomach everything seems to be running smoothly. Derek's eyes drop down to Stiles' heart, its beating so loud it's all he can focus on.
"Relax."
"Haah." Stiles breathes out. /Relaxation/ wasn't a characteristic he possessed, especially with Derek all of two inches from his face.
Derek's fingers fiddle with the hem of Stiles' shirt, palm finding the crook between his hip and rib cage; his thumb swooping carefully over mangled flesh. The gentleness of the touch elicits a stuttered breath of confusion and consolation from Stiles, his fingers courageously padding against Derek's hovering frame. He has no idea why this is happening or why he's so content to let it continue, but he's worried opening his mouth will make it stop. So he lays there, quietly breathing and waiting for Derek to make the next move.