The Beginning of my Drabble Collection:
There is a sturdy coffee table, elderly and well-worn, bought from a local used furniture store for twenty dollars. It now stands in front of the flat screen Jackson insisted they have and is steadily collecting Lydia's fashion magazines along with empty soda cans from the rest of the pack. The table top has worn down to show the grain and the wood its built of. The paint still clings to the corners and over the carved swivels and curves in the middle of its thick legs, one foot wide, Stiles measured. At the bottom right corner there is a burnt image of a butterfly missing the top left part of his wing, of how this butterfly became is a mystery Stiles ponders every time he finds himself alone with the table. It was an earthy brown, homely and vintage, it didn't go with the rest of the furniture Lydia had Derek buy but she soon warmed up to it or at least stopped threatening to burn it.
After the first month of it sitting in the renovated Hale house Stiles gave in, crawled underneath and shined a flashlight at its belly. Derek had caught him, startling him with his normal amount of creepiness and enjoying the sequel he made Stiles vocalize, it was a manly sequel like all other squeals he made, not that he squealed often. He also earned a red and bruised bump to the forehead. As punishment Stiles made Derek turn the whole thing over on its side, carefully, Stiles quite liked this inanimate object. It was a heavy table, nothing Derek couldn't handle, but Stiles still nagged him about previous scratches and blamed him for fun. In retaliation Derek tossed him on the couch and growled at him but there was no more time for fun because the itch of curiosity had to be scratched.
Stiles scoured the legs and bottom, even the top and sides but there was nothing, no marks, symbols or names. From underneath you could conclude that it was not manufactured made, not that it was any less beautiful or robust as any table built in this decade. Though wouldn't whomever spent the time and sweat to make and carve this table want to claim it?
With fruitless research Stiles began to love it more, a puzzle unsolvable, on the off chance he even had Deaton stop by to have a look at it. Not in the least Supernatural other than its owners.
Like today Stiles would clean the coffee table off, placing all "lost" items in the kitchen along with clearing the trash away to wipe down the surface. Sometimes though he wouldn't put Lydia's magazines back or put the remotes on the left corner where Isaac likes them to be, instead he clamors on top and stretches himself out on the coffee table. As the table was long it wasn't Stiles long and he could easily bend his knees over the edge and place his feet onto the floor. Like today, Stiles just needed to be alone.
He watched and listened the overhead fan spin and swoosh, swoosh and spin, until his shoulders relaxed. A buzz of futile thoughts passed, broken with no depth, mostly concentrating on the things he could see and hear. Unlike the other times Stiles found himself laying there he heard the melodies of birds waking up, felt his skin warm as the sun rose suddenly blinding him with its existence, making his skin seem to twinkle and glow. He idly wondered if Stephanie Myer didn't know that it was a power all the especially white boys could pull, not just those who were vampires.
It felt nice, warming his skin but also his insides, better than laying there at night, alone in the darkness. He debated singing a tune to the birds to see if they'd sing it back but dismissed it for not wanting to wake the pack and having to explain to them what he was doing. I guess you could say he was meditating. Stiles time just sounded like masturbation. He wasn't having Stiles time on top of the coffee table.
It wasn't a routine and every time before happened when he found himself alone, not in mortal peril with nothing good to read or pirate. Today he had just woken up in the wee hours of the morning, laid in bed until it was decided he wasn't going to be able to fall asleep again. There was nothing to fight and nothing to be silently concerned about; he woke up early at peace with the world.
He doesn't like it.
He took his medicine, drank some orange juice then starred at the table before doing the customary cleaning and laid down.
And here he was, enjoying it more than he had before, his mind even less active do to the time of day. It was nice, turning the turmoil of his mind off for a few minutes or so, the unnerving peace of the world a little less off his mind. Just him and the sunshine and Derek.
He had wondered how long it would take for Derek to find the other side of the mattress cold, pondered timing it for fun. Now he stood in the doorway almost out of eye sight using his skills of creepiness just to loom there.
Stiles turned his head to the side to get a better look at him. It was the first time Stiles had ever been caught laying on the coffee table, it was the first time he'd laid on the coffee table with anyone home, but Derek asked nothing, didn't quirk an eyebrow like he so loved to do. He expects Derek somehow knew. Around the nights the table top laying had started Derek had glared his betas to stop lounging their feet on top of it, made a new rule of no claws and fights in the tv room, maybe it was just the way Stiles looked at the table that Derek knew it was irreplaceable.
Derek didn't break eye contact as he slandered across the room in the pj pants Stiles had bought him the last Christmas featuring little cartoon wolfs, he was still amazed he actual wears them. He didn't have the white boy sparkles but when Derek's emerged into the sunlight Stiles' heart piddled up from its calm state. His blue green eyes were magic in the early morning light.
Derek still said nothing as he reached Stiles placing his hand on the table near Stiles' face lowering down to run his nose over the length of Stiles' neck. The sounds that Derek made as he nosed and breathed his skin made Stiles' heart break in the best way, the hum translates immediately to the word content.
Someone is content to be with him, Stiles, the guy who never grew out of continuously speaking or flailing arms. Who's brilliant ideas still have major consequences and are almost always life threatening. Still lanky sarcastic Stiles and someone is content with all that. Derekis content with all that. And it blows his mind, his chest tightens and he feels the warmth of blush traveling over his jaw and when Derek starts humming louder Stiles threads his fingers into his thick hair, massaging at his scalp, because yeah Stiles is fucking content too.
When Derek finally does speak its gravelly and sleep fogged, "Come back to bed with me." He asks and Stiles complies, wrapping his arms around Derek's neck grinning when he doesn't have to say anything because Derek knows and even though he didn't see Derek roll his eyes Stiles' knows he did. He huffs and halfheartedly grumbles as he carries Stiles up the stairs but his chest is still vibrating with content "manly wolf purrs".
There is no sexy time, barely any words, and evidently Derek falls back asleep. The buzzing of futile thoughts return but they're complete thoughts, about the shadows of Derek's eyelashes or how even his human ears can pick up Boyd making breakfast. Here in Derek's limbs, in the pack house, Stiles' doesn't have to be at peace, because there is no such thing in this life, but there is happiness and Stiles' has never felt as happy and content as he does this Tuesday morning nothing the least special, just the homely warm bloom beneath his ribs where the pack has left their mark.