For a second there, Stiles thought he might've been missing his calling. He knows he's really no good at lacrosse, because it kind of requires a lot of things that he doesn't have. Things like hand-eye coordination and lightening quick reflexes and an overwhelming desire to brutally maim his fellow man….

So, yeah, no, lacrosse maybe isn't so much his thing. But after last night…or this night…eh, semantics. Anyway, he actually thought he could totally have a future in Olympic swimming. Seriously, two hours treading water has to be some sort of record. He was actually giving serious thought to checking out the school swim team. Because they could really use the help. The Speedos would take some getting used to, but if the last few months had shown him anything – other than enough material to fuel his nightmares for the foreseeable…forever – it's that he's pretty adaptable. And not for nothing, but he could totally pull off that look. Just…maybe not as well as some people.

Cough. Derek. Cough.

And then there's that visual.

So, yeah, there for a little while at least, he had it all figured out. He dozed off at his desk browsing through the Guinness World Records on his laptop and planning what he, in his sleep-deprived and post-adrenaline-rush delirium, was sure would be a very promising career in competitive swimming.

That lasted all of about two hours. Which is actually better than some of his other career aspirations, to be honest. When he was ten, he wanted to be a mime, and that had only lasted all of about seven-point-three minutes: the exact amount of time it had taken for his mom to explain to him just what mimes did or, more specifically, did not do.

But that's beside the point.

The point is, assuming he ever actually had one to begin with, which is chancy at best, is that he has some second thoughts when he snorts himself awake a couple hours later. Like 'regretting my decisions, why is this my life?' kind of second thoughts, because holy God, he hurts in his everywhere.

It takes him a good minute or two to even peel his face off the keyboard, and honestly, he's not really sure it's worth the trouble. It feels kind of like his brain's been mashed into apple sauce: it doesn't really hurt, so that's good, but it's just kind of oozy-sloshy around inside his skull. And now that he thinks about it, his keyboard doesn't make such a bad pillow after all. You know, if you can get past the whole asdfg-on-the-face thing.

Stiles thinks he definitely can, especially if it's between that and trying to drag himself across the few hundred miles that seem to have sprung up between his desk and his bed.

He shifts a little and doesn't think about how, if he's this sore now, what he's gonna feel like in the morning. He doesn't think about how sleeping in the desk probably isn't helping, either. And he definitely, definitely doesn't think about the stupid amount of nightmares about drowning he's gonna have for the next few months.

They'll probably be a nice break from all the ones about freakish, murderous reptiles trying to kill him and his friends.

On second thought, maybe sleeping isn't such a good idea. He's still got a lab report to do for chemistry, and God knows Harris already has it out for him enough without throwing late work into the mix. Seriously, he thinks he might be spending more time around that creeper of a science teacher than with his own family.

"Talk about your cruel and unusual punishment," he mumbles to no one in particular. Emphasis on 'no-one,' who is precisely whom Stiles is expecting to hear him.

Which is pretty much why he jumps like he's been shot when a voice at his window comes out of nowhere and says, "You really don't stop talking, do you?"

"Holy—" In his mad rush to spin his chair around towards the window, he ends up knocking over his lamp, his pencil holder, and pretty much every other freaking thing on his desk that makes noise when it falls. A lot of noise. He winces, partly because he moved too fast and his sore muscles didn't like that too much, and partly because his dad's just a few doors down the hall. He doesn't want to wake him up; he's got an early morning.

Concerned as he is about his dad's beauty sleep, though, he's kind of got bigger problems right now. Way bigger. And broodier. And just all around more badass.

So, yeah. Derek Hale is definitely sitting on his window sill. That's…that's just super.

"Wha—" His voice cracks, and he tries to cover it up with a cough, even though he's pretty sure it's kind of pointless. Derek being a human…well, superhuman lie detector and all. Still, he's done some pretty irrational things the last twenty-four hours – jumping into an eight-foot pool after a paralyzed Alpha werewolf, for example – so he figures, why stop now? He gives it another shot. Who knows? Maybe this time he'll manage to do it without regressing to puberty. "How long have you been standing there?" Oh, cool. That one actually manages to sound halfway casual. Go team.

Derek's eyebrow ticks a little, but he doesn't say anything. That's okay, though, Stiles thinks, because his eyebrows are pretty much their own language. Google Translate should have a tab for them. Maybe he'll write a letter about that, too.

That can wait, though, because for now, Stiles has a thought. "Dude," he says, "were you watching me sleep?"

Truth be told, he's kind of expecting Derek to glare at him, or maybe threaten to rip his throat out – he must like that threat, Stiles's decided, because it's kind of his default – for even having the berries to suggest such a thing.

But Derek doesn't do either of those things. Actually, and maybe this is just the exhaustion talking, but Stiles could swear he even sees one corner of his lips twitch. "Yeah." He says it like it's totally normal, like there's absolutely nothing wrong with sneaking in someone's window at two in the morning and creeping on them while they sleep. "You were still talking."

"What can I say? I got mad skills." He leans back all smug-like, because two can play that game, Derek. Except apparently gravity missed the memo on the whole 'trying to be cool' thing, because his chair starts to tip back and he has to jerk forward to keep from falling backwards in a heap of soreness, clumsiness, and bad office furniture.

Color him a pessimist, but he's starting to get the impression that this just really isn't his day.

As soon as he gets his equilibrium back and balance is returned to the Force, he looks back up and pretends that, not only did that definitely not just happen, but that he also doesn't notice Derek standing at least three feet closer than before.

Freaking werewolf super-speed. Because it's not enough that he's crazy strong and frankly ridiculously good looking—

Stop.

Process.

Reconsider?

Nope. No, he's sticking with it. Derek is definitely at least a ten, although Stiles is actually thinking, out of fairness to normal people like himself, that guys like Derek should get their own scale. Stop messing up the curve.

"—iles!"

Stiles jumps so hard, he actually goes vertical. Upright, at attention, feet on the ground and everything.

…for all of about three seconds.

Suddenly, every muscle in his legs decides now would be a great time to remind him of those two hours he spent treading water, and oh, hey, we didn't forget the whole 'running for your life' thing, either, and he can pretty much hear the massive 'nope!' as they all give out at once.

Needless to say, he's expecting to taste carpet any time now. Which sucks, because he doesn't think he's vacuumed in, like, a year. Who knows what's waiting for him in that berber? He might've been better off taking his chances with the kanima. Seriously, he…he….

He totally forgot to take his Adderall last night.

Super.

Because what he really needs, on top of the next best thing to Kanima Poisoning and a broody werewolf that's making him reconsider his 'interested in' status on Facebook, is to have the attention span of a squirrel on speed. But hey, at least he hasn't face-planted into the carpet, yet. Which, now that he thinks about it, doesn't make a whole lot of sense, because it feels like it's been a little while since he started falling, and he definitely should've hit the ground by—

Two vices tighten around his upper arms. "Stiles!"

Oh.

Stiles opens his eyes – he doesn't actually remember closing them, but he guesses he must've – and finds himself face to scruffy, intense-looking face with the status-changing Alpha himself.

It's like a car crash in his head. All his racing, errant, out-of-control thoughts screech to a halt, and he's really not sure how long he just stands there blinking, but he thinks it's probably safe to say he'd be embarrassed if he did. It's just…Derek's got this…look. His mouth is set in a hard line like it usually is, and his brows are all furrowed like they usually are, and it all looks pretty cut-and-dry sourwolf.

Except his eyes. His eyes aren't what Stiles is used to seeing. They're wider than normal, sharp; they look almost…freaked out. Or, at least, as close to it as Derek gets. Perturbed is probably a better word for it. Maybe…worried, even? He doesn't know. He's pretty good at reading the other looks, but this one's kind of throwing him.

He's confused. And normally, that doesn't bother him all that much, because he's got a laptop right there, and a few hours of Google searches usually do a lot to satisfy his curiosity. Tonight…this morning, he guesses, he's just…not feeling it. In the past forty-eight hours, he's been paralyzed by a murderous lizard monster, watched a mechanic get crushed underneath his precious Jeep, had said Jeep impounded, been attacked by a she-wolf, attacked again by said lizard monster, and used as a floatation device for two freaking hours.

He's just a little bit tired.

And since there's a pretty short list of things Derek could be coming to him about, instead of, say, Scott, and most of those involve long hours of consciousness and concentration – honestly, he's not really thrilled about either – he's thinking it's probably best to just nip this in the bud.

"Can it wait 'til morning?" he says, only to remember that it actually is morning, and Derek's kind of a smartass, in his own, non-emotive way. "Or, you know, like…noon-ish?"

Derek's brows furrow deeper, and the corners of his lips pull down into a confused frown. "What?"

Okay, yeah, that was a little non-sequitur. He can fix that. "This whole Q&A thing, I mean. You ask me what I know, I tell you I don't know anything, you glare at me and threaten to tear my throat out with your crazy white teeth, and I eventually crack and tell you everything you're asking – the whole shebang. Can we just, you know, not right now?"

"I'm not here to—"

"'Cause I know your whole wolf super healing thing is super cool and all." He waves his hands illustratively, and ends up nearly losing his balance for his trouble. Derek's hands on his arms are the only things keeping him upright. Somehow, though, after the thing at the pool, Stiles really just can't even sweat it. He just keeps right on going. "But some of us need this silly little thing—"

"Stiles, if you don't shut up now, I'm going to make you."

"—called sleep, which is kind of what I'd like to get back to doing, if we're all—" Suddenly, Stiles is pulled forward by his arms, and something crushes against his lips with enough force to shut them, but not enough to hurt.

It takes Stiles longer than it probably should to realize that Derek's kissing him.