Derek had been hoping that Stiles would consider sleeping it off.

He was sorely mistaken.

A Stiles, drunk and on drugs in a safe place, apparently meant a Stiles that was twice as hyperactive as normal.

It had been all right at first. Stiles had chugged down two glasses of water and eaten half a loaf of bread – "T' soak up the alcohol, dude, obviously," –and then he went to the bathroom and puked it all up again.

Once Stiles had recovered from that, he started a game of hunt-the-wolf. Derek did not get to be the hunter.

"AHA!" Stiles leapt out from behind the couch, somehow launching himself over it. His aim was off. Derek grabbed Stiles out of the air, just barely keeping the idiot from diving head first into the coffee table in the Stilinski house living room. Derek shoved Stiles back onto the couch, and Stiles bounced on the cushions.

Derek took a deep breath and forced his claws back. For the millionth time since hunt-the-wolf had started, he reminded himself that explaining to Sheriff Stilinski why his son and half the furniture in the house was broken would be far worse than just enduring Stiles's stupid antics. It was a close thing, though. A really close thing.

Stiles rolled on the couch, letting out a sharp laugh. "Dude! I almost got you!"

"No you didn't," Derek growled. Why couldn't Scott have picked up when Stiles called instead? Why had he decided to save Stiles from that stupid party? It was – he glanced at the clock on the wall and groaned – three thirty in the morning. He was going to kill something.

"I totally did," Stiles said. He got up on his knees, and then launched himself at Derek's back while Derek glared at the clock. "Ha! Caught the wolf!"

Derek growled. He could feel his eyes change as Stiles hung onto his back like some deranged little monkey. "I'm going to kill you," he said.

Stiles scrabbled up Derek, climbing him like a mountain – he ended up piggyback, arms around Derek's neck. "No you won't," he said, remarkably un-terrified.

"Why shouldn't I?" Derek demanded. Stiles was still hanging on, so he moved over to a wall and leaned back. Stiles made a noise that was close to the sound a squeaky toy made when it was stepped on, slowly being compressed between Derek's back and the wall.

Stiles scrabbled. Derek didn't care until Stiles accidentally poked him in the eye, and then grabbed his ear and held on for dear life. "Okay," he wheezed. "You might, but then you'd have'ta deal with my dad an' Scott wouldn't rejoin your pack—"

Derek rolled his eyes and stepped away from the wall. Stiles fell and bashed his face against Derek's back with a yelp.

"Will you please go to bed?" Derek asked, between gritted teeth.

"Sourwolf," Stiles grumbled. Derek turned, glaring at Stiles over his shoulder. Stiles glowered back. "I'm the sheriff's kid, when'm I going to be able to enjoy drugs again? M'tryin' to make the best of it, here."

It was the tiredness talking, but Derek really wanted to say I hate you. He groaned instead, then moved back over to the couch and sat down.

Stiles waited a moment, like he was expecting Derek to do something more violent than melt onto the couch. He sprung to his feet a moment later. "I'm gettin' juice. Do you want juice? I'll get you juice."

Derek watched Stiles leave the room. He listened, just long enough to hear the scrape of glasses being moved around, and then he grabbed for his phone. He called up Scott's number and dialed.

Scott answered after the second ring.

"Scott," Derek started. He was going to pawn Stiles off on someone better equipped to deal with him. It was goingto happen.

Scott's voice came out as a hoarse growl. "No! It's three in the morning!"

Scott hung up.

Derek stared at the phone like it was a baby kanima. Scott had hung up on him. That little—he dialed the number again. It went to voicemail. Derek ground his teeth, and delicately set his phone down on the coffee table, claws extended. Something was going to get broken.

"Juice!" Stiles returned, carrying, as he said, juice. Derek stared at the glasses that Stiles carried. They were filled with orange-colored juice, but it didn't smell like orange juice.

"Is that—"

"Mango juice! It's good for you." Stiles shoved a glass into Derek's hand and then flopped onto the couch. "Dad was gettin' sick of just orange juice all the time, an' I didn't want him drinking, like, lemonade, which he thinks is a juice."

Derek grunted, only half listening. He took a sip as Stiles motored on.

"Hey Derek? I'm going to ask you a question and this is probably going to sound weird so don't like, stab me with your claws an' leave me for dead, okay, but do you think I'm attractive?"

Derek sputtered mid-drink. He could taste mangoes in his nose. "What."

Stiles gestured wildly, nearly spattering Derek with even more mango juice. "Well, I asked Danny and he was all,you're not my type Stiles, are you even gay Stiles, and, like, I don't know, I've never kissed a guy, or, like, a girl, either, but—well there was a time, but I don't think it counts – but anyhow so like 'cause no one hits on me I was wonderin' if I'm just, I dunno, anathema to hot people, or what?"

Derek had no idea what to do with this. It was too late and Stiles was too…Stiles and he had no experience in this arena. "You're fine, Stiles," he said, still smelling mango. He was relatively certain that there was mango juice in his sinuses.

Stiles turned to Derek, eyes dark and intense. "Yeah, but am I attractive? Like I think I'm pretty okay. I'd do me," he paused to indicate his body with a broad sweep of his arm, "but no one else will. Is it 'cause I'm too cute to be hot?"

"What?" Derek stared. This was… this was ridiculous. Why wasn't he asleep at home right now? Why? "I—Stiles."

"Well?" Stiles stared back, wide-eyed and focused. More focused than he'd been fifteen minutes ago.

This was surreal. Derek growled, rolling his eyes. "Yes," he said, through clenched teeth. "Stiles, you areattractive. All right?"

Stiles took a drink from his mango juice, still staring unblinkingly at Derek over the rim of the glass. He swallowed and continued. "Okay, are you sayin' that under duress or d'you mean it?"

"Stiles," Derek growled. "I'm not going to say it again!"

"So you are saying it under duress?" Stiles asked.

Derek rolled his eyes and growled. That was it. There was only so much an alpha could take.

He set his juice on the table. He grabbed Stiles's cup and yanked it out of Stiles's hand, despite the loud squawk Stiles made. Then he picked Stiles up, threw him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, and started for the stairs.

"It is three in the morning and you are going to bed!" Derek snarled over Stiles's very loud protests. Stiles kicked his free leg wildly, trying to break free, and he left a footprint on the wall as Derek climbed up the stairs.

"M' house!" Stiles shouted. "My rules! Let me go!" When that didn't work, Stiles started yelling. "Rape! I'm being raped! Neighbors, call m' dad 'cause I'm being raaaaped!"

"Shut up, Stiles!" Derek growled. He made it to the top of the stairs, despite Stiles's wriggling, and he marched down the hall. The door to Stiles's bedroom was open, which Derek found helpful and also a little disappointing. He was in the mood to kick down a door.

He threw Stiles on the bed. Stiles bounced and scrambled halfway off the bed. He looked as if he were going to try and run for the open door behind Derek.

Derek kicked it shut. Then he was struck with the realization that Stiles was not going to end up staying in bed, even if the door were locked fifteen ways from Sunday.

The only idea he had was infantile and childish, but he was desperate and tired and angry and at the end of his rope. So Derek shoved Stiles back onto the bed and sat on him.

Stiles made the squished squeaky toy noise again. "What th' even hell are you doing?!"

"Making you go to bed," Derek growled. "and that wasn't English, Stiles."

Stiles wriggled wildly, trying to find some sort of escape. He tried to shove Derek aside, which worked about as well as a mouse trying to push over a brick wall. "Dude!" he squeaked, worming around, and again, "dude!"

Derek just glared at him.

After a few more minutes of struggling, Stiles quieted down. He fixed Derek with a look that was somewhere between injured puppy and helplessly enraged idiot, and he crossed his arms. "Okay. Fine. I'll go to sleep. But f'I vomit an' choke an' die in my sleep it's all your fault."

Derek pretended to mull it over before he shrugged. "That's a chance I'll take."

"You suck," Stiles said. Then, a moment later, "At least lemme take my shoes off! God!"

Derek glared again, for good measure. Then he got up, moving over to the chair sitting in front of Stiles's desk. Stiles sat up too, grumbling, loudly, as he unlaced his shoes and kicked them across the room.

Stiles scrambled back into bed, flopping down with a heavy sigh. Derek leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes and relishing the silence.

It wasn't comfortable, exactly, but for a moment Derek let himself space out. He'd slept in more uncomfortable places, and once his eyes drifted shut he really didn't want to open them again.

He heard Stiles shifting in bed. "…'re you just going to stay there?" Stiles asked, incredulous.

Derek stifled a growl, lifting his head up and opening his eyes to glower at Stiles.

Stiles glared back for half a moment, then rolled his eyes, throwing his hands in the air. "Fine! Creepy dark mysterious stalker werewolf…." He rolled over, punching his pillow into shape and grumbling as he did.

Derek waited. It was only a few minutes until Stiles's breathing evened out, but it felt so much longer than that. Without Stiles's annoyingly high level of hyperactivity, Derek found himself drowsing. Listening to the rhythmic sound of Stiles's breathing wasn't helping at all.

He only realized he'd fallen asleep in the desk chair when he looked at the clock and realized that it was four thirty-six. He rubbed his eyes and stumbled to his feet, walking half-asleep over to Stiles's bed.

He didn't mean to sit down on the edge of the bed. He'd just meant to check on Stiles, to make sure he hadn't – as Stiles had said earlier – choked on his own vomit. Stiles was still breathing steadily, face half-buried in the pillow.

The bed was comfortable. Derek moved over to the other side, as far from Stiles as he could manage. He'd only close his eyes for a couple minutes, because driving this tired was bound to end in an accident, and then he could go home…