PART V

Stiles drifts in and out of time. He's vaguely aware of being led to his jeep, of Derek sitting him down in the passenger seat, then there's a fuzzy period of nothingness, and then he snaps back to staring at Derek's right ear. His ear is back to normal, no wolfey business going on there. Stiles wonders what Derek is saying to him, because although his voice is nice, it's also worried. But then he goes back to fuzziness again.

Suddenly they are back at Stiles' house. He's standing on the curb, the jeep parked safely in the driveway. It's still night, and there are moths fluttering under the streetlamp across the street. Everything is quiet. Stiles has no memory of how that happened, but he rolls with it.

He sneaks into the house, pulls off his sneakers, and goes up the stairs by himself, thinking Derek is long gone, but oh no. The werewolf is already waiting for him by the desk, huffing like a sad steam engine. Stiles collapses onto his swivelchair. Is he ever just going to get a quiet moment after these trauma- inducing nightly events?

Derek, apparently, is a horrid nose-breather when provoked. If Stiles' knees still weren't made of jelly, and his brain and the skin on his face kind of numb, he'd tease him relentlessly for sounding like some monster from a horror flick. It's probably for the best. Nose-breathing Derek looks remarkably much like I'm-gonna-tear-your-throat-out Derek. Stiles is not on good foot with that variation of him, and he's not about to take any more risks today. What happened to hug-hogging Derek? As horribly awkward as that one was, Stiles is missing him badly right now.

"You will never do something like that again. I won't let you."

"I told you, I'm okay," Stiles sighs.

"You," Derek asserts. "Had a panic attack."

"In case you haven't noticed, that's something I do on a regular basis. Most of the time for no goddamned reason. Sure, it's a bummer, but it's not like any of us can do anything about it. Don't make a big deal of it. It's my brain, let me deal with it on my own. Well, me and my therapist."

"It gets worse when you do this. Don't think I don't notice. I can hear your heartbeat…," Derek snaps. Then he gets a guilty look, like he has bitten his tongue to stop himself from saying something even more stupid. "Look, all I need is that you back off. You have to stay safe. Today was not fucking okay. If anything happens to you, it's on me. It'll be my fault. I'm…" And there he goes again. Is everything a pissing contest in Derek's world? There is a huge possibility it is.

"Yeah, yeah, you're the alpha," Stiles finishes for him.

"That's not what I was going to say, Stiles," Derek barks out.

"So what was it then?"

"Stiles, don't you see what I'm trying to say here?"

"No, I fucking don't. It may have something to do with you not making sense. I mean, you're all 'out of my sight, human', but you keep stalking me! I get that you hate my guts, but do you have to be all sadomasocistic and psycho-stalker about it?"

"Stiles, will you shut up?"

"Saying my name in every sentence won't make me fall for your bullshit, Derek."

Which apparently is the wrong thing to say to an agitated alpha. Derek shoves him back in his chair and grabs his T-shirt so hard he can literally hear the fabric snap.

"I can't do this," Derek says. He sounds hoarse. "I can't handle it. If you… if you get hurt. Today was bad. I couldn't…"

"You don't have to fucking care," Stiles yells. "You've made clear you don't want me around. It's okay, I'm okay. I can take care of myself. I have so far, and believe me, I'm not going to stop. So you can just fuck off and leave me alone."

Derek swallows so Stiles can see the stubble bob up and down on his Adam's apple.

"I…" Derek tries to say, and slowly lets go of him. He hesitates. But Stiles' hand darts out and grabs his wrist out of it's own volition. Ding ding ding, another contestant of Greatest Things Stiles Does to Piss Off Death. Derek freezes in place.

"What? Why are you so scared I'll get hurt? You don't give a fuck about the others. Why me? Are you secretly in love me or something?" He had intended that to come out like a macho-style rhetorical question to assert dominance or whatever, but instead it came out soft and low like he genuinely wanted to know. Because it's just that kind of a day.

It's certainly that kind of day. Because Derek does not rip off the hand still clutching his wrist and to jump out the window with it. No, instead he blushes and stares at the floor. Stiles' hand is still wrapped around his wrist. It's getting sweaty, but there's nothing Stiles can do about it but be freaked out.

"Holy shit, Derek," is all Stiles manages at first. "Say something."

"No."

Stiles digs his nails into Derek's arm. He tugs at it. At first Derek is like rock, but then he gives in. Stiles wasn't prepared for that, so now he's awkwardly pressing Derek's hand against his chest. Super.

"So, uh, you're secretly in love with me? Okay, so you decided that was a good thing to do. You must be going through a weird phase in your life right now, like the weirdest fucked-up shit ever. I mean, I'm a catch, but like, we're not playing in the same division of attractiveness here. I'm not sure we're playing in the same game. Or sport. And I'm rambling. Jesus, how haven't you killed me yet just to make me shut up?"

There seems to be something going on inside Derek. He's blinking a lot, clearing his throat, and Stiles is like ninety nine percent certain that he's about to hulk out at any moment. But he doesn't. And Stiles has absolutely no idea of what to do with himself. Or what to do, period. Derek tries to tug his hand back in a weak, weak attempt, but Stiles doesn't let him.

"Wow. This is. This is just strange, you know. Do you want to kiss me or something? I mean, apart from this being opposite day, I wouldn't mind, but… No? No. Okay. O—"

Derek is just there, crowding him against the back of his chair. His hand is tightening on Stiles' T-shirt again. He can feel the sharp sting of claws on his chest.

"Ow—"

Then Derek is kissing him.

His lips are softer than they have any right to be. Stiles squeaks a little, but then Derek bites at his lower lip.

"Stiles. Shut up."

He obliges. So Derek kisses him again. He's more forceful now, and Stiles melts into his warmth. The third kiss takes a distinct turn towards the filthy. Derek opens his mouth against Stiles', so what can he do but to slide his tongue into it? He's forced down into the chair, leaning back. The hand ruining his T-shirt looses its grip and slides lower, over his stomach, down and down, and Stiles is so incredibly turned on right now and… They're both breathing fast now, Stiles with his eyes screwed shut and Derek wetly mouthing a spot on his neck. Then Derek's hand grazes his not-that confused hard-on, to grip hard at the inside of his thigh.

"Jesus fuck!" Stiles cries… and that seems to snap the werewolf back to reality. "Wha—"

Derek lets go of him, makes a bee-line towards the open window, and flings his legs over the sill. He stops there, for a while, and stares back at him. If Derek was any other person, he'd be apologizing for being too rough and too damned fast, but he's not. Instead he's frowning at Stiles, like this was all his fault.

"Hey, you come back here and…" Stiles says, but it's too late, he is already gone. "…and finish what you started. Damnit."

And so he's alone in his room again. But Stiles is thinking that if this were to happen every now and then, then maybe, just maybe, he'd be willing to wade through a lot of supernatural shit and panic attacks. Maybe. Derek is still a douche-nozzle for running off like that and being an asshat in general, but…

But perhaps Stiles isn't that pissed off. In fact, he is smiling like an idiot. This time he knows Derek will be back. Soon.

THE END

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