He's drunk, a little past too drunk, and he can't remember the name of the girl that's leaning against him and giggling at something stupid he just said; he can't even really remember what he just said. She's probably one of Jackson's friends, or maybe a cousin, but he doesn't know her well – doesn't know her at all. Her name is Sally – or Samantha – or something with an 'S' and she's friendly, very friendly, and she's talking to him.
There's just enough alcohol in his system for him to forget that he's awkward around pretty girls, just enough in his system to turn his weirdness into something that's maybe endearing. The music is too loud for him to really hear what she says next, but she's smiling prettily and he smiles back. Then she pops something into her mouth, something small, and then she's leaning in, close enough that he smells her perfume, bright and fruity, and then her mouth is on his and she's kissing him. Open mouthed and soft, her tongue sliding in against his, and she tastes like peach schnapps and something else, something strange, something that feels gritty on his tongue. It's not normal, not entirely, and then she's pulling away and giggling again and he thinks maybe she shared more than he had intended.
"What was that?" he asks, almost yells into her ear over the thumping of the bass, and she shivers a little when his mouth brushes against her earlobe.
"It's amazing!" she says back, loud and still almost impossible to hear, and then she moves onto his lap and kisses him again.
Stiles inhales sharply, face pressed against the cold tiles of the bathroom floor, and he can't stop shaking. It feels like he's burning alive from the inside out, feels like his fingers and toes are numb and disconnected, feels like his heart is trying to push itself out of his chest.
At first he thinks it's the Adderall – the Adderall, mixed with the Jack and Coke, mixed with whatever else he shouldn't have drank – but this has never happened before, not like this.
It's funny how very little he remembers about everything prior to the cold tile of the bathroom floor, but right now it's the absolute only thing he can focus on so he's trying to not think too hard about why he's there. He doesn't really know where he is – knows it's a bathroom but doesn't know where it is, who's house it is, why he was there to begin with. There is a pounding in his head that is maybe the bass of the music playing downstairs, is maybe his brain pounding against his skull.
He's shaking, he gets that much. Shaking, fevered, chilled – and, quite possibly, also a little delirious. It's actually really hard to tell which way the door is and for a moment he actually thinks he's laying on the ceiling, but he's obviously not. There's no one else in there with him, just the distant sound of music coming in through the door that's... somewhere. There's a lot running through his head, a lot that's hard to pin down, and he's stewing in his own hysteria when Allison finally finds him in the corner of the bathroom, back against the wall of the tub.
"Oh my god, oh my god," she chants. She grabs his arm again and pulls her cell phone out. "Are you okay? Scott – Scott, get in here! Stiles, hang on, I'm going to call your dad."
"My dad?" he manages to say, because her hand on his skin feels absurd, feels like a scorching iron, and it's hard to twist away from it from where he's laying. "No, I'm fine – I'm fine-"
"You are hyperventilating in a bathroom," she snaps at him. "I don't even know how long you've been here."
He does need help.
His heart is trying to beat it's way out of his chest, his lungs thick and heavy, and the room is sweltering and closing in on him in a way that can't possibly be anything but a hallucination. He's never felt this way in his life – never felt so completely out of control of his own body – and it scares him more than he wants it to, scares him completely-
Then his body is moving, hands on him that aren't his, hands that are warm and strong. They feel strange against his skin, like jolts of electricity through his veins, and it's not Allison's hands, he can tell it's not hers because they don't wait for him to stand; the hands that grab him haul him to his feet like a ragdoll, warm and too harsh against his skin, his skin that feels raw and new-
Stiles wavers on his feet, held up by the strong arm that is scorching hot around his waist, and buries his face in the neck of the firm body pressed against his own. He feels the tension like it's his own, feels the stiffness of muscles and nerves, but he can't bring himself to pull away. He smells leather and pine and something difficult to place and thinks, 'Derek,' and let's himself be manhandled out of the bathroom.
It's hard to get down the stairs. It isn't so much him walking down them as it is him being drug down them, down the stairs and out the back door. He wonders where they're going, what he's done wrong, and it's getting harder and harder to focus with Derek's hands on his waist, on his arm, skin against his, and it's hot. It's suffocating, heavy, and the first breath of crisp, night air is such a sudden burst of clarity that he feels stifled by it.
There's the sound of a car door opening – a car that is hard to make out, with the way his vision is so strangely blurring – and then he's sliding into a smooth, cool seat and he sighs openly against it. Then the hands are back, working him into a sitting position, fighting with him to stay upright, and then they're on his waist, his neck, and Stiles feels hot all over again.
"Stop," he groans, and he's surprised when he manages to blindly catch Derek's wrist in his hand. It's difficult to see him – there are several of him, moving in and out of Stiles' vision – but they all look upset, all frowns. "Stop."
"I have to put your seatbelt on," Derek snaps, and he sounds angrier than normal, more frustrated than normal, and Stiles lets go of his wrist. There's a loud click that sounds like a gate closing somewhere, but is maybe his seatbelt clicking into place, and then the air around him is cool and open again, Derek moving quickly out of his space.
The car door slams shut next to him and he jolts a little with it, the noise strangely loud in his head, and he sinks against the seat as far as the belt will allow.
There's another door slamming, that ricochets all through his head, and then the weirdness of the car starting underneath him, the low vibration, the hum.
The sound of his own breathing is loud, loud, loud, and he barely hears Derek over the sound of it say, "What did you take?"
There's no way for Stiles to know what it was. He very vaguely remembers that girl, her hands on him, her mouth on his, the strange taste of her mouth and how something had seemed different. She had shared something with him, some substance that she'd already broken open in her mouth, but there's no way of him knowing what it was. That was the point when things had started feeling strange, when he had started to feel hot and cold all over, numb and weird. He thinks maybe the Adderall in his system hadn't helped any – that maybe the mix of that, plus the alcohol, plus whatever that girl had slipped him had turned into a super fun experimental cocktail in his system.
The seats in Derek's car feel good against his fevered face, feel better when he slides against them and rests his head partially against Derek's shoulder. The man stills against him again, all tense nerves and anger, and Stiles tries not to move, keeps his hands at his sides. He has the strange, sudden urge to feel the arm he's laying against, to curl his fingers around the muscles there, to feel the searing heat that Derek's skin seems to be radiating, but he doesn't; some part of him realizes Derek is driving, is focused on the road, and that crashing would be a bad end to a bad night.
On the best of days he doesn't know how to accept the attraction he feels towards Derek, doesn't know how to sort out his own jumbled feelings and confusing desires and he can't explain the pull he feels, he just knows that it's there. Tonight it feels like the choice is taken from him, because there's still that niggling of doubt in the back of his head – the one that says attraction doesn't have to mean anything, that it doesn't mean he wants anything – but his body seems to think that it means everything. His body and his mind refuse to cooperate with each other, refuse to converse before taking action.
He watches Derek's hands curled around the steering wheel and listens to his own heart beating loudly in his ears and tries to breathe.
They drive for what feels like forever, for what could be forever, before the vibration of the car underneath him stops abruptly and everything is deathly quiet, abnormally still. There's the sound of crickets very, very far away and the sound of Derek's heartbeat very, very close.
Then there's movement. There are hands and arms and a body very close to his again, wrapping around him, and there's the click of a seatbelt being undone. He doesn't know when Derek moved out of the car, when he moved around to the passenger side, just realizes that it has to be Derek's hands on him, has to be Derek because there's no one else who could be so warm-
Derek's hands on his arm, pulling him back up from where he'd slumped over in the seat, are frustratingly rough. They make his skin feel over-sensitized, make it feel raw and sore, and he's not sure if he wants to pull away from it or move further into it; he doesn't know anything right now.
They're moving again. His feet are under him, sort of, and he's standing, but not quite on his own, and then he's leaning up against the door of the Camaro and Derek's hands are on either side of him, boxing him in, and Stiles feels like his heart is going to crawl up his throat to get out of his chest. There is heat all around him, from all angles, contrasting against the cool breeze from the night air, and it makes him feel flushed and strange and frustrated.
"Derek," he manages, because he doesn't know what he wants but standing in the middle of the driveway is not it.
"What did you take?" Derek says again, all brittle patience, and the low growl of his voice is something Stiles feels in his toes, feels like a chill in his spine.
"I don't know," he tries to say, but his mouth feels strange, his tongue feels strange. "That girl shared it."
"Shared it," Derek echoes, and Stiles knows he's expecting more, that he's expecting a better explanation that Stiles just doesn't have.
"Like this," Stiles says, and he just leans forward and haphazardly grabs Derek's chin. He tugs until Derek opens his mouth, just enough for Stiles to slip inside and melt their tongues together, and, oh. Oh. It doesn't help with the heat at all, doesn't help with the strange tingling in his muscles. It makes him feel lightheaded, but aware, super aware, of how Derek tastes, how his tongue feels. It makes him feel like he might burst out of his own skin, like this is exactly what his body has been wanting all night – and why didn't it feel like this when he was kissing that girl-
The sound Derek makes in his throat when he pulls away sounds almost like it's in Stiles' head, the look on his face uncharacteristically stunned, and Stiles can't remember what he was trying to show him. He unconsciously leans forward again, because he wants Derek's mouth on his again, because he doesn't think he could ever want anything but this-
Then, just like that, they're moving again. Derek's grip on him is a little tighter, a little more aggressive, and he's not leading him across the lawn so much as he's dragging him. Stiles tries to get his feet under him, tries to keep up, but his mind is weird and not entirely connected to his body and some part of him likes the spike of nerves that swells up in him. It feels a little like he should be nervous, like he should be afraid, and it makes his heart beat faster.
They stop, something wooden underneath their feet – a porch, maybe? - and then Derek's hands are at his hips, at his sides, sliding in his jeans- and the flush on Stiles' face flares back to life, finds its way down the back of his neck, down his chest. The moan that leaves his mouth doesn't feel like his own, feels desperate and anxious. He feels breathless and suddenly slightly panicked, suddenly slightly exhilarated, and he only barely registers the feeling of his keys in his pocket, being liberated by Derek, and then things are very still-
He opens his eyes – doesn't remember closing them – and Derek is staring at him, expression completely unreadable but something scarily serious, and Stiles wants to kiss him again, stares at his lips, but doesn't move-
Derek growls low in his throat again and then his fingers curl around Stiles' upper arm, the sound of metal keys jingling against a metal lock, and then he's being jerked into the quiet inside of the house.
His house, Stiles recognizes, briefly, and he wonders how Derek knew his dad wouldn't be home. Maybe his dad is at the party, looking for him, looking for all the other sixteen year old kids drinking and sharing illegal drugs with girls they don't know.
It's hard to think about his house, or his dad, when Derek drags him bodily up the stairs. It's a struggle to keep up with him, a struggle to not fall and be carried the rest of the way, and he's almost caught up when they reach the landing and he's tossed, almost violently, at the closed door of his room.
He staggers and sways and lands against it, grateful for the way everything stops spinning for a moment, and he stares at the angry man in front of him and tries to figure out what's he done wrong. It isn't his fault that girl was so friendly, isn't his fault everything is weird now; it definitely isn't his fault Derek is radiating heat like an oven, a heat that feels obscene and perfect the closer it gets, when it's laid out across his skin, and Stiles thinks he really wants nothing more than to kiss him again.
Derek doesn't seem interested at all. Maybe it's because Stiles is a guy, or maybe it's a werewolf thing.
"Scott says Allison smells good, that she smells like something he wants," Stiles says, leaning his head against the door, wishing there were a window open in the hallway, wishing it weren't so stifling. "I don't smell good to you?"
"No, you don't," Derek crowds in around him, hands pounding against the wood of the door beside his head, and he continues, voice tight, "You smell aroused and desperate. You smell like the bitch that did this to you, like whiskey and my car, like me, and you are going to stop talking because I'm not going to fuck the sheriff's underage, drugged son in his house."
Stiles swallows thickly and his eyes flicker from Derek's eyes to his mouth and back again. Then, carefully, "Why not?"
The door moves behind Stiles' back and he slips, just for a minute, then Derek's hands are on him again – are on him again, and, fuck, it's like he can't breathe, can't think, can't focus, and his body is flushed and hot and-
His bed is soft and thankfully empty when he's all but thrown onto it, foot catching on the edge at the last minute and sending him toppling onto his back, and, for a moment, everything is still.
Derek is hovering above him, still standing, and Stiles presses the heels of his palms into his eyes and exhales slowly, loudly.
When he pulls his hands away and opens his eyes, Derek is staring down at him, jaw clenched, and he hasn't moved.
"Fuck," Stiles murmurs, and he lets his hands fall to his sides on the bed, let's his fingers curl around the sheets, because they're itching to touch skin – his or Derek's – and he stares up at the man looking down at him, at wild eyes and tense expression. Stiles' voice sounds strange to his own ears when he pleads, begs, "Derek."
Derek goes still again, and stays that way long enough that Stiles' bravery starts to slip a little through his fingers. Then he moves, little more than a blur to Stiles' delayed senses, and then everything moves a little, when Derek's knee presses into the mattress next to him, sinks them both a little, and he grabs onto Stiles' wrists. The feeling of his fingers on his skin again is too much, is too little, is perfect. Stiles opens his mouth – to say something, to ask for something – and Derek's is immediately there, lips pressed tight against his own, and whatever Stiles had meant to say turns into a throaty moan that vibrates between them.
There's a thigh nudging between his legs, holding him against the bed, holding him in place, and the kiss is nothing like the other. It's entirely Derek, his hands, his mouth – on Stiles' mouth, on his neck, on his jaw – and it's the slow, rough slide of his hands across his wrists, across the underside of his arms, up to press into his shoulders. His mouth is fierce, possessive, and Stiles can't keep up, feels like he's on fire and burning alive from the inside. Stiles arches up, against the hard body so close to his own and yet so frustratingly distant, and he doesn't know if the growl he hears is his own or not.
Then Derek's mouth is gone, face pressed into the soft skin at the base of Stiles' neck, but he's still again, unmoving. His hands are clenched tightly into Stiles' t-shirt, tight enough that the fabric is pulling unpleasantly against skin that is too sensitive to stand it, and Stiles feels breathless and confused and desperate-
"God damn it," Derek says, hisses against his neck.
With him so close it's easy to feel the tension in his muscles when he decides to leave, when he uses his grip on Stiles' shirt to push himself up, and, even with his vision blurred and his senses askew, it's easy to hold on to him. Stiles curls a hand around the front of his shirt, the other against his bicep, and he buries his face against the warmth radiating from his skin.
Derek pauses, but the tension doesn't fade. "You need to sleep this off. I do not need to be here."
"I really don't want to be alone," Stiles murmurs, and it's strange to admit it. His mind is strange right now – everything is strange right now – and he doesn't want to be home alone with all this strangeness. Derek makes it worse, a little, but he's also familiar and safe. "Please."
"Shut up," Derek snaps, hand covering his mouth for a moment, the pressure a little too hard, a little too much like his muscles are not entirely in his control, and they stay that way for a very long minute. Then Derek's breathing evens out again, Stiles' heartbeat slows a fraction, and, slowly, Derek removes his hand and demands, no room for discussion, "If I stay, you keep your mouth shut. Not a word."
Stiles nods, more a twitch than anything, but it seems enough.
And it's a noticeable difference, the way Derek's muscles relax. He shifts, mattress moving underneath his weight, and he lays himself beside Stiles on a bed that is really too small for the two of them to be comfortable.
He's still incredibly warm – a warmth that makes Stiles feel dizzy and excited – but the tension fades.
"Don't make me regret this," Derek tells him, warns him.
Stiles buries his face in his chest and listens to his heartbeat.
It's the feeling of the mattress moving underneath him, of the arm curled around his waist retracting, that wakes him up.
Stiles opens his eyes and rolls over onto his back, the spot where Derek had just been warm and empty, and Derek pauses from where he's moved to his knees, from where he's leaned over him. It's hard to see him – it's still dark, hours before dawn, the moon shrouded with clouds – and he feels like maybe he wasn't supposed to wake up, maybe Derek was trying to sneak out so that this could not be awkward, so that they could pretend it was some hallucination.
For the first time all evening, Stiles' mind is clear, only the slow beginnings of a small headache tingling behind his eyes.
The room is cold in a way that makes the events earlier feel like a dream, make them feel impossible, and it's stupidly warm underneath the blanket he's fairly sure Derek pulled over him. Derek, who is still half on the bed, still stupidly close, is warm and, perhaps insanely, Stiles feels a strange pang in his chest at his absence.
"I need to leave," Derek says, voice steady and calm.
Before your dad comes home, is the unspoken reasoning, and Stiles swallows the nerves in his system, the spread of embarrassment at the slow jog of memories winding through his head, at the stupid desire he has to argue against it and nods jerkily.
"Yeah," he agrees, mouth dry.
He sits up in bed, feeling strangely self-conscious. It's easy to remember the way he had felt overheated last night, like he'd been boiling alive, but now he just feels cold and awkward and very out of sorts.
This feels like a moment he's been given. Derek is still there, has stayed most of the night, and he's strangely complacent, strangely patient, and Stiles can't help but think this is something he's not supposed to let just walk out the door – or the window, or whatever. It feels like something serious, something just beyond his grasp of understanding, but he wants it.
The attraction he feels towards Derek isn't diminished with the absence of drugs and alcohol in his system, isn't lessened by the fact that, with clarity, things are much more complicated. His attraction is hampered by the fact that the guy is a walking problem – is something more, or less, than completely human – is an accused murder – is just a little out of the age group he should be looking in- but it isn't lessened.
"You could leave," Stiles says, swallowing thickly, because this is harder when he's not uninhibited, when he's sober and self-aware and awkward, "or you could move your car down the road where he won't see it."
Something flashes across Derek's face that is difficult to read in the dark, but is probably somewhere between surprise or bewilderment, but he doesn't say anything. In fact, he doesn't say or do anything. He simply stays there, still half leaned over Stiles, and says nothing, does nothing, for the longest moment.
Stiles doesn't realize he's holding his breath until the bed moves again, until Derek is moving off of it completely, and moving across the room to pull on his shoes. Then he exhales, quietly, feeling something awful settle into the pit of his stomach, something heavy, something that feels a lot like embarrassment and shame.
There's the sound of metal jingling, as Derek grabs his keys, and it reminds Stiles of last night, of standing outside, out of his mind, while Derek's hands pressed into his pockets to find his keys-
There's a brief outline of Derek's silhouette as he slips out the window and, once it's gone, Stiles falls back onto the bed and let's his head hit the pillow.
He lays on the bed and listens to the engine in Derek's car start up; he doesn't think about sitting in the passenger seat, or how Derek's hands had felt on his burning skin, trying to wrangle him into the seat, and he presses the heels of his palms into his eyes until he's thinking of nothing at all.
He's still laying there, listening to the unsettling quietness of the house around him, when he hears Derek climb back through the window.
Stiles stumbles over a jumble of words in his head, to find something to say, but everything sounds ridiculously stupid. It almost seems like he should be apologizing – for whatever last night was, for how he acted – but he knows Derek isn't looking for an apology.
There's a shift in the dark and just enough light to make out Derek pulling his shirt over his head, stepping out of his shoes. Then the mattress is dipping again and Stiles rolls over, to make room on the small bed, and Derek is back, warm and smelling like fresh air, and Stiles let's out a breath he hadn't meant to hold. They're laying facing each other and Derek's hand doesn't waste time finding his side again, to curl around his waist, to settle on his lower back.
"You are full of bad ideas," Derek tells him, and he sounds tired, like maybe he hadn't slept at all after Stiles had drifted off, like maybe he'd laid there all night wide awake.
He finds Derek's face with one hand in the dark, brushes his thumb across his cheek, finds his lips, then leans forward to find them with his mouth. It's a lot different sober, a lot different when he's aware enough to think about what he's doing and what the consequences will be.
Stiles has made plenty of bad choices in the last twenty four hours and he doesn't really feel like one more is going to hurt.