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who is the big spoon/little spoon

Stiles wakes up with the sun blasting into his face and groans.

"Why," he mumbles. "Why did you let me choose this apartment?"

Derek's silent behind him, although Stiles can so tell he's awake. Stiles sends an elbow back into Derek's ribs, but misses because of the blanket bunched between them.

"You could've made me choose one on the west side of the building," Stiles mutters, burying his face under his pillow. It helps with the blinding rays of sunlight, but not so much with his ability to breathe. "Where mornings would be wonderful and dark."

Derek shifts slightly, then slides a leg between his. "And you would've overslept," he says gruffly. "Every day you have class."

"I'm getting blackout curtains," Stiles says.

"No," Derek says.

"You're not the boss of me," Stiles says, throwing the pillow off to breathe fresh, cool air. "This is an equal partnership. If I want blackout curtains, I'll get them and you'll like it."

Derek wraps an arm around him. "You'll sleep through your alarm."

"I won't. I will set six alarms. Seven. My phone will be alarming all over the place."

"I'm not driving you to campus when it happens," Derek says, exhaling warm air on Stiles' neck as he nuzzles at Stiles' hairline with his nose. "And you know it will."

"Why are you the worst?" Stiles says, squeezing his eyes shut which still fails to help at all. "Killing all my blackout curtain dreams."

"Why are you so talkative," Derek says, and before Stiles knows what's happening Derek pulls him in and turns them over. Stiles lands on Derek's other side in a heap, tangled in the blanket.

"What!" Stiles says. "How does this fix anyt—" he starts, until Derek shoves him to be facing the wall and yanks him in against his torso. "Oh," he says, as Derek fixes the blanket and finishes arranging him. The sheet is a lost cause, drifting across Stiles' calf into the floor.

"Sleep," Derek says and kisses Stiles' shoulder. He splays a hand over Stiles' stomach keeps him tight to his body and they breathe together and yeah, okay, this is actually pretty great. It's not dark but there's no awful glare and he gets to stay in the same position. Derek has the greatest ideas.

"Blackout curtains for the weekends?" Stiles finally whispers carefully, and is rewarded when Derek huffs against his neck, which he only does when he's trying not to laugh.

Blackout curtains are definitely in his future, he thinks, as he relaxes back into Derek. Totally.

what is their favorite non-sexual activity

Stiles is watching FernGully: The Last Rainforest when he hears the key in the lock. It takes Derek three seconds after he steps in and hangs up his keys to say, "Not again."

"This is a classic animated movie," Stiles argues. "How can you hate FernGully?"

"I didn't," Derek says. "The first fifteen times."

"Classic," Stiles says, and pauses it. "How was Werewolf Night Out?"

"Jackson chased a squirrel," is Derek's only answer before he vanishes into the bedroom down the hall. Stiles winces. No matter what Derek says, he's pissed about Jackson going away for college and only coming home on vacations.

Derek comes back in a T-shirt and flannel pajama pants that Stiles bought because he suspected they would do unspeakably awesome things to Derek's ass, and now, like all the times before, he is not disappointed.

"I made hamburger helper," Stiles says as Derek walks into the kitchen. "And green beans."

"Classy," Derek says.

"French cut!" Stiles loves those the best. He's going to enjoy them while he is young and before his body revolts. He watches Derek move around in the kitchen through the passthrough over their bar. He wants to go in there and hug him, but that would just end badly for both of them. Stiles adopts a clear policy of not hugging Derek when he's having conflicted-Alpha feelings. It just ends with Derek sleeping on the couch.

Derek only comes out with a bottle of water and sprawls out on the couch, feet up on their coffee table. Stiles inches over to him and tosses a leg over his. "We can watch something else," he offers. "They're streaming The West Wing. You know how you feel about Aaron Sorkin."

"I will kill you if you share that with anyone." Derek shoots him a thunderous look.

"It's okay to tell people who loved The Social Network unironically, too." Stiles falls sideways when Derek leans away and rams into him. He laughs and hands Derek the Playstation controller. "Here, we can watch what you want."

Derek yanks him back up into his side. "Never tell people that."

Stiles blinks innocently. "I shouldn't tell them you cried over Mrs. Lanningham?"

Derek glares.

"Your secret is safe with me, tough guy." Stiles burrows in. "Come on, choose something."

Stiles expect to be stuck with something new, because he is the re-watcher in this relationship and Derek gives him plenty of shit for it. But he doesn't expect Derek to simply unpause, the sounds of Batty's shouts picking up from before.

They watch in silence for a few minutes, until Derek relaxes, leaning heavily against him. Stiles reaches out to steal the remote, sets it aside and replaces it with his hand, lacing their fingers together and returning Derek's tight grip.

He doesn't even call Derek on not changing the movie. He's the greatest boyfriend ever.

Anyway, everyone loves FernGully.

who uses all the hot water in the morning

Derek glares at him when he pulls back the curtain, soap dripping down his head and his hair plastered to his skull. He puts a wet hand on Stiles's chest and pushes back. "No."

Stiles manages to only rip the outside curtain off as he falls to a naked heap in front of the toilet. "Derek, man, come on. Time-saver! Conserving water!"

"That never happens," Derek says, and continues his shower, totally unashamed.

"It's not my fault you can't resist me, dude."

"Some of us need to be on time." Derek dips his head under the shower head and lets water cascade down his neck and torso.

"You're so evil," Stiles complains.

"Go away," Derek says.

Stiles sits on the floor and stares up, attempting to look as pitiful as possible. It's really not working and Stiles is out of ideas. He stands and peels the curtain off his ass, which, gross. Then he sees the boxers Derek left dangling from the towel rack.

Jackpot, he thinks, and steps into them.

He's heading out the door when Derek says, "Stop."

"No way, any potential shower sex is off the table," Stiles says, even as he's turning. Derek stares at him and he stares at Derek and it's like some horrible game of maybe-sex chicken, because Derek is so predictable. "You're right, you have to be punctual," Stiles says. "I'll probably take too long, the water will get cold, blah blah blah."

"I regret you every day," Derek says, and pushes the inner curtain back. Stiles grins.

who does most of the cleaning / who leaves their stuff around

Stiles unlocks the door while trying to balance an obscene amount of library books for his next paper, is barely through the threshold when he trips over a cord and all the books fly out of his arms and in every direction.

Stiles takes a deep breath and looks at the cord, which is attached to the vacuum cleaner, which is six feet away and definitely not in use now. There are clear signs it has recently been for a spin around the apartment. He hears Derek in the kitchen putting away dishes. He deserves the attack of guilt, because Derek wasn't supposed to be home until Friday. He had totally meant to clean up before then.

"Home early, sweetheart?" he calls.

Derek comes around the corner. "Living like a college student, asshole?"

Stiles says, "it could be argued that I am a college student, and therefore should not be punished with garbage duty for a month like the last time this happened."

Derek just stares at him, and ugh, now he feels extra guilty, because the trip to see his family in New York hadn't been what Derek wanted to do at all. Stiles was supposed to make the whole process easier, not harder.

"Sorry, I didn't think you'd be back so early. I really was going to clean," Stiles says, and pulls off his backpack. "Hi."

Derek smiles a little then, and Stiles takes this as an excuse to step forward and hug him. Derek breathes him in, like the weirdo he is, always sniffing, and Stiles closes his eyes and hangs on. He's allowed to cling after a week and a half, he thinks. Them's the rules of a relationship.

"You shouldn't have cleaned," Stiles says. "I would've done it, and brought you drinks and snacks while you watched."

"You just hate taking out the trash, that would have been an easy out," Derek says, and runs a hand down his back.

Stiles smiles. "You missed me. Even though you came home to a trashed apartment, you missed me."

Derek snorts. "You stole all my socks. There was something growing in the kitchen sink."

"Please, you're way more worried about the socks." Stiles kisses him, leaning into his warmth. "Don't front like you're concerned about things sprouting from the pipes."

"You're still taking all the trash out for a month," Derek says, cupping his jaw in his ridiculously huge hands, and Stiles will take the trash out forever as long as Derek kisses him like they're three seconds away from sex on the couch.

And as long as Derek doesn't figure that out.

who remembers anniversaries

It's late when Stiles gets home, because the study group for his lab is incompetent and stupid and also, super stupid. Two more days and finals will be over and he will be free for three months. Three entire months, which seems like an eternity after this semester. No group members sending him panicked texts, no advisers judging his graduation checklist, no vengeful T.A.s with their sarcastic commentary on his papers.

He keys in to the apartment, which is dark and silent. There are no lurking wolves to jump out at him, or — better — curl into and just turn his brain off for a minute. Derek must've picked up a shift tonight, even though Stiles told him not to. He twists on the lamp on the shaky table they really need to fix and tosses his book bag down as he collapses on the couch. He wants to eat something completely unhealthy and then sleep for twelve hours, but he really needs to look over the macroeconomics readings before his study group at eight.

Why did he agree to a study group at eight in the morning? He hates himself.

He leans his head back on the couch and opens his eyes to Derek standing over him, eyes glowing when the light hits them.

"That's a little creepy."

"Have you been sleeping like that this whole time?"

Stiles says, "What whole time?"

Derek is wearing his hot, all black, slick bartender outfit, which he usually changes out of at work. "I texted you to tell me when you got home, remember? Three hours ago."

Stiles sits up, and oh, yeah, okay, his neck is fucking killing him. "I fell asleep," he says. He flushes. "Sorry."

"Observant." Derek walks around the sofa and bends down to tug on Stiles's shoes. "How was study group?"

Stiles rubs his face. "Like I was being shoved down plank by knife wielding, GPA obsessed GQ models while in the water, hundreds of clones of my professors clamored for my tears and blood?"

"Stop checking out your lab partners," Derek huffs.

Stiles smiles and reaches out to touch Derek's hair. It's soft, with no product today, and so Stiles gets his hand in it and tugs. "I've only got eyes for you, babe."

"Don't call me babe, ingrate." Derek tosses his left shoe to the side and holds out his hands. "Come on, up, you look like a zombie."

"I look way better than that."

"You look like you've been rolling in eraser remains." Derek grabs his hands and pulls him up, pushing him toward the hall with a hand on his back.

Stiles goes where Derek shoves him, down the hall and to their bedroom. "I should really read my macro stuff. I've gotta get an A on that final. No B's here. The scholarship fairies don't like B's."

"What you've got to do is sleep." Derek tugs him in and yanks his shirt over his head. "You'll be fine." He shoves Stiles down on the bed and Stiles would complain but it's soft and cool and fantastic. He buries his face in the pillow and lets Derek take off his pants. "This would be romantic," Stiles says as Derek flips off the light, "if I didn't feel like a zombie."

"Go to sleep," Derek mutters, shedding his clothes. Stiles dozes as Derek moves around the room and into the bathroom. He startles when the bed dips, but relaxes as Derek rolls next to him. He's too comfortable to move, so he just lies there.

"Derek," he says, sleepily.

"How are you still conscious?" Derek demands.

Stiles reaches out with a hand until he finds Derek's face and then his neck. He rests his hand there. "I didn't forget," he says softly. "Just...finals."

Derek snorts. "It'll be better next year," he says. "You'll be used to it."

"There could've been incredibly romantic anniversary sex, like last year," Stiles whines. "Last year was awesome." It had been, too. Stiles loves monogamy.

"And there will never be a repeat performance unless you go to sleep." Derek uses Stiles's arm to tug him closer.

"You don't mean that," Stiles mumbles into Derek's chest. "I am the best and you want to romance me forever and ever."

"One of the many things I want to do to you." Derek reaches out to rub his back. "Right below 'render unconscious for seven hours'."

"Mmmmpf," Stiles says into Derek's skin, and he means to repeat it, say it for real because they never really do. He really does, but between one stroke of Derek's hand on his back and another, he's too far gone.

"Me, too," Derek murmurs, and Stiles falls asleep smiling.