Stiles wasn’t drunk. No, he had bee-lined from stone cold sober and babbling about the problems related to teens and alcohol to plastered and suddenly willing to jump off the roof of the house; thankfully, Scott had kept his feet firmly on the ground, even as Stiles whined and insisted that he could fly and that Scott was a terrible friend for questioning his abilities. Stiles could barely stand, much less use his arms as a pair of functional wings, and he nearly introduced his nose to the asphalt when Scott insisted that it was time to head out.
“Where – ” Stiles started to slur out the start of the question but was interrupted by the knobs of the radio in his own jeep, suddenly fixated on pressing each button at least once. He hadn’t put up a fight when Scott demanded the keys, though he had insisted on tossing them into the air and telling his friend to ‘fetch.’ When he was sober, he’d pay for another one of his ridiculous dog jokes. They were halfway to their destination, the jeep turning sharply into the woods, when Stiles lost all interest in the radio and attempted his question once more. “Where we goin’?” At least, that’s what he meant to say, though Scott heard mostly consonants and didn’t bother to answer the other boy. He looked ready to ask again, leaning forward in his seat, when the seatbelt strapped across his chest tightened and forced him to hold still.
“Stuck. I’m stuck. Scott, I’m stuck.” He gripped the offending seatbelt and tugged. When it refused to give way, Scott could almost hear Stiles’ pout echoing through the night air. “Stuck,” he said again, as if the word would will his friend to stop the jeep and teach the cruel seatbelt a lesson. Scott did no such thing, and instead rolled his eyes.
Stiles was occupied by the seatbelt for the rest of the ride, and only seemed to notice the half-burned house in the middle of the woods when Scott dragged him right up to the door of it. He didn’t bother to knock, he didn’t have to. The door was already yanked open by the time they reached the first step of the porch. Derek stood there, one eyebrow crooked upward, but didn’t bother to help Scott get the deadweight that was Stiles up to the door. It took the boy escaping from Scott’s hands and literally ramming into his side, nose irritatingly tickling at his exposed collarbone, for Derek to do more than simply stare at the duo.
“What do you think you’re doing?” He directed the question at Scott, though the boy stuck to his side seemed keen to answer for him. Stiles opened his mouth and Derek pressed his hand over it without even bothering to glance over at him, clicking his tongue in a wordless reprimand. “No, not you. You, be quiet. You,” he raised both eyebrows at Scott, “tell me why you brought this ridiculous display of teenage revelry to my house at 2 o’clock in the morning.”
Scott shrugged at first, though that clearly wasn’t an answer that was going to appease the broad man in front of him, whose arm had slinked around Stiles’ waist and was now literally holding him upright. Derek stared at him still, indicating for him to elaborate on the short lift of his shoulders. “He smells like he fell into a keg,” he explained, though he was sure the older werewolf could detect the scent of beer mingling with the distinct scent of Stiles all on his own. “I can’t bring him home like that. His dad would kill him, and then he’d kill me.” That much was probably the truth; Scott had, after all, invited the sheriff’s son out that night, which meant that he would be held responsible. Even though it had been his friend’s idea to drink four glasses of the punch and chase each with a can of cheap, bitter beer.
Derek was poised to protest, though he mostly looked poised to pounce. Scott shook his head at the disapproving look that creased over the alpha’s face. “Your boyfriend, your problem,” he retorted in a tone that sounded far too elated at the current situation and bounded away from the house. “If he freaks out tomorrow, tell him that I took the jeep. Have a good night, Derek.” Before the man had time to process what was going on – that he was about to be left with a pile of drunk and nuzzling Stiles and then, in all likelihood, a griping and hungover Stiles – the engine of the jeep sputtered and then roared back to life and Scott was off.
For a moment, he silently contemplated driving the kid home himself. But, pressing his nose to the top of the boy’s hair and inhaling deeply made him think better of it; the scent of beer clung to him, and Stiles wouldn’t be leaving until he smelled more like himself and more like Derek. He could, for all intents and purposes, leave the squirming teenager out on the porch until dawn. No, no, that plan wouldn’t work either. Derek had been on the receiving end of Stiles’ whines before, and he wasn’t about to let the boy attract all types of wild animals to his front door. He was left with only one course of action: bring the drunken wonder boy inside and attempt to get him to sleep.
Hand still pressed over the boy’s mouth, Derek finally directed his attention to the body swaying against his own. “When I take my hand away, you’re going to stay quiet. I don’t even want to hear you breathing, got it?” Stiles nodded eagerly and Derek, against his better judgment, lowered his hand. A gleam passed through the kid’s eyes and the older man nudged him sharply on the nose. “I said no.” With that, he hoisted the teenager up, one arm tucked firmly under his knees and the other braced against his back. The position probably wasn’t entirely necessary, but it certainly was the easiest, considering he hardly had the patience to make Stiles walk himself into the house and up the stairs to Derek’s room.
“You’re carrying me like – ” The kid started, hands clapping in front of his face. Derek stopped his trek into the house, having made it a record three steps, and turned to glare at him, jaw clenched and eyes narrowed. It was his go-to face to get any member of the pack to sit down and shut up. The look didn’t seem to shake Stiles in the slightest. “Like a bride!” He finished his exclamation with a giggle. A fucking giggle. Derek really would have to reevaluate the wolf’s decision to pick this sorry excuse for a mate, out of all of the people on the entire planet. This was what he got. This flailing, blubbering child who tucked his head under Derek’s chin and pressed his palm flat over the man’s chest and suddenly managed to make up for the giggle in the span of a second.
Surprisingly, Stiles managed to keep himself from saying another word, and even from breathing too loudly, for the rest of the walk from the door to the bedroom. Derek dropped him, rather unceremoniously, onto the bed that was not often shared. It barely creaked under his unimpressive weight. It dipped low in the middle, however, when Derek swooped down to hover over the boy, knees pressing on either side of his hips and palms digging down beside his face. Stiles didn’t seem to mind the closeness at all, a lazy smile on his lips as he reached up to splay his fingers along the alpha’s jaw. Derek, who had planned on merely replacing the stench of alcohol with his own scent, quirked an eyebrow as his head tilted, rather against his own will, into the touch.
“What are you doing?” He asked as the teenager’s fingers walked up his jaw and pressed behind his ears. He had meant to sound as menacing as possible, though it was a futile act, considering; Derek might have often loudly reminded Stiles that he was not, in fact, a canine, but he couldn’t help the fact that his ears were his weakest spots. It only made things worse when Stiles began to scratch, his short nails dragging along Derek’s skin.
Beneath him, the kid didn’t stop the assault of his fingers and merely said, “I’m guiding you in.”
Derek very nearly purred – and what was he now, a damn housecat? – before he managed to clear his throat. When he asked, “Guiding me into what?” his voice was almost as gruff and sharp as it usually was. Stiles rolled his eyes up at him, as if the answer to his question should have been completely obvious. Derek leaned in then, nose almost bumping into Stiles’, as he lowered his voice and asked again, “Guiding me into what?”
“A kiss, duh. You really are a silly puppy sometimes, Derek. Did you know that?” Stiles laughed at his own joke, if it really could be considered a joke at all, and traced his fingers over the shells of the man’s ears. “And look, you’re almost there. C’mon cap’n, you can do it. Just a little bit more.”
“You’re insane. We really should talk to your father about having you committed.” Derek’s words went against his actions, however, as he made absolutely no attempt to move away from the boy. Then, a thought clicked into his head and he nudged their noses together. “If I kiss you, will you shut up and go to sleep?” Stiles took the bribe and nodded, as if to demonstrate that he could, in fact, shut his mouth and stay that way when the situation called for it. “Good,” Derek started to say, but the word was muffled against a pair of lips that always seemed to be too soft.
The kiss was chaste and almost too short, though Derek traced his tongue over Stiles’ lower lip when the boy whimpered at the loss of contact. “You taste like vomit,” the werewolf said, his nose scrunching up as the fingers at his ears fell down to his shoulders.
“I love you, too,” was all that he got in response as Stiles used all the sloppy strength he had to tug the alpha down on top of him, his breathing even and his eyes falling shut.