Stiles finally gets a good look at himself at one in the morning. In the unflattering and over-bright light of the bathroom.
It turns out that getting between werewolves and hunters is not a good look for him. Probably not a good look for anyone but definitely not for him. He pokes at the split in his lip, which is messier and more painful than it looks on TV. Then wonders why he did such a stupid thing - because, yes, it hurts. He tells himself again that his abusive relationship with the supernatural population is probably not going to end well.
If Stiles is thankful for nothing else it's that his dad's working the night shift, and won't be home until after six. Though he's pretty sure all the bright red parts of him are going to be significantly more multi-coloured tomorrow. More noticeably multi-coloured. In a way that will be obvious and incriminating to anyone within seeing distance. It might be a good idea to dig out some sort of scarf and dark glasses disguise. Though he's pretty sure he can't in any way pull that off. Really, who's he kidding? He's going to have to get out in the morning without being seen. After that he can think up some sort of excuse. Falling off the bleachers, taking a lacrosse ball to the face, getting blown up in a terrible chemistry accident. Something that doesn't involve werewolves. Honestly, the werewolves are just getting harder and harder to edit out of his explanations.
Of course that's assuming he's going to be able to get out of bed tomorrow, which considering how good he feels right now - he has a suspicion that tomorrow is going to be an extra circle of hell. Not to mention the fact that he has to wait until the adrenaline wears off to actually get any sleep. Which isn't going to be any time soon. He's still shaking like he's discovered how to take candy intravenously. Not that he isn't also dreading when all that lovely adrenaline wears off and his body remembers how much it should be hurting and simply collapses in on itself, possibly in the bathroom, which is going to feel like a mile from his bed.
It turns out that the need to poke is kind of irresistible and he finds himself prodding the over-heated skin beside his left eye and then regretting that too. Glutton - punishment.
He's so busy staring at his own eyeball that he misses Derek creeping his way into the bathroom. Or possibly oozing his way through the wall, who knows how Derek manages to get everywhere? All Stiles knows is that there's now a werewolf over his right shoulder. One who currently looks offended and angry, like a child who's discovered someone has been playing with his toys and returned one of them broken. Which gives Stiles an excuse to be significantly more pissed than he already was. He grips hold of the sink, presses his fingers in until they start to go numb.
"Oh my God, I'm in the bathroom. This is an inappropriate place to loom sinisterly in the background."
"I came to make sure you were ok." It's amazing how Derek makes that sound exactly the same as 'I've come to kill you.' Stiles has told him so many times to work on his murderous tone.
He glares at Derek in the mirror, and doesn't bother to turn around. Because clearly he's not ok, and he wonders if Derek even knows that. He's had werewolf instant healing powers his whole life. Does he even know what it feels like to be beaten to crap for more than the five minutes it takes him to heal? Even when he was poisoned his immediate reaction was to decide that chopping off the part of him that wouldn't stop hurting was the best possible solution.
"That doesn't excuse your sense of the dramatic overriding other people's need for personal time."
Derek ignores his perfectly reasonable protest in favour of slinking closer. Like some sort of creepy leather-clad panther.
"What you did tonight was stupid. I appreciated it, but it was stupid."
Which is officially the shittiest thank you Stiles has ever gotten, and he's friends with Jackson. But Derek's face seems to think it makes everything fine. That his shitty apology is enough. Stiles is a whole world of not surprised, because clearly someone wasn't socialised enough as a child.
"I'm not one of your wolves, you can't just overpower me with your Alpha pheromones and suddenly everything's fine. I'm still mad at you. I'm going to continue to be mad at you for the foreseeable future and possibly beyond." Which isn't a lie, this is an anger he's going to hold onto. He might even let it simmer a little.
Derek looms behind him and the bathroom really isn't big enough to cope with Derek and his fetish for looming in dark corners. So Stiles has no choice but to turn around. It's either that or die of paranoia.
"Fine, your shitty thank you is accepted. I'm alive, with all my limbs intact, don't you have a pack to go posture in front of or something?" That normally would at least get him a glower, but Derek's face just twitches, like he deserves it.
"Stiles." Derek's brow draws down, like he's having complicated emotions he doesn't like. He reaches out, slowly, and yesterday Stiles would have been proud of him for the awkward overtures. They've been making progress towards making Derek look and act like he isn't a serial killer. But he's sick of this, he's sick of all of it.
He shoves Derek's hand off.
"No, you don't get to touch me like we're friends."
Which for some reason turns the complicated expression into a furious one.
"Fine," Derek says roughly, which has to be the first time Stiles has actually won an argument with him. Only it turns out that he hasn't because then there are hands on his elbows, gripping hard and shoving him back into the sink. He cracks his head on the mirror, which isn't even a two on the scale of painful crap that's happened to him in the last twenty four hours. But it still hurts.
Derek's right up in his face, practically snarling.
"If we're not friends then stop getting in my way, stop trying to protect me, you're going to get yourself killed."
Stiles shakes him off, is surprised when Derek lets him shake him off, because he's not even going to pretend that isn't what happened.
"I've been doing pretty well so far. Better than some people, and for your information I was watching out for Scott long before you showed up. So I have more than a little experience with people who charge in without thinking things through. Don't you dare tell me to stop like I actually have to listen to anything you say. I'm going to keep taking stupid risks to help Scott and Allison, and even you, when you're in trouble. And quite frankly sometimes you need me."
Stiles is shaking, and he can't for the life of him tell if it's angry shaking or terrified shaking. It's some sort of emotional vibration. Derek crowds in closer, right over the line into his personal space and then past it, taking up all the air in the bathroom, and Stiles doesn't even care if he gets slammed up against the wall again, or worse. He's pretty sure the adrenaline high can take it.
But there isn't any hitting, there's just silence and tension, and Stiles would have to be stupid to not understand exactly what sort of a moment they're having now. It should be more surprising. It should come as more of a shock that there's this. The way Derek's looking at him. And Stiles is definitely blaming him for the way huge and angry and stupidly masculine has become something that apparently Stiles kind of goes for now. He's also blaming Derek for the way he isn't shoving him away - and he should - because Derek is kind of a car crash waiting to happen. He's a huge ball of suppressed rage and issues, and Stiles is still genuinely afraid of him sometimes. What with their history of physical violence as a conversation starter, or possibly physical violence as conversation. But Stiles is letting it happen anyway, he's not saying no, when he's pretty sure that this is the moment where he's supposed to say no, if he doesn't want this. Before Derek presses him into the sink like he doesn't care - and, yeah, there's the realisation that he's apparently fine with that - he's so much more than fine with that. Which answers a lot of questions.
Stiles has had a lot of time to wonder what his first kiss would be like. But he never imagined it being this angry, or this painful, or that it would involve so much shoving. It turns out that maybe he was imagining it wrong the whole time. Because angry kissing is amazing.
They're close enough that Stiles feels the exact moment Derek realises what the fuck he's doing, and stops doing it.
When he tries to pull away Stiles doesn't even think about it. He digs his fingers into his shoulders and stops him. There's a barely-there space between their mouths, and that's suddenly unacceptable to Stiles. He can feel Derek breathing, can feel the creeping tension under his fingers, and he wants to kiss him again, or he wants Derek to kiss him again. He really doesn't care which. He knows he doesn't have a chance of holding Derek if he really wants to leave. But Derek's not moving away, so Stiles tightens his grip on cold leather and leans in, and they're kissing again, or whatever this angry version of it is. It still feels a little bit like they're fighting, and Stiles keeps forgetting to breathe, and he knows from experience that enthusiasm doesn't magically make you good at something. But Derek's hands keep clenching on his waist, tight and warm, like he's trying really, really hard not to like it too much. So Stiles stops worrying about whether he's a terrible kisser and just takes shameless advantage of the moment, and Derek's mouth. His hands end up in Derek's hair and immediately try their best to wreck it all to hell.
When Derek growls Stiles can feel it all the way through him. It's probably not supposed to be a sex noise but he has to choke off a groan, because his body thinks it is. Suddenly Derek's crushing every one of his bruises, and it hurts all over and Stiles is still trying to claw his way closer.
Derek presses Stiles back into the sink, more than six feet of muscle and stupid supernatural strength, which should be scary as hell - and kind of is, but definitely not the way it should be. Because Stiles is fully prepared to give Derek whatever he wants, right here, anything he wants he could just take it. And, oh my God, sixteen or not Stiles is kind of stunned at how easy he apparently is. Because he's a second away from just shoving into Derek's thigh until he comes. Which he suspects will be both utterly humiliating and mind-blowingly good. He doesn't even realise he's digging his teeth into the hard edge of Derek's jaw until there's a strangled inhale. Derek lets him go abruptly, he takes a step back, and then another, completely out of looming distance. Derek looks a lot like he's been punched in the stomach. There's blood on his mouth, a fading smear of it, Stiles's lip is bleeding again, he can feel the wet sting of abused skin. He's still shaking, it's the very first thing he notices, which is kind of embarrassing. He's lost control of his own limbs, adrenaline is utter balls.
"Derek." He sounds confused, and surprised, and kind of pathetic. Which wasn't what he was going for at all. He was fully intending to say something sensible and mature - as soon as he worked out what that was. But this is exactly the opposite of that, and now Derek's far enough away that his boots have hit the back of the door. Stiles feels a little bit like something contagious.
"Go to bed," Derek says roughly, and Stiles takes some comfort in how strained Derek's voice sounds, in the fact that he has to swallow after the words. Not so much comfort in the fact that Derek can't seem to look at him - doesn't in fact look at him before he's opening the door and leaving.
Stiles's mission to not be friends with Derek is either going brilliantly or is fucked all to hell.