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Stiles has gotten used to watching Derek's back as he slips out the window at the end of an evening.
He's gotten used to it, and it's not like it bothers him, beause he knows that Derek has things to do and things to think about, what with the betas and the Argents and the kanima and all that, but he can't help but find himself wondering what it would be like for Derek to stay sometime, even just long enough for Stiles to fall asleep.
And then he winces because that sounds so cheesy and melodramatic, and he wants to punch himself in the face for sounding so romantic. Derek isn't someone that Stiles would categorize as "romantic," he's more... well, Stiles doesn't know. He doesn't really know how to label Derek, and that's probably why he likes him.
He's known a lot of girls in the past, and he's even dated one or two of them, and he's been able to see a clear pattern with their actions and their personalities, to the point that he could always predict the end of a relationship before it actually happened. He'd dated bubbly girls who always wanted more adventure in the end, he'd dated quiet girls who'd always felt rushed in the end, and... well, he'd be surprised if he'd dated more than two girls in his lifetime.
But then there's Derek, and Derek's so confusing that Stiles wouldn't even say they're dating, because he doesn't know what they're doing. Are they dating, or are they just casually making out on his couch? Does Derek have any sort of romantic interest in him, or is he just a distraction? These aren't self-esteem issues, these are legitimate questions that Stiles finds himself wondering about.
And then there's the fact that Stiles can't even pin Derek down as a person. What is he? Angry, hurt, lonely, aggravated, tired? He always seems to be some strange combination of every negative emotion under the sun, and Stiles isn't entirely sure how his life even got to the point that he was sleeping with an emotionally compromised werewolf on a regular basis.
Then again, he's not sure how his life got to the point that almost everyone around him was a werewolf and people were dying left and right.
He knows, however, that a weekend alone is a weekend alone and it's definitely not something he's going to squander. When his dad tells him that he has to go to another county to form concerted investigative efforts or whatever and that he'll probably be staying in a motel for two days, all Stiles knows is that he'll have two nights to himself and he needs to get some more DVDs as soon as possible.
--
It's definitely not what envisioned his first evening of peace and quiet would be like.
All he's got on the coffee table is half a bag of Twizzlers, Cloverfield, Orphan, and the season two box set of The Walking Dead. He frowns to himself and looks up at his television, sitting innocently in the rapidly dimming room. I mean, hell, the thing is high definition with surround sound -- worthy of movies like Inception and The Avengers, not some little girl trying to kill her parents.
It's definitely a thought, but not one that he's willing to entertain at the moment.
He sighs and picks up the box set, unimpressed. He can't even remember if he ever watched the first season -- he somehow has a feeling that he did, but he can't exactly remember it, it must have been ages ago. Maybe he watched it on Netflix with his dad?
"Well," he says to the box set, as if it'll make it feel better, "I guess zombies are better than nothing." Which is the truth, but it's just close enough to disappointment for it to bring Stiles' mood down a few notches.
He slips the disk in and lets the player load it up onto his television, and he feels a pair of strong hands descend upon his shoulders, squeezing lightly.
"I'm pretty sure we've already seen Cloverfield."
Stiles shrugs. "You're probably right, I don't really keep track." He knocks his knuckles gently against Derek's. "But we have zombies, so sit."
Derek doesn't need to be told twice, so he rounds the sofa and sits in his normal spot, though Stiles is beginning to take up almost half the couch. Stiles knocks his shoulder against Derek's and holds the bag of Twizzlers toward him.
"You want one?"
Derek hitches an eyebrow at him. "You're the only person who would think it's a good idea to give a werewolf sugar."
Stiles' expression is frank. "I'm the one with insomnia problems, dude." He pulls the bag back and takes one for himself, ripping the top of it off with his teeth as the opening credits start to roll, and Derek grunts, snatching the bag from Stiles and taking one for himself.
They stay leaning against one another, but neither of them say anything about it.
--
When they finish up the fifth or sixth episode (they've lost track, to be totally honest) Stiles is haphazardly splayed over Derek's lap and his arm rest on the sofa, and the werewolf has his legs propped up on the coffee table.
Derek gestures vaguely toward the screen. "No, what I don't get is how she can be malnourished and running from zombies all the time, but she's still pregnant. Can her body even support a baby?"
"I dunno, but I'm telling you, it's totally Shane's kid." Stiles says as the next episode starts without prompting, "I can just feel it, you know, the affair would have been completely pointless if it wasn't his kid."
Derek, straight-faced and focused on the television, lightly jabs Stiles' stomach with his finger, and Stiles jumps a bit. "I bet you ten bucks the girl's dead, too."
"Hell no! What is she, six? She's totally dead."
The evening consists of them swapping theories between one another and yelling at the television whenever a plot twist is thrown at them, and Stiles has to admit, it's the most fun he's had in a while. Apparently, Derek isn't all that different from the majority of media-consuming humans -- he gets just as invested in television as anyone would expect.
If there are points where they let their attentions wander to each other occasionally, though, it's not like there's anyone who'll admit to it. Besides, even if he's watching a good TV show, Stiles can almost guarantee that making out with Derek is probably way better, anyway (because, seriously, the things he can do with his tongue.)
It's probably some obnoxiously late hour in the night, though, when they finally finish up the last episode of the season, and Derek grins, shaking Stiles' shoulder lightly. "I told you."
But he doesn't get answer after a moment or two, and as the DVD credits roll quietly on the screen in front of him, he looks down and is actually struck by how comfortably Stiles is strewn on top of him, very much asleep.
Part of him wants to move. He itches to move, really, because he knows he shouldn't let himself be confined or trapped, even if only by a human body, but...
He's surprised by how much he doesn't mind.
--
When Stiles regains a groggy sense of consciousness, he's quick to remember that he fell asleep on top of Derek Hale and he promptly wants to punch himself in the face.
His eyes shoot open, and... Derek isn't on the sofa anymore. He shoots up from where he's laying, blurting, "Wait!" before he has a chance to know what he's doing, and he can't help but feel a little silly when he looks around the living room and finds it empty.
Just his luck, he figures. Just his luck.
Sighing, he gets up from the sofa and cracks his back. Yeah, of course he would do something as stupid as fall asleep and let Derek waltz out on his own without even saying goodbye. It's not like he comes by all the time, so what was Stiles thinking?
He picks up the empty bag of Twizzlers from the coffee table and looks at the television. It's off, and the DVDs are arranged nicely on the table, as if Derek took the time to organize them before leaving. Stiles frowns and wonders why he couldn't have shut the kitchen light off, too, at least.
It's not like he can blame him, though. He probably wanted to get out as soon as possible.
It's only when he's throwing the bag away when he hears, "Good, I was afraid I was gonna have to sleep on the floor or something." from behind him.
Derek rolls his shoulders as he walks into the room, and Stiles watches him, puzzled. "I figured you would have left already." Stiles says, though he can't help but feel a little relieved. Sure, he's wondering why, but... Derek's still there.
That makes him happier than he would have guessed.
The older man fixes Stiles with a look like it's the most obvious thing in the world, and he collapses back on the sofa. "How am I gonna sleep on your couch if I'm not here?"
Stiles blinks. Right, of course Derek picks now to be snappy. "No, I mean why are you sleeping on my couch? Why do you want to sleep on my couch?" It sounds oddly accusatory, and he feels a little bad.
But Derek sighs, and he lets his eyes wander the room, from the television to the ceiling to the walls. "I told Erica and Isaac and Boyd to lay low for a while. It'll draw less attention to us, especially from the Argents." He clears his throat, and when he speaks again, his voice has something of a Southern twinge. "I was just trying to keep everybody safe."
Stiles wishes he could keep the confused face up, he really does, but he can't help but laugh when he notices a quote from the show, however poorly executed. "So you're laying low, then?"
"It's not like the Hale property has a history of being werewolf-free."
Stiles rolls his eyes as he approaches the sofa, and he bends down to grab an old blanket from underneath it. He's almost certain that Derek won't need it -- his blood has to be partly made of lava or something -- but he has to hospitable, at the very least. "And if I don't let you sleep on my couch?"
Derek catches his wrist as he leaves the blanket on the coffee table, and Stiles yelps a bit as he gets yanked down. Derek wraps an arm loosely around his neck and pulls Stiles down to kiss him, long and slow and wet. It takes him a bit off-guard, but Stiles moans into it despite himself (and despite the oddly bent angle his back is at.)
"I don't see you trying to stop me." Derek mumbles into his mouth. Stiles hums, punching Derek's chest lightly. He stands back up and Derek looks smug beyond all belief -- though, surprisingly, Stiles can't bring himself to be angry.
"You better be glad I'm a sweetheart."
Derek chuckles as he goes over to shut the kitchen light off, and he realizes slowly that he feels a bit awkward leaving Derek downstairs while he goes up to bed. That's how he's supposed to feel, right? You don't just leave your guest downstairs.
He's standing still in the room when he hears Derek say, quietly, "Sleep tight, Stilinski."
That's when he figures that he should be assertive for once.
He rounds the sofa again and grabs the blanket. "Get on your side and slide back." The sofa's big enough, Stiles knows, and Derek looks intrigued.
"You're not going upstairs?"
Stiles shrugs. "My dad's gone for one weekend, so if you're staying in my house, I'm gonna enjoy it." And he realizes that probably sounds more sentimental than he meant, but Derek doesn't complain about turning on his side and letting Stiles collapse in front of him.
He figures that it might feel awkward, but Stiles almost can't believe how... natural it feels to slide into a comfortable position. Derek's chest behind him is warm and he can feel the werewolf's heartbeat through the back of his shirt and he has to admit that it feels... well, he doesn't want to say right, because that sounds so horribly melodramatic, but he likes it, at least.
A strong arm snakes around his stomach, and he almost doesn't notice, but then Derek kisses his nape lightly and mumbles, "Go to sleep, Stiles."
He does, then. And he's happy to do it.
--
The first thing Stiles notices when he wakes up is the steady rise and fall of a strong chest behind him, and he figures that consciousness can piss off for another hour or two.