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Stiles has only been able to convince Derek to stay the night on a few occasions, whenever his dad was out of town or working major overtime, but every time it's happened, it's been pretty awesome.
The fact that Derek even decides to stay the night in the first place is, in and of itself, a victory for Stiles, because the guy could easily be doing something much more interesting with his time, like... running through the forest or whatever werewolves do. Instead, though, he decides to spend time with Stiles, regardless if coercion is required or not, as opposed to brooding alone in his old house or whatever.
He never says it out loud (though he probably should, because karma's going to be a bitch to him at some point) but he really likes it when Derek stays the night. They normally watch movies together and eat horrible food and make fun of all the cheesy lines, and Stiles will end up falling asleep and so will Derek and... well, they kind of end up sleeping together.
Which definitely isn't how it sounds, because sleeping with Derek is a lot different than just... sleeping while Derek is in the room and generally in close proximity. Like, really close proximity.
See, it tends to be different every time, how they end up. Sometimes Derek falls asleep first, sometimes Stiles, but, surprisingly enough, Derek tends to clock out before him. He's not sure how that works -- he can't help but think that Derek would have this weird fear of unconsciousness, like he's not safe or something, and although Stiles has yet to see whether or not he's a light sleeper, he can definitely say that Derek's hours are longer than his. Even if Stiles falls asleep first, Derek tends to stay asleep longer, which is... well, it's kind of weird.
But, more often than not, Stiles actually ends up falling asleep last, probably due to deep-seated sleeping problems and also from all the Adderall, and... well, yeah, he might have something of a habit of keeping himself awake, but who wouldn't?
He can totally explain, though.
Even for Stiles, it's pretty late at night for him to still be conscious (and by late at night, he means early in the morning, because it has to be three or four already.) But he's relaxed and calm and the room is surprisingly cool and dry, considering the gross mugginess that followed all the rain in March, and he's just... weirdly happy.
There's still a comforting glow coming from the muted television, casting the room an artificial blue. He already turned off the DVD player and he's set the TV to some channel in the high two-hundreds that's selling crappy jewelry to sad middle-aged adults who are still awake at four in the morning and eating ice cream out of the carton. The boxes for Rango and Easy A and Reservoir Dogs are strewn haphazardly on the coffee table (he'll never stop being amused by their choices in movies) and there's an empty box of Junior Mints somewhere on the carpet.
He's not so sure how he and Derek ended up like this, but he figures that somewhere along the way, he ended up kind of splayed between Derek's legs and sort of leaning against his chest, and Derek's arm somehow landed loosely around his waist. He's probably slumped too far down, or maybe Derek's sitting too far up, but their legs are tangled and Stiles isn't even sure where his arms want to be.
But it's totally not cuddling, because Derek Hale does not cuddle, and neither does Stiles, and why would he want to cuddle with Derek, anyway? That's like cuddling with something... sharp and pointy and dangerous and capable of killing him. It's just not practical. Besides, he hates the word "cuddle."
That aside, he's not sure exactly when Derek fell asleep, but he did, at some point. Maybe it was at midnight or two o'clock or even ten minutes ago, but Stiles knows, because Derek's fingers stopped idly tracing triskelion patterns against the fabric at his hip, falling limp against Stiles' side. It's odd, because Derek seems so comfortable where he is. Stiles is so used to seeing him on edge all the time that seeing him... calm is a tad surreal.
Still, even with his lingering consciousness and the way his limbs are strewn so messily with Derek's on the sofa, with the way sleep is just at the edge of his eyes, he won't let it take him, not yet. He likes the cold air in the living room and the muted television and the way Derek's chest moves beneath him, he likes that he can stare into the darkness and just enjoy this.
He really does enjoy this. He can't lie to himself, he enjoys Derek's company and Derek's personality and Derek's looks and Derek. He enjoys the way he always smells like the woods after rain or perhaps something else, he can't quite place it. He enjoys that Derek's warming up to him, relaxing around him, watching movies with him and actually enjoying himself. He sometimes talks, he sometimes doesn't, but Stiles knows, deep down, that there's this horrible, confusing conundrum of trust and distrust between them that will never sort itself out, no matter how many times they flip their relationship on its head.
But Derek's chest is comfortable and he can hear, every now and then, the sound of a car rumble quietly past on the street, and the dark is swelling and receding in the corners of the room like some sort of nightmare, and he knows he should be sleeping, but he can't. He always sleeps, and nothing happens. Stiles misses out on too much, he feels, and he's a bit fed up with it.
Is he content with just laying here on his sofa with Derek's arm around him, comfortable and quiet and relaxed? Of course he is. There's nowhere he'd rather be, probably.
And that hits him like a steady wave of realization, and he's happier with it than he would have guessed he'd be.
Behind him, Derek grunts, and he tucks his chin down some as Derek stirs a bit. Derek's voice is rough and sounds strange in the hush of the room, but it's gentle, and still a tad sleepy. "Go to sleep, Stiles."
"How'd you know I was awake?" he asks, and he knows he should probably just let it go, to just give in and do as he's told, but there's still no part of him that wants to be asleep, even if he's tired.
Derek hums, and Stiles can hear it rumble through his chest, and he grins the slightest bit. "I thought you were asleep a while ago. Your heart slowed down." he replies, and then clears his throat to try to get some of the roughness out of it. "It just sped up, though, a little. Woke me up."
Stiles chuckles. "Light sleeper."
Derek shifts a bit behind him, and though Stiles doesn't very much like the movement, it's then that he realizes that his back was crooked and, wow, that's a lot more comfortable. Derek scoots down some and his other arm comes around Stiles' stomach. He rests his chin on Stiles' head. "I could feel it." he mumbles. "What were you thinking about?"
He pauses. He can't lie, but he can't just vocalize his thoughts, partly because they're horribly sentimental and partly because he was hardly awake and he doesn't really understand them anyway. "I don't know." he tells Derek quietly. "Just thinking."
The other man grunts in affirmation, and he bows his head a bit. Stiles can't help but smile when Derek kisses his neck, and says, "It's four in the morning. Go to sleep."
Derek's on the fast track to unconsciousness again, Stiles knows, and part of him wants to stay awake, to defy Derek, but he's actually in a position that isn't ridiculous and, hell, is he sleepy, so even as he thinks that he'll very carefully grab the remote and watch the Food Network for a while, his eyelids are drooping and --
Well, he never really stood a chance, anyway, did he?
--
The first thing Derek does when they get up the next morning, after an hour or two of lazing around on the couch and complaining about the sunlight coming in through the blinds, is peck Stiles on the lips.
"You were lying." he grumbles, and strides toward the kitchen to start the coffee maker. "There's a myth that your nose will grow if you do that."
Stiles' shoulders slump a bit at that. "It's so not fair that you can hear people's heartbeats, dude."
Derek's smirk is infuriating. "I wasn't listening." he tells Stiles, and he rubs the back of his neck. "It's just kind of obvious when you're thinking about me."
He chuckles as Stiles splutters in the living room, and he walks into the kitchen to grab the coffee grinds. "Dude, you're a jackass!" Stiles shouts, nearly tripping on the carpet as he follows Derek into the kitchen.
But he doesn't deny it, because, honestly? It's probably no use.