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Just Glide

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Whoever designed this cockpit should be shot, Stiles thinks, cursing creatively at the sharp bolts of pain that stab through his leg when his knee jams into the console. Courtmarshalled, hanged, and shot. Along with the fuck-up in the psych department who gave him Captain Derek Hale for a partner/bunkmate/bane of his existence.

This shit never happened to him when he had Scott for a pilot.

Even without the artificial grav working against him, it's still nearly impossible to navigate his body around all the equipment. Could be worse, though; Hale could be the one trying to maneuver his endless shoulders through the sliver of space between the sputtering flight console and the curve of transparent plastic that suddenly seems way too thin to be the only thing separating them from the vacuum of space.

"I swear to fuck, Hale, if you're dead, I'm gonna kill you," he grunts, breathless with the constriction of his chest. The fact that there's no answer from the compartment ahead doesn't freak him out at all.

For a moment he gets stuck trying to wedge his hips through, cold metal digging into bone through his flightsuit. Panic tailspins in his stomach as his fingers scrabble for purchase - why the fuck does every fucking surface in here have to be so fucking smooth? - and then he pops free, through to the other side. His skin stings under the stretchy synthetic and he's got enough momentum that he bangs his head on the front view screen, but if those are the worst bruises he comes through today with he'll be the luckiest son of a bitch alive.

The coming through the day, being the operative part.

When he finally lays eyes on Hale, Stiles is hovering upside down over the pilot console - which, thank god, is emitting a steady, soft light that says good things about its potential operating condition. The perspective screws with him a little, and Stiles has only got three weeks of basic medic training under his belt to begin with, but he's pretty sure that the glazed look in Hale's drooping eyes and the smear of red on the skin showing around the edges of his helmet are bad news.

On the other hand, Hale’s blinking, which means he's still alive. Stiles honestly never expected to feel as elated about that as he does right this second.

"Hey, Hale, man, you ok?"

Stiles palms at the view screen, console, snags a finger in the one of the safety straps holding Hale in the pilot's seat and manages to get himself turned right-side up. It also lands him square in Hale's lap and the fact that Hale doesn't even lay a hint of a growl on him makes Stiles' throat tighter than when the first rogue asteroid had blipped on his screen.

Hale makes up for it a second later with a tooth-snapping snarl when Stiles reaches forward to try and unbuckle his helmet.

Stiles jerks his hands clear fast, bumps back against the throttle with his elbow, but the engine's long past trying to whine back to life. "Whoa, down boy! It's me, Stiles!"

Whuffing out a labored breath, Hale mumbles, "Stiles?" pawing at the helmet himself until the buckle gives and he can shove it off. It floats lackadaisically across the cockpit before it bumps gently against the viewscreen and starts a slow path back again. Stiles' is probably doing the same thing back in his compartment. Danny's going to tear him a new one if it breaks any of the equipment.

"Stilisshki?" Derek repeats, slurred. He blinks hard, set on repeat until his pupils finally dilate and focus.

Without the helmet mucking things up, the gash on Hale's forehead doesn't look as bad as Stiles had feared. It's deep, and the stark flash of bone peeking through makes Stiles' gut lurch, but there's a lot more blood than there is cut. It was probably bigger a few minutes ago, before the whole Lycan healing thing kicked in. He's trying really hard right now just to be grateful for Hale's freaky alien biology and not dwell too much on how screwed he'd have been if it had been him piloting.

"Yeah, it's me. How you doin'?" Stiles bobs his head trying to get a lock on Hale's gaze, but it's still wandering confusedly around the cockpit. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

Mostly it’s a distraction so he can get a hand on Hale’s head to make sure there’s not any other damage being hidden by the dark tangle of his hair. Being Hale, of course he can't just sit back and let Stiles check him over, so he grabs at Stiles fingers instead - misses once, but Stiles magnanimously chooses not to point that out - and asks, "Where are we?"

"Uh, well," Stiles stutters for a second, thrown off by the way Hale's thumb is sweeping back and forth over his wristbone. It's weird, and clearly part of some concussion-based delusion Hale's having about them being people who don't actively dislike one another and it is really fucking distracting, ok? Maybe Stiles hit his head too. "We're, uh, somewhere in the north quadrant off of KeKouan. Asteriod shower knocked us off course a little, but we should still be…"

Stiles cranes around to switch on the nav map at Hale's console. One handed, because Hale doesn't seem to have noticed he's still clinging to Stiles' right one like a security blanket.

"Bingo. We're floating 12 degrees off course, but we should still be in the path of the ship. All we gotta do is wait for them to get into radar range-"

"We should hail them," Hale says, suddenly sounding a lot more like the bossy asshole Stiles is used to bucking orders from.

"Oh, you think we should radio the ship? After a brush with death that knocked out our engines and left us meandering through space on auxilary power? Gosh, Hale, you are sooooo smart, I can see why they made you a Captain, I don't know what I'd do without- ow, ow."

The pressure of Hale’s fingers digging into the fine bones of Stiles hand lets up as soon as he stops talking, but Stiles waits until all of his appendages are firmly back in his own possession to add, "You think that wasn't the first thing I tried? I'm the Nav Officer, man, I know what I'm doing. The comm's busted, so we're just gonna have to wait it out."

Hale rolls his eyes, but he also plants a hand on Stiles thigh to pull him back down as his body starts listing upward again. "And how long is that going to take?"

"Seven hours." Stiles snips, because Hale's not the only one around here who can cop an attitude. Stiles is the king of attitude. He also worms a hand under one of the safety straps to hold himself in place because Hale doesn't seem to be able to just touch Stiles without some kind of stroking going on and if he doesn't knock it off real fast Stiles is also going to be the king of obvious, inappropriate boners. Hale is annoying as fuck, that doesn't stop him from being one of the hottest guys alive and Stiles' dick only cares about one of those things.

"Ish," he tacks on after a second. Hale's absolutely the kind of guy who would bitch about Stiles being wrong if the ship showed up in seven hours and three minutes.

Right about now, Stiles would happily be wrong if it would save him seven hours trapped in the cockpit with The Sourpilot.


Stiles has never been especially good at sitting still. He spent the better part of his formative years in detention of fidgeting and zoning out in class. Occasionally lighting things on fire or blowing them up. Teachers are persnickety.

Navigating is different; in a fighter or on a scout run he's got a dozen things to keep track of at once. Bouncing back and forth between them keeps his mind occupied, lets him forget about being locked into one position and just glide. The Nav seat is one of the few places in the universe he's ever felt like all the disparate angles he's cobbled out of fit together. Where's he's right, good, comfortable.

This isn't the Nav seat and if there's comfort out there, it's in a galaxy far far away.

Auxiliary power means essential systems only - radar, low-grade oxygen conversion, just enough thermal insulation to keep them from a slow, teeth-chattery death. It is not warm, it is not cozy, and it is not interesting.

At least not in any way Stiles can afford to think about right now.

Objectively, he guesses that being strapped to Hale's lap so they can share bodyheat is interesting. There are sure as hell plenty of people back on the ship who would pay good money to trade places with him. If it wasn't for all the pain and bleeding he's sure would follow if he made a move, he might even be one of them.

Hale's chest grates against Stiles' back with every breath, the complicated configuration of belts and clasps that holds the two of them in place pressing minutely against his chest because at some point in the second hour - after Stiles ran through every troubleshoot he could think of twice and Hale growled at him to shut the console down and stop wasting power - they started breathing in tandem. It comes with a little kiss of hot air against his jaw where Hale's chin is hooked over his shoulder and the occasional scrape of stubble when one or the other of them shifts.

Their hands are clasped together, nestled between Stiles' thighs; not high enough up the leg to really count for anything but still leagues more intimate than some hookups Stiles has had. The stroking thing hasn't stopped either. A while ago - Stiles has made himself stop keeping track of time because that just seems to make it go slower - he decided he had to ask about it or suffer a nervous breakdown. Hale mumbled something about Lycans being tactile and went right back to rubbing tiny, maddening circles into Stiles' legs through the flightsuit.

Stiles had been hard on and off since Hale tightened that last strap and locked them together. It's not as awkward as he would have thought, actually. Mainly because he's got his ass planted against Hale's crotch and whatever Hale's super-nose may be able to pick out about Stiles' predicament, Stiles has irrefutable proof that Hale's got not room to judge.

"It's pretty, huh?" he hears himself say, out of the blue. "The stars." His voice sounds thick in his own ears, rough enough that he questions how long it's really been since one of them spoke.

Hale's breath stutters against his neck. His usual five o'clock shadow is edging into the eight o'clock range, rasping loud against the shoulder of Stiles' flight suit as he turns his head to look straight out in front of them. It makes Stiles wonder what Hale's been staring at instead, and then lose the thought completely when Hale turns back to look at Stiles out of the corner of his eye.

They're kinda bizarre, Hale's eyes. The sort of color that you think could never occur in nature until you see it there and realize no manufactured dye is ever going to come close. Almost blue and almost green in this way that sort of novas as Stiles watches.

"I forget about them, sometimes," Hale says, low and feather soft. It takes Stiles a long second to figure out he's still stuck on the stars. "Get caught up doing the job, they turn into background."

Stiles nods slowly, distracted. Realizes when one of the straps digs into his ribs that he's sucking in deep gulps of air for no good reason.

"It's easy, if you get too focused on one point in the distance. You can skim right by the important ones and never see them."

The cold is biting at the tips of Stiles’ nose and he’s starting to feel lightheaded from all the thin air. Is that why he’s breathing so hard?

"Or they can come hurtling out of nowhere and murder your engines," he points out, trying not to squirm on Hale’s lap as that no so little problem starts thickening up against his hip again.

Hale laughs, throaty and warm. Stiles is almost sure he's never heard it before. It seems kinda wired when he thinks about it. Stiles isn’t everybody’s cup of tea, but he’s generally considered funny. True, Hale has proved largely oblivious to Stiles’ charms, but still, they’ve been sharing a room for weeks. Regardless, he's feeling it in his bones now with how close they're molded together and it’s not doing a whole hell of a lot to calm his dick down.

Maybe he really did hit his head. What di hallucinations feel like?

"Or that," Hale agrees amicably. Those eyes have got to be getting brighter, Stiles can't be imagining that. "You're leaking."

Reluctantly, Stiles nods. The suit is designed to handle short jumps through the void if they need to emergency eject, so there's no cold patch, no soaked fabric, but he can feel it slippery on his skin where his dick is trapped in the crook of his hip, the way his stomach muscles clench as another pulse of precome slides free. It feels like his blood is simmering up close to the surface of his skin, throbbing against it with his heartbeat and making him tingle and sweat. It's near freezing temps in here and he feels like somebody just plopped him down on the surface of a blue star.

"Are you doing this?" Stiles wonders out loud. He's never heard about Lycan’s having any kind of special physical manipulation abilities, but that doesn't mean it's not possible. Some species like to keep their best shit under wraps. He should have done more research when he got paired up with Hale weeks ago, but it never seemed like that big of a deal. They wouldn't have sent him out alone with anything that had hardcore powers without telling him, right?

"Doing what?" Hale murmurs. His fingers tighten around Stiles' and then he's pressing both their hands against Stiles' cock.

A gut-punched groan bursts out of Stiles and gets swallowed into Hale when their mouths clash together. Stiles isn't even sure which one of them did it, but they're kissing and it's hot and ravenous and it hurts a little more than Stiles usually likes but it feels a little better too, so it hardly matters. Apparently all his usual preferences – like, you know, getting along with the person he’s got a hard-on for - go out the window when it comes to Hale anyway.

"What the fuck is happening?" He can barely gasp it out for how bad he wants to get his mouth back on Hale's, and then Hale is sucking the taste of the words off his tongue.

"Head trauma," Hale bites at Stiles' lips, "Oxygen dep. Space dimentia." He gets a hand in Stiles' hair to angle his head back, gets deeper into Stiles' mouth with the next fuck of his tongue. "D's it matter?"

Stiles’ “Not really,” barely even comes out as words.

Hale’s palm massages at him roughly through Stiles’ own, leaves it to toy with the head while Hale scratches at the soft weight of Stiles’ balls with fingernails just sharp enough to feel through the cloth. Stiles doesn’t remember Hale having much in the way of nails before, but he hadn’t really been paying attention to the guy’s manicure either and, fuck, but he really doesn’t give a shit right now.

There’s way too little of Hale he can get his hands on in this position, and he wants to get his hands on everything. That face and those arms and those fucking abs that glisten like temptation solidified when Derek gets out of the shower or gets down on the floor of their room and does his fucking workouts. He’s thought about that body infinitely more than he’d like to admit and now he’s actually got a chance to find out what it feels like. Every time he tries to move, though, Hale pulls him back down, grabs his hands when they go for the strap buckles.

Stiles whines into the kiss, pathetic, puppyish, and Hale shushes against his lips, groans, “It’s good. Like this. Just- Stiles.”

His hips roll up against Stiles’ ass, the thick line of his dick obvious and so close, so close. Stiles can imagine it rubbing up against his hole, all soft skin and blunt heat, setting off an electrical storm along his nerves. If they were just naked, just somewhere else for some other reason. In their bunk, with their stupid, too-skinny beds bolted to the walls and the motor oil and fuel and standard-issue-soap smell that every damn bunk on the ship shares but that smells like Hale to Stiles.

“I want you to fuck me.” Stiles is panting, legs burning as muscles flex and tighten to grind down. Teasing the hell out of himself with the pressure and friction just to get another one of those honey-sweet whimpers out of Hale. “When we get home, I want you to fuck me like you mean it.”

The torn-edged, inhuman growl that Hale makes wasn’t the noise Stiles was shooting for, but it isn’t any less fantastic as far as his cock is concerned.

“Always mean it,” he grits out against Stiles’ ear, snags the lobe with his teeth and starts sucking on it in a way that’s got no right to be as obscene as it feels.

He’s still groping at Stile’s dick, rubbing and twisting and mixing up the rhythm enough that Stiles never knows what to anticipate; knocked on his metaphorical ass when Hale flicks one of those sharp, sharp nails over his slit, the suit synthetic rasping wet against him in a starburst kick of sensation. He’s also grinding up against Stiles like he plans on getting down to business here and now, flightsuits be damned. If it wasn’t for the distant, rational part of his brain informing him of the dangers of a drastic, prolonged drop in temperature like that, Stiles would already be looking for a way to get himself bent over the console.

At some point Stiles has managed to twist his hands up in Hale’s hair, hanging on more than guiding as Hale nips and licks over every exposed inch of Stiles’ neck. He really is going to be bruised to hell after this and he doubts anybody’s going to buy that he got these in the crash.

“They’re gonna know.” The thought comes flying out of his mouth at the same time it runs through his brain. Even if the humans don’t guess, the Lycans are going to know. They’ll be able to smell the sweat and come that’ll be sticking to their skin under their suits. Gossip spreads like wildfire on the ship; give it a week, tops, and everybody Stiles works and talks and lives with is going to know he fucked Derek Hale. Got fucked by Derek Hale. That, if just for a minute, Hale wanted Stiles.

Stiles grits his teeth around a shout as the coiled-tight pressure explodes out of him like a thruster firing, burning him out, white-hot.

Hale growls again, bleeding out into a moan as he works his palm over the head of Stiles’ dick, spreading all the fresh slick around until Stiles is twitching with shocky, jittery bliss on the edge of pain.

Stiles wants to go limp, but he holds on and presses back, instead, giving Hale as much as he can to get off on. It doesn’t take long, a few urgent bucks of Hales hips that choke the air out of Stiles’ lungs against the safety straps, before Hale is making a hurt noise and rutting out his orgasm against Stiles’ ass.

He shouldn’t be surprised, given how all this got started, but Hale is touchy-feely after. His big arms come around Stiles and pull him in close, as if there’s anywhere for Stiles to escape to. He keeps making these quiet, pleased hums to himself and rubbing the very tip of his nose along the curve of Stiles’ neck, dotting kisses here or there when he becomes enamored of a particular spot. It’s really fucking nice, actually, and not at all what Stiles would have expected. Turns out the big bad Lycan’s a teddy bear. Who knew.

“We probably should have thought this whole flightsuit thing out better,” Stiles says a while after Hale has settled down into just breathing deep against Stiles’ skin. There’s still enough heat inside the suit that his come hasn’t gone gooey yet, but it’s going to get there sooner or later and it’s not like they have ready access to a shower and a change of clothes.

Hale sniffs and doesn’t respond beyond wriggling his hips a little. Stiles is just on the right side of oversensitive for the fabric moving around against his junk to feel like a really good idea.

“We can’t fuck the whole time we’re out here! We’ve still got-“ Stiles gives in and lets himself check the time, “Four hours.”

Wow, ok, three hours of alone time and Stiles managed to bone Hale. Into a pile of cuddly, sated jelly, no less. He has even better game than he realized.

“Nap, then fuck,” Hale shrugs, burying his face against Stiles’ shoulder like he plans to do just that on the spot.

“Derek Hale, hedonist,” Stiles laughs, “It’s like I don’t even know you anymore.”

Hale slits his eyes open to look up at Stiles, so much like how it went down less than an hour ago that Stiles feels his chest tighten and his dick twitch. Getting a hard-on over looking Hale in the eye is going to be a really awkward Pavlovian reaction to have.

“You didn’t know me before,” he counters.

Stiles is tempted to argue – he’s spent close to a month living with Hale - he knows how the guy folds his socks, he knows him – except his mind keeps flashing back on how, while he was watching the stars, Hale was watching him. If he managed to miss that when it was three inches from his face, maybe he hasn’t been paying as much attention as he thought. “Ok, fair.”

The corner of Hale’s mouth tics, the tiniest stretch of muscle that could still be called a smirk, and nudges Stiles’ head back until they are pillowed gently against each other.

This close up he can’t really see anything, but Hale feels relaxed against him, deep, even breaths puffing against Stiles’ lips. Soothing. Disturbingly easy to get used to.

Stiles shuts his eyes and tries not to ruin the moment.