Work Header

Let It All Out

Work Text:

Stiles isn’t really awake when it happens.

It’s so early in the morning it’s barely light outside, the street lights still glowing ugly-orange. The window is open and a light breeze is fluttering the sheer drapes Derek had picked out at Pottery Barn because he secretly wants to be the set designer on a soft-focused romantic drama, and likes throwing money at things like it’s birthday confetti.

Stiles is lying on his stomach as usual, Derek on his back. Stiles has one leg poking out of from under the comforter to cool down without stripping away all the covers, his foot dangling over the edge. He’s hugging his pillow as well as resting his head on it, face smooshed and eyes barely open as he watches Derek watch him.

Derek smiles sleepily. “Morning, Half-and-Half,” he teases as he always does. “Half out of the bed, half under the covers, half asleep…”

Stiles directs his grin into the half a pillow he’s reserved for his face, hugging the rest to his chest like a teddy bear.

“Morning,” he says.

Derek pulls his arms from under the comforter and stretches them toward the headboard. He yawns huge and wide, jaw cracking in a way that should be annoying every time Derek does it, which is every morning, but just makes Stiles roll his eyes in affection. He’s considering bringing in his dangling foot and brushing his cold toes against Derek’s calf - Derek hates that, despises being cold - just to see his horrified expression and snigger at it.

But. No.

Instead, before he can stop it from happening, he farts.

Really fucking loudly.

Oh shit. Oh crap.

Stiles can’t pretend that didn’t happen because Derek has super werewolf senses and it was obviously a fart. It had real body to it, the kind of fart used in cartoons for five year old boys, the kind of kids who are connoisseurs of scatological humor. The kind of five year old Stiles had been. Fuck. He should have recorded that epic butt trumpet and so he could sell it to, like, an audio effects company or something. It was that good. A 7.4 on the Rectum scale, easy.

Derek has stopped stretching, arms still above his head, but without the tension they’re sort of just hovering and uncertain. His eyes blink a few times, sleepy and a little confused. Stiles would think it was adorable if he weren’t so mortified. He hides his face in his pillow because clearly that’ll make him invisible. Maybe Derek won’t notice, won’t say anything, if he can’t see Stiles’ face. This kind of thing worked in preschool, why the fuck not when he was twenty-three?

“Did you just…?” Derek starts, but doesn’t finish because he’s too busy laughing.

Stiles leavers himself up onto his forearms and just watches as Derek proceeds to screech with the kind of all consuming laughter that has you literally crying and clutching your side with cramps, fighting for every breath like you’re dying. It’s astonishing to watch and Stiles has never really been speechless in his life, but he is now. Totally and completely. It seems Derek is just such a five year old boy who thinks farting is the height of comedic genius. Who knew?

It takes a while for Derek to wind down, slowly hiccuping into a delighted, but quiet, grin. He lifts the hem of the gray t-shirt he wears to bed and wipes the tears from his eyes. (Tears! Actual tears.)

There’s a moment of silence and Stiles isn’t sure if this is a prelude to Derek starting all over again - because wow, Derek’s still grinning like a loon - and he’s about to do something stupid like make jazz hands or cobble together a really bad toilet-related pun, but then Derek pounces. He moves so fast Stiles barely sees him, just suddenly finds himself pinned against the mattress and looking into Derek’s crazy, beautiful eyes.

“I love you too, Idiot,” Derek says in a deep, sincere voice.

And yeah. Stiles wasn’t expecting that.

“Too? What?”

They’ve been dating for a while but they’ve never said the L Word because, well, no real reason other than he figured it went without saying. They’d kind of been heading there for a while - they’d chosen fucking drapes together for Christ’s sake. At Pottery Barn! Derek was affectionate but didn’t talk about his feelings and shit, and while Stiles was most definitely the talker in this relationship, the feelings and shit he had for Derek were just too… big. How could he possibly explain everything Derek was to him in just three words?

“Stiles. You usually leave the room when you need to fart,” Derek explains like he’s talking to an imbecile. Stiles groans. Derek had heard him? Every time? And hadn’t said anything? It is literally the worst discovery since the Jonas Brothers. He wants to sink into the bed never to be heard from again, but Derek’s’ still talking.

“I thought it was weird at first, that you would be embarrassed about that kind of thing around me. I mean, you burp all the time - yes, Stiles, you do. Don't pretend you don't. But then Scott said -”

“Whoa, wait, hold on one damn minute! You’ve talk to Scott about my farting habits? What the hell, Derek!” Stiles is pretty sure his face is hot enough to fry an egg on, he’s blushing so hard.

“He’s your Alpha, Stiles. And your best friend.” Like that made it an OK topic of conversation for anyone ever. “Scott said human couples are split into two kinds, ones who fart in front of each other and ones that don’t. He was surprised that you weren’t the former, said that the two of you had no trouble in letting one off in front of each other. He figured you’d get to that stage with me eventually, when you were totally comfortable with us as a couple.”

“So because I farted in front of you just now… it proves that I... love you?”

Derek looks relieved, like he’s delighted that Stiles finally gets it.

Stiles totally doesn’t.

“I’m a little astonished to find that our relationship milestones can be measured by my flatulence. A+ on the relationship psychology there buddy, you and Scott both.”

Derek doesn’t say anything to that bit of sarcasm, just stares him down, face completely serious. It takes Stiles a moment to realise that Derek is farting back at him - letting each and every bean be heard, pop, pop, pop.

Stiles can feel his traitorous lips beginning the curl up, refusing to remain completely straight. He loses it entirely when Derek finishes his declaration on a high-pitched little whine that sounds like he’d let the air out of a balloon. It’s such a ridiculous contrast to his serious face that Stiles can’t stop the laughter shouting it’s way out of him, like a gasp of surprise. Derek grins back, pleased.

“Shut up,” Stiles says, curling a leg around Derek’s hip and flipping them so that he’s on top. He drops a few kisses on Derek’s smiling lips, bumping their noses together in another kind of kiss, another kind of expression of affection. Of love.

“We should celebrate this momentous step in our relationship by doing something... special,” Stiles suggests, voice low and doing it’s best impression of sexy. He sneaks a few fingers up Derek’s shirt, gliding over smooth, warm skin and mouthing Derek’s earlobe.

“Fuck yes,” Derek agrees breath hot on Stiles’ neck, his hips lifting a little into the movement. “I’ve had my eye on that sage-colored sectional at Pottery Barn for a month.”