Work Header

Every Eye Is Full Of Fire

Work Text:

Stiles is smart enough to get out of the way when the fights between supernatural creatures happen. He's more than willing to risk life and limb if there's an opportunity to save the day, but he has very breakable bones compared to Scott and Derek. He likes all his very breakable bones unbroken, and all connected together in the appropriate ways. So mostly he stays out of it; in as manly a way as possible. Unless it involves being rescued from imminent peril, because sometimes it does. He's not exactly proud of that, but he's learned to accept it, in the face of werewolves and their unfair advantages. Sometimes this leads to him being used as bait, because he has awful friends.

But this time he's the one that's done the research, he's the one that found out what these things were and where they came from. He's the one that knows how their poison works, tails filled with nasty, liquid fire. The poison sends your body temperature into a tailspin, tries to cook you from the inside, and Stiles knows that werewolves run significantly hotter than normal humans. If the fire scorpion manages to hit one of them it will be bad. It will be very fucking bad. It's not like Stiles decides to get hit on purpose. He's not completely stupid. He's actually thought it through, made the call about which one of them can survive it and this one time the odds just happen to come down 'human' instead of 'werewolf.'

So when Derek gets smashed into a tree and the tail comes up in an arc - Stiles gets in the way.

It hurts, it really fucking hurts, no jokes about taking it like a man Stiles genuinely screams when the thing punches down through his shoulder. He goes down like his legs have been cut out from under him, heavy, all at once and with no grace at all, right into the dirt. For a fraction of a second he thinks he's been paralysed again, just like with the Kanima. But his legs are still twitching, he can feel the edge of his sneaker grinding through the dirt, little shocks of movement. He has no idea what's going on, but Scott is shouting his name, and someone's turning him. If anything that hurts even worse. Derek's calling him stupid and if he wasn't in excruciating pain right now he'd punch him in the face. Derek is the worst, and next time Stiles is going to let him be eaten by some miscellaneous creature - only, no, he probably won't. He makes so many promises about not saving people, and then he turns around and does it anyway, as if he has some sort of horrible affliction.

Someone's trying to pull him upright. Suddenly his brain can't think over the sound of his body telling everyone that that is such a bad idea, not so much in words but in sounds. Horrible, embarrassing sounds of protest.

There's a hazy, half-formed memory of getting to his Jeep, or getting half-dragged and half-carried to his Jeep. He's never hurt so much he couldn't see properly before, and he could have gone his whole life not knowing what that was like. The 'staring at the roof' angle of transportation is not one he's ever been forced into before either. Derek has both hands on him, and he's still calling him stupid, holding him tight to the seat like he thinks Stiles is going to go somewhere. The last Stiles knew hands were required for driving purposes. Which is how Stiles knows that Scott's driving, and that officially means things have gone terribly, terribly wrong.

Apparently hospitals aren't equipped to deal with the venom of magical fire scorpions. Stiles has been poisoned by a supernatural monster, and he's relying on Derek and Scott to save him. Oh God, he's doomed, he's going to die a horrible, incompetent death. Really, he loves Scott to death but he's not good in a crisis. He hopes they call Lydia at least, because horrible as the thought of her seeing him like this is, she's like a beautiful scalpel of cleverness and if anyone can work out how to fix this so he doesn't die then it's her. Or Allison - no, definitely not Allison, Scott will immediately become distracted and Stiles will die a horrible incompetent death while no one is paying attention. Someone, anyone who has some sort of medical knowledge which doesn't involve neutering dogs. Or not just neutering dogs anyway.

Because Stiles doesn't want to die - or be neutered - in any way, ignored or not. He tries to get that across in as few words as possible, between the horrible, cramping pain that's working its way through his body from the puncture wound downwards. He can feel the sluggish burn of it and he has to move. He can't lay on his back any more. He claws at Derek's arm, fingers digging in, because he's being held too tightly. He can't breathe like this.

"Can't breathe - on my side," he gets out, forces out. Derek doesn't argue, which proves Stiles is going to die. Because Derek always argues, about everything. But then he's lying on his side and breathing into Derek's jeans, and he can hear Scott's voice from very far away, high and panicked. If he crashes the Jeep Stiles will kill him. He will come back as a zombie if necessary and kill him.


Eventually he's in a bed which isn't his own, and he's not wearing anything but his underwear. He has no idea who undressed him or when that happened, but he's not even angry or embarrassed. Which tells him how bad this really is. There's fan tilted in his direction, and he can feel it drying the sweat on his skin. There's a hand on the back of his neck, and one round his wrist, two different people, too hot to be comfortable, but there's a firmness to them, a refusal to let go that he can appreciate. He'd be less worried if there wasn't a very obvious sort of panicking going on around him, which he really only registers as noise. He's probably talking, because he can feel his mouth moving, but his ears are buzzing and it's much too hot for sound to travel, surely? It's so unbearably hot and no one's doing anything. Allison is there somewhere, and Isaac and Erica. He's had nightmares about being in his underwear in a room full of werewolves but this isn't like that at all. Either that or he's hallucinating them all, which wouldn't surprise him. He can't tell what's real and what's not, and the world is a fog of sweat and fire.

Derek's saying something about counteracting the poison, but Stiles ears keep tuning in and out, conversation turning to buzzing and then back again. Until it's like Jenga - only with words - words that people keep taking out, until whole conversations might collapse into nothing at a moment's notice.

Someone makes him drink, possibly Allison, all he registers is pointy nails and pretty eyes. It doesn't help, the water feels so cold it burns.


Suddenly everyone's gone and it's not so dark any more and Stiles is on his side, facing the door - though he doesn't remember moving, or being moved. It feels like someone has laid ice all along his back, but he's sweating and his eyes are so hot they feel like they're melting, and he's horribly nauseous. He's pretty sure being dead would feel better than this. Only maybe he isn't alone after all because now there's a cold hand on his forehead, which is a thousand times better. Someone is grumbling things which aren't complimentary, but it's familiar in a way that makes him complain back. He's not sure if he makes sense, but then the ice is moving on his back, slow winding trails of chilly comfort, and nothing else matters.


The next time he wakes up the ice is gone - and the world is a hundred degrees too hot. The fan isn't helping any more either. He's burning alive, and there's no air in the room. If he doesn't get out of it soon he's fairly sure he's going to die. He tries to lever himself upright, pushes the thin, damp sheet away and sways towards the side of the bed. He can't focus, he can't breathe, and when he hits the floor with a crash he barely feels it -

There's a yawning chasm of blackness then, like someone hit 'skip chapter' on a DVD.

Then he's staring at white tiles, inhaling sharply and then immediately half-choking it out again. There are arms locked round his waist and shoulder, and a spray of cold water is hitting him in the face. He's completely naked and the water landing on him is fucking ice and he's trying to crawl away from it, but Derek is as immovable as - some sort of immovable object. So Stiles settles for turning his face and laying it against the slippery wet skin of Derek's chest. He's exhausted and his throat hurts like he's been screaming. He thinks - he thinks he remembers screaming. The water pounds against the back of his head, spikes of it, and it's hard to breathe. It's hard to breathe and his lungs feel like they're on fire, but the freezing water pouring over him is the worst thing in the whole world, stealing every breath from his burning lungs and he's going to suffocate. He's going to die and doesn't Derek understand that? Doesn't Derek care?

"S'cold," he manages, and why is he shaking so hard when he's still on fire inside?

"You need it," Derek says, and he sounds tense and angry. Which isn't fair, because Stiles has mostly been unconscious.

Derek turns them both, just a little, until the spray is hitting Derek's head first, pouring down over them both. There should be almost no difference, the water shouldn't be any less cold, but Stiles manages to take a shuddering breath, then another. It's not until Derek moves again, bare foot nudging the back of Stiles's, that he realises Derek is naked too. Pressed tight along his back where he's holding him up. But the water's cold, really, really cold and somehow that's more important than the fact that they're moulded together, in a way that might be construed as sexual. If Stiles wasn't currently dying, and if Derek wasn't probably glaring in the general vicinity of his face. This is one of those things he's going to remember and be horribly embarrassed about later. But right now - right now it's just a confusing jumble of slippery skin and impossible cold and unsteadiness.

"Derek." Stiles's teeth try and bite his tongue in two when he forces the word out. It's not really a question, more of an acknowledgement. A 'this shit keeps happening to us doesn't it?'' But Derek just breathes into the curve of his neck, makes a noise, deep in his throat, like he thinks Stiles had meant something completely different.

Stiles feels like he's swaying, even if he's not moving, and he has to slide a hand down and find something to hold on to. He settles for Derek's wrist, slippery hand clamping round it and closing as hard as he's capable. Derek's fingers dig into his waist, tight enough to hurt and Stiles is honestly too tired to do anything other than breathe and hold on to him.

There's a distinct possibility he falls asleep in the shower pressed up against Derek's wet, naked body.

He registers being in a towel and not being wet any more, so they must have left the shower eventually, and please God let Derek not have carried him like some sort of consumptive heroine. Or if he had done let him never speak of it, or reference it, or in any way subtly allude to it. He's unsteady where he sits but the inside of his head doesn't feel like it's boiling any more. Derek makes him drink again, though he doesn't want it, he feels shaky and hot and wrong, and someone - Scott? puts the fan on again, closer and stronger than it was before. He also brings the ice back, and Stiles doesn't want to be awake any more.


He sleeps, he thinks, but it's a restless, overheated, unhappy sleep. Until he's hot and sweaty and prickling with pain. He can't even remember what it was like to stand under a rain of freezing water, but his memory tells him it was probably the best thing in his whole fucking life. At some point in the dark someone moves the ice to the back of his neck, and he's murmuring 'thank you' over and over again. The sheet keeps tugging in strange directions, and the bed keeps moving in a way that beds probably shouldn't, which makes him think he's dreaming. Until Stiles gets that someone is close enough to be in his space, all the time. There's a hand on his head again, damp and cold and he gets a cloth now, to stop his brain from overheating. Maybe he has to give the werewolves credit for not being incompetent, because he might actually survive this after all. He takes back everything he said.

Someone makes him drink something that's thick and awful and tastes like liquid metal. He's pretty sure he's going to throw it all straight up again. But it takes all the strength out of his legs and his arms, and he's in the pillows again without remembering how he came to be there.

He thinks he's going to fall asleep again but he doesn't. Which turns out to be shame. Because whatever they gave makes him hallucinate

A lot.

It's really not an enjoyable experience.

He finds something to cling to, solid and unbreakable, while he goes completely mad, everything melting out of his head like poison. Which he thinks is a horribly apt description, and is maybe doing him some good. But the thought doesn't make him feel any better about it, and then it just gets worse. He definitely demands that they make it stop at one point, though no one listens - or no one helps at least. Which he's angry about because he needs someone to help him. Why won't anyone help him?

He ends up with his head tucked down into warmth, and he can hear the deep, steady thump of a pulse. He concentrates on that until everything stops.


The world has that familiar, awful clarity, suddenly and without warning, that comes from being mostly alive again. Stiles is not entirely happy about it because there's nothing like feeling like you've been horribly, miserably ill for an indeterminate amount of time (forever?) and are now being forced to face the world again. He's managed to worm his way under the sheets, like he's been slowly but surely making some sort of nest. Considering this is the first time he's felt well enough to actually move around until he's comfortable he does exactly that.

"Stop fidgeting."

Stiles weakly fights his way out of the top of the sheet and finds Derek stretched out next to him on the bed, he has no shoes on and he's reading a book. Derek reads books? Stiles contemplates that thought for a second, and why it seems so weird. Normal weird not monster-related weird.

"Were you lurking there the whole time?" His voice sounds scratchy and awful, but it works. Which is more than enough cause for celebration.

"You can't lurk sitting down," Derek says, without looking up. Which doesn't really answer the question, but Stiles is going to pretend that it did.

"I have full confidence that you could lurk in any position you wanted to," Stiles says immediately, still crackling like old paper. He does notice that the way he phrased that sounded kind of dirty.

He carefully eases himself to a sit, and promptly feels a hundred years old. Derek hands him a glass of water. He's about to object when he realises that he's more thirsty than he's ever been in his entire life, and that includes the time he got lost in the woods for a day with Scott one Summer when they were kids, and they thought they were going to die. He holds the glass with both hands, drinks so fast he doesn't bother breathing until he's done. It makes him feel dizzy and unusual, so he falls back in the pillows for a while and lets his body absorb it.

"You're going to have to stop," Derek says quietly. Stiles hadn't even realised he'd set his book in his lap and was watching him. Derek really needs to learn how to add more words to his sentences.

"Stop what?"

"Trying to save me," Derek says stiffly. "You're going to have to stop. It's not your job."

And that's a stupid argument. Stiles has been friends with Scott for years and that's officially the stupidest argument Stiles has ever heard.

"I did a good job and you know it, your brain would have boiled and so would Scott's. My brain however took it like a champ." Possibly not true but it's what he's going with for now.

Derek's meaningfully quiet at him for long enough that Stiles wonders if he's ever going to speak again. He rolls his head sideways until he can look at him.

"You nearly died."

Stiles thinks Derek's going for concerned. He misses by a mile, but he hits 'annoyed' and 'confused' on the way.

"But I didn't - and thank you for that, by the way - also, I nearly die at least three times a week."

"Not like this." Now that sounds concerned. Stiles had thought it would be nice to hear it, or would at the very least give him an opportunity to feel smug. But it turns out that Derek being concerned is kind of raw and upsetting. He sounds like he doesn't do it often because he's really bad at it, as if Derek being concerned is just going to make terrible things happen. Stiles doesn't have a clue how to convince him that it won't. Because he knows that Derek's had a lot of fucking awful things happen every time he's cared about anything at all. Suddenly having his own pack who won't stop doing stupid life-threatening things must be completely terrifying.

Stiles can't help being angry though, because this is the point everyone keeps missing.

"So, what, because we all occasionally want different things we should either fight or ignore each other and mind our own business? Build up our own little castles and mistrust each other forever. Let whatever comes to town pick us off separately, just not give a shit, or even try to make things work." Stiles has to stop to take a breath, tips his head back in the pillows and waits until his head has stopped throbbing.

Derek's frowning, fingers wrapped so hard round his closed book that the thing is bending sideways.

"We fight because you're in charge and that's it? Whether your ideas are shitty or not. Is that really what you want?" Stiles asks, dreading the answer, because how could anyone want that. How could Derek ever think that would be the right way?

No," Derek says, which sounds simple but there's so much stuff behind it, under the grate of his voice that's still pretending to be angry. "I don't want that."

Stiles exhales. "You make everything really hard, you know. It doesn't have to be."

Derek scowls at him, and Stiles is starting to think he doesn't even mean it, that it's his face's natural reaction to someone giving a shit about him. Which is pretty sad.

He's still deciding if he could bribe Derek into getting him another drink when Derek tosses the book he's holding onto the floor and unbuckles his belt, nodding his head in a way that's clearly supposed to mean something.

"Move over."

Stiles is honestly not expecting that, and it throws his carefully re-stacked thoughts into disarray - he'd literally just got them back together again.

"What? Seriously? I thought I was hallucinating. Have you been sleeping with me?"

Derek glares at him, like he's the one who's somehow made it indecent. And no one should get to look that threatening when they're arguing their way into bed with you.

"Yes, because Scott had to go home, and this is my bed, and you're still on 24 hour watch." Derek explains it all like it's perfectly sensible, and maybe to werewolves it is. Sometimes Derek seems to forget that Stiles is an ordinary person, that there needs to be explanations that go along with 'it smells weird' or 'I'm getting a bad vibe' or 'I'm going to get into bed with you.' Usually there's some sort of explanation, or arguing at least, before Derek gets his way.

Only Derek's already stealing the good pillow and putting all his naked limbs within touching distance. Stiles has officially missed the window where he can protest without it being weird. Also, sexy in a way he really doesn't feel well enough to cope with, but mostly weird.

"Did we become good enough friends to share while I was unconscious? Why wasn't I told about this? This is the sort of thing I should probably have been informed about."

"You've been delirious for two days, we took a vote."

Derek takes up far too much space.

"Oh my God, that was a joke. You're making jokes and they're at my expense, this is just perfect." His voice sounds tired and petulant, and it's typical that the one time he could have a proper argument he's no good for it.

"Shouldn't you be looking after your pack?"

"I am," Derek says. His mouth is doing that thin, unhappy thing, as if he's upset Stiles even had to ask.

Stiles is kind of stunned about that. Because he's never actually had it confirmed - Scott acts like he kind of assumes it's true, and maybe, on a good day, Stiles has taken it as a given that he has some sort of vague place in the general pack structure. Some sort of plus one to their secret club. Always invited but never actually on the official list of club members, or the really nice stationary. The fact that Derek just says it, like there's never been any doubt about it at all. In a way that doesn't even sound grudging. Stiles isn't expecting it. He thinks it's kind of obvious in his body language, or his smell or something, because Derek sighs like he's an idiot.

"You can't blame me for not being sure. I mean, sure, I get to help with all the planning and research and wrangling of lost werewolves, and last minute magic offensives. But I usually end up out of all the after-show parties. Which I'm told mostly involve awkward werewolf family dynamics and falling asleep together. So, ok, fine I don't get to roll around with everyone else - not that I'm saying I desperately want to because that sounds, holy crap, so wrong - but I always figured I wasn't invited because I was human."

Derek's silent and grumpy against the back of his neck for a beat.

"No, it's because you're sixteen," he says roughly. Then tightens his grip like the next step in this conversation will involve physical reprimand - though it almost certainly won't, because Stiles is barely recovered from being dead and he thinks he's kind of on to the fact that Derek is a big faker now. "Now go to sleep."

So, this thing is like a temporary thing, and - it sounds like there's so much more there, that it's just a matter of waiting for something? Stiles wants to argue some more, and he's pretty sure you can't win any argument if you fall asleep, so he's not going to do what Derek tells him to.

He's not.


He wakes up in complete darkness and he's sweating again, pressed into a tangle of sheets by muscle and bone and it's such a foreign sensation that he's twisting under it, before he works out that it's an arm. Which is a fairly traumatising experience - until he realises it's Derek. Which should still be traumatising, and it worries him that it isn't. He should probably...move. He tries to sit up way too fast. Derek's arm smacks him on the knee and the world is tilting strangely. It really is pitch black and he can't orient himself at all.

Derek's arm is suddenly curled round his waist and it's strangely intimate in the dark. In a way he isn't prepared for, or isn't used to, or maybe just doesn't have any sort of reference for. His physical encounters with Derek are usually a lot more - a lot less naked.

"It's just me," Derek says quietly. As if there's any possible way Stiles wouldn't have known that - and as if Derek thinks that's reassuring.

Derek eases him back down and pins him still. He's heavy and kind of invisibly menacing, and still running too hot. It's uncomfortable, but in a way Stiles doesn't really want to stop. But it's also hot in a way that he's honestly had enough of.

"You're going to boil me to death," Stiles says eventually.

"No, I'm not," Derek says in the darkness. "Your temperature's fine, settle down."

He gives one last attempt to shake him off, and then Derek's moving, hands sliding up his arms and gripping his wrists, and Stiles knows he's looming right above him, but he can't see him, he can only feel the clench of Derek's fingers, the rush of his breath against his cheek and ear. He tries to twist away again and the hands tighten.

"Do as you're told."

Stiles swears under his breath and goes still, because he doesn't have the energy for it, and absolutely not because Derek told him to.

"I can't believe you're bossing me around when I'm dying." He's not whining, if only because his voice still sounds too thready and pathetic to manage it.

"You're not dying," Derek says, dismissive like he's being ridiculous.

"Clearly because you're bruising me," Stiles complains. "It's how I know everything's back to normal."

Derek makes a noise, something quiet that sounds a lot like guilt, and Stiles thinks that's new, because he's never cared before. His hands relax on Stiles's wrists, hold him without squeezing.

It would be stupidly easy to kiss him right now. Stiles can feel how close he is. He wouldn't even have to look at him because it's completely black, which makes it somehow less crazy and reckless than it should be. Like a dare, or a game, or a moment of insanity. This is clearly insanity, or possibly the tail end of a terrible, terrible fever. But he's been poisoned and dying for nearly three days and if he wants to wonder what it would be like to just kiss Derek in the dark, until he stops trying to make Stiles do things, then he can. They've already been naked together, it's probably fair. You can't just get into bed with someone and then expect them to not think about things like that. You can't pin someone down in the dark and breathe at them in a menacing way if you don't want them to realise that maybe that's not as terrifying as it should be. Derek has pretty much conditioned his disobedient teenage body into having sexual fantasies about him - with all the grabbing and pushing and snarling in a menacing way. It's his fucking fault.

"Go to sleep," Derek says, soft but determined, like he's been listening to Stiles's thoughts - or smelling them, like a huge weirdo.

He doesn't want to sleep, he's still too hot, but then Derek moves, weight shifting to one side and then instead of Stiles being trapped he's pulled against a great big mass of over-heated skin, and there's a low rumble of noise right in his ear, and there's absolutely no way he's going to be able to sleep like that.


He wakes up drooling into a miscellaneous part of the bed. The pillows seem to have disappeared in the night. They're not the only thing that's missing, since he's on his own. So, they're not going to do the whole awkward morning after thing then. Since Derek has fled - and that's far too entertaining in his brain not to be true. Though whether it constitutes a morning after if you didn't actually do anything is debatable. Also, he appears to be wearing Derek's t-shirt and he doesn't remember putting it on. He remembers complaining he was cold though - there's a possibility the two things are related.

He decides that leaving the bed is a good plan, and though he feels feeble and dehydrated he manages some sort of horrible mummy-like shuffle. Once he starts shuffling his natural curiosity takes care of the rest.

The dubious apartment he's in is apparently attached to some stairs, which are attached to a shitty warehouse building, with an abandoned train in it. It's like the urban landscape version of the House of Leaves. He doesn't know whether he should be afraid to start opening the doors.

There are werewolves in the abandoned warehouse - and what do you know, Isaac and Erica actually look relieved to see him being not dead. That's apparently a thing that happens now. Scott's sitting on a stack of pallets and he shoots upright and heads straight for him. He ends up with his hands on Stiles's shoulders. His hands are a lot heavier than Stiles remembers.

"You look like crap, but it's really good to see you." Scott's smiling like a crazy person, and then abruptly looking at him like there's the possibility of collapse in the near future. Which is ridiculous Stiles has been navigating using his own legs for years. "You probably shouldn't be wandering about yet."

"I'm fine." That may be a lie.

"You're leaning against the wall," Scott says carefully.

He is, he absolutely is. Scott lets him keep his dignity and he wobbles his way back upstairs with the legs of a baby deer. The humiliation's bearable though, because it's Scott. The bed looks inviting, even though it's kind of a mess and the pillows are - oh, on the floor. He gathers them and then makes his face comfortable in them, blithely ignoring the fact that they smell like Derek. He's earned the right to drool all over his stuff.

"I need a shower but I don't have the energy," he complains. "It's one of the many things I appear to not have the energy for today."

Scott sits down next to him and pats him on the back.

"I would spot you but I'm pretty sure Derek won't like you showering with other people." He's smiling, he's actually smiling.

Stiles glares at him, the glare of the sickly and aggrieved.

"Oh my God, how do you even know about that?"

"I was worried about you. I may have been spying a little."

"You're a good friend, a creepy friend, but a good friend nonetheless."

Scott smiles, and it doesn't surprise him at all that Scott's fine with being a creepy friend. But then his nose does this wrinkling thing it does when there's danger afoot, or possibly pizza. Pizza and danger seem to both require the same amount of attention.


"You smell like Derek, and it's really weird."

Stiles holds his hands up, possibly to make him stop talking or deny the whole thing, he's no longer sure.

"Please don't phrase it like that. It sounds dirty. And don't smell me when I may possibly be incriminating due to circumstances beyond my control."

"You do realise you've been rolling around in his bed for two days?" Scott reminds him.

Now that sounds scandalous and awful said out loud.

"I was not rolling, there was no rolling involved." He realises, suddenly and strangely that the whole very recent werewolf bed-sharing doesn't seem to be something everyone knows about. He's not sure what to think about that. Still, he technically slept with someone, which is a first. Even though they didn't do anything they could have done. Stiles is still trying to work out if that means anything or not, and if he wants it to mean anything, and what it means if it did mean something. The world has an over-abundance of meaning right now and he's veritably dizzy with it.

"And you're wearing his clothes," Scott says with a nod.

Stiles is forced to look down, to where Derek's t-shirt is still only barely covering his boxers. He's dressed like a one night stand and he smells like werewolf. He's forced to admit that, fine, there's a certain level of sub-textual innuendo about the whole scene.

"Please tell me you brought me clothes." He's not begging, he's really not. His voice is just a little tired and crackly still.

"I can get you clothes," Scott offers. Which is a no. But at least he looks guilty about it. "I should have thought to bring you some."

Stiles throws a pillow at him, and Scott has the good grace to catch it with his face. He's kind of exhausted afterwards but it's totally worth it.

"You know what this mean? This means I'm going to have to steal some of Derek's jeans, and I do not think that will be a good look for me."

It takes him a minute to find out whether Derek actually owns any spare clothes. But they turn out to be piled up haphazardly on a chair, and Stiles just picks a pair of jeans at random because he knows that any rifling will just make this all feel weirder - and he's already technically stealing from Derek. They're too big, and he has to shove his hands into the pockets and sit awkwardly on the bed to stop them falling off. Also, he has no shoes, he feels like an idiot.

Scott gives him a horrible, constipated sort of look, as if he's physically pained to have to put up with him in more of Derek's stuff.

"Stop pulling faces at me like you disapprove of my life choices. I'm recovering from being horribly poisoned."

Oh, and there's Scott's guilty face, which is the face of a baby deer, fit only to be squashed to your bosom or forgiven.

"I'm sorry. I was just really worried there, and a lot of stuff happened -" his forehead dents, and he shuts his mouth, shrugs. Wow, Scott really needs lessons in being evasive. "Oh, and you have to call your dad back. I've been distracting him for most of the weekend, but if you don't talk to him soon I'm pretty sure he'll assume I've gotten you killed in some sort of horrible accident. Or arrested. Or killed and arrested."

If he isn't assuming that already. "Where's my phone?"

Scott shrugs and honestly Stiles has been conscious approximately fifteen minutes does he still have to do all of the lateral thinking? He digs his fingers in Scott's pocket, tugs his phone out and calls himself.

Aha! Stiles's phone turns out to be under a pile of books on a table, with his keys. He holds it in his hand, thumb tapping the edge of it.

"I'm trying to decide what I'm going to tell him that doesn't involve werewolves, or giant scorpions, or the fact that I spent the weekend in Derek's bed."

"I think you should definitely leave out the last one," Scott offers helpfully.

Stiles throws him a 'really, you think?'

"Yes, because if I leave out the werewolves and the giant scorpions he might take that the wrong way."

"You want me to come with you?" Scott asks, because Scott is very brave.

"I think your squishy, innocent face can only help me."

"I'm not sure if that was a compliment or not," Scott decides. "You could always take Derek. He could explain."

Stiles glares at the last part of that sentence, because it's clearly sarcasm and not meant to be taken seriously in any way.

"Derek doesn't explain, Derek looks sinister and threatening from shadowy corners, he does not explain. Occasionally he may also be pimped out in a sexy way. But never tell him I said that"

Scott's making the face at him again.

"Dead people find Derek attractive," Stiles says flatly, because it's true. "Dead people mouldering away in their graves with worms for eyes. It means nothing."

"So there's nothing going on between you?" Scott asks, suddenly and only a little accusingly, but because Stiles has some experience with Scott's brain he's not really that surprised.

"I can't believe you're actually asking me that - No."

"Even though he spent two days taking care of you, and letting you sleep in his bed, and went kind of crazy trying to find a way to keep you alive?"

Stiles is a little thrown by that.

"What - no." Which must not convey all of its meaning, or at least not all the meaning he intended, because Scott is still giving him the eyebrows of disbelief. They're so much more dramatic since he got his hair cut. "There's nothing going on between me and Derek. The t-shirt is a loan and I was inches from death, inches from death. It was all very dramatic and not sexy in the slightest. Besides, I was delirious for most of it. I'm no longer at death's door. We're going our separate ways, tomorrow there will be glaring and throwing me up against painful metal things, and everything will be normal."

Scott still doesn't look convinced.

"Oh my God, you're actually going to make me say it. Fine, we have an antagonistic, semi-abusive relationship, wherein we occasionally save each other from monsters, and it does not involve any sort of romantic intent."

"I never said romantic intent," Scott says with a shake of his head, and he's either annoyingly focused today or Stiles isn't in full control of his brain yet, because the conversations that don't involving saving Allison, or protecting random people, he can usually win.

"Or sexual touching," Stiles adds, and then tries not to think about exactly what that would entail. "No romantic intent or sexual touching." Except maybe that one time, but that was mostly Stiles's fault. He's trying to convince Scott not to smell him via the power of his mind. Though his mind isn't exactly at its best right now.

"Do you want there to be?"

This new Scott is clearly determined to ruin his life. Stiles's mouth moves for a second without anything coming out, and Scott makes a noise like he's already answered the question, and he's not sure if he likes the answer or not.

"I can't believe you're interrogating me when I've spent the last three days dying," Stiles complains. "We're supposed to be friends."

"I don't know, I'm kind of enjoying it," Scott says. He smiles for a second and then immediately looks serious again, picks at the rubber on the bottom of his shoe, voice dropping. "Derek's been really weird, and you've been here so long that you sort of smell like you...belong to him. I think he kind of likes it - a lot." Scott looks a whole world of awkward, and Stiles's brain tries desperately to not have any sort of opinion or reaction to that. "I just wanted to make sure you were ok with it. That he wasn't -" Scott frowns like he no longer has any idea what he's talking about, or like he's too afraid of where the conversation might go. Scott's just full of coherency today. Stiles gets the impression that he missed a lot.

"I haven't been doing anything," Stiles says awkwardly. He has no idea what he's protesting but he feels like he should be doing it strenuously.

"No, you haven't," Scott says. Which is like the start of an entire conversation.

"I feel like I'm missing half of this conversation, and you are going to fill in all the blanks when I get home. And that's where you're taking me, now."

Scott nods and looks horribly relieved about that, though he's clearly in no hurry to have any conversations at all. It's going to be so bad. Stiles can already feel it.

"You want to stop at mine and change first, maybe borrow some shoes?"

Stiles looks down at himself.

"Yeah, lets do that."