‘D’rek! D’rek, open up!’ Stiles’ voice shocks Derek out of his sleep. ‘D’rek! Open the f’ck’n door, buttface!’
Derek groans and throws his covers off. It’s a good thing that he’s not moving into his new place until tomorrow, because at least now he doesn’t have neighbours that can be woken up by Stiles’ yelling. Which has stopped. Derek quickens his pace, weaving his way through the labyrinth of cardboard boxes. What if Stiles is hurt? He didn’t sound okay. He sounded like he was having trouble talking.
Derek slides open the loft’s door and Stiles tumbles into his arms. With relief and exasperation Derek realizes that Stiles isn’t hurt, he’s just drunk. The smell of alcohol is almost overwhelming to his sensitive nose as he tries to put Stiles back on his own two feet.
‘Wow! Chest,’ Stiles breathes, petting Derek’s chest lightly when he’s upright again.
Derek bats his hands away, grateful that Stiles can’t see that well in the dark, because else he definitely would’ve noticed the blush creeping up Derek’s cheeks.
‘What is it, Stiles?’
‘You totally have a buttface. But like, your butt kind of buttface, because you have a good butt. And a good face.’
‘Stiles.’ Derek tries to sound stern, but he’s not sure it’s really working.
Derek raises his eyebrows, waiting for an explanation.
‘You promised me French fries and I want them.’
‘Yes. It’s 2AM, I’m drunk, and I want the French fries you promised me,’ Stiles pouts. He’s not really looking at Derek’s face though. His eyes are still on Derek’s bare chest. ‘You promised.’
Derek briefly closes his eyes. He wants to pretend he doesn’t know what Stiles is talking about, but he does. Before he left with Cora and Peter, before they defeated the Alpha pack, he’d promised Stiles to buy him French fries if they all survived. That’s almost five years ago now.
‘I know,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Me too.’ Stiles’ voice is soft and he visibly deflates.
For a moment neither of them says anything, Stiles swaying slightly and Derek staring at him.
‘We’ll get them tomorrow. Everything is closed now,’ he eventually says.
‘You want to sleep here?’
‘I’ll go get you a glass of water and some painkillers. You’ll need them tomorrow.’
‘Why do you have painkillers?’ Stiles’ nose scrunches up in confusion.
‘Because you get hurt a lot,’ Derek shrugs.
The confusion on Stiles’ face makes way for an expression that is too raw and open for someone who is completely plastered, and Derek can’t handle that, can’t handle Stiles like this, at 2AM. He quickly turns away and goes to find the box that holds the medical supplies. When he comes back, Stiles is nowhere to be seen. For a moment Derek thinks he’s left, but the sound of a soft snore from the bed puts him at ease.
Derek can’t help the fond smile as he watches Stiles lying spread-eagled on top of the sheets, fully clothed, his heart beating the steady, quiet beat of sleep. He carefully pulls off Stiles’ shoes and jacket, and after only a moment of indecision climbs in next to him.
They don’t get French fries first thing the next morning, mostly because the thought has Stiles running to the bathroom. But after the pack has helped Derek move into his new, bad memory free, apartment, Stiles is the last to say goodbye, dawdling on the doorstep.
‘Hey, Stiles?’ Derek asks hesitantly. ‘There’s a pretty good diner around the corner, would you like t-‘
Before Derek can finish his sentence, Stiles is already pulling him out door, their fingers entwined and matching grins on their faces.