Chapter Text
It wasn’t that Stiles hadn’t been sleeping. Or, not exactly, at least. He just hadn’t been sleeping at the right times, and it was easy to understand why if Stiles could, well, tell anyone who wasn’t a wolf or a druid or a banshee or a kanima or a damn kitsune, or whatever was going on that week.
Even before the supernatural barreled into his life, his ADHD made sure he could never keep to a normal sleeping schedule anyway. Transitional stages like sleeping and waking were a constant garbage fire for Stiles; his body just could not for the life of him understand when enough was enough when it needed to.
Stiles had woken up at six in the morning for school, only got home at six in the evening after lacrosse practice, and he was exhausted the entire day. But, because his brain was not always his friend, he dropped his backpack by his bedroom door, glanced at his bed guiltily, and absorbed himself in just about everything else that could possibly matter.
It was four in the morning now, and Stiles was sitting on the floor beside his bed still in his day clothes, calculus books open by his left leg, English homework by his right leg, and just about every medieval supernatural anthology, rune book, and druid’s journals spread open between his splayed legs. His dad had taken the night shift at the precinct and his bedroom door was letting in the hallway light in a soft stream.
He would have done his homework during lunch like he usually did, but he was busy working on his Latin pronunciation because he had the feeling Deaton would quiz him on it soon. He would’ve done some work whenever he got benched during practice, but he was busy with Spanish homework he forgot to turn in the day before. And now he was home, and it was like he had hardly gotten anything done at all. His Adderall had long since worn off sometime in the late afternoon after he should have been done with all his tasks for the day if he were a normal person, but his life was so beyond any hope of normal now that it was almost unnerving to think about if it was.
Sleepiness was stinging his eyes, and his body felt the familiar buzz of ADHD exhaustion, heavy but tingling, but then again, who knew anymore? That could easily be the faint buzz of magic coursing through Stiles as he half-heartedly mumbled the words to an incantation in one of Deaton’s books.
Stiles was in the middle of sketching a protective rune for the Hale mansion, doubled over his notebook on the floor, when a familiar voice by his window said, “Why in god’s name are you awake right now?”
“Jesus - shit. Oh my god.” Stiles jumped, twisting unceremoniously to face the window, poking his head up from the side of the bed. He knew that the green glow was slowly fading from his eyes by the way Derek was watching him curiously. Stiles spluttered, narrowing his eyes at Derek. He was in dark sweatpants and a black Henley, clearly also ready for bed, or at least winding down.
Stiles turned back around to his books. “Why are you awake right now?” He asked, only half petulantly.
Derek huffed, shaking his head as he walked over to Stiles. “I’m checking up on you.”
Stiles’ face pinched at that, looking up at Derek for a brief moment to catch Derek rolling his eyes.
“That physically pained you to say, huh, big guy?” Stiles asked, but his finger was already following along to a piece of script in a journal.
Neither of them missed the beat before Derek spoke, almost soft. “No. I’m checking up on you. Even if I couldn’t smell Scott’s stress about you staying up so late, your own exhaustion reeks enough.”
“Quit smelling me,” Stiles said instead of addressing the issue.
“Then quit doing work so late. You’re not letting yourself rest, Stiles,” Derek said, and there was a little bit of bite, of insistence, to his words.
Stiles wanted to laugh, only because he couldn’t even fathom explaining how his brain worked to Derek, how much he still had to do. But, really, it’s not like Derek didn’t already know. There wasn’t much secrecy among Pack when you all slept in piles together and bandaged each other’s gross supernatural wounds.
"You can do your homework later.”
“Then I have druid work to do,” Stiles said to Derek’s socked feet.
“You’re not supposed to do that in the middle of the night.”
Stiles huffed impatiently, long fingers toying between a thin, frayed page. “But Deaton said-”
“Deaton said,” Derek said, crouching down suddenly beside Stiles, nudging his fingers out of the way before closing the book he was fidgeting with, “that you’re one of the strongest druids he’s seen for your age, and so you shouldn’t do work for him when you’re exhausted.”
Between Stiles’ shocked and stubborn silence, Derek closed and stacked up every book Stiles had open, moving to put them on his desk before Stiles’ hands closed around them. Derek looked down at the books, back up at Stiles, eyebrows raised. Stiles held his stare, lightly tugging on the books. “Just a few more minutes,” he pleaded, turning on the puppy eyes that always worked on Scott.
The big doe eyes made Derek blink, which was definitely more than nothing, especially for Derek, but Derek could also see the dark crescents under his eyes that were more pronounced than usual, could see the tired sag to his shoulders.
Instead of caving, he flashed warning red eyes at Stiles. Stiles was long past being scared of Derek - it was hard to be scared of him when Stiles had seen the fierce way he cared for everyone in the Pack, but his wolf eyes were threat taken nonetheless.
Stiles only held his stare for a few more seconds before sighing dramatically, dropping his hands to his lap and letting Derek put the books on his desk.
“Little bit of tough love, Der,” Stiles said, hands crossed over his chest upset, looking for something to busy himself with.
Derek turned back to Stiles, still sat dejected on the floor, and made no effort in growling at him or correcting his “love” comment. He pointed to the bed.
Stiles blinked at him.
There was more authority in his voice now when Derek said, “Time for bed.”
Stiles blanched indignantly, staring at him in betrayal all the way to the bathroom. By the time Stiles had brushed and washed for bed, Derek was leaning back in the desk chair and the lights had mysteriously been turned off, the blankets were drawn back, and a cup of water was on the nightstand.
Derek watched Stiles’ eyes trailing the room, landing on the stack of books. When his fingers skimmed the cracked spine of a textbook, Derek snapped at him. “Stiles, I swear to god.”
“Fine!” Stiles reeled back, holding his hands up placatingly. “Fine, fine, I give up,” he grumbled, muttering a string of tight-lipped curses he knew Derek could definitely hear. Stiles peeled off his shirt and kicked off his jeans with little care and even less modesty - the concept started to seem totally ridiculous after their first massive pack cuddle, and he was never safer or more comfortable as he was with Pack. Even if everyone else was completely fucking ripped and Stiles’ lean athletic frame stuck out. None of it mattered in the slightest.
Stiles wished that it was weird to think that Derek was going to watch and make sure he fell asleep, but the metric for weird was so, so fucked for everyone in their mangy pack. Some iteration of this was always normal. Derek watched him begrudgingly get into bed, and Stiles could feel him practically tucking him in with his glaring eyes.
Stiles tried to sleep. He did. But as soon as his eyes closed, about a million tasks and worries and what-ifs flooded into his mind. His essay on self-fulfillment and othering in Wuthering Heights due in three days. His calculus homework due on Monday and his test on Tuesday. His away game on Thursday for lacrosse - he’d have to remember to retie his stick. Practice on grounding his Spark with Deaton every Monday and Wednesday. Re-doing the protection runes set around the Hale mansion. Making new protection bracelets for the Pack. The damn pixies that may be infesting the woods. He wondered what his dad was doing at work -
“Stiles, stop thinking,” Derek said lowly. Stiles huffed, squeezing his eyes shut tighter like it would expel his absolutely ridiculous train of thought. He rolled from his back onto his stomach. His stomach was bruised from where Jackson shoved the butt of his lacrosse stick into his lower belly, and Stiles rolled onto his right side. He always hated the right side because his back was to the window which he kept perpetually open now for any wayward Pack members who need to stop by, so Stiles rolled onto his left side. But, no, another bruise, this time from being thrown onto the ground from his own magic a few days ago. He sighed loudly, rolling back onto his back.
“Stop moving,” Derek said, not looking at him.
“God!” Stiles hissed, and erupted into a flailing mess of long arms and legs, kicking away the blankets. He only felt Derek’s gaze shift to him when Stiles let out a desperate whine, not petulant or stubborn, but overwhelmed and impatient and downright pitiful. Derek sat straighter in the desk chair. Stiles smelled like exhaustion and burnt-coffee-stress.
“I can’t,” Stiles whimpered, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes, “I want to. I promise.” Derek felt a tug in his chest, watching Stiles so upset.
“It just doesn’t work like that for me. You know that.” Stiles said it so quietly that Derek was thankful for his werewolf hearing. But Derek did know that.
“I have so much to do and I’m stressed and my body doesn’t think it’s time to sleep yet and you’re all the way over there and I - I just want to sleep. I promise.”
Derek felt the pull of Pack to him, could feel it off of Stiles, too, of course, he could. When one of your own was stressed or hurting the strongest sensation you feel is to be with them, to be near them. Stiles had always understood that better than any human in any pack, but then, being a Spark wasn’t exactly human, either.
“Don’t promise,” Derek said sternly, then caught himself. Softer, “You don’t have to promise me anything. I know you’re trying. It’s okay, pup.” Stiles made a sound halfway between a miserable whine and an affirmative at Derek’s words that just about tore a hole in Derek’s chest. The faint smell of honey-praise mixed in with burnt coffee and exhaustion.
Derek didn’t laugh at Stiles for his tantrum, didn’t even think of it. Instead, he stood from the desk chair and made his way over to the bed, pulling the covers back enough to slip in. He settled on his side, facing Stiles, and held an arm out. Stiles wasted no time in immediately shifting closer, not stopping until he was pressed against Derek’s chest, hands tucked tightly between them with Derek’s arms wrapped around him.
Stiles took his first deep breath since Derek got there, taking in the detergent and firewood of Derek’s sleep shirt. The thigh slotted loosely between Stiles’ felt less like a gesture to keep him still and more like a way of giving him something to focus on other than school and magic and lacrosse and werewolves. Derek breathed Stiles in, kept track of the steady cadence of his heart, a hand on the back of his head, slowly running through the thick short hair at the nape of his neck.
“Better?” Derek asked quietly, once he felt some of the tension bleed from Stiles’ shoulders and the stress in the pit of his belly leave. Stiles nodded adamantly against his chest. It was better for Derek, too.
Derek wasn’t going to pretend like he planned to stay awake all night - sharing space with pack members was always too soothing to do anything other than sleep - with Stiles especially, which was completely unfounded and annoyingly daunting.
By the pace of the rise and fall of Stiles’ chest, the sound of the thrum of his heart, Stiles was almost asleep when he asked, “What’s exhaustion smell like? You said I smelled like I was exhausted.”
Derek smiled slightly against the top of Stiles’s head.
“Like cold black tea. That’s been sitting out for a bit.”
Stiles hummed low in his throat, paused like he was committing it to memory. He probably was. “What do I smell like now?”
“The tea is warm now.”
Stiles slept until noon, and Derek might have, too.