Chapter Text
- somnio - (Latin)
To dream;
to dream of;
imagine foolishly
*
Sunlight crept across the horizon painting Beacon Hills a shade of pale gold, the birds turning their voices skyward as a new day began. That first wisp of fresh coffee rose from the kitchen and made its way up the stairs, down the hall, and under the door of the master bedroom. A nose twitched, inhaled deeply, as sleep heavy limbs awoke at the first sign of life in the house. Eyes remaining closed, a yawn turned into a still sleepy growl of content. Every day should start like this he thought to himself, slow and eas—
“DAMMIT, ISAAC!”
Derek rolled onto his stomach and smothered a groan of exasperation. ‘That’s more like it.’ he thought as he listened to Erica toss Isaac’s work boots down the downstairs hall with a curse, then winced as the bathroom door slammed shut. Isaac’s door creaked open a few seconds later with a half-mumbled apology and a comment about PMS. Derek snorted into his pillow and a second later Erica yelled around a mouthful of what had to be toothpaste; “I HEARD THAT!”
Taking that as his cue he rolled out of bed.
*
With damp hair and bare feet Derek pads on silent feet down the stairs following his nose into the kitchen. Allison stands in front of the stove still in her pajamas and flips bacon while Lydia’s dressed for work and positioned in front of the coffee maker like a dragon guarding a princess. He arches a brow at her and she bares her teeth, to which he flashes crimson eyes. Lydia was the only one allowed to roll her eyes at him this early in the morning, and she did. Religiously. Since rebuilding his childhood home and moving most of the pack in they’d all fallen into an easy rhythm, and one of the first things established was that Lydia got her coffee first. It was an easy agreement seeing as how they always gave him breakfast before anyone else. Being an Alpha again did have its high points.
Moving around the island Derek reaches over Lydia’s head to grab his favorite mug only to find it already on the counter lined up with hers. At Lydia’s huff upon having her personal space invaded he offers her an amused glance before bending and pressing a kiss to her temple. Her smile is genuine when he steps back.
“So, Boyd and Stiles are coming back today… He text you, too?” Allison tosses a look at Derek over her shoulder as he shakes his head. “Oh, well they had a layover and were eating before they got on the plane.”
“What time was that?”
“Scott had just left, so around two-ish this morning.”
He rolls his eyes but the side of his mouth tilts up just a bit. You’d think the way that Stiles ate that he was one of the betas and that he was nocturnal with the hours he kept. He’d been kept awake many a night with Stiles’ random texting habits, and he’d be lying if he said it hadn’t grown on him.
“Will you be here when they get in?” Lydia chimes in with her steaming mug cradled preciously in her hands, his own now full and sitting at her elbow.
“No. I’m not off till Friday. She,” he motions at Allison, “however is and I think Isaac is staying home, too.”
“I AM.”
Praying for patience at the unnecessary shout from upstairs, Derek reaches for his coffee and takes a grateful sip, humming in appreciation. Allison eyes their drinks with envy as she starts on the eggs and toast, smiling at him and Lydia.
“Why? Do you need me to pick something up, Lyds?”
“Oh, no. I was only curious. We are still having an actual dinner tonight though, right?” She glances at Derek and smiles when he confirms with a nod.
Stepping over to the stove, Derek takes another drink of his coffee before gently tugging on the back of Allison’s (Scott’s) t-shirt. Her movements stilling as he pulls her away from the food. Handing her his half-full mug and trading it for her spatula, he brushes his lips against her brow, the sentiment just as sweet as the one he’d given Lydia moments before. It’d taken a little while longer for them to come to terms with each other but after more than a few arguments and tears (on both their parts) they’d simply resigned themselves to the fact that they were irrevocably stuck in each others’ lives. Instead of returning the affectionate gesture, she smiles up at him and gleefully inhales his coffee. He’ll take that over an arrow any day.
*
Thirty minutes later finds him seated at the round kitchen table with Isaac’s arm draped over the back of his chair and head smushed against Derek’s left bicep. Erica’s glaring at the beta while he, Lydia, and Allison ignore everyone. It’s the typical morning in the Hale house, minus a certain loud mouth and Scott falling asleep in his eggs coming off of a third shift at the hospital. Stuffing another bite of toast into his mouth he recalls when Lydia had had the bright idea to force him to go shopping with Stiles and Cora for furniture:
“Come on, it’ll be like we’re knights!”
“No, Stiles.”
"But we can get this one for the kitchen and a rectangle one for the dining room.”
"He has a point, Derek.”
He’d glared at his sister and her betrayal. Derek hated when Stiles was right.
“Scott’s home.”
At Derek’s statement Allison pushes back from the table and excuses herself, Lydia draining the last dregs of her coffee with her eye on the last piece of toast. He watches on in amusement as Beacon Hills’ current Mathematician extraordinaire (and proud Fields Medal recipient for something that Derek had absolutely no interest in whatsoever, he’d always hated math) stares down a glowing eyed beta over a piece of buttered bread. At least he usually gets a show with his meals he thinks idly. Allison reenters the kitchen with a yawning Scott trailing her, his face breaking out into a tired smile at the food and the occupants of the table. Giving a wave he plops into a seat opposite Isaac and grabs the golden toast practically shoving the entire damn thing into his mouth.
Sitting back with a laugh and jarring Isaac from his doze, Derek smirks as Lydia and Erica both bark at Scott who looks at them with wide eyes and a mumbled “What?!” Scowling, Erica downs her orange juice and stands, sliding her chair back in she ruffles Isaac’s hair as she passes and leans down to peck Derek’s scruffy jaw.
“I might be late tonight, save me some food.”
Nodding, he shoves Isaac up and watches the blonde wave at everyone else before leaving the room, the front door closing seconds later. Scooting back from his own place, he winks at the girls and stands. Tossing Lydia his car keys he grasps a hand at the nape of Scott’s neck and gets a cheesy eggtastic grin in return. Rolling his eyes, Derek lightly knocks his knuckles against the back of his second in command’s head.
“Go to bed before Stiles gets here. You’re not sleeping in my bed again.”
“Not like I could help where we passed out, man.”
“Your feet stink and he drools.”
“Derek, you’re going to be late for work.”
Stealing a slice of bacon off of Scott’s plate he sidesteps his immediate swing and sighs. He never thought he’d be a cop, but one thing had led to another and here he was, Deputy Derek as Stiles liked to call him, repeatedly. Allison was also on the force due to her surprising connection with the Sheriff but Stiles didn’t pester her about it. Maybe it was because she wouldn’t hesitate to rough him up. Derek was starting to rethink his stance on ‘tough love’.
“Tell Boyd to check in when they get home.”
“What about Stiles?”
Giving Allison’s seemingly innocent question a glare, he ignores the small knowing look that passes between her and Lydia and leaves without another word. As he ‘suits up’ (he really needed to stop letting Stiles pick Marvel movies for movie nights) he can’t help but let his thoughts wander into that thick forest in his mind. Where the air reeked of spicy, tantalizing human, the lightning flickering in the sky a mere sliver of the spark that was safely ensconced behind bone and beating heart. Everything hidden there in that part of his mind threatened to overwhelm him on a daily basis, but he was a Hale and they knew how to hold onto their control. The whispers of mate/bond/soul were kept hushed and strangled when around the source.
Derek lived day by day siphoning little hits like a drug addict, an arm thrown over his shoulders, a hand shoved annoyingly into his face, cold toes tucked under his thigh. Stiles was as tactile as the rest of the pack, but Derek knew that destiny wasn’t real, didn’t (wouldn’t) believe in it in any way shape or form. And so he ignored the urge to take, instead opting to shun and play stupid. If the others in the pack knew of his true feelings… well, they knew better than to outright say anything. Stiles was his Emissary, Scott’s brother, and invaluable to the dynamic of their pack, nothing more. No matter what his gut told him.
Slipping out onto the porch Derek closes that door in his mind and locks it up tight as he walks towards his cruiser. Once inside he ignores the persistent rattling against his conscious and turns the engine over, the radios thankfully coming to life and offering him a welcome distraction. Putting the car into reverse he backs out around the Camaro Lydia would be driving to work and takes off down the twisting and forest lined private drive.
* * *
“If you touch that dial one more time, I swear I will bite you.”
“Dude, I hate that song!”
“Then how do you know all of the words?”
“Because they play it constantly and Erica thinks she’s cute and somehow hacked into my phone and set it as Derek’s ringtone!”
At that Boyd laughs and Stiles flashes him a disgruntled glare, huffing with annoyance, his gaze settles back on the road stretched out in front of them. After a three hour layover their flight had finally taken off and Stiles had slept the entire time while Boyd stuck his nose in a book. He didn’t like to sleep on planes in case anything happened and he needed to be alert. While Stiles understood, because, their luck, he found it silly and thought it stunk of Alpha.
“Not funny, Vernon. I do not have a blank space, therefore I will not be writing anyone’s name.”
Boyd just laughs harder.
*
Two hours later they pull up to the house in Derek’s mom car which had been conveniently left at the airport for them, only to find Allison’s Mazda the only vehicle there. Cutting the engine Stiles unfolds from the car with a groan, stretching his muscles after being cramped in small spaces for so long. Meanwhile Boyd already has dumped their bags from the back and is holding out Stiles’ leather bag to him. Stiles grabs it and slings it around his shoulders, the weight as comforting as the runes that were etched into the supple brown material. Reaching for his rolling suitcase as Boyd takes up his own he twirls the keys around his finger.
“I am so ready to eat everything and sprawl. I hate planes.”
“I know, you keep reminding me.”
“It’s to pay you back for eating my tacos.”
“They had guacamole on them. You hate that.”
Stiles pauses mid-step and stares at his friend’s back. He never remembered telling anyone he didn’t like the green stuff. Huh. The front door opens before they reach the porch and Allison grins at them.
“Welcome home!”
Boyd gives her a one armed squeeze in passing but she blocks the entrance when Stiles steps up. She eyes him for a minute while he pretends to inspect his cuticles (Lydia was going to murder him for biting at them again while away). Glancing up into the hunter’s eyes he can’t stop the smile that curves his lips as he snaps his fingers together producing a spark.
“Show off.”
“Aw, I missed you too, Jellybean!”
“Ugh, what did I tell you about that?”
“If you’re going to arrest me, kinky I might add, for a nickname then I demand a last meal.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Smirking, Stiles wraps her up into a tight hug. The best part about coming home for him was that he got to be clingy and no one would question it. Yes, he was a human amongst wolves (and a banshee) but he liked to exploit the pack’s cuddling tendencies every chance he was presented with. He needed love too, dammit. Releasing Allison, Stiles grabs his suitcase again and follows her into the house, a happy sigh leaving his chest.
“Scott’s asleep and already ate, but I can warm you something up while you go get comfy if you want?”
“Marry me?”
“Make it an October wedding and I want a new crossbow in the place of a diamond.”
“I love you.”
Pecking his cheek Allison pushes him towards the stairs and takes her leave. Stiles glares at the curving staircase and wills himself to apparate up into ‘his’ room. When it doesn’t work he hefts up his bags and trudges up the steps. Normally he’d have gone straight back to the loft but he figured it’d be easier just to crash at Hale House as he’d named it to annoy said Hale. He very much enjoyed annoying Derek and was pretty sure that it was in his nonexistent contract as pack Emissary to do just that.
Yes, he’d taken on that title straight out of high school even though Deaton hadn’t anointed him as an actual magic-man until two years into college. There had been a lot of blood, some self sacrificing, and a wicked scar that trailed like a snake next to his spine. He’d had it artfully tattooed around so it was literally a snake now but no one knew that, not even Scott. This was why when everyone had returned home from college and exploring the world and Derek had finally decided to rebuild, that Stiles had jumped at the chance to occupy the Alpha’s empty space. He could practice his craft there without the fear of accidentally harming one of his friends, and even the good vet had agreed that it was the ideal arrangement. If his self appointed semi-solitary lifestyle gave him more freedom than he knew what to do with, if he was a little more (a lot) well learned in the magic than everyone suspected, well…
So he was able to mask pain and minor injuries (like healing tattoos), he wasn’t hurting anyone. He was an asset to the pack and he knew it. Just because he was a sarcastic shit ninety percent of the time and the comedic relief the other nine didn’t mean that for the remaining one percent he didn’t take his position very seriously. Living in the loft and crashing at the Hale House at least once a week was good for everyone in his opinion. At least this way they couldn’t get fed up with him and eat him in his sleep!
*
After stowing his crap and showering off the travel stench Stiles slips down the hall in sock encased feet and sneaks into Scott and Allison’s room where his best friend is snoring away. Bending down he whispers in his ear an “I’m home, buddy.” and is rewarded with a snuffle. Smiling, Stiles cards a hand through his best friend’s messy hair before leaving him to his bunny chasing dreams. Back downstairs Stiles heads straight to the kitchen where Allison is stirring something that makes his mouth water.
“Grab us a drink and I’ll dish it up.”
“You didn’t eat with Scott?” Stiles asks opening the fridge and rooting around until he finds their beer in the back.
“A little but I wanted to hang out with you. I tried a different recipe.”
“Your mom’s chili?”
She nods with a small smile as she ladles heavenly stuff into bowls giving him more than an extra spoonful. They settle around the table side by side and facing the window that looks out onto the backyard. He takes a huge bite and doesn’t hold back the obscene moan that the flavors erupting on his tongue cause. Allison’s smile stretches into a full out grin.
“I tweaked it a bit.”
“I’m moving the wedding up to next month. Think Scott will be my best man?”
“Hm… the outcome looks doubtful.”
Nudging her elbow playfully Stiles digs into his meal. They make small talk about the week that he and Boyd were in Texas working on treaties with another pack, which was all just an excuse for Stiles to meet one of Deaton’s contacts. Grimoires were like money to the magical community, and the more you had the richer you were. Deaton was a secret millionaire and Stiles was quickly working on his own nice little nest egg. Another plus to living in the loft, he had so much room to use. He had books everywhere from picture books his mom used to read him to a grimoire that dated back to the damn dark ages. Yeah, his cover as a rare book purveyor was well earned. (Had to make a living somehow.)
Stuffed to the gills, he retires to the massive living room with Allison and ends up sprawling out along one of the three couches that form a ‘U’ in front of a flat screen and whatever Boyd and Isaac are watching. It doesn’t take more than five minutes till Isaac is worming his way between Stiles and the back of the couch. He grunts too tired to move and lets the curly haired nuisance maneuver him like a life-sized teddy bear. The last thing he takes note of before his lids turn into concrete weights is Allison’s smile as she drapes a throw over them.
*
When he wakes up it’s all at once, one second sound asleep and the next he’s alert and heart pounding. He inhales sharply as his vision comes into focus, the TV now off, everyone missing, and a lamp on low somewhere over his head. Stretching languidly, he starts at an amused snuff behind him. Craning his neck he takes in an upside down Derek by all appearances studiously reading a book on the left couch. Stiles flops back down and drags a hand over his face before sitting up and tossing the throw over the back of the couch he’s on.
“How many times have you read the same sentence over in the past ten minutes?”
“Five. At the least.”
“Creeper.”
“Peter’s in the kitchen if you want him.”
“Fucker.”
“Jackson politely declined the invitation for dinner tonight but he’ll be here ten minutes late as usual.”
“Sourwolf.”
Stiles smiles unashamedly smug as he sees the second Derek gives in and closes the book with a sigh.
“Your dad’s on his way.”
“He have to pick up Melissa?”
“She’s in the kitchen. Lydia picked her up after work.”
“How long was I asleep?”
“Four hours.” Stiles groans at that and heaves to his feet, lifting his arms over his head and ignoring the eyes boring into him as he stretches the kinks out of his frame. That is until Derek is suddenly two feet away from him and reaching for the hem of his shirt where it’s rucked up and, oh shit. Fingers wrap around his forearm and tug him sideways until Derek has a clear view of the ink that peeks out of his waistband over his left hip. The tail of the snake sits just under the nape of his neck (not to be seen), the body slithering down the left side of his spine where an axe almost ended his life, and curving just over his hip the head rests. He doesn’t go without a shirt for more reasons than being self conscious, obviously.
His ineffective swatting hand drops to his side as Derek jerks his shirt up for a closer inspection. Stiles sighs deeply and counts to ten before he tries to twist out of the werewolf’s grip. The fingers on his arm tighten into a warning.
“When?”
“That trip to Indiana to meet with the Sawyer Emissary.”
“How did I not know?”
“I spelled myself.”
“Stiles…” His name is laced with a ripple of Alpha command and forced through gritted teeth. He has enough sense to visibly wince as the bottom of his stomach drops out when he meets Derek’s angry red gaze.
“The scales are runes, and each one represents a member of my family, our pack. I was taking precautions, okay? Can you blame me?”
The red bleeds back to angry steel/green (what the fuck color were his eyes other than mesmerizing anyway?) and Stiles ignores the wave of familiar guilt that trickles down his spine. He’s become a fucking pro at ignoring things when it comes to the man standing in front of him. Derek doesn’t respond, instead he lets go of Stiles and steps back, his voice dangerously soft when he speaks.
“We’ll talk about this later. The Sheriff just pulled in.”
With that Derek leaves Stiles standing in the living room alone. Taking a deep resetting breath he moves towards the front door and flings it open with an overly bright smile plastered across his face just as his dad shuts his car door. It becomes a little less fake when strong arms wrap around him and he’s enveloped with warmth and Old Spice.
“Glad you made it back safe and sound, son.”
“Me too, old man!”
“Smartass. Come on, I’m starved.”
Laughing, Stiles slings an arm around his dad’s shoulders and leads him into the house. Once in the kitchen he abandons him as soon as he sets eyes on Lydia and pushes his dad in Melissa’s direction on his way towards his conquest. John laughs with a shake of his head as Stiles slips his arms around her waist from behind and bends down to press loud and annoying kisses to the bare skin of her shoulder. He gets an elbow to his ribs for his trouble.
“Haven’t seen you in a week and this is the reception I get? Good thing I made plans to marry Allison instead of you.”
Scott’s head pops up comically from the table where he’d been sitting a bowl down with a strangled sound of confusion. Stiles waves him off and best friend that he is shrugs and goes back to what he’d been doing. This is one reason of about a million why he loved him.
“You couldn’t handle her or me, Stiles.” Scoffing, he removes his arms and pouts while everyone in the kitchen nods or hums their agreement.
“You wound me.”
“You’ll live.”
“No one asked for your opinion, Isaac.”
Twenty seven years old and his friends still stick their tongues out like petulant children. (Stiles returns the gesture.)
“Batman!!!”
“Someone got laid…” Derek raps his palm against the back of Isaac’s skull for that remark as Stiles spins around just in time to be assaulted by a curtain of blonde hair. (And cleavage, ample cleavage.) Erica smacks a kiss to his cheek and beams at him.
“See, this is why you’re my favorite. At least you pretend that you missed me while I was gone. Unlike these other traitorous heathens.”
“It’s the least I can do.”
“Okay children, enough, I’m hungry.”
“You heard the Sheriff, move it! Scott, I don’t care how old you are, get out of the green beans.”
“Aw, mom…”
*
As predicted Jackson shows up after they’re seated and slips into his seat between Allison and John. Stiles keep up conversation for most of the meal but towards the end he’s wilting like a damp flower. Beside him Peter arches a brow and Stiles shrugs with a yawn. Apparently his battery was draining and his body needed to fully recharge instead of catching small cat naps. He says as much as he pushes back from the table and begs off.
Saying goodbye to his dad and promising to stop by for lunch one day, he mock salutes the table and trails out of the room and upstairs. After a quick stop by the bathroom he strips down to his boxers and collapses face first onto his bed with a minty fresh yawn. The quiet murmur of his pack downstairs and the ticking of the clock in the hall lulls him into a comfortable daze as he blinks sleepily at his bags that he’d stashed in the corner earlier. A glint of silver sticking out of his leather bag catches his eye but a wide yawn that makes his eyes water and his vision swim force his attention to the back of his eyelids. Sleep swaddles him and he’s out in a blink.
* * *
He watches in abject horror as the hunter struggles to his feet and adjusts his hold on the axe that he’d been swinging around like some kind of barbarian. Derek opens his mouth to shout at Stiles, the stupid, human idiot that had insisted on coming with them but he finds his voice gone, a mere whimper. He tries to roar instead hoping that Stiles will be smart enough to dive behind a tree or duck down, something, anything but continue running towards Derek. But of course he doesn’t stop and Derek’s heart does for an agonizing second as the hunter raises his arm over his head, the sunlight that filters down into the now bloody woods glinting off of the metal.
“STILES!” Scott growls around elongated canines as he throws a man twice his size into a nearby tree.
Stiles keeps running.
Derek loses the ability to function as all of the growls and noise of battle seem to fade into the background, the sound of the axe as it slices into the air the only thing he knows. He watches it happen in slow motion, a macabre act from a terrible play, as the blade strikes Stiles in the back and sends him crashing right into Derek’s hands. The boy’s eyes are wide and terrified and when he tries to speak he coughs, bloody spittle speckling Derek’s ashen face. He misses the way Scott and Boyd rush the hunter at once and savagely decapitate the man. He misses the way as Allison takes down the last hunter with an arrow to the heart that everything goes eerily silent, not even a bird chirping in the aftermath. He wraps confused arms around Stiles as they both go down to their knees, ignoring the way that Stiles’ blood scorches his arms.
It’s in that moment Derek knows that he’d well and truly failed. He doesn’t realize that he’s apologizing with every ragged breath, nor does he acknowledge the slide of tears down his dirty face. Peter’s fury filled “Bite him, Derek!” goes ignored as Stiles somehow manages to give Derek a bloody grimace of a smile with the last vestiges of his strength.
When Stiles’ eyes close and his body falls limp in Derek’s arms the Alpha’s roar of unadulterated grief and rage is accompanied only by the sound of Lydia’s agonized, piercing wail.
*
Derek jerks awake with a gasp, the phantom sounds of his nightmare ringing in his ears as he kicks at the sweat damp cover that clings to his frame. Sitting up he swings his legs over the side of his bed and tries to catch his breath. He wills the visions from his gruesome past to vanish as he takes breath after breath with his hands still shaking where they hang loosely between his thighs. For nearly seven years he’d had the same nightmare, the details etched into his brain like a brand. Stiles had gone as far as to shake hands with Death just trying to save Derek and if it hadn’t been for Deaton and the Spark inside of Stiles, he wouldn’t have lived. They’d always saved each others’ lives, it was their thing, but after that time, Derek had been forced to reevaluate their dynamic. Agreeing to let Stiles be his Emissary, giving him free reign of the loft, a room in his house, and offering to give him anything that was within his power was little compared to what Stiles had done for him. For them.
Seeing Stiles’ tattoo the night before had reopened some wounds he’d thought he had stitched together. The way the ink curled over his skin skirting the axe’s scar, and knowing that the runes were for the pack had left Derek reeling. The idiot had literally died and gotten a second chance and yet he still insisted on going to any length he could think of to protect them. Derek was completely positive that he would never understand the man that Stiles had become.
Glancing at the clock he sighs and pushes to his feet, moving into his attached bathroom and directly into a cold shower. Washing away his unease, he doesn’t linger instead deciding to go down and make breakfast for the pack for a change. After drying off and pulling on a pair of sweatpants and a well loved t-shirt Derek slips from his room at the end of the hall and pauses. He listens to the heartbeats of his pack and centers himself with a cleansing inhale.
When he was a kid his mom always came and checked on him and his siblings even though she could listen to their every breath and heartbeat from floors down, and Derek finds himself walking in her shoes. Pushing the door on the left open first, he listens to Isaac’s even breathing for three beats before pulling it back shut. The cracked door on the right reveals Stiles curled on his side with his back to the wall, his blanket half in the floor. Derek pads on light feet into the room and picks up the cover and drapes it back over Stiles’ sleeping form. Hesitantly he tugs the material up to cover a bare shoulder before he gives into temptation to lean down and place his lips against the skin. He slips from the room silently.
On quiet feet Derek climbs the stairs that lead up to Lydia’s attic (“I do NOT live in an attic, Derek, it’s the third floor.”) bedroom, his knuckles easing the door open half an inch and finding her teal colored bedspread pulled up all the way over her ears. With a small fond smile he heads back down and to Scott and Allison’s room. Allison, being a lighter sleeper than most of the werewolves in the house raises her head the second he pushes the door open. When she sees it’s only him she offers him a sleepy smile as Scott snores on. Derek nods and backs out and heads downstairs. Erica and Boyd’s room sits under Isaac’s and always has a dim light on. They’re wrapped around each other, blonde curls lying stark against rich chocolate skin and Derek sighs in contentment that they’re both breathing and under his roof.
Once he’d thought himself unfit to be an Alpha (still does on occasion if he’s honest) but having them all within reach and knowing that they rely on him and each other settles something down in his bones. Even though Peter and Cora are the only actual family he has left alive, he prides himself on the fact that he’s rebuilt his life with this ragtag group. And he wouldn’t change anything. He swears. (He’s lying.)
*
Thirty minutes later and there’s coffee brewing, biscuits in the oven and bacon sizzling on the stove. Stiles is the first one up (he knows when the floorboards overhead creak) so he gets out a mug and pours it and filling it full of sugar and creamer. He sets it out on the island and turns back to the stove.
“Guuuhnhg.”
“Eloquent.”
“Mm, I love you.”
The spatula scrapes across the pan and would have gone flying if it weren’t for supernatural reflexes as Derek’s head snaps around, gazing wide-eyed at the rumpled mess across the counter. Stiles has his mug cradled to his chest and his eyes closed, nose hovering above the steaming liquid as he inhales the aroma. Derek quickly turns back around before he’s caught, his brows furrowing at the bacon in the pan while Stiles continues to coo at his damn coffee.
“Why are you up so early?”
“Got hungry.”
Stiles snorts at his lame excuse and shuffles around the island to lean a hip next to the stove, watching him poke at the bacon. He stabs at it until the timer goes off and he grabs a potholder to get the biscuits out. Stiles just sips his coffee like he has all the time in the world and Derek is the most entertaining thing in his line of vision.
“Get the eggs out if you want an omelet.”
“Dude, are you sure you don’t have a fever?”
Derek simply glares at him till he does as he’s told.
“Why are you up so early?” he asks while whisking eggs and Stiles shrugs a shoulder up.
“I was going to steal the Camaro and head to the loft. I need to unpack and I have about six hours until I have to drop by Deaton’s anyway.”
“Lydia has the car this week, you can just use the other.”
“But…”
“Take it or leave it.” Derek arches a brow at Stiles when he huffs into his mug. When his Jeep had given up the ghost Stiles hadn’t ever bothered to get a different vehicle. There really was no point since they all lived in one place anyway. Derek and Allison almost always have a police cruiser, he still has the Camaro and the ‘mom car’, and Scott drives Allison’s Mazda. Isaac and Boyd share a pickup, Lydia has a Beetle (which was currently in the shop), and Erica has a second hand car her parents had gotten her when she’d become a certified cosmetologist. In other words, everyone shared. It just worked that way.
“Fine,” Stiles sighs and drains his cup, turning to refill it while Derek flips the perfectly fluffy omelet in the skillet. Yeah, while he doesn’t do it often he is a pretty damn good cook if he says so himself. If the moan Stiles makes when he bites into it five minutes later is any indication, well then…Upstairs his pack comes to life with the birds that begin chirping and Stiles sucks down his third cup of sugar. Derek’s plating another omelet just how Erica likes it when Stiles rubs his stomach and sets his dishes in the sink.
“Thanks for breakfast, Derek, and the use of the mom car. I’ll drop it by tomorrow at the latest.”
“Put gas in it.”
“Don’t I always?” Stiles pokes a finger into Derek’s side and it takes quite a bit of control to remain in place. Damn ticklish spots. Derek gives him his best ‘Are you serious?’ look and Stiles winces. “Okay, maybe I forget sometimes, but I will this time! Okaaay, I’m out of here. Call me if you need me.”
With that Stiles breezes out of the kitchen much more awake than when he came in and Derek watches him disappear down the hall. There’s a knot of want in his stomach, that, he’s used to but it’s the anticipation that’s putting him off. He feels like he’s waiting on something to happen, something to land in his lap (no pun intended). The contentment from an hour ago has been shoved to the side by some unseen hand. Derek cuts the stove off after setting the table and makes sure to start fresh coffee before heading towards the backdoor where he ties up his running shoes, pulls on a random hoodie (smells like Boyd’s), and escapes out onto the brisk morning air. He hears a sleepy-voiced Erica ask what smells so good just as he steps into the tree line and takes off.