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A crash from the kitchen has Stiles jerking awake. Adrenaline is flooding his brain, but as he gets up he keeps his footsteps soft, his shoulders and hands loose. Ready to run, ready to fight. The blanket slithers off his shoulders as he rounds the couch, and he creeps to the wall, pressing his back to it before he peeks around the corner.
A hulking black shape is hunched over a broken mug on the floor. It looks up, eyes red, and whines low and plaintive. It raises- hell, it raises human hands, albeit long and sort of monstrous-looking, in a placating gesture.
Stiles relaxes with an explosive sigh and comes forward, rubbing his eyes now that he realizes the threat isn’t a threat at all, it’s Derek being a huge dork.
“Really? It’s four am, man, you couldn’t have come two hours ago when I was actually awake? And what’s with the clumsiness? Usually that’s my area of expertise.”
Derek blinks at him, then makes a complicated hand motion that seems to indicate some kind of accident with the mug. Stiles is too busy being fascinated by the way his hands bend like wolf paws, and yet he still has opposable thumbs. The dew claw, he remembers suddenly, used to be something like another working toe that wolves no longer need. Probably because the wolf and werewolf strains split and developed separately, somewhere. Goddamn, evolution is fascinating. Werewolves are fascinating. Derek is-
-a son of a bitch for not warning him not to step on shattered porcelain.
“Ow, fucking- god, why?” Stiles says, carefully hobbling over to the table so he can pick the remains of one of the better coffee cups out of his foot. There’s blood dripping between his toes. Awesome.
Derek makes another noise, uncertain and deep. Stiles looks up. Even with the muzzle in place of his mouth, Stiles can tell he’s frowning, and he starts to laboriously scoop up the porcelain. It’s like watching a seal learn to write, but Derek manages to get everything safely into the trash. And then he comes forward and wraps a gentle hand around Stiles’ ankle and bends like-
“Whoa, actually, please don’t, I’m super ticklish and I would probably kick you in the face, man, and that probably wouldn’t end well.”
Derek pauses, just the pink tip of his tongue sticking out, and then slowly releases Stiles’ foot. His eyebrows are furrowed, and he sits back on his haunches. God, for being a gigantic, terrifying, creature of the night, he’s fucking adorable.
Stiles snorts, reaches out, and taps the end of Derek’s tongue.
“Reel that in before you bite it off, man.”
Derek makes a rough noise that sounds suspiciously like an aggravated bark, and then stands up. And up. And up. He smacks his freaking head on the light fixture, but it’s plastic and doesn’t move. Not even when Derek glares at it.
“Holy shit, I think you’re actually bigger than a bear,” Stiles says, and Derek looks down with a sigh and blows way too moist breath into Stiles’ face. He scrunches up his nose and bares his teeth, which Derek mimics, only his is a lot more terrifying.
“Okay, gimme a sec. Then we can hash this out.”
He hobbles on one foot over to the sink. In the window above it sits a herb box, and Stiles plucks out some holy basil, St. John’s Wart, and agrimony. Derek, back on all fours, sticks his nose under Stiles’ elbow and pushes up, almost like he’s a cat demanding attention.
“Dude, lemme fix my foot. It’ll take like, four minutes, jeez.”
He dumps the herbs in the foot processor and hits the button, and after they’ve been properly shredded into a million tiny pieces, tips it out into his hand and cups it there for a minute, just letting it absorb some of his intention. Salves like this, he likes to tell it the story of how he got hurt. It usually gives it a bit of a boost, and then he opens the kitchen’s junk drawer and digs around until he finds some Neosporin. A cheap trick, but he has a Alpha werewolf snuffling at his hair and it kind of takes precedence. Plus, science plus magic equals a double whammy of awesome. Squirting out a generous amount, he mixes the herbs in carefully, and when they’ve turned it a smeary green and yellow, he slathers it onto the bottom of his foot.
Initially he’d been worried about using healing magic on himself- wasn’t he basically just taking it out and putting it back in? Could that create some kind of feedback system that could cause him to explode? Deaton, of course, smacked him in the back of the head and assured him that he was changing it enough for it to work, and besides, siphoning him out his magic and putting it back in without change would do absolutely nothing to him, so there was no harm.
The salve gets to work immediately and Stiles sighs in relief and lowers his foot gingerly to the floor. If he keeps on his heel the salve won’t smear, and he takes a second to rinse off his hands and clean the food processor before Derek wraps his hand around Stiles’ arm and starts pulling at him.
He lets himself be maneuvered out of the kitchen, mostly because watching Derek move is, again, fascinating. His feet are the same as his hands- well, not the same, because they’re feet, but they’re elongated and behave like a wolf’s feet would, except that the skin is human-colored and mostly hairless, and Derek’s toes are kind of ridiculous looking. He has never seen a pinky toe that long. Seriously, it’s funny. There’s that, and the fact that Derek occasionally uses his free hand to lope along, rather than his hunched, hobbling walk on hind legs. Stiles thinks he’d probably be more comfortable on all fours, but Derek doesn’t seem inclined to let go, so he doesn’t comment on it. Oh, and Derek has a tail. Peter didn’t have a tail when he was in Alpha form, that much he knows.
He’s escorted back to the couch, and Derek shoves him down none too gently, then rears back, settling his hands on his thighs and frowning resolutely at Stiles.
“Uh,” he says, after the silence has stretched thin for a minute, and Derek snorts before glancing around. He goes to the nearest door (and yeah, Stiles was right about the all fours thing), the closet, and after carefully folding both hands around the doorknob, twists it open and shuts himself inside.
Stiles bursts out laughing.
“Dude, is this charades? Because if you’re trying to tell me you’re in the closet, then this is totally the best way you could have told me. Four for you, Glen Coco.”
Derek pokes his snout back out, looking like he’d rather wear Stiles’ skin for a jacket than put up with his lame jokes. Huh, a wolf in- yeah, he’s gonna stop now. Even he’s getting a little lamed out. But in his defense, he literally just fell asleep for the first time in a week and then was woken up by a werewolf B&E. He’s allowed to be corny, if not insane.
Derek comes back out of the closet and shuts it, then flicks the lock and mimes tugging on the doorknob. Stiles doesn’t doubt that he could rip the entire door out with minimal effort, and so for a second he’s confused.
“You’re locked out?”
Derek shakes his head, and makes a gesture like an air traffic controller, both hands pointing at the closet door, like he wants in-
“You’re locked in?”
Derek nods fervently, and brushes his hands down his chest.
“You’re locked in that form?”
Another nod, and Derek crawls up onto the couch next to him. He’s so weird- when he’s walking he attempts to make himself smaller, but sitting up he doesn’t bother to disguise his size. The width of his chest alone would be difficult for Stiles to get his arms around, and he looms easily over Stiles. This is what that presence, that sense of bigness around Derek must have been. Even when he was a Beta, Derek seemed to project a something or other that made him seem much more than his human shape suggested. It’s what made him so intimidating, in the beginning.
He sits like a person, like himself. Legs spread and feet on the floor, one arm on the arm rest. Turned to look at Stiles like this isn’t some weird ass dream, but legitimate craziness that he needs help with. That he came to Stiles for help with.
“I take it this is the first time you’ve been in this form, then. I’ve never seen you in it,” Stiles remarks, arms crossed over his chest, and Derek looks uncomfortably caught, but nods slowly.
“So is it a matter of you can’t change back because you don’t know how, or something is keeping you like this?”
Derek holds up two fingers, and Stiles cranes his neck back over the back of the couch for a moment, revelling in how comfortable it is and how much he would love to fall back asleep and mourning the fact that he can’t. Then he levers himself up and starts towards his dad’s study. It’s not really a place that’s used often in the first place, but now it’s where Dad keeps Stiles’ steadily growing collection of books on the occult. And keeps the 300 year old grimoire that contains a necromancy spell that Stiles paid an absurd amount of money for (also a little of blood and semen, which sometimes keep him up at night because he never found out why that witch wanted it) in his gun safe. Which Stiles cannot for the life of him figure out the combination to. He may be borderline genius, but he got it from his Dad. And his Dad knows him well.
He lets Derek in, though he has to squeeze awkwardly through the smaller doorframe, and then he starts thumbing along the spines of the bookcase that has all his magic stuff in it. He’s running out of room, actually. Hopefully Dad will throw out his old kid books soon, or at least box them up for the attic, so that he can have more space.
Stiles drops to the floor and pulls a likely looking number off of the shelf. Derek settles next to him, hands spread to keep himself supported, and invades Stiles’ personal space like it’s no big thang.
“Dude, I can’t exactly read with you like, leaning on me,” he says, shrugging a shoulder to try and dislodge Derek’s heavy chin. It disappears, and he pages through the book, trying to find that thing about witches and werewolves. Apparently Russian witches were big on controlling werewolves back in the Dark Ages, apparently, and they refined a lot of their magic to harness Alphas, which let them make entire packs their little lap dogs. Or in some cases, sled dogs. It’s at once wicked cool and wicked awful. Stiles is just glad it’s so risky, since if the spell isn’t strong enough it can be cast off and the Alpha can retaliate. That should make it easier to get rid of, if this is what it is.
He’s reading through the specifics when a heavy head lands on his shoulder again, Derek’s face tipping so he can rub his cheek bone across Stiles’ head, hard. There’s a rough noise that might be the werewolf equivalent of a pleased purr, and Stiles just grunts, making his shoulder stiff so Derek isn’t crushing him with his big stupid wolf face.
He gets halfway through his reading and then Derek huffs, and completely collapses on top of his back.
Stiles makes a frantic noise and heaves his shoulders because Derek is way, way heavy. Derek straightens up, and Stiles glares at the muzzle peeking over his shoulder.
“This?” he says, twirling a finger in the air, “this is not cool, man. I’m trying to help you and you’re trying to crush me. With affection, which is not how I thought any kind of crushing would go between us. Seriously, I thought I’d end up going like that mechanic during the kanima thing, or get struck down by a falling tree or something. Or you'd get sick of me and crush me against your head like a beer can. I did not think I would go quietly, smothered by a sleepy Alpha trying to give me hugs.”
Derek grumbles, and then wraps his arms around Stiles and whines. Like, full on puppy whining. Stiles drops the book and worms around to get a look at Derek’s face. And he lifts his hands to pet at the fur, because it’s super soft and thick underneath the tougher guard hairs.
“Hey,” he says softly, “you okay man? Does it hurt?”
Derek’s face dips, almost like he’s directing- yeah, he’s directing Stiles’ hands up to his ears. They’re shaped kind of funny, not nearly as pointy as his usual shifted ears, and short. As soon as he starts rubbing them Derek makes another pleased sound and keels over onto his side, sort of smooshing Stiles into the bookcase. And his hands curl into Stiles' sleep pants. Stiles sighs, but resigns himself to the fact that he's basically a cuddle prostitute right now, only he has no idea what exactly he's supposed to be getting out of this.
It turns out he gets six, count 'em, six whole uninterrupted hours of sleep, because he doesn't wake up until his dad is shaking his shoulder, and dad doesn't get home until noon on Saturdays.
"Son," his dad hisses, "Mind explaining why Derek is naked and sleeping on you?"
"Whazat? Oh, uh, huh, " he says eloquently, gaping down at where Derek is still crushing him, only he's a lot less hairy now.
"He wasn't naked when we fell asleep? Or, I mean he was, but he was furry, too, so- I'm not saying this right. Long story. Oh my god, I just realized I'm numb from the waist down. Shit, ow, ow, ow,” Stiles groans, trying to get feeling back in his feet, and Derek snorts and sits up so abruptly that he nearly head butts Stiles in the face.
“Whoa, cool it, big guy,” Stiles says, patting him on the shoulder, and Derek blinks blearily at him, then the Sheriff.
“Oh. Morning,” he says, and then seems to realize he’s naked. Being at least semi-naked has become a sort of constant for Derek, and he rolls it off with a shrug and stands.
“Someone should be telling me what’s- please don’t stretch, and cover yourself in my house, Derek,” his Dad says, glaring at the ceiling, and Derek slumps and pads silently out of the study, looking weirdly relaxed. Presumably he’s going to go steal some of Stiles’ pants.
“Stiles, why was Derek here?” his Dad tries again, and Stiles gets to his feet with a grunt, shaking the pins out of his legs.
“He got stuck in his Alpha form, and I was trying to help?”
For some reason this makes his Dad sigh in relief, laughing weakly.
“Finally! And here I thought he’d managed to corral you into another awkward situation where he can’t actually tell you anything. Good for you, Stiles, that’s great,” he says, and pats Stiles on the shoulder.
Stiles stares at his Dad for long enough that his smile melts, and then he’s angry, what the hell?
“Stiles, did Derek come to you for help because you’re his anchor, or-”
“Because I’m his- what, no, holy shit, Dad, no,” he says, and his Dad covers his eyes with one hand.
“God, you’re both so damn dull, it’s a wonder you’re not all dead,” he grumbles, then flings his hands up.
“Fine! Fine, I give up. You’re both useless,” and with that, he stomps off.
“What the everliving fuck,” Stiles says to himself, and that’s when Derek’s hand sneaks around the doorframe and he knocks, like an idiot. Seriously, who breaks into someone’s house and then knocks on an open door?
“Come in,” Stiles says anyways, and Derek does. He’s wearing Stiles’ baggiest pair of sweatpants, which hang off his hipbones like they’re trying to escape to the floor. God. Somehow it’s just as sexy as when he was naked, with the added bonus of his toes sticking out of the hems like a cute little kid.
“Sorry I broke in last night,” Derek says, looking a little ashamed of himself, and Stiles shrugs, bending to gather his book up off the floor.
“S’cool, dude. I’d rather have you here than out in the woods scaring the pants off of squirrels. Do you know why you were able to change back? I mean, I would have thought that it would have lasted a lot longer. Unless you broke it somehow?”
Derek looks completely embarrassed now. His throat is turning pink. Huh. Stiles wouldn’t have pegged him as a guy that blushed, but there he is, blushing.
“It did break. And it wasn’t the spell you thought it was.”
“You knew what it was and you let me chase down some idea about Russian witches anyways?” Stiles asks, a little cross now, and Derek shrugs. When he doesn’t offer anything else, Stiles shoves the book back onto the bookshelf and crosses his arms. This, somehow over the years, has become his universal sign to Derek that he’s done with this bullshit and he wants an answer, and Derek squirms a little, but clears his throat and says,
“I met up with an old flame from New York, and she did a- a Tarot reading, I don’t know, she was always super concerned with my future, and then she said that I was blocking myself from happiness or something? And she cast a spell on me. That made me like that. And I felt like I had to come here.”
Okay, so Derek is not just a throat blusher, he’s a throat-cheeks-ears-chest blusher. Stiles kind of wants to start smacking him, see how pink he can get all that skin. But on the other hand-
“Wait, so she cast a spell on you to make you stop blocking your own happiness from happening. And you came here. To make yourself happy?”
Derek grunts and pushes at him, like a six year old.
“Shut up.”
“No, seriously, I make you happy?” Stiles asks, grinning, and Derek pushes him again.
“Shut up.”
“That’s so-”
“I said shut UP,” Derek grunts, and suddenly Stiles’ back is against the bookcase and Derek is pressing his head into Stiles’ collarbones, like he’s asking Stiles to pet his ears again. Stiles does so without question, stroking over the short hairs at the back of his neck and sighing happily.
“I was gonna say great, you know. Not that this is bad, just, I feel like you’re avoiding the issue. Not that it’s an issue. Cause, you know, reciprocity and all that.”
Derek presses easily into his hands, raising his head enough to lay it on Stiles’ shoulder, mouth against his neck.
“I make you happy?” he asks, and Stiles grins.
“Yeah, man. Oh! And I also have about seventy six questions about your Alpha form, but I guess we can talk about that later. After requisite sex and cuddling.”
“Requisite. You make it sound so boring,” Derek says, but he’s smiling against Stiles’ skin and Stiles feels awesome, like he somehow made the sun light up all on his own. He groans, pressing a sloppy kiss against the slope of Derek’s jaw.
“I just mentally compared you to sunshine, I hope you know. We’re not even a minute into this new stage of our relationship and I’m pulling a Scott McCall. I hope you’re happy.”
Derek laughs, and Stiles realizes the pun as Derek wraps his arms around him, warm and loving.
“Yeah, I really am.”