Sterek One Shots (boyxboy)

And The Points Don't Matter

And The Points Don't Matter by writer dragonfly
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It was more than he'd expected. When Stiles had approached him with the idea of fictionalizing his sophomore year, Derek had been hesitant.

That year had been terrible and Stiles had suffered just as much as he had.

But, ultimately, he knew that Stiles needed to write it.

"I want to read it when it's done," he had told him and Stiles had agreed.

Now, three years later, he held the book in his hands.

It had been centered around Scott, which was no surprise to Derek.

Scott had been Stiles' moral compass that year even though he hadn't been there for most of it.

And Stiles would never have admitted to any of his own heroism.

It still bled through the pages though. Stiles' constant sacrifice, even with Scott at the helm of it in this version, was still starkly evident to Derek.

Something else was evident too.

How Stiles saw him. How it had changed, how it had always been.

It made sense, now, why Stiles had waited to share this with him.

Derek had fallen in love with Stiles sometime when he had been lonely and twenty two years old and alone for the first time, embroiled in a series of stupid fights and danger that should never have been his, theirs.

Stiles had been his lifeline.

He'd never planned to admit anything to Stiles, not how he felt or how long he felt it. None of it.

Instead, as the years passed, he'd watched as Stiles dated and experienced and grew into the version of himself that Derek had always known was under the surface. He was brave and cocky and at times an outright asshole, but still a hero in his own right. Still someone to admire, to look up to.

Derek had met Stiles the day after his uncle had murdered his sister and put Stiles' best friend in a coma. Stiles had been an angry and sad thing then, carrying the weight of what had happened to Scott on his shoulders like a heavy shroud.

But he'd acted fearless when he faced Derek down, when he'd believed that Derek had been the one to attack Scott in the woods that night. He'd acted fearless for a long time, except for a few nights in the comfortable safety of his bedroom, trying to figure out Peter's endgame with Derek hidden at his side.

Stiles had admitted to being terrified, but Derek didn't see that very often. He'd seen it that night that he'd forced Stiles to bandage his shoulder where the Kate had shot straight through him, when he almost bled out in Stiles' jeep. When his father's life had been in danger. A series of moments, few and far between.

Stiles was stronger than Derek was. He wasn't infallible, but he was stronger and smarter when it counted.

Derek didn't know when he fell for Stiles exactly, only that he did. That it had been a part of him for years.

And reading this book, where Scott had spent the second semester of their sophomore year as a werewolf instead of in a coma and Peter's psychosis had more of a reason than it actually had and Kate had killed his family because it was what jaded hunters did instead of it being a sick and twisted game she played with her father. Where life, somehow made more sense in the guise of werewolves and magic and hunters than the very human life it really was, it made something in Derek finally settle.

At times, that year had been senseless. But Stiles had always been able to make sense of things, hadn't he?

Derek sat the book down and picked up his phone.

He wondered if Stiles knew how he felt, how he'd always felt about him.

The time on his phone read 12:43 am. It was Christmas now.

He wondered if it mattered if Stiles already knew how he felt. He wondered how long Stiles had loved him, because that's what screamed through the pages. Especially the end.

[Text to Stiles: You awake?]

He didn't have to wait long for the response.

[Text from Stiles: Yeah. Scott and Melissa just left.]

Derek grabbed his jacket off the back of the couch and slipped his shoes on, leaving his apartment.

A few lights were still on when he reached the Stilinski house. He parked in the drive behind Stiles' battered jeep and got out. He knocked twice, and then the door came open.

Before he could even ask, the sheriff answered with a tired and bemused smile, "He's upstairs."

Derek thanked him and headed up.

Stiles was laying flat on his back in the middle of his bed, his arms folded under his head as he stared at the ceiling.

"Hey," Derek said as he closed the door behind him. Stiles didn't respond right away.

"Hey. Why are you here?" Stiles asked him, even though the catch in his breath gave away that they both already knew the answer to that.

He answered anyway, the words slipping easily from his lips."I read it."

"... Yeah?"

"You're in love with me, aren't you?"

"It's fiction, Derek. Everything is made up," Stiles responded quickly, scrambling to deny it.

"Not all of it."

Stiles finally sat up then, finally looked at him.

"Can you just get to the part where you tell me you're sorry you don't feel that way so I can maybe get over you already?" Stiles asked him.

And Derek wanted to laugh. Because Stiles still didn't know.

"Do you really think I'd come over at one in the morning to tell you that? On Christmas?"

"You broke up with Braeden on her birthday, Derek."

"I wasn't in love with Braeden and she knew that."

"But she was in love with you."

"And it wasn't fair to her to keep sleeping with her when she was."

"So what are you saying, Derek? That you're not as big of an asshole as your exes think?"

"You're an idiot is what I'm saying, Stiles." Derek replied, sitting next to Stiles on the bed.

"I'm an idiot. Because I've been in love with you since I was sixteen. Wow, you really are an asshole, Hale. It's really nice."

"No, dumbass. You're an idiot if you think I'm here to say I don't feel the same way about you."

"What?"

"I'm not a werewolf, Stiles. But if I was? You would have been my anchor a long time ago."

"Oh my god. I'm in love with the cheesiest fucking bastard in the world."

Instead of responding, Derek leaned over and kissed him. It was just a brief, chaste kiss to Stiles' lips but it was perfect.

Stiles blinked. Once, twice.

And then Derek had a lap full of Stiles and a hungry mouth pressed against his.

Kissing Stiles felt a little like coming home and a little like leaving it. It felt right in a way that few things had after the fire.

And when Stiles' tongue slipped into his mouth, thinking about anything other than this moment left entirely.

It didn't take long for kisses to turn into touches, for touches to turn into pulling off clothing and tumbling together on top of Stiles' bed.

It didn't take long for them to end up the way they were probably always meant to.

--

Downstairs in the Stilinski house, the sheriff sighed and turned up the television.

They could have at least gone to Derek's apartment to finally admit this crap.