Just The Beginning - Sterek

Chapter 17

Stiles awakes to March fourteenth, otherwise known as his favorite day of the year.

Usually.

The first thing fuzzy consciousness registers is that he's not in his bed. He's on a couch, with his cheek smashed into the cushion and the living room blanket tangled in his legs. A minute is spared to sleepily muse over how he kinda does this a lot in the mansion (waking up all cozy and warm on some soft surface he doesn't remember falling asleep on), which is nice. His eyes peel open, revealing his laptop on the coffee table surrounded by empty takeout containers and a stain on the rug where he spilled some sweet and sour sauce. Right. The movie. He remembers the movie, and eating egg rolls, and—

Falling asleep on Derek's shoulder.

Falling asleep on Derek's shoulder.

Which was actually not awkward in the slightest and three times more comfortable than he imagined. Not that he's imagined sleeping on Derek a lot, per say, but the 'grr, no-touching' wall between them has been rapidly diminishing and he's actually okay with that. Especially when Derek has a very comfy shoulder and the kind of broad collarbones that are really perfect for napping, and staring at maybe. But Stiles had done a lot of sleeping the past few months, in his bed and on the couch, and once on the floor accidentally, and in the woods next to a furrier-than-usual Derek, and once in Derek's bed, and now Derek himself can be added to the list of siesta spots.

Which hopefully will become a habit. But no pressure.

Then again the whole cuddle thing might just have been a dream, but he recalls mumbling something about Derek's breath and egg drop soup and the ghost of a fuzzy sweater against his cheek. And he definitely remembers Derek draping his arm around his shoulders, which had simultaneously been the most exhilarating and calming experience of Stiles's life. He absently brings a hand up to his sleeve, remembering the warmth of another hand there, and wishing it was still there.

It takes about five minutes for him to realize that something is wrong.

At first he figures Derek must have gone back upstairs to brush his teeth or check the leak buckets or whatever, which would account for Derek's absence on the couch. He gets up and shuffles to the bathroom to take a piss. He pads back into to the kitchen to dig out the pop tarts, switches on the chandelier to see if the power is back (hooray, it is), and that's when he notices the little blinking red light on the Keiruig, indicating a finished brew. Only Stiles didn't start any coffee.

He does a double-take and approaches the counter for a better look. The coffee pot below the brewer is filled to the brim, and an empty mug is set out beside it as if waiting to be filled. He taps the coffee pot. It's stone cold.

"Er'kaaaay..."

He frowns at the items on the counter. It's weird. Maybe Derek just made some coffee and changed his mind? But it's still weird, because Derek's eyebrows bend to a near forty-five degree angle instead of the usual ninety without a cuppa joe in the morning. The kind of fancy imported deep-snob-roast joe at least, because the guy claims he has refined werewolf tastebuds like that. But a cold coffee pot means he must have brewed it hours ago, and then... Forgot?

"Derek?" He calls, eyes swinging upstairs. The mansion is quiet, snoring softly with little creaks and drips from the rain.

He swivels around, eyes tracking analytically over the kitchen. There's no evidence of breakfast made, and the leak bucket on the stove is nearly filled to the brim, yet to be emptied. Derek never skips breakfast ("—the most important meal of the day blah blah grrr you'll crash later if you don't eat now"), and Derek maintains the mansion's health almost obsessively. Stiles makes a beeline back to the living room, where he's surprised to find the Chinese boxes still stacked on the coffee table, drips of wax from the candles marking the wood. But Derek, the furry poster-dude for 'neat freak' wouldn't be able to stand two conscious minutes without giving into the urge to clean up the mess. The guy practically had an aneurism if a pair of socks were left on the couch.