Just The Beginning - Sterek

Chapter 18

Stiles.

It takes a minute to remember that his bed smells like Stiles because it's not his bed. It's Stiles's.

Derek peels his eyes open, blinking a few times to clear the film from his vision. A nightstand comes into focus, and a tall glass of pale gatorade with a straw. Small beads of sweat drip down the glass,  indicating there used to be ice cubes in there.

"Mmph, ow, stupid— friggin' shoelaces— I oughta go out and buy velcro. Crocs, even! That's right, I went there—"

Stiles is facing his closet, hopping on one foot as he tugs on a red sneaker. A blue toothbrush is sticking out of his mouth, jiggling precariously between his lips. Derek watches him wobble on one foot to lace up the shoe, mumbling obscenities to the offensive laces and stubbing his toe in the process. He huffs softly in amusement, which makes Stiles whirl around and shriek with all the grace of a drunken chicken.

"Ow ow ow OHMYGO— you're awake!"

Stiles trips again as he teleports to the side of the bed, hands hovering like he's not sure what to do when he gets there. His eyes are huge, two honey brown orbs in the morning light as they skitter over Derek's face. A tiny peek of tongue slips out to wet his lips and his heart beats like a bass drum —bum, ba-da, da-dum— as Derek shamelessly listens.

"Hey," he croaks.

Stiles rubs the back of his neck. "Hey yourself, Snorlax," he says, trying for nonchalance. It doesn't work becuase Derek can hear the excited thumptity-thump of his heart.

He shifts up onto his elbows, discovering he's under a blanket. He doesn't remember falling asleep with a blanket over him. A glance down reveals he's wearing a moth-bitten, too-big Christmas sweater that smells faintly of the Sheriff. It says "Ho Ho Ho" and has snowflakes on it. Derek has never worn anything with snowflakes on it.

"Sorry, I know that thing is just about the ugliest sweater in existence, but it was kind of all that was gonna fit you. Down here, I mean, like in my room, since you were all conked out on my bed and I didn't really wanna leave you to go up digging through your drawers, as in furniture drawers, heh." Stiles rubs the back of his neck again. "Feeling better?"

Derek stares at him. "Yeah," comes out cracked and hoarse, like his voice was run through a shredder. Stiles leaps for the glass of gatorade. The liquid sloshes as his fingers tremble.

"Yeesh, here, take this," Stiles says, holding out the glass to him. Derek sits up and takes it. "You should probably drink that whole thing."

He frowns at the straw but drinks anyway, blessed lemon-lime liquid down his dry throat. In between sips, "what time is it?"

Stiles automatically glances to his wrist even though he doesn't wear a watch. He spins in a circle trying to find his alarm clock, which is on the nightstand where it always is, and tips it towards him. "About eleven am. Congratulations, you actually slept in past eight for once! Although you have yet to break my record, which is three in the afternoon, but you slept for about nineteen hours, which you probably needed."

"Where did you sleep."

"Oh, me?" Stiles blinks. "Right, me. Yes. The chair. At my desk." He gestures to an uncomfortable-looking office chair, with a blanket draped over the armrest and one of the couch pillows on the desk. Derek frowns at it, and then frowns at his stomach when it rumbles.

"If you give me a few minutes I can make you a few breakfast burritos or something," Stiles plops down in the chair by his desk, which spins. "I called Deaton last night, he said you'd be really hungry when you woke up. He also dropped off this—" He holds up little bottle of liquid that looks like urine. "—which apparently will help replenish the platelets you lost while you were all bleedy. I also talked to Chris Argent, who got back last night once he heard what happened when Allison called and told him, after I called and told her. He's dealing with the police situation down at the warehouse, so he's got you covered as far as the whole crime involvement slash human investigation thing. He reported the missing weapon and they're saying Peter killed himself via freak accident since they found him with the gun still in hand. Oh! And he drove the Camaro back here a little while ago. Hope that's okay."