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In a turn of events that doesn't exactly surprise Stiles so much as it leaves him with very little to do other than think about it incessantly, Derek actually leaves him alone.
For all of a week, even.
It's kind of a shitty week, all things told. There are exams, for one thing, which are difficult enough when he doesn't have a landscape of fading marks greeting him in the mirror every morning and memory lapses leaving him unable to explain a lot of them. When he's not in school or studying -- okay, to be honest, when he's in school and studying -- he spends a lot of time staring into space and poking at the indistinct edges around the holes in his recollection, like if he worries at it enough the information will just suddenly fill itself in.
It doesn't. It's just not there.
What's there instead is his dad, who keeps giving him your behavior is seriously concerning me looks of sincere worry that are a gruesome blend of the previous spring and the summer after his mom died.
Also, Scott won't shut up about what he should get for Allison for Christmas.
Stiles really wishes Scott would shut up about what he should get Allison for Christmas.
On the last day of school he sits his history exam in the morning and then endures a mandatory informational meeting about the upcoming lacrosse season. It's a deeply uncomfortable hour filled with Coach trying to inspire them to return from break ready to win, Jackson freaking glowing as if the anticipation of playing the season with wolfy powers is honest-to-God better than sex -- and he has sex with Lydia, what is his damage? -- and Isaac staring Stiles down like he knows something.
Stiles seriously fucking hopes Isaac doesn't know anything. It's tough to be sure, anyway, what with Isaac having a natural creeper stare going on a good half the time anyway. To be on the safe side Stiles hightails it out of there the second they're dismissed.
It's a full moon and he just wants to go home.
When he gets to his Jeep, there's an envelope on the driver's seat. On the front in Derek's blocky manuscript, it just says: There's part I didn't show you.
Inside, folded neatly, is the torn book page Derek presented him with as the scantest of explanations for the rabbit hole he was asking Stiles to jump down. Stiles looks at it with the same unsettling lurch in his stomach that he gets when he looks at albums full of pictures of his mom, or remembers Erica's eyes in the Argents' basement. He doesn't know when Derek went, in his head, from being a sort of yearning possibility to being something inevitable and awful, but there it is.
He did. Stiles wishes he'd never seen the stupid piece of paper in the first place. Or that for once in his life, he hadn't just taken whatever he could get.
His eyes skim the words he hadn't really taken the time to commit to memory the first time. "...repetitive challenges to the Alpha's authority and stature, though unsuccessful, may foment a crisis of role identity for which there are limited remedial options. Once the balance is tipped and the Alpha is unable to regain equilibrium of his or her own accord, abatement of the increasingly aggressive nature is critical to pack cohesion. This requires pack expansion by creation of new betas, or sexual submission...."
It leaves him hanging, just like the first time. And whatever the hell it is Derek hadn't shown him, he still isn't. Stiles checks the envelope to be sure but no, it's just the same damn page and nothing else. Falling back in his seat, he tries in vain to figure out what the hell Derek is trying to tell him through the brilliant maneuver of telling him nothing at all.
So very helpful, he thinks in annoyance. So very freaking Derek.
There's more. You can't have it.
Story of his fucking life. Also: Derek is an asshole.
Right. Exactly. Derek is an asshole and Stiles wants nothing to do with his assholish behavior. What Stiles wants is to go home, forget about Derek, and take advantage of his dad working nights this week to play obscene amounts of video games in nothing but his boxers.
Instead he smacks his steering wheel, starts the Jeep, and peels out onto the road in the exact opposite direction of his house.
He'll play video games after he tells Derek Hale to take his riddles and shove them.
When he pulls up and parks next to a pile of lumber, his brakes shrieking their need to be serviced soon as he stops, Derek emerges from the house and waits for him on the porch, arms folded. "Stiles," he says simply.
"This doesn't look much like leaving me alone," Stiles returns sharply. He waves the page he kept clenched in one fist for the entire drive. "What, did you get bored? Thought maybe gee, if I take one more whiff of waterproof varnish I will go insane, who can I play stupid games with today? Oh, I know, Stiles. He's never got better shit to do."
Derek frowns at him, then disappears back into the house without a word. Stiles shuffles on his feet and contemplates following. Only he doesn't want to go in there. He doesn't want to risk being reminded of everything he does remember and the hours and hours he can't.
He reminds himself enough as it is.
His hesitation lasts just long enough for Derek to return on his own, a small, leather-bound book in his hand. "Here," he says tightly. He sits on the porch steps between two cans of wood sealant, holding the book out for Stiles to take.
Stiles scrapes his teeth over his lower lip for a second. Ultimately curiosity wins out over the voice in the back of his head screaming that he doesn't want to know, he does not want to know any more of Derek's insane werewolf crap that inevitably turns his life upside down. He approaches Derek cautiously and plucks the book away, thumbs idly at the scrap of attached ribbon woven through the pages and hanging out the bottom edge. "What are the chances you just say whatever it is out loud for once?" he asks.
Derek's lips compress tightly in refusal.
Figures. Stiles bites back a sharp comment and, assuming he's supposed to go right for the bookmark, flips the book open. He's not particularly surprised when his eyes fall to the continuation of the page still clutched in his hand.
"....of an acceptable mate, ideally one previously unclaimed. While anecdotal, comprehensive examination of available historical records suggests that outcome is not determinative; it appears to be the act itself that redirects the instincts more productively towards unifying rather than destructive impulses."
Acceptable. He doesn't even know what that's supposed to mean.
"What is this supposed to mean?" he demands.
Derek shrugs. He won't look at Stiles; instead his gaze keeps tracking along the treeline at the border of the clearing. "You're usually good at figuring things out."
"And you're always good at treating me like an idiot," Stiles retorts. "Go on, give it one more go for old time's sake."
Derek's mouth pinches again. "It means exactly what it says, Stiles."
"No, see, if it -- no. Because that -- you -- I'm not your mate! I never was, I can't be, I'm -- "
I'm just me, he tries to say. And you're...you. "I can't be," he repeats instead, helplessly.
"I know that," Derek says irritably. "I never thought you would be. That was the whole fucking point."
Stiles swallows hard. It feels like it's that or throw up in his mouth, and maybe he can't stop Derek from having this effect on him but he can damn well stop him from seeing it. He shoves the hurt down where it belongs, tucked out of sight where he keeps everything else that stings and wrenches and threatens to make him crumble, crammed down where it can be ignored and maybe then won't matter so much.
It hasn't really been a successful tactic so far in life, but Stiles is nothing if not tenacious.
Besides, it's better than the alternative, the exposure. "Oh," he manages to get out, forcing his voice to stay steady. "Oh. Well...okay. I mean, you are, as always, being about as clear as mud. But -- like you said, good at figuring things out. I get it."
Derek finally looks at him, caution stealing across his features. "You get it," he echoes slowly, a little suspiciously.
"Yeah. Totally." He plasters on his very best what? Me? Dying on the inside? Noooooo smile, the one guaranteed to fool therapists and guidance counselors and his dad alike. "So since we're on the same page and all -- go us, meeting of the minds, you should maybe take this to heart as a lesson in what conversation can accomplish, dude -- I should be going. I have...stuff. To do."
Derek blinks at him. Stiles glances down at the book in his hand. "Hey, any chance I could borrow this?" he blurts. Just the feel of it, the heft and the promise of so much information, is literally making him salivate over the possibility of reading it all. "Little light holiday reading, you know."
"What -- no." Derek scowls and thrusts out his hand, beckoning for it. "No. Not that one."
"Excuse me for asking, geez." Stiles rolls his eyes and hands it back. "I'll bring the others back, if it bothers you that much."
"I didn't say that," Derek mutters. "This one is just different. It's sensitive."
"Got it," Stiles snaps, the rebuke chafing. Apparently Derek treating him like nothing is an across-the-board kind of deal now, and he's already freaking sick of it. "Above my clearance. Sorry to over-step."
"Damn it, Stiles, I didn't say that either." Derek glares at him. "I said it's sensitive. It's -- christ, it's a roadmap to my psychological makeup, it's fucking dangerous and it doesn't leave my possession. There are hunters and --"
"Hey, I'm about as far from a hunter as you get and you know it --"
"But it's not like you've always been a safe bet on looking out for my --"
Stiles' mouth falls open. "Oh, fuck you, man, that was all before I knew -- that's bullshit, that's what that is, you are full of it and --"
"I was sleeping with Kate Argent when she killed my family," Derek interrupts suddenly. He says it calmly, like if he puts enough steel into his voice it will be able to contain the explosion that his words constitute. He watches Stiles as if he's just waiting for him to dig in, practically challenging him to actually go there.
As abrupt disclosures go, it's a doozy. It pushes the breath out of Stiles as effectively as Derek punching him in the stomach, and makes him take a step back. "You were -- you were sleeping with her," he echoes weakly.
For an instant Derek's expression falters; Stiles doesn't know what to make of the quick break in that hard exterior. He doesn't have a chance to figure it out before Derek's resolve settles back in. "Yes."
Stiles stares at him. Derek stares right back. Stiles rubs a hand over his hair and thinks dimly that it's time to freshen up the buzz, mostly because it's the kind of useless, pointless thought that's easy to scramble for in hopes of distracting himself from how fuck, but Kate Argent was a blight upon the earth and Derek just compared him to her.
Because there's the catch. That's what it boils down to in the end. He has to face the visceral realization that on a scale of one to ten, with one being raging psychopathic murderer of children and ten being sure, I'll loan you that money, he knows exactly where Derek ranks him these days.
Even lower than most of the rest of the world. He gestures vaguely behind him. "I have to go," he mumbles.
"Stiles --"
"Don't." Stiles shakes his head sharply and steps back a few more times. "I'm going. I'm gonna go. I'll see you around or...something, I guess."
As he backs up to swing the Jeep around and head back down the road, the last he sees of Derek is the hunch of his body, curled over his knees, and the distant, detached look on his face as he stares off into the woods as if he's watching for something.
Stiles can't help but think he looks lonely, defeated. For a second he feels bad about it.
Only for a second.
After that he goes home and pointedly does not spend the days leading up to Christmas avoiding any and all pack activities. Because that's not at all what he's doing; he just happens to be busy. He's got mad amounts of shopping to get done very quickly and all of his RPGs are exploding with activity on top of that. Besides, he totally clears time to go to Lydia's for her annual holiday blowout, and it's really only twice that he ignores texts about everyone meeting up at Derek's until it's too late to actually go.
Christmas comes quietly. It's one of the awkward times spaced throughout the year when he and his dad tap dance around some traditions and keep observing others and never actually talk about the spaces his mom used to fill. Stiles grants a moratorium on all health concerns so that they can spend Christmas Eve in front of A Christmas Story eating pie straight from the tin and ice cream straight from the carton, and in the morning his dad makes pancake and bacon pigs in a blanket before he gives Stiles a souped up new laptap and a Not To Exceed blank check with instructions to get the Jeep as many overhauls as possible within limit.
A really generous limit. Stiles can't help but feel elated and guilty all at once; he's not going to argue or anything, but he's pretty sure he's reaping some major benefits from his dad's intense gratitude that the second half of the year involved a lot less...everything.
As far as he knows, anyway.
At noon Stiles drags himself away from obsessively customizing his operating system to head over to Scott's like he has every year since he was ten. The deal is always silly little gifts, though he might have cheated this year and gotten Ms. McCall a scarf veering towards the nicer end as a pathetic thanks for spending the better part of the year knowingly dealing straight-up insanity.
And for not breathing a word of it to his dad. For that alone, Stiles feels, Ms. McCall is a class act and deserves to be heaped with beautiful things.
When he gets there, Derek's Camaro is out front. Which shit and damn, but he's got a ham to get home to bake and hell if he's going to let Derek break Christmas like he breaks other things.
Like, for instance, Stiles.
After a brief pause to sit outside and mutter curses to himself like a pep talk, Stiles thinks he's managed to brace himself for the supreme levels of uncomfortable he's about to walk into. The first few minutes even go well; Ms. McCall hauls him inside for a hug that smells like the vanilla lotion he hopes she never stops using, and then Scott bounds out of the living room to initiate his own excitable version that's more enthusiastic headlock than hug.
Christmas has always tended to turn Scott into an overgrown puppy, even before he went and got bitten by a werewolf. Stiles bats good-naturedly at Scott until he manages to wriggle himself free -- his sweatshirt almost coming off over his head in the process -- and only then does he look up and see Derek leaning against the doorframe of the living room, his arms folded over his chest as he watches them tussle.
He's as unfairly attractive as ever. Stiles hates him. So very, very much.
"Uh," is all he says, straightening up slowly and tugging his sweatshirt back down to cover his stomach. "Derek. Hey."
Derek gives him a slight nod. "Stiles. Happy Christmas."
"You're one of those, huh?" Stiles blurts before he thinks about it. When Derek's brow tightens with confusion, he forces a laugh. "A 'happy' Christmaser? As opposed to one of the 'merry' persuasion. I'm a merry guy myself, you know, we wish you a... um. Yeah. Merry Christmas."
The corners of Derek's mouth tilt up just slightly, just for a second. "Merry Christmas, then." He somehow manages to make it sound like he means it and is mocking Stiles all at the same time. Stiles is sorely tempted to stick his tongue out, and barely stops himself with vicious reminders that he's sixteen, not six, and also he doesn't like Derek very much.
He doesn't.
"I'm going to go see Erica and Boyd," Derek says abruptly. "I'll pick up Isaac on my way back."
"You're coming back?" Stiles blurts. "Isaac's coming over?"
Scott shoves him into the living room. Derek has to step aside to make room in the doorway, and even then Stiles' body brushes against his. "Ms. McCall asked me to stay for dinner," Derek informs him tightly, hands stuffed in his pockets as he watches Stiles get forcibly wrestled onto the couch, right on top of a scrap of torn wrapping paper. "And Isaac -- his dad, even if he was --"
"No, yeah," Stiles agrees. He watches Derek carefully, the uncomfortable lift of his shoulders. "The first year is the -- well, no, they all suck. But the first is the hardest to figure out what to expect." Derek throws him a look of relief and nods slowly. "So yeah, good. He should be with people who -- with family."
"You know you and your dad are always invited," Scott tells him. But he doesn't push it and Stiles is grateful. They both know Ms. McCall asked weeks ago, like they both know his quick visit means that this year isn't yet the one for letting go. "Hey, Derek, before you go -- Stiles, did he tell you yet?"
"Tell me what?" Stiles glances back and forth between Scott's guileless smile and Derek's agonized scowl of life gives me cramps aggravation. "What, dickweed?"
"We're going to Reno for New Year's!" Scott informs him with delight.
Derek winces. Stiles has a bad feeling. "Oh, we are, are we?"
"Alana," Derek says, like he's chewing glass. "She called last night and invited the pack for the holiday. Everyone."
"Oh," Stiles says.
He only realizes that his hand has come up to rub idly at his neck when Derek winces and throws a totally not-suspicious-at-all glance in Scott's direction. "Don't worry," he mutters. "I explained the situation to her."
Stiles frowns. Scott starts laughing. "You mean the situation where you told her Stiles was your mate?" he asks, and earns himself a hard punch in the arm from Stiles.
"Yes," Derek snaps. He stares intently at Stiles. "I explained," he says again. "She...still wants you to be there. Specifically. She was sorry not to have...had a proper introduction. Uh. Since you're an important part of...this. The pack." When Stiles raises his eyebrow at that, Derek raises his right back. "Look, it's important for us to accept her hospitality, it -- we could use the friends. Hopefully you can come."
"Of course he can come," Scott pipes up. "We always spend New Year's together doing whatever, his dad never shirks DUI duty."
Sometimes, Stiles thinks, Scott is too helpful to live. "Yeah," he manages with a wan smile. "Awesome. Can't wait, count me in."
Derek hesitates, but then nods shortly. "Good. Scott, I'll be back soon."
Listening to Derek's heavy footsteps stride out of the house, Stiles sits back and stares in cross-eyed amazement at the lights twinkling on the McCalls' tree.
Five freaking minutes, and Derek went and managed to break Christmas after all.
And he took New Year's right along with it. Asshole.
Later that night, with his dad in a food coma on the couch, his computer set up to his liking, and no more excuses not to, Stiles caves and sends a text to Derek.
So what EXACTLY did you "explain" to her? you know, so I have the story straight.
It takes an hour for Derek to send him a blatantly useless response. Enough. She understands. And she knows the others don't know, it won't be a topic of conversation.
Stiles grumbles under his breath about Derek being the bane of his existence, sends back a succinct, You suck, and goes to bed.
He wakes up at two in the morning hard as a rock, panting into his pillow and well on the way to making the mattress-fucking Olympics. All it takes is a hand crammed down his pajama pants and the fleeting thought of Derek's palm firm in the small of his back, pressing him down, grounding him, to make him come like it's going out of style.
The next week passes in a desperately mindless blur of de-rustifying his lacrosse skills with Scott and Isaac, fucking around online, and jerking off to internet porn that doesn't feature any dark and brooding types.
Except for when it does.
Which is basically always. He shoves aside the constant shame over how utterly fucked up he knows is and tells himself that getting orgasms out of it is at least slightly more productive than doing his own brooding over Derek blithely overwriting his entire sense of the last seven months.
Because that's exactly what Derek had done. It hadn't been easy -- god, but it hadn't been easy -- but in the early weeks of summer with the pressures of school off, they'd all managed to work out an ever-steadying rapport within the pack. Strangely enough, the constant threat of gruesome death turned out to be a third time's the charm sort of thing, as the alpha pack succeeded where Peter and Jackson's more murderous turns hadn't and something like solidarity and trust had actually taken hold.
Or so Stiles had thought.
These days, he's getting more than a little tired of Derek making him wrong so often.
When New Year's Eve finally rolls around, Stiles oversleeps -- by kind of a lot. He's supposed to meet up with Scott and Isaac at Allison's since she lives on the east side of town and her dad made her going conditional on ridiculous requirements like taking his SUV for the all-wheel drive and concealed weaponry compartments.
Stiles is supposed to meet them at nine.
He wakes up at nine-thirty to find an explosion of texts and missed calls on his phone. Because he's a good friend, he bypasses actually paying attention to any of it, shoots off a quick sorry sorry sorry gimme half an hour gotta shower be there soon! and immediately scurries to take that shower.
Scott and Isaac are werewolves. Stiles feels it's only courteous not the make them suffer from morning b.o. in an enclosed space for four hours. He is a good, if not very punctual, friend.
Which makes it unjust, unfair, objectionable, and just plain wrong that he picks up his phone just to make sure Scott has chilled the fuck out before proceeding to dry off and get dressed, only to see one final message declaring, dude learn to read. Isn't Derek there yet?
Stiles rereads that a good dozen or so times before it sinks in that yes, he is awake, and yes, this fresh hell is actually his life.
Son of a bitch. "Oh, noooooo," he breathes out, panic fluttering in his chest as he scrolls back up through the barrage of earlier texts. "No, no no, see, this is -- yeah, no --"
"Why aren't you dressed?" Derek says from the window. Stiles narrowly dodges dying of fright, makes a mental note to start locking that damn thing, and clutches the towel around his waist out of a sudden and intense paranoia that Murphy's Law is about to send it slipping to the ground. "Hurry up."
"Oh my god, knock for once," Stiles complains. "No. You go. I'll drive myself."
Derek crosses his arm and glowers.
"Why is this happening to me," Stiles mumbles under his breath. "Why, why, seriously, God, why?"
"I got delayed," Derek says vaguely, taking it upon himself to intrude on Stiles' mournful conversation with himself. "And the weather report was looking bad. Allison's father threatened to lock her in the basement to keep her from going if they didn't get on the road. "
Stiles turns away to rummage in his dresser for clean boxers, and to hide the reaction he knows must be showing on his face at the mere thought of the Argent basement. From the lengthy, heavy pause behind him, he knows that Derek has noticed, has connected the dots. "I'll wait out front," Derek finally says, his voice more neutral, less impatient. "Get dressed. We're taking your car."
Stiles seriously wishes he hadn't been quite so on top of taking advantage of his dad's generosity, including getting new tires. "You suck!" he hollers as Derek ducks back out the window.
Derek is literally waiting out front when Stiles stomps out, scowling out at the street with a duffel bag at his feet and the Camaro nowhere in sight. "I ran," he says at Stiles' obvious confusion. "I can't exactly leave my car in your father's driveway overnight."
"You could have brought your car and then we could have taken that!" Stiles suggests with sarcasm nearly thick enough to be palpable.
All it earns him is a glare straight out of Derek's super special you are the stupidest one I know collection. "No," he says, like it pains him that Stiles would actually even suggest something so beyond the realm of acceptability. "We couldn't have. It might snow."
Stiles stares at him. "...how were you going to get there?"
"Jackson's truck." Derek grimaces. "Listening to Erica and Boyd's idea of music the entire way."
"No radio," Stiles informs him with satisfaction. "No music for you at all."
Derek just stomps to the Jeep, flings his duffel into the back seat, and sits up front with his arms crossed and his gaze fixed on something straight ahead. Stiles counts to ten, considers faking a sudden fainting spell, and finally resigns himself to his fate and goes to heave himself behind the steering wheel. He doesn't look at Derek. "You're paying for gas," he snaps.
"Yeah," Derek mutters. "Fine."
They ignore each other for awhile. After a good hour of silence, though, when Stiles is barrelling around a curve on a long stretch of isolated backroad, Derek clears his throat. "I'm sorry," he says. "I know this is...uncomfortable for you."
Stiles nearly runs off the road when his head whips immediately to the side to gape at Derek in surprise. Once he corrects his trajectory, he shrugs it off. Briefly. "Hey, don't stress on my account," he says, aiming for casual. "You're the one enduring my -- and okay, actually, you know what? Why even? What am I doing here?"
"I told you -- "
"No, see, what happened was that you didn't tell me. You in fact kind of refused to tell me, which aside from being utterly uncool leaves me in a sea of what the fuck. Just -- just explain to me! Once. A single time and I'll drop it and never mention it again. If Alana knows what's up, why would she, I mean, if she knows we're not -- we're not, why would she even want me to -- "
Stiles blinks suddenly. "Oh my god. Is she going to kill me? You wouldn't let me read that book, were there like, rituals in it? Do you guys cement your friendship by killing each other's pesky little problems?"
"What are you -- nobody's going to kill you," Derek snarls, throwing a dirty look at Stiles.
"Ridicule, then?" Stiles says bitterly.
Derek doesn't say anything, and when Stiles glances over the irritation has faded away and been replaced by what looks like genuine confusion. "Stiles, she felt bad. She knows what faeries are capable of."
"So not what I meant," Stiles mumbles under his breath. "Whatever."
The universe being kind enough to Stiles to make Derek let it go is apparently not in Stiles' cards. "You don't make sense," he says, sounding slightly pained. "It's not like you're the one this is embarrassing for."
The Jeep jerks slightly as Stiles absorbs that like a punch to the gut. Of course not, he thinks numbly. As pathetic as it may be for him to have been so pointlessly attracted to Derek in the first place as to let this happen, as absolutely humiliating as it is to have to realize his feelings have only gotten stronger and more twisted and more painful as it's gone along, he at least gets to walk away with the belt notch of having actually had sex with someone like Derek -- even if it was all basically against Derek's will.
Derek is the one who's going to have to live with circumstances having sunk him so low as to need to resort to Stiles.
Repeatedly.
Jesus, but Stiles suddenly actually feels bad for the dude. That particular realization comes with a phantom, suffocating thickness at the back of his throat and a throbbing behind his eyes as he tries to just focus on the road and not show any reaction. He gives it his best effort but there's only so long he can keep it up.
The tires squeal when he finally pulls over. "I can't," he says faintly. He slams his palm against the steering wheel when he can't even finish his damn sentence because there are too many freaking options.
Like go to Reno. Be around Derek. Pretend everything is at all okay. Stop wanting more than he can have. Remember what belongs in the grey areas in his mind. Respect himself. Breathe. Keep going.
"Do you want me to drive?" Derek asks.
Stiles laughs shortly and shakes his head, staring out the windshield. It's starting to snow, fat white flakes whipping around in the wind. "I want you to...fuck, man, I don't even know. How lame is that, right? I don't know." He pinches the bridge of his nose and looks over at Derek, meets Derek's wary, watchful gaze. "All I was ever going for was being tolerable, you know? Maybe making myself useful once in awhile. Now everything's all fucked up and you obviously hate it, so. Tell me what the hell you want to do about it."
"I knew what I was getting into," Derek says carefully. "It's my problem. You don't need to worry about it."
"Sorry, dude, trying to stop being an embarrassment and a disappointment and an all-around failure kind of comes naturally to me. Been working on it for years, not gonna quit 'til I figure it out."
Derek's brow tightens slightly. "You -- since when are you any of those things?"
The last thing Stiles wants is Derek Hale's pity reassurances. "Don't," he snaps.
Something in his voice must actually convince Derek he's serious. "I should probably drive," Derek says, shifting his gaze out to the thickening snowfall. "This could get bad fast."
Stiles weighs his intense dislike of anyone else driving the Jeep against the enticing idea of being able to close his eyes and maybe sleep through this entire ordeal. "Yeah, fine," he agrees, setting the brake and shoving open his door. The blast of frigid wind that immediately sweeps into his face makes him gasp. "Holy crap," he mutters to himself as he scurries around to the passenger side and hauls himself into the seat vacated by Derek. His jacket might as well be made of tissue paper for all the good it seems to be doing against the pure ice in the air. He pulls a face once Derek has taken the driver's seat. "Was this the lousy weather report? California turning into fucking Siberia all of a sudden?"
"No," Derek says shortly. There's a tension to his posture that Stiles has come to know all too well, a sign of danger lurking nearby but still out of sight. "They were just predicting --"
He stops short as his effort to shift the Jeep back into gear from the neutral Stiles left it idling in results in the thunderous silence of the engine cutting out completely. Stiles stares at him accusingly. "What did you do?"
"I didn't do anything!" Derek's attempts to get the Jeep to start back up are, again and again, unsuccessful. Stiles watches him like a hawk but can't see anything he could conveniently call operator error and correct so that they can get going already. "Fuck."
The bright side, Stiles thinks bleakly, is that they're still closer to Beacon Hills than Reno, and if he was looking for an excuse to just go home and avoid everything, this would be it. "I'll call my tow guy," he offers, trying to hide any sign of his relief. "I'm fairly sure he has just enough affection for this car to be willing to come out here. On a holiday. In a blizzard. In exchange for you donating a very large amount of money to him, which you will be doing so shut up, do not even argue."
Derek doesn't argue. "You have a tow guy," he says flatly.
"You're the one who made us take my Jeep!" Stiles snaps, digging his phone out of his pocket. "So you can just deal with the fact that she and Tommy have developed a close, personal, possibly just a little bit codependent relationship and -- uh-oh."
"Don't say 'uh-oh'."
"Fine: oh shit. Is that better for you? I'm pretty sure that either one is an accurate summation of the fact that I don't have any reception." Stiles looks up with a grimace. "No service. None. I am bar-less. "
Derek pulls out his own phone. The contortions his face go through after he looks at the screen would be comical if they signified anything other than how utterly, completely, helplessly stuck in an enclosed -- and seriously fucking cold -- space they are. His expression finally settles on grim resignation. "I think the next town is about five miles out," he says unhappily. "It shouldn't take very long. Stay here. Try to stay warm."
"Try to -- are you kidding me? You're seriously going to walk five miles in the fucking ball-freezing cold."
"I wasn't exactly planning on a leisurely stroll, Stiles. I can run that in no time."
"Yeah, but can you find anything in this mess?" Stiles swallows hard and gestures out the window, where he can barely even see the hood of the Jeep, much less the actual road. "This is insane."
Derek frowns, his thumb tapping idly on the steering wheel. "I can," he starts, but then sighs. "Give me a minute." Another gust of wind chills Stiles to the bone when Derek slips back out into the swirl of white, and it seriously creeps him out that the dark shape of Derek's silhouette disappears entirely within seconds. He sits there shivering for a minute or so, until the door creaks open and Derek climbs back in, shaking snow from his hair and clothes. "It's even harder to see with the wind in my face," he admits. "And I can't pin down the direction of any scents. I'll have to wait."
"Oh my god," Stiles moans. "We're going to die out here."
"We are not going to die out here!" Derek barks. "Look, as soon as the storm dies off I'll be able to go and get us a tow or -- or a snowmobile or something. We just have to wait it out."
"In the fucking cold. With no heat. Wow, can I just say that I am loving this, seriously, best holiday ever, when can we do it again?"
"Stiles..."
Stiles shoves his hands between his thighs in a futile attempt to make his knuckles stop aching from the cold. "I've never seen snow like this," he says. The helpless anger drains away fast and leaves him just tired, with a faint unease gnawing in his stomach like hunger.
Derek sighs. "Neither have I," he says grimly.
"It's not natural, is it?" Derek doesn't answer, which tells Stiles exactly enough. "And there's nothing wrong with the Jeep."
Derek's eyes close and he gives a small shake of his head. "She can't sustain this forever," he mutters. His voice lacks a certain amount of conviction, but that could be from filtering through the lens of Stiles' copious amounts of pessimism about every single aspect of this situation. "Even her power has limits."
"Oh my freaking god," Stiles bursts out, his body actually spasming with the force of everything he seriously cannot deal with containing anymore, "what is this chick's damage, Derek, why will she not fuck off and stop ruining my life?"
"She thinks she's doing me a favor." Derek won't look at him. "She's kind of a complete fucking lunatic, Stiles. In case you didn't notice."
"When, that one time I actually met her and she roofied the hell out of me?" Stiles' mouth falls open as his brain catches up with it. "Oh shit, was that a 'favor' for you? That is so completely fucked up, that is -- and wrong, is she stupid, or, or are you, are you sure she doesn't hate you? Because that is kind of a crappy favor. That's like the stale, regifted fruitcake of favors. And also really fucked up either way, like, what is your life?"
Derek finally looks at him. Stares at him. "I don't understand half of what you say."
"Do you think that makes you special?" Stiles snorts. "Dream on, there's practically a club. Cough up some dues and I'll autograph something for you."
"You're shaking," Derek says out of the blue.
"Uh, yeah, it's kinda cold." Stiles sighs and twists to peer into the back of the Jeep, but after a second of consideration he gives up on dignity and just goes ahead and scrambles over his seat with his legs kicking clumsily. "Ooph -- ha! Yes!" His dad's old army blanket is right where he thought it should be, wadded up behind the driver's seat. When he sniffs it cautiously it's only mildly objectionable, nowhere near bad enough to keep him from wrapping it around his shoulders and tucking his knees up in effort to cocoon himself as thoroughly as possible. He waits, hopefully, for everything to magically feel better.
No such luck. "You should have a hat," Derek comments from the front seat, angled around to watch him.
"Thanks, dad," Stiles says drily. "Too bad I forgot to bring one." Derek frowns at him unhappily and he rolls his eyes. "So tell me more about your little friend and her favors to you. 'Cause seriously, if I picked up a magical pimp with some vendetta against you, I'd really like to know."
"Stop doing that," Derek snaps. Stiles shuts his mouth with a loud click at the flash of red in Derek's eyes. "Stop -- stop talking about yourself like you're -- like you're --"
"What?" Stiles spits out bitterly. He hugs his knees to his chest and tries to still the tremor deep in his muscles. "Like I'm acceptable?"
Derek stares at him.
Derek stares at him for kind of awhile, in fact, long enough that Stiles loses his battle against trembling violently. When Derek abruptly turns back around in his seat, posture ramrod straight and shoulders up somewhere in the vicinity of his ears, he just gives the hell up and rolls with it, closing his eyes as he hopes vaguely that the shivering will actually help warm him in some perceptible way.
The chances of that plummet markedly when Derek suddenly opens the door and hops out just long enough to wrench the seat forward and climb into the back with Stiles. Between the fresh blast of wind that hits Stiles while the door is open and the fact that Derek immediately starts trying to steal his precious blanket, Stiles winds up even colder than before. "Jesus," he snaps. Most of the bite is taken out of his voice by the uncontrollable chattering of his teeth. "If you wanted to share you could just ask."
Derek makes a weird, rebuking noise that's not quite a growl and tugs harder at the blanket. "Rude," Stiles whines pitifully. Derek just proceeds to start peeling his jacket off, pulling and yanking on Stiles' stiffened limbs to literally wrestle him out of the sleeves. "What -- no, no, god, this is not okay! I need that, you can't -- dude. Are you -- I do not care what happens, we are not having sex to avoid hypothermia."
For a second, Derek's hands jerk away like he's been burned. It's startling enough that even in the midst of his indignation and the holy crap cold cold cold, Stiles can't quite muster up the logical reaction of rewrapping himself. He glances hesitantly at Derek, at the clench of Derek's jaw and the curl of his fists on top of his knees. "Sorry," he mumbles. "That was probably a shitty thing to say."
"Not really," Derek mutters. He sighs and reaches for Stiles' jacket again. "I know you have no reason to, but you need to trust me on this. Take this off and put it back on backwards."
It's the permission to put it right back on that gets Stiles' to wriggle cooperatively out of his jacket, even if Derek has apparently gone completely nuts. "Awesome," he snarks, trying to get it to stay up on his shoulders. "Now I look like a Snuggie-wearing dumbass and my back is cold. Brilliant plan. Got any more?"
"Stiles." Derek sounds tired. "Just...here." He crams his duffel bag between his back and the side of the Jeep, and shifts to get one leg as stretched as possible along the length of the seat. "Lean into me," he orders.
Stiles gets it in a sudden flash. And screw everything being awkward and uncomfortable; at this point, as long as it's also warm, he's willing to go along. He swivels sideways and tips back with caution, sitting back into the vee of Derek's legs in hopes of relaxing into body heat. Derek keeps shoving him around, though, until he's got his legs caging Stiles' in and the dirty blanket shaken out and tucked in along both their lengths. Only then does he settle back and pull Stiles against his chest, where his leather jacket lies open and only a few thin layers of cotton separate them. He snakes his hands around to spread his palms across Stiles' stomach and chest, under his coat.
"Better?" he asks quietly.
"Oh my god, you're on fire," Stiles nearly moans. Every point of contact he has with Derek is like its own little radiator, enough heat wrapped around his core that he can't resist pushing back even more. "You're not usually like this."
"It's not usually necessary." Derek jostles him around a little, shifts him to settle a little better. "But I can burn hot for a long time if I need to. Might as well share."
"I would clap my approval if my hands didn't feel like blocks of ice." Speaking of, in fact. Stiles risks worming his hands under his jacket to try and cop some of the heat bleeding off of Derek's, and Derek doesn't so much as pause before twisting their fingers together as well as possible. "Um. Thanks."
"Yeah." Derek hesitates and takes a deep breath. "Stiles. The thing with the book, it -- look, it doesn't mean what I think you think it means."
Stiles squeezes his eyes shut. "And there goes the bliss," he mumbles under his breath. "Seriously? Do we have to? Now?"
"While I've got you as still as I probably ever will?" Derek asks dryly. "Yeah. We have to."
"Ugh, fine. So enlighten me, dude. Did it mean something other than 'suitable for a quick head-shrinking roll in the hay'? I'm all ears."
Derek makes a small, frustrated noise. "How have you learned so goddamn much about us and you don't know this? How did you not -- do you have any idea how long Scott would have waited for Allison if he'd had to?"
"Well, yeah, but...he's Scott." Stiles shrugs. "Loyal doofus has to be like, written into his DNA. Also, lost causes aren't really so much a concept he's ever been good at recognizing. Anyway, that wasn't even a lost -- wait. What? What does Scott even have to do with this?"
"Scott," Derek snaps, "is a 16-year-old moron who ignored all my warnings and slept with her."
"Uh, wow, butthurt much?"
"Damn it, Stiles, you -- both of you, I want to shake you sometimes. You do this stupid shit because -- because you want to or you think you have to, you act like it might not follow you for the rest of your life, like it might not ruin you --"
"Is there a point buried anywhere in this pile of condescending bullshit?" Stiles mutters. "You kind of lost me on Scott's sex life and what that has to do with...me."
"With your sex life," Derek says in aggravation. "Mine, I mean. It's not just sex, Stiles. You don't -- it's different for us. It's never, ever just sex, it's...it's emotions that...they last. Even if we don't want them to. Even if they're not good for us."
"If I were in a position to swoon right now, I would," Stiles says flatly. "Seriously. That is so exactly what a guy just yearns to hear, you know? My weirdo werewolf psyche made my dick brainwash me into finding you tolerable. Is there a werewolf Hallmark or whatever? 'Cause I mean, slap that shit on a card and sell it, man, you'd make a killing."
"There was no brainwashing." Derek's hands clench tightly around his fingers for a second. "It's not like that, it's -- I already wanted -- the only thing that changed for me was feeling like I had a right to you when I didn't before." Derek sighs heavily, a gust of warm breath against Stiles's neck. "I knew I could control that if you rejec -- I did control it. I stayed away after you made it clear you didn't want that."
Stiles bolts upright. "Hold on there one second, pal," he cuts in, twisting sharply in the cramped space to glare at Derek. "When did I make it clear I didn't want -- what? What is that? What didn't I want?"
"Me," Derek says in this pained way that actually stops Stiles short. "It was obvious that you were only -- you only agreed to -- and you told me to go so I went."
"Wha -- I did not!"
"You called me a dickhead," Derek says, scowling at him. "It was pretty obvious how you felt. That you wanted me to go."
Stiles' jaw drops. "Oh my god, it was the middle of the night and you'd just committed B and E to see if I'd do you a solid and let you pop my cherry! That was a totally dickhead move, dude, and -- and I don't know where you get off, anyway, you are a dickhead." His mouth pulls like he's tasted something bad, possibly the concession that comes out next. "Sometimes. Frequently, in fact! Besides, you know I call Scott a dumbass every other day, so I don't know what you'd be all up in arms over."
"Here's a thought," Derek suggests, with a modicum of mildness and a heaping dose of sarcasm, his eyes flashing. "Could it be that I'd just bonded myself to you and you couldn't wait five minutes before you insulted me to my face?"
"...oh, I'm sorry, did I bruise your furry little ego? Was I not considerate enough about putting out to save your sanity?"
Derek's glare goes faintly, distressingly murderous. "Whatever," he huffs. He misses 'convincing' by approximately a mile. "You did exactly what you should have. It was a relief."
"That doesn't even make sense!" Stiles yells. "One second you make it sound like you might have actually wanted to -- but then it's all woo-hoo, Stiles really took it lying down, thank god he didn't go expecting things from me. What the hell, Derek, did this totally imaginary rejection you went through piss you off or make your day?"
"That's not the point."
"Then what the hell is?"
"That you should have better than --"
"Don't you dare," Stiles blurts. "Don't. Just don't, okay, don't -- don't finish that sentence, don't say shit like that, who are you to decide what I should have, you fucking asshole."
Derek suddenly sits forward and grabs Stiles by the shoulders. His fingers dig in painfully where Stiles' jacket has slipped down off his shoulders. "Not me," he says roughly. "You. That was the point. It was never about how I felt, Stiles, I already knew I would have to deal with that."
Stiles stares, slack-jawed, as Derek's face twists with a flash of emotion so pained Stiles isn't sure whether he might be on the verge of wolfing out. After a second, though, he reins himself in. His nostrils flare as he inhales sharply. "You don't get it," he says, quieter suddenly. "You -- you do stupid shit when you're sixteen, Stiles. And some of it will matter forever whether you see it coming or not."
"So I'm stupid now. Thanks." He hates himself immediately for his own flippancy, for the glaring absence of a freaking filter and how it makes Derek look at him like he's just tired. "Sorry," he mutters. "Not the point, I know."
Derek sighs. His hands loosen on Stiles' shoulder and he sags back, cuts his gaze away. Stiles can't seem to bring himself to move. Or hell, breathe. "I never stopped loving Kate," Derek says. He sounds miserable. "Not until after I came back and she finally tortured it out of me. The six years before that? The good days were when I could bring myself to think about killing her for what she did. But most days were -- I'd think about what I could have done differently to make her feel the same. Like I even could have, like then she wouldn't have done it."
Derek finally looks at him again. "That's what acceptable means," he says simply. "Being willing to risk feeling like that again. Taking on that consuming a commitment to someone. It's just -- it's supposed to be a good thing. It's not supposed to be like -- like being trapped."
Stiles chews his lip slowly. The cold is setting back in and his thoughts seem to be moving at the approximate pace of sludge. Cautiously -- and because he's cold, is all, not for any other reason -- he slowly turns and rights the blanket, tugs his jacket back up, and leans back into Derek's heat. The fact that Derek lets him with nothing more than a soft grunt and some shifting to get Stiles settled against him is...weirdly reassuring. "Okay. Okay, so -- see, what I don't get, just, why not one of your pack, dude. I don't get why me when you could -- any of them, and they already all nicely loyal and shit. I mean, Erica is just slightly insane, we all know that, but even she wouldn't be anything like Kate. So --"
"Because a beta mated to an Alpha would never be able to walk away," Derek says vehemently. Startled, Stiles cranes his neck to peek and sees that Derek actually looks spooked by the concept. "Even if I had any interest in any of -- no. They can choose freely now, they can leave me if they want." He winces slightly, like the thought -- the memory, Stiles realizes -- actually, physically hurts. "So can you. I've been trying to let you."
"Oh my god, does it matter at all to you that I never wanted to!" Stiles blurts without thinking. "You were the one who was all, oh yeah, never letting that happen again. Which kind of sounded like yeah, zero chance on a normal day and don't worry, gonna be more careful about unusual mental shit." Derek's chest rises and falls behind his back and he squeezes his eyes shut. "And you know, I mean, it's not like I don't know better than to expect like, anything from anyone by now, but that doesn't automatically mean I wouldn't like to."
Derek is silent for a long time. His warmth leeches back into and around Stiles and it gets to be an easy thing to relax, to sink into it. Easy -- until Derek's lips ghost behind his ear, a slow brush along the line of muscle there. "Stiles," he murmurs. "Is this..."
Stiles trembles slightly. "It's fine," he says, slightly strangled.
"That's not -- " Derek starts irritably, but then stops and inhales sharply. "Is it what you want?" he asks. "I -- do you want..."
"You?" Stiles finishes for him. Instead of answering, Derek tucks his face against Stiles' neck again and nods slowly. Stiles takes a few deep, slow breaths and lets the tension bleed back out. "Dude. You moron, that's why I said yes in the first place." Derek goes still, but for the slightest tightening of his arms. "I -- it was dumb, I realize this, I am totally aware of my decision-making at the time being somewhat under par, but -- look, I just thought, I wanted anything I could get, I spent half the fucking summer wishing -- "
"I know," Derek says roughly. "You...kind of wouldn't shut up for awhile when you were dusted. You -- you said a lot."
Fuck. Stiles gulps. "I -- oh. Uh. Anything I need to throw myself off a cliff over?"
"No. Mostly just going on about being...physically attracted," Derek says cagily. "How you started having...fantasies over the summer. It -- that happens. I didn't think it meant anything. The rest seemed more like, like it was probably just the effects of the -- never mind. Don't worry about it."
"The rest. Do I even want to know?"
"It wasn't that bad."
"Oh, shit," Stiles groans. "I -- no, see, now you have to tell me. I can't, my brain will never stop trying to -- seriously, how bad?"
"You said, uh. You said that you hated...."
Cringing, Stiles twists and cranes again, tries to see Derek's face. "Hey. I was just pissed off, okay?"
Derek's eyes lock onto his. "You said," he repeats sourly, "that you hated falling for me." He grimaces a little, but doesn't look away. "I told you, the dust. It screwed with your head."
Stiles' mouth goes dry. He licks his lips, reflexively trying to summon up some moisture, and Derek's gaze flicks down briefly. "Yeaaaaaaah, uh. That...that wouldn't have been the dust, not so much," Stiles says quietly. "But, um, like I said. I was pretty pissed off. So that part with the hating, that would have been sort of...exaggerated. Or like, temporary? More than the...other thing. Which, well, would basically be true, I guess, I mean -- I figured it was just about your insane hotness. For awhile? Only then the whole, in my room, there was the kissing and -- like, it kind of felt bigger than I'd even thought. Uh. You do know I'm not always right on the mark with the self-perception, right? So, um, that was kind of a big deal and like...awesome? Until you were a raging douche and made me think the whole thing was just to save face with Alana. So...with the hate, there, for a little bit. Only -- "
"Stiles. Shut up," Derek orders, voice soft as velvet. He's openly staring at Stiles' mouth and Stiles decides to go ahead and return the favor. Derek licks his lips quickly. "Alana asked if I was attached and it just came out. The truth. Only we'd just met and I wasn't sure of her yet, it was -- it was too humiliating to tell her the rest, that it was one-sided. And...I didn't mean it to be but it was an excuse. To go to you again. I -- sorry."
"So...with the kind of seeming to be more into it, you meant it?" Derek nods. "And your freakyass faery friend? Is she like, slapping gift bows on my ass and throwing me at you like -- like what, friendship overtures? Is she wooing you? Am I to understand that I'm a tool of wooage?"
Derek rolls his eyes. But he also flushes in a way that makes Stiles want to fistpump in triumph. "She likes me for some reason," Derek grumbles. "I told her to leave you alone, but she keeps showing up and yelling at me about making her woods gloomy with my moping. Like that's my fault, it's the woods. They're always gloomy! And I don't mope."
Stiles can't help it; he starts laughing.
Until his breath catches from Derek slipping his hands under his shirt, hot palms pushing up his stomach in a slow rub. "Oh, hey, okay there," he squeaks out, just as Derek's thumbs find his nipples. "That's -- okay. That's more than okay, actually, that's -- carry on, proceed, be my guest. Have -- have at it -- "
It's Derek's turn to laugh, softer than Stiles and with an undertone of good-natured mocking. Stiles doesn't really have it in him to be bothered by that, or by one of Derek's hands slipping away from where he's enjoying it, damn it, because in quick succession he gets a hard pinch from the lingering fingers and then Derek's palm covering his cheek, holding his head tipped at the right angle to catch his mouth in a long kiss that ends with a sharp nip to his lower lip. "Get used to thinking bigger," he says smugly.
Stiles gulps. "Like...what are we talking? I figured I was shopping in the Smart car kind of range, but...coupe? Midsize sedan? SUV?"
"You wanted things," Derek says instead of answering. It sounds almost, almost like a question of its own, the kind you try not the ask when you most need to know, when the answer matters far too much. He noses behind Stiles' ear and mumbles into his skin. "You said, you said you wanted to fuck me. You wouldn't stop asking and I could barely keep you distracted."
Monster truck, then. With concerted effort, Stiles manages to keep his hips from betraying any sign of what that does to him, the sheer thought of doing that with -- to Derek. "I get ideas in my head?" he manages hoarsely. "And -- but dude, seriously, it's totally cool if you're not into --"
"I sure as hell wasn't leaping to try something new to us both when you were looped out of your mind," Derek says dryly.
Stiles' eyes widen and he twists hard, ignoring the cramp in his back in favor of making Derek let him see his face. "You mean you haven't -- you've never -- "
"Well, you know, I meant to ask Kate if she'd be into pegging, but she murdered my family before I really got up the nerve. What the fuck do you think, Stiles, I was sixteen."
Stiles is pretty sure that the sarcasm is meant to be disarming, possibly even reassuring, but from his vantage point two inches from Derek's face he can't really help but see the discomfort lurking behind the mask. "I," he says. "Wait. Wait, was she seriously the only --"
"What part of 'willing to feel that way again' did you not understand as being a serious fucking issue?" Derek grumps. "Besides. I was -- nobody interested me, not until things with her were...resolved. And by then, you were...you just were. There. Around. Getting under my skin."
"Holy shit," Stiles whispers. "When you said you trusted me. You meant -- you, like, seriously trust me."
"Stiles..." Derek starts, clearly not wanting to go any further down this road.
Stiles is down with that. He mashes his mouth clumsily up against Derek's again and gets a gratifying groan in return, and it's awkward and giving him a crick in his neck but fuck if he even cares when Derek's tongue is sliding against his and his hand is slipping down to curve over the growing bulge in Stiles' jeans. "Anything you want," Derek mutters, rubbing the line of Stiles' thickening cock, palm grinding down right over the head. "As soon as we're somewhere better than this, we can do anything you want."
Stiles can't stop himself anymore; he pushes into Derek's touch as he lets his head fall back against Derek's shoulder and pulls in heavy breaths. Derek's mouth latching onto his neck doesn't really help at all, but Stiles isn't about to argue. "Swear to god if that's not soon," he pants, "I will dislocate as many fucking limbs as it takes to do it here."
Derek laughs against his throat. His thumb flicks Stiles' jeans open and his hand slips in, fingers curling around Stiles' cock. "Guess you didn't notice," he says wryly. "She stopped the storm a few minutes ago. I'm betting the car will start now. We probably should get going, actually."
"Oh my god, fuck off," Stiles gasps. His hips lurch and his cock pushes through Derek's grip, dry and furnace hot and quite possibly the best thing he's ever felt. "Just a -- in a minute, this is not, not gonna take long --"
"You're sure?" Stiles can feel the spread of Derek's smile across his skin. He ignores that in favor of shimmying his jeans down a little lower so that Derek's hand can move more freely, steadily, jerk him without constraint. "We're already running pretty late, is all."
Now that Derek's called his attention to it, Stiles realizes the temperature is no longer subarctic. He kicks away the blanket and tugs his arms free of his jacket sleeves, and between the rush of cooler air sweeping in where Derek's body had been swamping him in heat, and the sight of Derek's hand working his dick, the feel of Derek's breath and lips and teeth across his neck and jaw and Derek whispering, "come on, let it go" --
He makes an incredibly embarrassing noise and arches up as he comes, Derek doing his best to contain each hot pulse in his fist and avoid a mess. "ungh," he manages after a few seconds, his tongue thick and heavy in his mouth. "Oh god."
Derek just brings his hand up and calmly starts licking it clean.
"Oh god," Stiles whimpers again. "Derek. Fuck, fuck, don't -- you can't just do that, dude. Not cool. Warn a guy!"
"Next time I'll just have you come in my mouth," Derek says placidly. "There. Consider yourself warned."
Stiles' dick twitches pitifully. "Shit," he whispers. He jostles around a little to fix his jeans and get safely tucked away, then sits up and takes stock. He's pretty thoroughly unsurprised to see that after everything, there's not even any snow on the road. Just a clear stretch of asphalt, like nothing even happened. "That is some fucking crazy mojo she has," he remarks, at a loss for much else. He glances hesitantly at Derek and feels weirdly uncomfortable all of a sudden. "Uh. Do you want me to..." he says, gesturing vaguely at Derek's lap.
Derek shakes his head and sits forward, loops his arm around Stiles' neck and drags him into a long, lewd kiss. "I want to get where we're going," he finally says roughly, pressing his forehead to Stiles'. "And start next year off right."
Stiles can live with that. He steals another fast kiss before climbing over the driver's seat and confirming that his engine does, in fact, roar right to life. He pats the steering wheel in approval, then drapes himself over it and pillows his cheek on his folded arms while he waits for Derek to settle in next to him.
"Just to check," he says before shifting into gear, "when you say 'right' you do mean 'including a lot of awesome and mutually desired sex', correct?"
Derek stares at him balefully.
Then he cuffs him lightly on the back of the head. "Drive, Stiles."