With Skin and Bones, We're All Broken

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Once is an accident.

Stiles almost doesn’t notice it, to be honest. If he hadn’t fallen asleep on the couch, he would have missed it. Derek always yelled at him about doing that, because of that one time he fell off and got a concussion from braining himself on the coffee table. But it was one time.

So, yeah. Once is an accident.

Stiles wakes up a little bit disoriented, feet cold from where they’re crossed at the ankles on the armrest, toes curling in on themselves. It’s not necessarily cold, but Stiles’ body has always run that way.

Anyway, he’s up now, the only light coming from the beady, red light of the digital clock that reads 2:45 AM. It’s a small apartment that they have, and if Derek’s not in the living room at this hour he’s in bed, usually, so Stiles pads over to the bedroom, bare feet even colder against the wooden floors.

The room is even darker than the living room, so Stiles crawls into his side by memory, but Derek’s side is empty and cold. He hasn’t been there, hasn’t even just gotten up to pee. It’s weird, and a little unsettling, but Stiles is disoriented from his long nap on the couch. He’s half asleep, fingers patting along soft sheets as if, if he tries hard enough, he can make Derek appear by sheer force of want.

He can’t.

Stiles turns away and shoves his arm under his pillow, attempting to get comfortable. It’s not Derek, but Stiles’ eyelids are drooping again, because he’s always found it easy to fall back asleep if it’s dark and he hasn’t opened his eyes all the way. Stiles’ toes are cold when he falls asleep, and a half-hearted attempt at tucking his feet into the blankets is what he has to work with. It all feels sort of hazy, different. Not good.

Stiles blames exhaustion.

-

When Stiles wakes up, Derek is pressed against his back, and the soft press of lips against his neck feels like an apology. Stiles is still a little groggy, but he makes a little caveman-ic grunt of ‘yes hello I am awake,’ so Derek kisses his jaw a little firmer.

"Sorry to make you go to bed alone." Is what Stiles gets from Derek before anything else, words sleep-heavy and mumbled against skin.

"Where’d you go?" He murmurs back, holding his breath for a moment when he feels Derek tense. It’s weird—sometimes Derek takes walks, sits outside, sits in the car; Stiles gets that. But this is weird, because he’s uncomfortable. Stiles doesn’t know what to make of it.

"I had to go out." Is what Derek offers, and there’s a note of finality in his voice, as if he doesn’t want Stiles to push it. Stiles is just a little grateful that Derek didn’t lie about a location, because he’s gotten to know Derek enough that he can hear through a lie.

If Derek said he had to go out, then…he had to go out.

Derek doesn’t act any different than usual once they drop it, cooks them breakfast in his soft, grey sweats, tangles their feet together under the table in their too-small apartment.

Stiles loves it, he does. Loves the smallness of it, but hates it as well. He wants…something a little more than this one floored apartment, but he’s with Derek, and it’s good. Sometimes it’s a little too small, like their bathroom when they both need to be ready in the morning, but they make it work.

"Hey, so, I was thinking of calling the plumber for our sink," Stiles starts, waving his fork in the general vicinity of their sink, "It’s kind of leaking."

Derek stops right before the fork bumps against his lips. “No, don’t. I’ll fix it. It’s just a leak, nothing big.” He goes back to his food, sort of out of it, but Stiles doesn’t notice.

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