Hero (Sterek)

Chapter 8

Wednesday morning Stiles woke up in a tangle of sheets with half his body falling from the bed and his fingers scraping the blue carpet. He blinked and rolled down, unraveling his legs all the way.

"Jesus," he wheezed.

The cold brushed along his bare legs, starting with his numb toes and crawling to the hem of his boxer shorts. Stiles glared up at his bed where a shit ton of blankets were twisted and piled against the wall. It always ended up like that. He was a cold person in general and try as he might, he could never get the blankets to stay on.

Slowly, he sat up, mentally shaking the weight of sleep from his muscles. He glanced at his window. The curtains were open and the damp grey fog of morning lay heavy in the air. Also, there was a large black figure sitting just outside, glaring in Stiles' general direction. One slow blink later and he was crawling back into bed, throwing the blankets back over him until he was just a mound of fluff.

"No," he protested, "fugging shits too early for this motherfuggin creepy-ass shit," knowing full well that creepy fucker could hear him loud and clear.

"Stiles!"

"Fuck you and fuck your perfect eyebrows," Stiles groaned into his pillow.

"Stiles this is serious—open the window!"

Stiles curled up and pulled the blankets more tightly around him.

"Jackson is sick now."

His eyes flew open. He halfway decided to jump out of bed but then backtracked. "Douchenozzle deserves it." Derek growled. Stiles grinned and pressed a hand to his mouth to suppress his laughter.

"Open the window, Stiles."

Stiles took a breath. It was probably six—seven a.m. at the most. The guy had a real problem with coming over way too early. Stiles rolled over and peaked through the blankets. Six. It was six in the morning. Derek was still waiting expectantly behind the glass. Mouth twitching at the sight of that grumpy face, Stiles rolled out of bed.

Derek scooted up, eyes darting to the latch. "Yeah that's—"

Stiles zipped the blinds in his face and pull the curtains over. At last. Darkness. He breathed a sigh of relief, which was cut off by the banging. "Yer gonna break my window, asshole. Come back at a decent hour."

"Stiles! I need you to help me figure this out."

"Ask the Argents or Deaton or even Scott. Scott's smarter than he looks," Stiles replied crawling back under the warm covers.

"Stiles!"

"Don't be fooled by his poor GPA!"

There was a loud thump, a string of curses, and then a heavy crash—and more curses. Stiles vaguely wondered if he should check how the hedge broke his fall, but then decided werewolf healing would suffice. With a satisfied smirk, Stiles wrapped himself like a burrito and settled back into the weight of fatigue and sleep. He barely closed his eyes when there was a loud bang downstairs.

"Stiles!" Derek yelled. He trudged up the stairs.

"Aw shit," Stiles muffled into his pillow.

He grabbed the corner of his pillow just as Derek burst through the door, hair out-of-place with twigs and leaves sticking in odd places. He was furious—or at least it seemed that way to Stiles. Blazing red eyes and all. Derek took a second to bear down with his murderous glare and take a few heavy breaths, and it was just the second Stiles needed. He threw his pillow and, taking Derek by surprise, it smacked right into his face.