Sterek One Shots

With Skin and Bones, We're All Broken

Stiles ends up nodding, a grin on his face. “Handyman Derek, fixing up our house.”

That’s when Derek chokes on his forkful of eggs, staring up at Stiles with wide eyes.

"What’d you say?"

"Um?" Stiles starts, confused and worried because what the fuck, "I said you were fixing up our place. The leaky faucet?"

Derek seems to calm down after that, gaze apologetic. Again. “Sorry. I thought you said something else.”

There’s something weird in the air now, or maybe it’s just Stiles. Regardless, they eat quietly after that with the exception of Derek throwing in a few gentle questions as if he were testing their waters. Stiles answers, normally, until he can see the tension leave Derek’s shoulders.

He keeps an eye out, thought.

-

Twice is a coincidence.

It hasn’t been happening at night anymore, not that Stiles knows of (because he’s been going to bed and waking up with Derek for the next week), but something’s off.

Derek’s not around as much anymore when they used to have free time together. Stiles would curl up with a book or the TV, and Derek would slink in behind him, watching or reading over his shoulder. They’d talk, sometimes ponder over what to have for dinner, and just…Stiles doesn’t know,be together.

It’s not like Derek’s treating him differently, or anything. Everything’s the same, except for the…well, lack of Derek. He doesn’t come up behind Stiles when Stiles is making lunch, doesn’t do sudoku puzzles with him on the coffee table, just doesn’t.

It makes something like panic flare up in Stiles’ chest, because he doesn’t understand what’s going on. Was Derek tired of him? Maybe he needed a little bit to himself. Stiles understood; he was like a tornado to deal with, sometimes. He didn’t hold it against Derek, or anything.

Ultimately, Stiles knew he was making excuses. He didn’t care.

Derek’s home for dinner, he always is, and they order pizza. The shopping hadn’t gotten done this weekend, because, shocker, it was Derek’s turn and he wasn’t around.

Everything’s the same, but Stiles feels a little weird. Derek left in his green henley two nights ago and came back in a white tee shirt. Stiles isterrified, horrified that Derek realized Stiles might not have been enough. Wasn’t enough.

"Stiles?"

He doesn’t realize he’d been standing over the sink for 10 minutes until Derek comes into the kitchen, confused. It wasn’t a lot, but there are circles under Derek’s eyes a hint darker than the rest of him. Stiles doesn’t know what it means.

"Sorry, was trying my hand at the sink," He lies, biting back a flinch at the way Derek’s eyes sadden because he can hear the lie. Stiles grabs the box of pizza and puts it on the table, doing his best to shoot Derek a smile.

"Are you okay?" Derek bypasses the table to press into Stiles’ space, and it’s almost suffocating. Stiles swallows, squeezes his eyes shut as Derek’s hand comes up to cup his neck. "Stiles," He says, voice raw and a little hoarse, as if it hurts.

It hurts Stiles.

"I just miss you." It’s not the full truth, but it’s the truth. His heartbeat is rabbit fast but there’s no skip, and when Derek strokes his finger over Stiles’ cheekbone, Stiles makes a tiny noise, because his treacherous mind is supplying it as a goodbye.

"I’m right here." Derek offers, presses his mouth softly against Stiles before anything can bubble passed his lips. And honestly, Stiles is grateful, because nothing good would have come out of his mouth, anyway.