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.
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.
He would’ve said something like you’re not here, you’re never here, or no, I’m losing you, Derek. I’m losing you, but he doesn’t. He kisses Derek back until Derek sounds wounded, as if kissing Stiles tastes like sadness, like worry, like everything Stiles feels.
They have sex on the couch, but it’s off. Stiles can’t get into it—is into it, sure, sex with Derek makes his body feel like it’s flying. But his mind, his mind is playing scenarios of Derek with someone else, someone more mysterious and quiet and cool, someone beautiful and whole and handsome. He pictures Derek with the person he leaves every night for.
When Stiles comes, he buries his face into Derek’s neck to hide his tears, and ends up falling asleep. He sleeps sounder than he has in weeks, but twice is a coincidence, you see.
When he wakes, Derek is gone.
It’s like Stiles has been gutted, like Derek dug his claws deep between the bones of Stiles’ ribcage and twisted, pain so strong Stiles heaves with it.
It’s not a big deal, it’s not, maybe Derek just went out. They might have been out of coffee. Maybe he was hungry. Maybe he’s doing food shopping.
But it’s 1:30 in the morning on a Tuesday, and Stiles has work in the morning, so he walks on numb legs into their bed and curls up on his side, the side away from Derek’s, and lays there. He doesn’t know what time it is when Derek gets back, but he feels the dip in the mattress, knows Derek can hear his awake breathing.
"Hey," Derek whispers, and Stiles screws his eyes shut and keeps quiet. An arm curls around Stiles’ waist, but he still doesn’t move, not even when Derek lets out a small, quiet whine.
Stiles wants to laugh, hysterical and crazy, wants to turn around and shake him, tell him he has no right to be broken when he’s breaking Stiles’ heart.
Derek pulls his hands away after a few moments, and they both hold their breaths after Stiles swallows audibly. He thinks that if heartbreak made a noise, Derek was the first to hear.
-
The sink never gets fixed.
-
Three times is a pattern.
Since that night, they’ve gotten a little better. Stiles is greedy, it seems—it’s dumb of him, so fucking stupid, but he lets it go. He’s in love with Derek, so in love it hurts, and he’ll take anything he can get.
Half of Derek is better than nothing at all.
Derek’s around more, too. He pays attention to Stiles more, since that night. He never, ever leaves after dinner. He kisses Stiles on the couch in their small living room and marks up his throat with hickeys. It has to mean something right?
Stiles still had to mean something. Derek came back here every night.
It set something aflame in Stiles’ chest, though; anger. It was anger. Stiles was mad, he was so fucking mad all of a sudden. He wasn’t sad anymore, not right now, he just—he wanted to know what the fuck was going on. So, he was going to figure it the fuck out.
"I’m going to Scott’s," Stiles offers over lunch, being vague while pretending he wasn’t. It was the one way he knew how to lie blatantly without getting caught. He’d go to Scott’s…eventually.
"When?"
"Mmm," Stiles pulls out his phone, pretends he’s reading a text, "After dinner." And then switches the topic, bright in a way he hasn’t been lately, so Derek lets it go.
It’s a cheap trick, but—well. Stiles feels nothing but hot anger.
He kisses Derek before he goes, some of the anger melting away before striking back up again, because Derek’s shoes were on. Fuck, he wasn’t even going to pretend to stick around.
"I’ll see you in a few hours?" Stiles calls out, closing the door before Derek could answer.
Scott wasn’t in on the plan—Stiles told no one about any of this, of course. But he asked to borrow Stiles’ car, because his is being ‘a little funky,’ and that was that. It’s parked down the street, and Stiles drives his car into the fucking woods before making his way over, dousing Scott’s car with a bottle of cologne he never uses.
Stiles will apologize later.
He doesn’t have to wait long until Derek’s speeding passed him, which is good—Derek’s cautious, and Stiles doesn’t want to get caught. He pulls out, waiting until the Camaro is just a speck in the distance before following.
Derek goes right out into the woods, and Stiles is extra careful, making sure Derek doesn’t see. This place is sort of familiar, there’s a few houses lining the woods, and—and Stiles’ stomach sinks as he parks his car, choosing to go the rest of the way by foot. There’s no where else for Derek to go; his car’s going to be parked in front of one of these houses.
When he finds the Camaro, it’s parked in front of a beautiful sprawling yard, stupidly cute white picket fence lining the property.
It’s a family house, and Stiles is almost so mad he sees red, because this means Derek’s cheating on his with someone who has a fucking family.
Stiles can’t believe it. He can’t fucking believe it.
He storms into the house, heart beating at a mile a minute, because there’s soft music playing and oh my god, he’s going to catch Derek fucking some business woman who wanted to spice up her life, he’s going to vomit, he’s—
Derek’s setting out some paint, jeans looking a little dirty and shirt a little used, like this has happened before. He’s singing along to whatever’s on his, oh god, it’s an honest to god boom box, and the fight just drains out of him.
Derek’s noticed him by now, lyrics to the song has stopped passing through his lips, watching Stiles in abject horror.
"Stiles, what’re you—"
"You can’t even fix the leaky sink I’ve been asking you to do for months, but you can…you can paint your mistress’s fucking house?” He wants to sound more angry, maybe he does a little bit, by the way Derek winces, but mostly he sounds…resigned.
It’s clearly serious, if Derek’s fixing up her fucking house. He wouldn’t touch their apartment. Stiles feels sick.
Derek’s eyebrows draw together for a moment before he’s staring at Stiles like Stiles has done something gross and dumb, like the way children try to eat bugs. And glue. “I’m not painting my mistress’s house, Stiles.”
It makes Stiles’ blood boil, the way Derek’s talking to him. “Right, okay. I’m supposed to believe that, because there’s so much evidence proving you innocent. You’re never around, Derek, you’re never there, and when you are, fine, you try, but how do you expect me to turn a blind eye when you’re not—when you don’t—”
Derek turns the music off, quiet and uncertain. His gaze looks scared. Not….not too guilty, but scared. “There is no mistress, Stiles. There’s no mistress.”
Stiles’ fingers are trembling against the fucking car keys, dammit. “Mister?”
"No, Stiles. Jesus—this house belongs to…i bought this house. I’m fixing up this house, because I bought it. I would never—Stiles, I would never.” Derek can’t even finish the sentence, face so openly vulnerable for Stiles to believe him that it hurts.
Stiles is trying to catch up, confused and surprised and, and. What?
"You bought a house?"
"I bought us a house.” Derek sighs, and the lights aren’t up yet, but Stiles can point out the flush on the tip of Derek’s ears. “This isn’t the way I wanted you to find out, I wanted it to be ready, I wanted to—I wanted it to be good, but I fucked up, again, I didn’t think you’d—”
But Stiles isn’t having any of it, because there’s nothing to be upset over. Well, maybe Derek can yell at him for accusation of cheating, but Derek looks guilty, as if he knows why Stiles thought about it, as if he can see the way sneaking out looks, so Stiles thinks this is okay.
He feels gooey and sappy in ways he hasn’t felt in months, his heart doing something other than breaking. Fixing, perhaps. It feels like the bird trapped behind the bars of his ribs has calmed, fluttering something sweet and soft for only Stiles and Derek to hear.
He launches himself at Derek, and his hands are still shaking but he grips Derek’s face and kisses him, hard and long and wet, until Derek’s shaking, too, broken noises falling from his lips.
"I, fuck, I didn’t know what was going on, you were pulling away from me, Stiles, and I didn’t know why. I could feel it in the way you wouldn’t let me hold you, I—”
"I’m sorry, too, I’m sorry, I should have brought it up, we need to communicate, use our words, I’m sorry." Stiles is mumbling between kisses, cutting off his rambles to moan shamelessly as Derek’s hands travel under his shirt, scraping up his chest and taking the shirt with him. "I thought you were touching someone else, I—"
Derek growls, but when he kisses Stiles it’s soft and reverent, licking into his mouth in a way that makes Stiles’ toes curl. “No one else, Stiles, I don’t want anyone else, ever, you’re it for me, do you understand?”
Stiles is too busy pulling Derek down on the floor on top of him to do anything but nod and murmur agreements, eyes hungry as they watch Derek rip off his shirt. He hasn’t touched Derek in months, not like this, and he craves.
"I don’t have lube here, not yet." Derek says, regrettably, but better earlier than too involved.
"I don’t care, we can do anything, fuck, I don’t care, Derek, please just do something." He’s palming at Derek’s cock through his underwear, making Derek swear.
"I missed your hands, everything, fuck, Stiles," It’s frantic, the way they’re moving. They both know what they could have lost, what could have happened. It scares the shit of out them, leaving them desperate and needy. Stiles hasn’t felt want this strong in a long time.
He pulls down their briefs to their knees, pulling Derek down so he could kiss him, hissing at the way Derek rolled his hips. It made Stiles back arch, and he slides a hand between them and the mess they’re already making to grab Derek’s cock, needing.
Derek’s arms are shaking as he holds himself up, but Stiles has a feeling it has nothing to do with the pressure. He rubs a thumb over Derek’s slit, twists his wrist in the way he knows Derek likes, in the way that has Derek exhaling harshly, swearing against Stiles’ lips.
Stiles’ own hips are moving, but right now his focus is on Derek, on his sighs and moans and swears, on what makes his hips stutter out of rhythm. Stiles licks down the column of Derek’s neck in a way that has him whining, tipping his head back without hesitation.
"Come on, Derek, I missed this, I fucking missed seeing you like this, I love you, I love you so much, I’m sort of crazy with it.” Stiles mumbles against the skin of Derek’s neck before biting down, leaving a dark bruise that’ll fade in minutes.
It has Derek coming, though, too much going on at once, Stiles’ voice and his hands and his tongue and his teeth—Derek can’t help it, makes a mess on Stiles’ fingers and their stomachs.
Stiles grins, breathless and teasing, bringing his hand to his mouth to suck on long, nimble fingers. Derek’s eyes go dark again, kissing Stiles’ mouth and cupping his cock, making Stiles whine.
He licks down Stiles’ stomach, oh god, Stiles is already painfully hard, toes curling in his shoes, and Derek’s turning him over, tongue tracing the mole on Stiles’ ass softly before biting down on soft flesh, eliciting a quiet noise from Stiles, and a nice bruise.
He kisses the backs of Stiles’ thighs, traces the crease where ass meets thigh with his tongue enough that Stiles is trembling, face in his arms and trying not to buck his hips.
"Derek, please, touch me, I need you to touch me, this is ridiculous, stop teasing, I need—hnng."
He doesn’t let Stiles finish before he licks, can’t help it, missed the scent of Stiles’ skin and the way he writhed under Derek’s tongue. Derek wraps his hands around Stiles’ waist, fingers resting in the dimples on Stiles’ back, soothing circles as Stiles moans, loud and obscene, pushing back against Derek’s mouth.
He doesn’t touch Stiles’ cock and neither does Stiles, and Derek doesn’t know how long he’s been at this, except that there’s only a faint ache in his jaw and Stiles is keening, fucking keening, Derek’s name falling from Stiles’ lips like something holy, something good. He’s rocking back against Derek’s tongue, now, fingers grappling at the wooden floor, and it’s so good Stiles is sobbing with it, biting at the flesh of his arms to try and keep quiet.
It’s futile, though, because Derek keeps fucking him with his tongue until Stiles is begging to be touched, babbling incoherencies about how much he missed this, missed Derek, was scared, is in love, please, please touch me. Derek takes a hand off Stiles’ hip and all it takes is a twist of Derek’s wrist to have Stiles coming. He tongues at Stiles’ ass until he’s whimpering from the sensitivity, and Derek kisses his way up Stiles’ back to mouth softly at his neck, wrapping himself around Stiles in the way he couldn’t for the past few months.
Stiles is still breathing harshly, chest heaving against the floor, but he turns his head to kiss Derek lazily, as if this floor is the only place he wants to be.
"That was pretty good makeup sex."
"I missed touching you."
Stiles flushes, and Derek finds it funny, that this is what makes Stiles blush.
"We made a mess." Stiles observes, looking at Derek through his lashes. He’s a little nervous, he wants them to be okay, needs them to be okay. Stiles kisses Derek’s jaw, sighing in relief as Derek presses his words to Stiles hairline.
"S’okay. We can clean it. It’s our place, anyway." Derek murmurs, and Stiles’ heart skips a beat, because this is his. He gets to have this, this house with a big yard and a picket fence. He gets Derek.
-
Later, after Stiles makes them bring the mattress to sleep on the floor, he curls their fingers together, pressing a kiss to Derek’s knuckles.
Stiles sighs, happy and silly and warm.
"I can’t believe I have a house." His voice is awed, lost like he’s in thought.
“We have a house—”
"A house just for me—"
"For us—" Derek sighs, but it’s fond.
"All mine." Stiles simpers, pressing a kiss to the hollow of Derek’s throat.
“Ours."
The house reeks of paint, but there’s already a hint of the two of them, Stiles’ scent mixing in with Derek’s on the mattress, in the air.
It’s good. This is good.
Idiots, idiots, idiots, their mutual idiocity is the reason why they deserve each other. :3
But seriously Stiles? You idiot! Derek would never cheat on you! U^U
Anyway, I hope you liked it. :D
This one shot is written by IAmNotLost on ao3. :)
P.S.: What'd ya think of the new cover? :)