Here Come The Sun
Scott and Stiles, both graduated high school students, sit in front of the television in the living room with remote controllers in their hands and a blank stare in their eyes.
It’s been this way since the beginning of summer. That was a month ago.
Melissa sighs, aggravated and irritated. “You guys are out of high school now! Get a real job, boys. There are CNA classes this weekend, they’re only three weeks long, and you’ll make good money after you finish them, better money than at the vet clinic, okay Scott? Look, I’ll pay for them. Take the classes, pass the state boards, get a job at the hospital with me, and save up for college, or whatever, a trade school.” She throws her hands in the air. “I don’t give a shit, but you can’t stay here all summer long in front of the television!”
Stiles and Scott nod automatically, as if on autopilot. “Yeah, sure, mom.” Scott mutters. He’s blowing something up on the game, and a grin breaks across his face for a second before it disappears.
“Whatever you’d like, Melissa.” Stiles tries to pull his eyes away from the television, but they never really reach the woman before he turns his head back towards the screen. He’s following Scott’s character into a jungle.
The brunette nods, looking at her boys with slight suspicion. Why hadn’t they argued? Maybe they were just too engrossed in their game to care. Maybe Melissa had finally influenced them…
Who was she kidding?
She sighs and shakes her head, rubbing her temple, wishing things would pan out easily for her. She gives up. “Alright, I’ll set everything up.”
Something screams on the television and Melissa tries not to smash their controllers.
That was four years ago.
“Stiles, Scott, we have a new admission coming in. Clean up your act.” Lydia says, wandering down the hall towards the room both boys are lounging in. Lydia is the Admissions woman, and she can most definitely be a pain in the ass, especially when two grown men are caught acting like children in the halls—regardless of the fact that the residents love it.
“Come on, Lyds. We’re always on our best behavior for you.” Stiles says sweetly, batting his eyes as he shoves Scott out of his seat beside the tiny guest table. Scotts makes a startled sound, followed by a small protesting; “heeeeey.” Stiles smirks and sets his lunch tray down, picking up his bag of chips and peeling open the bag fluidly.
Lydia rolls her eyes, walking out of the room, then coming back. “And stop eating lunch in the residents rooms. We have a break room for a reason.” Her eyes narrow in on the bag of chips Stiles has clutched in his hands and she snarls, lips curled in disgust
“Yeah, but it smells like feet.” Scott points out, pointing in the general direction of the break room, despite being on the complete opposite side of the hospital.
“We have a cafeteria then! Eat there.” Lydia rubs her forehead, closes her eyes and sighs in defeat. “It doesn’t smell like feet.”
“Yeah but I have to look at people when I’m in there. I don’t like to look at people while I’m eating, Lyds.” Stiles offers his bag of chips up to Lydia, who mutters something up her breath and glares at him. He takes his chips back and sticks his tongue out at her childishly.
Melissa rounds the corner almost on cue, brushing past Lydia into the room with her lunch box in hand as she sits on the edge of the occupied bed. She brushes Stiles’ feet away from the edge of the bed with a disgruntled look and makes room for her condiments.
The resident in their current room is Scott, Stiles and Lydia’s former teacher, Harris. Mr. Harris had been a teacher at Beacon Hills High School, and after graduation, he’d wrapped his car around a pole and become something close to brain dead. Stiles didn’t even care that much, until the man’s niece came in some weeks later, calling for her uncle to wake up and come home. She was young, younger than Stiles had thought, maybe only five or six years of age.
It pulled at Stiles’ heartstrings, so ever since then, Stiles has set up his lunch in Mr. Harris’s room, and even if he never shuts his mouth or stops to breath in between sentences, he’s still pretty sure Harris enjoys the company, at the very least.
Many of the residents never really see their families once they came to this section of the hospital, so Stiles feels obligated to work the long-term and hospice section of the hospital as many times a week as he can manage, even if it is mentally exhausting.
Lydia sighs, glaring at Melissa as if she’d personally offended her. “Stop encouraging them!” She hisses, eyes wide with anger.
Melissa smiles sweetly, her head tilting to the side innocently, “make the break room smell less like feet, and I’ll make them leave right now,” she says in her least threatening voice.
Lydia glares and huffs, walking away just as Jackson and Danny, the EMT boys, walk into the private room across the hall with a limp body on a stretcher.
“I can’t believe you ever loved her.” Melissa says softly, and Stiles snorts. It had been when he was young, and she was pretty, and then she developed an attitude and a posse and a Jackson and everything had changed.
Lydia gazes longingly after Jackson, and Stiles groans when Danny looks up at him and then quickly looks away, a pained expression painted across his handsome, chiseled features.
He still feels pretty guilty about the break up, and right now Stiles just wants to shrink into a corner and die like the animal he is.
Scott pets him on the knee as the last two people in their small group/family, Allison and the Sherriff, round the corner into the small room. The Sheriff takes up the lounger in the corner, beside Melissa and the bed and Allison takes a seat on the floor beside Scott. They all start dissecting the contents of their lunch boxes and Stiles clutches his chip bag closer to his chest and stares down at the floor till he can no longer hear the whispers of Danny and Jackson in the other room.
His dad looks over at him briefly, then sighs. He glances out the door, sees the silhouette of Danny’s figure in the room across the way and gives Stiles a look. The Sheriff had loved Danny when Stiles and he had been together.
“Danny?” Sheriff asks lowly, placing a hand on Stiles shoulder. The smile on his face doesn’t reach his eyes, and Stiles grimaces. The younger man nods miserably, rolling his eyes in exaggeration.
“He still won’t even look at me, let alone talk to me.”
“You did, you know, break his heart.” Sheriff says, and Melissa nods grievously.
“It’s not like Stiles could’ve said ‘yes’ anyways!” Allison rolls her eyes and Stiles nods in agreement, motioning to his best friends girl. “He’s only twenty-one years old! Who get’s married when they’re twenty one?!” Allison hisses, throwing her hands in the air to emphasize her point.
Scott shrinks away, looking at anything but Allison and Stiles. Stiles gives him a solemn look, even if Scott doesn’t look right at him to see it. Scott’s been saving up to buy Allison an engagement ring since the beginning of the year. It’s March, Allison is twenty-two, and Scott’s twenty-one, but it doesn’t matter, not to Scott. He still wants to marry Allison, even if it kills him.
“I got married to Claudia when we were both nineteen.” Sheriff says, looking down at his hand. He still wears the wedding ring, but since he and Melissa had gotten married the year before, he now rings Stiles’ mother’s ring around his neck on a silver chain, rather than on his finger. It’s been replaced by another gold band, newer and shinier, engraved with his and Melissa’s name on the inside.
Allison shuts her mouth and looks away, offering Stiles an apologetic look. “Sorry, Sheriff,” she whispers, and the older man just smiles at her.
“Did we miss anything?” Allison asks, changing the subject as she begins tearing into her meatloaf from the cafeteria. Honestly, in Stiles’ opinion, it doesn’t even look like meatloaf, just some sort of alien grey meat with a too-red sauce slathered on top.
Stiles shakes his head, clearing his throat. He tosses the chips to Melissa and swipes the crumbs off his chest and onto the floor. “Admissions came by to yell.” He gestures at all of them, wiping at the corner of his mouth. “Says we can’t eat here no mo’.”
“But Harris loves it.” Sheriff pats the comatose man’s feet beneath the blanket. Stiles glances at their former teacher’s face, slack in perma-sleep and pale. He’s always waiting for a response he knows won’t ever come, but it still causes him to pause, just a moment.
He sighs, then turns back to his own cafeteria lunch, abandoned to the guest table beside him. He picks up his utensils and forks his food around his plate, thinking about the look on Danny’s face when he had rejected his proposal, the way his face fell and his shoulders slumped.
The restaurant had been beautiful though, you know, aside from the dirty looks Stiles had had to endure, and the fact that he’ll never be able to eat there again without thinking about Danny and his five year relationship that had ended with one simple “no.”
The drive home had been even worse, considering they’d driven together and Danny refused to let Stiles hail a cab.
Stiles shakes his head. Work now, problems later. Scott and Allison get cozy together on the floor, eating and disusing the day’s events. Scott works long-term with Stiles, or sometimes hospice, and Allison works Rehab with Melissa most days, so they share horror-stories from the day and gag and giggle.
The Sherriff and nurse McCall get reacquainted after their argument a few days ago. Things have been tense in the house, and with the added stress of Stiles and Danny separating a few months back, John and Melissa having a tiny marital spats seem to escalade everyone’s problems.
Stiles rolls his eyes, because he doesn’t care to get involved with all the drama, not right now at least. They got married after secretly dating for a few years. Stiles had known for a while, had figured it out easily enough, but Scott had been too dense to know any better, and when they announced the engagement, Scott had nearly fainted. Or well, had fainted. Into a table.
But Stiles, well, he’s still somewhat holding back and waiting for the other shoe to drop. He’s still waiting for his mother to return from the dead—she won’t, he knows what’s dead will always be dead. But still. He’s waiting.
Stiles looks out the door, across the hall, to the new admit. Lydia introduces herself, asking the resident if he needs anything. The new resident doesn’t respond, so Stiles assumes the man has maybe suffered a stroke or perhaps he’s even a vegetable like Harris. Lydia gazes at the man for a bit longer before turning to Jackson for the report. Stiles had to listen hard to hear anything at all.
“Fire… five years ago… three living relatives…” Danny sighs, looks across the hall and sees Stiles looking in. He smiles a little, weakly, then closes the door. Stiles frowns and turns back towards his family.
“We’re getting a new kid in the department.” Stiles looks up at his dad, and Melissa beams up at his father merrily.
“Someone answered the Deputy Wanted ad on Craigslist?” She pokes at the Sheriff’s side and he bats her hand away, smiling wearily.
“No, we got his application the other day. He says his sister went to school with the kids.” Stiles watches them, then turns towards Scott and Allison. They’re not paying attention, so Stiles is left to eavesdrop from the sidelines of the conversation by himself. “Hale, that’s his names. Got a pretty girl with him. Some of the officers say it’s his wife, but I think they’re related.” He shrugs at the skeptical eyes of Melissa, but she doesn’t say anything.
He’ll have to find out who Hale is on his own, then.
“New Admit, room 44-A, Stiles. Lydia says his name is Peter Hale and she wants you to help fix up his room since it’s your section today.” Scott says into his walkie-talkie. He sounds like he’s shuffling things around in his arms, juggling supplies or helping someone, who knows.
“Wait, did you say Hale?” Stiles asks through the earpiece. He’s leaning against one of the counters at the nurse’s station, charting on his day and his residents.
“Yeah, why?” Scott asks on the other end, then adds, “can someone help Mrs. Johnson eat?” He doesn’t realize his walkie is still on, so he must be across the hospital now, taking care of the elderly patients that just got back from lunch while Stiles stays in long term to watch the floor.
“Dad said the new Deputy is a Hale. You think they’re related?” He jots down a note for one of the nurses about one of his residents, hands it to her and heads towards room 44-A.
“Dunno. Is that what the parents were talking about?” Scott asks, still sounding like he’s juggling things in his arms.
Stiles flinches. He always considered Scott his brother, but since their parents were married now, he legally was. It was still a little weird; still a little bit more than he could maul around and chew comfortably. They moved into the Stilinski house, considering it was just a little bit bigger than the McCall house, and now Scott is in the spare room right next to Stiles’.
“McCall. Stilinski. The walkies are for communicating with the other CNAs and RNs in case someone needs help. Now, off the airwaves.” Lydia sneers. Stiles guesses she’s in her office, doing paperwork or whining about Jackson to Morell, the Staffing woman.
“Ooooh, okay, scary voice, you don’t have to tell me twice.” Stiles laughs easily. He rounds the new residents room and waves in kind, chuckling as he turns on the television and stares at the news channel.
“Don’t back sass me, Stilinski.” She sighs, her voice tired and weary.
“I don’t think that was true back-sassiness, Lyds.” Scott calls back, and Allison offers up a small; “haha,” from somewhere in the hospitals Rehab section.
“McCall. I’ll get your mother.” Lydia threatens.
“Nuff said. Good day, ladies and gentlemen. And, to you too, Miss Martin.” Scott’s line goes silent.
Stiles grins and turns to his resident.
Peter Hale is a burn victim. Stiles has seen a few come and go through out the years, some utterly deformed and disfigured and missing noses and ears and eyelashes, but for the most part, Peter’s skin has grown back stronger and healthier than he’s ever seen in any other resident.
Stiles runs a gloved hand over Peter’s hair as he introduced himself, brushing a few strands out of the man’s stoic vision. “Hey, Peter. Can I call you Pete?” He asks with a smile. Peter doesn’t respond. “Well, I’ll call you Peter till we’re more acquainted.” He smiles. Peter blinks slowly, blindly. “But! I’m Stiles. I’m the nurse’s aide on this section today, okay? So, I’m gonna look you over and have the nurse come in here for an assessment on you later, okay?”
Peter’s skin is fully healed, but that’s to be expected after five years. He doesn’t have any bedsores, nor does he have any stiffness in his limbs. Despite having come from another long-term facility, physical therapy must have been working with him well enough for him to retain the movement in his limbs. Stiles smiles, happy whatever facility Peter came from before took good enough care of him.
He leaves soon after, let’s the nurse, Erica, come in to do her own assessment. She comes out soon after, a clipboard in her hand which she shoves into Stiles chest. She fills Stiles in on the few details of her own assessment, but the rest, well, Stiles will just have to find all that out by himself.
“He’s bedridden, Stiles. His statues will never change.” Erica sighs, looking back into the room, at the still body on the bed. She flips her blonde hair over her shoulder and purses her lip. “Look after him. He’ll die here someday.”
Stiles sighs long and heavy, shakes his head and looks at his shoes as he lounges against the wall beside Erica’s cart. He crosses his arms over his chest and stares at her neatly written notes, at the post-it’s Stiles had left her throughout the day. “Oh, before I forget, Scott and I are going to that club just outside of town. Allison wanted me to invite you and Boyd and that new kid that lives with you guys.”
“Isaac, you mean.” Erica rolls her eyes, purses her red lips and grins at Stiles. She leans against her cart and meets his gaze. “You should really get to know him.” She says, and then shrugs, “we’ll try to meet up with you, but no promises. Boyd’s working the overnight shifts this week and I try to work the same shifts as him so we can still see each other.”
Stiles gets it and winks at her. “It’s cool. We’re going tomorrow night. Come if you can.”
Erica smiles deviously and walks away, and Stiles stares at Peter as he blinks up at the ceiling. It’s too slow, too calm, and too steady. His finger twitches, and Stiles walks back into the room and takes a seat at his bedside hesitantly.
It’s always hard to hear that one of his residents will eventually die here, or in whatever room they’re placed in.
Stiles isn’t sure if Peter is brain damaged or not, but Stiles enjoys talking. “My dad’s the Sherriff, you know. He comes in here to have lunch with me and my, uh,” Stiles swallows, “my step-mom and my step-brother every day.” Stiles scoffs, his internal turmoil bubbling forth. “It’s weird to say that, you know? Cause I grew up with the kid. My mom died a while ago, but my new step-brother and I are best friends, have been since I can remember.” He shrugs, “and now our parents are married? It’s just, you know, different. I dunno. I ramble a lot, Peter. You’ll have to forgive me.” Stiles lays a hand over Peter’s hand, tapping the healed, scared skin with his fingertips.
Peter’s eyes blink slowly, unfocused, up at the ceiling, and Stiles sighs. He rubs his fingers in a comforting circle over the warm, clammy palm of the comatose man and he just waits for an extra minute—because that’s what caretakers do, they wait and hope.
But nothing happens.
Stiles smiles softly, and maybe it’s a little sad in the sunlight of the fading afternoon. “Alright Peter.” He says softer, barely above a whisper. “Well, my shift ends in about thirty minutes. I’m gonna bring in some supplies for you and fill in the next CNA that’s coming on after me, and then I’m gonna finish my charting for the day.” Peter doesn’t move, just breathes steadily.
Stiles stands, turns to leave, then stops and turns back towards Peter. “I don’t know if I’ll have your section tomorrow, but regardless, I’ll come have lunch with you. Sound like a deal?”
Peter doesn’t say a word, and Stiles just nods and walks away.
He finishes his rounds extra early the next day, right around 11:30am. The residents have just finished their lunches, Scott’s back from his break because they didn’t coordinate their breaks properly today and Allison is taking off early to catch a movie with her weird, evil, red-headed mom.
Stiles doesn’t mind, and when he gets a text from the Sheriff and Melissa, asking what time he’s taking his break today, he sends one back saying he isn’t taking one today and that he’s too busy. They reply with : [ and Stiles stifles his laughter as he heads to the time clock with his lunch box in hand.
Afterwards, he heads to Peter’s room and kicks up his feet on the foot of Peter’s bed, reaching for the remote as he flips through the channels and finally settles on a show about the chameleon’s in Madagascar on Animal Planet.
Stiles begins shoveling food into his mouth, some chips and globs of peanut butter and graham crackers and a turkey wrap Melissa made Scott and him for lunch today, and downing a soda that doesn’t taste quite right, like it had been shaken and left to settle in the sun for a few days—or months, knowing Melissa.
Peter blinks at the television, his hands strategically placed over his chest and folded neatly. Stiles pushes aside his food and stares at the scars marring the man’s features. He has a misaligned hairline, starting at his forehead and receding back to just behind his ear on the left side of his head. The slight, distorted upturn of his half melted upper lip and the faded discoloration of the new skin doesn’t match well. They must have used several skin graphs, or considering the fact that none of his skin matches to any other part of his skin, the doctor’s must have used cadaver skin.
Stiles only realizes he’s reached out and clutched Peter’s hand when there’s a soft knock at the door and he drops the hand, balling his fingers into fists and glancing over his shoulder at a pretty brunette standing in the doorway.
“Uh, hello?” The girl asks, cautiously. She side steps into the room, looking around then finally, her eyes settle on Stiles and his half uneaten lunch. She catches sight of his nametag and frowns slightly, then smiles just a bit more hesitantly. “Stiles,” she greets, dropping a large gym bag at her feet as she offers her hand for him to shake.
Stiles stands and accepts her hand, offering a firm shake and then dropping back to the seat beside Peter’s bed as he relaxes into his seat. She must be family, because she obviously doesn’t work for the hospital, considering the heels and the nice civilian clothes.
“Laura Hale.” She says as her hand falls back to her side. “Peter is my Uncle.” Laura glances at the burned man, her lip twitching almost unnoticeably; but Stiles has grown accustom to the small signs family members give their dying relatives. He’s seen it before, in the past few years as a nursing aide.
“Oh, I’m glad family visits him.” The boy shrugs and Laura bends to pick up the bag she’d set down, sets it at the foot of Peter’s bed and unzips it. She examines the clothes, swipes her hands down the front to smooth out any wrinkles. She nods, then hangs up a few pairs of clothes that look relatively new, then places a package of brand new starch white tube socks in a drawer along with deodorant and razorblades. Lastly, she pulls out a singed photo with a black frame, and stares at it fondly for a moment, before setting it at Peter’s bedside table.
Upon closer inspection, Stiles can see there is a small blonde woman with a small brown haired girl with big, blue eyes. Family, Stiles thinks, Peter’s family. He wonders if they’ll be visiting. Jackson had said he had three living relatives.
“Well, I’m just a CNA here at the hospital. I like to eat lunch with my residents when I can, so you’ll probably see me around. I hope to see the rest of your family sometime, too.”
Stiles packs the rest of his lunch into the garbage before tying up the bag to take it with him. Laura is frozen, staring at him, but Stiles just smiles back at her. “If you need anything, press the call button. I’ll be there if you need me.”
He walks out of the room, even as Laura falls into his empty seat and starts crying into her Uncle’s frozen shoulder.
“So the Hale girl, she’s hot.”
“Oh my God, shut up Scott or I’ll tell Allison you said that.”
“Oh my god, dude!” Scott whines, his eyes big and sad, “I was just making conversation! And-and, I thought you wanted to go to the club tonight and I thought maybe you’d wanna bring her along and show her the sights and-and—“
“Scott, please, shut up. I know what you were doing.” Stiles laughs at his friends expense and hops into his Jeep and starts her engine. It sputters ominously, hiccups towards the end before roaring to life. Stiles smiles and pets her dashboard, “good girl,” he muses softly.
Scott groans and shakes his head. “So, club, tonight, yes? Allison wants to come. She, uh, she invited Lydia and Jackson, who kinda, you know, invited Danny.” Scott looks at the ground, his hand scratching the back of his head nervously.
Stiles sighs, “it’s okay dude, Danny and I are on good terms.” Scott raises a brow. “Kinda.” Stiles rolls his eyes, Scott looks unimpressed. “It was a mutual break up, okay?”
Scott tries to smile, but it comes off as more of a wince. He kicks a pebble around with his toe, shoving his hands into his scrub pockets. “Yeah, still, you two crying over each other was not the way I wanted to spend my summer.”
“Oh shut up! I’m manly, he’s manly, there were no tears!” Stiles flails in his lovely Jeep, shrinking into his seat. He sighs again and fixes Scott with a pointed stare. “Honestly, I promise, Danny and I can still be friends, it’ll just, you know, take some time. We’re good. And yes, I’ll be at the club, okay?”
Scott smiles up at him, brilliant and blinding. Allison walks out of the hospital with Lydia in tow, laughing about something or another. They skip over to the Jeep and Stiles smiles knowingly at Lydia. “So Jackson again, huh?” He teases. It’s gossip all over the hospital, someone caught them in an on-call room not but a day or two ago, making up after there two month separation.
She snarls playfully at him, shaking her head. “Shut up, Stilinski, I have a reputation to uphold.” She winks as she turns away, hip-checking Allison as she passes. “Catcha later,” she calls back in a sing-song voice.
“I like you better outside of the hospital!” Stiles calls after her as she walks towards her very nice, very new, very shiny Jaguar. She flips him off and speeds away a moment later.
Allison giggles, placing a soft kiss on Scott’s cheek. “You ready, babe?” She asks gently.
Scott nods, tipping his head to Stiles. Stiles waves half heartedly, throwing his Jeep into reverse before speeding off. The Sheriff will be showing up to meet Melissa for a late dinner soon anyways, and honestly, he doesn’t want any part of that.
Danny doesn’t talk to him when he get’s to the club, which is fine. He does smile at Stiles, and for a moment, his heart skips a beat and he actually hopes things will be like they were, when they had been a couple—when they had been sickeningly cute together and everyone loved Danny and Stiles…
Or! Even when they were just friends in high school with some serious sexual tension built up! Jesus, that would be better than the cold shoulder he’s receiving now.
What happened between them anyways?
Stiles slowly raises a hand and waves at Danny from across the club, but then another man obscures Stiles line of sight and when the man moves out of the way, Danny is flirting with the bartender. Stiles sighs and looks away, searching for Scott or Lydia. He’s not hurt by Danny’s actions, but it sucks to lose someone like Danny, someone who was once a friend.
The club (Lush or Splash or Glitter or whatever it’s called) thrums to life with a beat that could probably induce a seizure with the bass alone. The lights, on the other hand, cause Stiles to stumble every so often into some unexpected civilian with a drink. He’s sure by the end of the night, he won’t need a Breathalyzer test to get arrested—they’ll just smell all the spilt drinks on him and arrest him on the spot.
Lydia finally finds him after thirty minutes of his stumbling around and she’s screaming about a guy she met who she thinks would be perfect for Stiles, but all he can hear is the pounding of the bass in his ears. “Lydia!” He finally says, his hands on her shoulders as he shakes her gently, “I can hardly hear you, take me to your booth and we’ll talk there.”
She smiles hazily, and Stiles wonders how drunk she is as she takes his hands and saunters over to their little table in the back. Jackson, Scott, Allison, and a dark, broody stranger sit around a booth and talk loudly at one another. Two empty seats remain, and Stiles is almost sure one of those is for Danny. He wants to tell Lydia he’s leaving soon anyways, but the way the hunched over stranger smells is almost enticing.
“Stiles, meet Derek Hale,” She says, loudly, and Derek reaches out to shake Stiles hand. He’s got beautiful eyes and cute little bunny teeth, a face full of stubble and a grin that could melt the heart of the Devil.
He smiles half-heartedly and Stiles grins wildly. “Hale, huh?” He asks Derek, the older man nods skeptically.
“Why?” He asks, and Stiles shrugs.
“My dad is the Sheriff, he said the other day they hired a Deputy named Hale.”
“That’s me,” Derek said, bewildered. His light green eyes sparkle in the light that flickers over their table and Stiles looses his balance for a second. The man is stunning.
“Well,” Stiles grins, “I guess we’ll be seeing each other fairly often then, huh?”
“Isn’t Peter a Hale too?” Allison asks, slurs, giggles, and Stiles nods slowly.
Derek tenses beside him, and Stiles frowns. “We don’t normally talk about residents outside of the hospital, but it’s where we all work.” Stiles frowns and scratches the back of his head. “Sorry,” he adds.
Derek shakes his head, waving away Stiles’ apology. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, “Peter is my uncle. Comatose, burns, blue eyes, right?”
Stiles nods, grabs up Lydia’s drink when she’s not looking and turns back to Derek, “so the dark haired woman that came in for a visit the other day, she’s—“
“My sister, Laura.” He nods, smiles softly, “She’s here somewhere, with her husband, Deucalion. You’ll see Cora around too, she’s the youngest of us.”
Stiles nods, more comfortable with the situation now that Derek seems open enough to talk about it. He swishes Lydia’s drink around in his hands, watches the red liquid rise and fall through the clear cup.
He glances over at Danny, who looks betrayed and hurt and stares down into his half empty drink for the rest of the night. He doesn’t come to the booth, he simply stays at the bar and sulks. Stiles is okay with that though, because Derek has Adonis’ body, and who wouldn’t want something like that?
Derek doesn’t take his eyes off Stiles the whole night, and they talk for hours, until the club begins to die down and people begin to drunkenly shuffle out on wobbly legs. Danny leaves around ten, saying his stomach is upset. Stiles almost offers him a ride home, but Derek’s hand lands on his upper thigh, his fingers splayed out, and he can’t stand for a while after that.
Lydia and Jackson leave shortly after midnight, smiling fondly at each other and holding hands. Scott and Allison dip around 2:00am, sleepy eyed and exhausted. They both had early shifts, waking up at 5:00am and working till 2:00pm can sometimes turn a lot of things upside down for some people.
Stiles grins at Derek, wanting to ask inappropriate questions, but Derek beats him to it. “Please tell me you’re gay,” Derek asked in a hushed, hurried voice. He’s smiling though, but it’s down at his hand, splayed across Stiles’ thigh.
Stiles laughs loudly and grins at the blush that creeps across Derek’s cheeks as he lifts Derek’s head with one finger. “Full homo, bro.” Stiles says, and that’s all Derek needs. He lurches forward instantly, claiming Stiles lip with his own and grinning wildly.
Stiles latches onto Derek face, framing his jaw with long, slender fingers and beckoning the man’s mouth open with his slick tongue. Derek greedily accepts, pulling Stiles onto his lap and closer to his crotch. He’s hard in his jeans, so hard and Stiles wants him.
They dip out of the club and Stiles groans when he sees the Camaro.
They’re only half way up the walkway to Derek’s apartment building when Derek brings Stiles into another hot kiss, mouthing his way up Stiles neck and jaw. He nips at Stiles collarbone, sucking deep, purple marks into his skin.
Stiles groans and scrapes his nails down Derek’s scalp, moans Derek’s name in his ears, voice husky and broken. Derek whimpers, lip catching on the cuff of Stiles’ ear, tracing his jaw with kisses all the way back to his lip.
“I want you,” Derek whispers huskily.
Stiles grins. He hasn’t heard that in a while now. It feels nice—it feels good.
Derek fumbles with his keys, trying to unlock the door as well as kiss Stiles at the same time. “Here,” Stiles snickers, unlocks the door and Derek leads them into his apartment, hands traveling eagerly up Stiles body and under his shirt, helping him remove his clothes. Stiles giggles giddily; he hasn’t been this happy in months.
“It’s been a while since I’ve done this,” Derek says, honestly, his pupil’s blown wide and hungry. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and Stiles’ eyes follow the motion, biting the inside of his cheek to keep himself in the moment. He clicks the door shut behind him and beams at the dimly lit loft that is so Derek.
Stiles grins, “It’s okay, I’ve got you.” He says, pushing Derek into the couch in front on him. He kneels in front of Derek, making quick work of his belt and zipper, tugging them gently till Derek gets the hint and lifts his hip just enough for Stiles to shimmy the jeans down to his ankles.
Stiles turns back to Derek, his eyes zeroing in on what he wants. He chokes a bit, facing Derek’s heavy, exposed cock, already half hard and staring him straight in the face. He’s not as long as Stiles is, but he’s thicker, wider, even. Derek’s hand comes down to stroke him cheek and jaw, and Derek’ grinned hungrily. “Open your mouth,” he beckons, eyes half blind and staring at him, only him. Stiles does as he’s told, opening his mouth just enough for Derek’s fingers to slid in, to stroke down his tongue and hiss lowly, sitting up slowly. Stiles’ lips close around Derek’s fingers, sucking lightly at first, curling his tongue around the digits and stroking them easily enough. Derek groans, pulling his fingers free and grinning as Stiles eats him up eagerly, bending his neck and taking Derek’s head into his mouth quickly, lips encasing him in a warm heat, making his balls clinch and strain.
Derek gasps, leaning back, his fingers curling around the edge of the cushions. Stiles dives deeper, grinning around Derek’s cock in his mouth, tongue caressing the underside of Derek’s shaft, licking upwards slowly, effortlessly. Derek groans, low and deep and guttural in his throat, choking on a sigh as Stiles swallows him up deeper. His long, deft fingers dig into the man’s hips and push him deeper into the couch, keeping his hips from rocketing up and into his mouth. Stiles pulls up, swallowing slow, hallowing his cheeks as he sucks harder, keeping his pace steady.
Derek hisses, his hands coming up to cup the back of Stiles’ head and stroke his neck, moaning his name softly, repeatedly. Stiles loves the sound, feels himself getting harder inside his jeans. He reaches down and palms himself, stroking himself inside his pants like a teenager.
Stiles ups his pace, greedily accepting the taste of the heady, earthiness that is Derek, concentrated and heavy here. Derek’s breath becomes more stuttered and strained, his moans becoming louder and more drawn out. His hand at Stiles head get’s heavier, bringing Stiles closer as he himself gets closer to his climax. Stiles takes him deeper, breathing through his nose as he feels the weight of Derek’s cock settle in his throat, his nose brushing the base of his dark public hair. Stiles hums sweetly, closes his eyes as he sucks Derek in, hallows his cheeks again and feels content, and that’s all Derek needs to spill into Stiles’ mouth, lurching forward and jerking softly as Stiles warm tongue laps up the spilled, sticky seed.
Derek sighs longingly as Stiles’ pulls off, wiping the corner’s of his mouth as an after thought with a satisfied grin plastered across his lips.
Derek closes his eyes, his chest moving rapidly as he collects himself once more. Sweat collects at his brow, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “You, uh, you swallow?” Derek asks, laughing lightly at himself.
Stiles grins and rolls his eyes, “always,” he mutters, climbing up to sit atop Derek’s lap. The man’s hands instantly find Stiles’ hips, pulling him closer as he sits up straighter. His hands travel up Stiles bare back, running over spaced out moles and making Stiles shiver.
“Shit,” Derek mutters, and Stiles hadn’t even realized his eyes had drifted closed until he looks back at Derek in confusion and the man is staring up at Stiles, still hard in his jeans. His hand creeps closer to Stiles’ zipper, eager to return the favor. “Sorry, we-we can, uh, I didn’t realize—we can go to the bed, if you’re more comfortable there?”
Stiles chuckles, frames Derek’s face with his hands and leans down, capturing the older man’s lips with his. “Whatever you want, big guy.” Derek’s tongue delves deep, tasting himself within the caverns of Stiles’ warmth, arms curling around his waist. He kicks off his shoes and pants, freeing his ankles and feet as he stands, taking Stiles with him. The younger man laughs against Derek’s lips, wrapping his legs around Derek as the man takes them both to his bed. He throws Stiles down roughly, laughs loudly at the way Stiles grunts and snarls as he lands.
“Calm down, pup,” Derek grins, and Stiles quickly removes his pants and boxers, beckoning for Derek to come back to him, but Derek doesn’t. He stops, pausing for a moment, his smile fading ever so slightly as he stares at Stiles intently. He shakes his head, crawls forward and pushes Stiles down into the bed with less than half his strength.
“What is it?” Stiles breaths, because he saw it too, saw the way Derek hesitated and how his smile slipped away. “We don’t have to, if you don’t want to—“
“No, no,” Derek waves away Stiles’ protest, stops, his hands traveling down Stiles’ ribs. “ ‘s not that.” He mutters, burying his head in Stiles’ neck. His teeth clamp around Stiles’ jugular, his tongue darting out to claim the skin there, sucking deep, dark, purple marks there.
“What is it, then?” Stiles persists, his breath hitching. His hips rock forward, trying to gain purchase against Derek’s warm skin, begging for any type of friction.
Derek’s mouth pulls away slowly. He shakes his head. “You’re beautiful.” He says, and Stiles blushes and looks down, and Derek opens his mouth to say something, feeling like he’s all but killed the mood, but then Stiles’ hands come up to shoves him over onto his back. He rolls on top of Derek, places his hands on Derek’s shoulders and pressed him into the bed. They’re skin-to-skin, bare boned and breathing heavy, and Stiles cracks above him.
“You think so?” He asks softly, his voice barely audible, and Derek reaches up hesitantly and stokes down the younger man’s cheek, sitting up slowly to claim his mouth, to beckon him open with his tongue.
Stiles’ hips rock down into Derek slowly, deliberately, earning a hiss from the man beneath him. His hands find Stiles’ thighs, stroke up and down feverishly. He grips the younger man’s hips, bringing him closer, and Stiles grunts as their chests collide, but Derek is a wall, steady and unyielding.
Stiles thinks he could use a wall, could use the support.
“Can I?” Derek asks, his hand making his way around Stiles’ back, cupping his ass in heavy, massive hands. Stiles nods eagerly.
“Please,” he begs, and that all Derek needs, his fingers creeping closer and closer, his heavy cock half-mast and hungry already, which is a miracle in itself, Stiles thinks. Derek tilts his chin in the direction of the bedside table and says, lowly, “lube.”
Stiles reaches over and shuffles through the drawers, producing a small tube with a clear liquid inside. He pops the top and Derek produces his fingers, grinning deviously. Stiles glares at him, squeezing the viscously liquid out, coating Derek’s fingers effortlessly. Derek get’s to work quickly, pushing his slicked up hand between them, rubbing Stiles’ hole gently before pushing one finger in and moving it back and forth, slow and teasingly. Stiles groaned lowly, leaning his upper body into Derek’s chest.
“Derek,” he moans, rocking his hips slowly. Derek works his fingers in and out of Stiles, hissing at every moan that escaped past the others lips. He adds another finger, pushing in deeper, past the ring of muscle and into the warmth of Stiles hole. It burned as it always does, but there isn’t any pain, and Stiles sinks back into Derek’s hand, rocking his hips slow, keeping pace with Derek’s rhythm as he slowly, effortlessly, works Stiles open with his fingers, knuckle deep inside him.
“Come on, Derek,” Stiles begs, lips lack and hips stuttering with every move. A fire ignites in his stomach, low in his gut, burning it’s way through his core. He gasps as Derek adds another finger, pushing in and pulling out quicker, faster, spreading Stiles out more. His breath catches, a low, guttural, animalist sound comes from his lips as he latches onto Derek’s collarbone, teeth scraping and pulling at the skin there.
Derek pants in rhythm with himself, hard and leaking pre come between he and Stiles’ body. “Derek, please,” Stiles moans, “please,” and Derek groans, nods and pulls his fingers away slowly.
Stiles grabs the lube once more, slicks Derek up and teasingly rubs his thumb over Derek’s slit, mixing the lube with his pre come in an attempt to get Derek even more excited. Derek hisses, grins up at Stiles and kisses him slowly, lowering the other down onto his hard cock, maneuvering them together, closer. They fit together better than any puzzle Stiles has ever seen.
Stiles groans into Derek’s mouth as he bottoms out, full and hungry all the same, his cock pressed and trapped between their stomachs, stiff and aching as Derek spreads him, settles himself deep into Stiles’ very being. He gives Stiles a moment to collect himself, lets him compose himself before Derek completely unravels him and lays him out, bare and exposed, like a treasure map laid before the captains eyes.
“You good?” Derek asks quietly, kissing his way up Stiles’ exposed neck, already marked with teeth impressions and dark, purple and red bruises.
“So good,” Stiles replies breathlessly, moving his hips minutely. He wraps his legs around Derek’s waist tighter, holds himself as close as he can to Derek’s warmth. Derek moves his hips up, rolls into Stiles body deeper, brushes past his prostate and groans as Stiles hisses and clenches around him, nails digging into his shoulder blades. “Goddamn,” Stiles hiccups, moves his hips in tandem with Derek, wanton and aching.
His dick bounces between them, rubbing Derek’s warm skin and gaining the best type of friction possible. Derek grips his hips and pounds deeper into Stiles body, brings his body crashing down onto his cock repeatedly, creating bursts of pleasure that bolt and explode behind Stiles’ eyes, momentarily blinding him. Stiles tosses his head back, breathes through his rising climax and groans as Derek’s mouth latches onto his nipple, his tongue darting out to taste, to tease, to nip at him and turn him inside out. His hips stutter, his breath ghosting over Stiles’ skin, and Stiles begins to shake, to fall apart, piece by piece.
Derek frees one hand, wraps it around Stiles’ forgot cock and tugs relentlessly, rhythmically, waxing Stiles’ climbing orgasm like a goddamn poem.
His moans become louder, more desperate. His hands move wantonly, gripping at Derek’s hair and neck, grinding his hips into Derek’s every thrust, meeting him just as ferociously. “Come on, Derek,” Stiles begs, “harder, come on,” he wants.
Derek does, flips them so Stiles is on his back on the bed, thrusts hard and deep into the younger man’s body, ravishes him completely with grunts and howls of ecstasy. His hips lose their rhythm completely, frightfully aching to achieve release. Derek growls lowly, pants in Stiles ear and sucks kisses into his jaw, begging Stiles to say his name, please, Stiles.
Stiles moans loudly, shouts Derek’s name as his climax is achieved, his seed spilling between them as he goes numb and blind, closing his eyes against the bursting stars and beauty that is Derek, filling him with a liquid warmth that is so completely awesome.
The world leaves him in the dark, gives him a moment to appreciate his predicament and compose himself. Stiles appreciates the hell out of it
Derek braces his arms to either side of Stiles body to try to take some of his weight, but Stiles knocks his elbows out and beckons him to rest, to catch his breath. “’s fine.” He mumbles, chuckles softly when Derek collapses on top of him and breathes deep, chuckles himself weary and silent.
The world is still dark and silent. Stiles opens his eyes and Derek is there, a heavy reminder that the world is in fact a bright and wonderful place.
The green eyed man turns his head into Stiles neck, eyes his tiredly and says; “stay with me tonight.” He doesn’t beg or command, just simply says, and Stiles grins.
Stiles gets a call at 5:00am, from Morell—technically, the staffing department. “We got a no-call-no-show, Deaton says we need someone to cover it.”
Stiles groans an incoherent curse, still only half awake. He rubs his face, stares at the alarm clock, at the brilliantly bright numbers reading out the time. Derek is asleep beside him still, face slack with sleep and hair fallen to one side, smashed into the pillows he hogs.
He doesn’t want to go.
“What wing?” Stiles asks. He won’t even be able to make it to the hospital till, what, 6:00am? 6:30am? And that’s if he can get a cab to take him back to the club to pick up his Jeep, then get back home for a shower and a change of clothes.
And avoid Melissa and his dad at all costs, because they’re no strangers to classy one night stands with handsome devils.
“I only call you when it’s long-term that needs to be covered, Stiles, you know that.” Morell sighs, as if she’s bored. If Deaton weren’t her brother, he’s pretty sure Morell wouldn’t even have a job. She has a shitty bedside manner.
Derek stirs, opens one eye slowly and reaches for Stiles, curls around him and pulls him flush against his chest. “Go back to sleep.” Derek commends.
“I can’t,” Stile whispers, and Morell scoffs.
“You busy, Stiles?” She asks, and there’s a chuckle in her tone. She’s flipping through papers, then before Morell can say another word, Lydia snatches the phone from the other woman and she sighs happily into the receiver.
“I’m happy for you.” She says, and Stiles groans. “But hey, listen, you’ve already covered two shifts this week.” She says, and Stiles nods, forgetting for a second she can’t see him.
“Yeah. It’s fine, I’ll come in, I don’t min—” He slurs, tiredly, and attempt to push the covers away from his body.
“Nope,” Lydia says, ending her word with a popping sound on her ‘P.’ “You’ve got enough hours this week, besides, this is…” She’s grinning on the other end, Stiles can tell by the way her voice raises and octave, “this is good for you.”
Stiles thanks her softly. Derek nips at his shoulder blade sleepily. “Stiles,” he begs, his voice scratchy with sleep.
“Don’t worry about it, Stilinski. I’ll call McCall. He needs the hours more than you do.” She pauses, adds quickly, “I’m glad you found someone, Stiles.” She hangs up and Stiles stares at his phone for a minute, debating on calling her back or not, but then a heavy, warm hand reaches over and takes his phone from him and places it on the bedside table.
“Go to sleep.” Derek mutters again. His arms return to their position around Stiles’ waist and they tighten just enough to pull Stiles back into him, to make him feel secure and warm, and he thinks, yeah, this is good, and snuggles into Derek and closes his eyes against the world.