Work Text:
“You will not believe what just happened to me,” Stiles whines, bursting in through the front door and dropping down onto the couch beside Derek. Kicking off his shoes, he throws his feet up to hang over the armrest and slumps backwards into the cushions.
Derek doesn’t move—just glances over the pages of his book muttering under his breath, “Hey Derek. Nice to see you Derek. Can I come in? Sure Stiles, make yourself at home.”
“Pfft, this isn’t about you,” Stiles grins, flapping his hand at Derek. “Actually-” he sits up suddenly, pulling in his legs to cross them underneath himself. “It is. Do you know what Mrs Davidson said to me today?”
“Let me guess.” Derek throws one arm across the back of the couch. “She said, ‘here comes trouble’?”
“Uh, no.” Stiles rolls his eyes. “She asked me-” He lets his voice go high and reedy in a poor imitation of his elderly neighbour. “’What’s a nice boy like Derek Hale is doing with a boy like you?’ Which, first of all—rude! Second of all, me corrupt you?”
“Yeah, where on earth would she get that idea?” Derek asks, finally giving up on his book and slipping an old receipt into the pages to mark his spot.
“Hey, I am an upstanding young citizen,” Stiles argues, flopping back, his head pillowed against Derek’s thigh. “I am a pillar of this community. I mold the young minds of Beacon Hills.”
Derek barks out a laugh. “Who thought that was a good idea?”
Rolling over onto his stomach, Stiles steadies himself on one elbow and uses the other hand to poke Derek in the leg. “You sir, have everyone one tricked into thinking you’re Mr Deputy Goody-two-shoes, but I know the real you.”
“Oh really?”
“Yeah, and I know who of the two of us dug up Mrs Davidson’s daffodils, and it wasn’t me.”
“That was an accident and you promised not to bring that up again.”
“Well I’m a lying liar who lies.”
With a quick shove, Derek sends Stiles tumbling onto the floor and stands, moving for the kitchen. “And that’s why your neighbour thinks you’re corrupting me. You staying for dinner?”
“Yup, you making spaghetti?” Stiles asks, following Derek into the kitchen and hopping up onto the counter to watch him start pulling things from the fridge. He swings his legs, knocking his heels against the cabinet doors. “I distinctly remember you promising to make your Dad’s famous spaghetti if I made it through parent-teacher week without murdering anyone.”
***
“What does she even mean by that, anyway?” Stiles asks around a mouthful of pasta, his next forkful hovering halfway to his mouth.
Derek waits, tearing off another slice of garlic bread, for Stiles to explain his logic jump.
“Who?” He prompts, when the explanation never comes.
“Mrs Davidson,” Stiles tells him, like it was an obvious connection to make. “Why does she think we’re together?”
Shrugging, Derek uses his garlic bread to mop up the last of the bolognaise sauce. “We hang out a lot,” he says. “You’re either over here or I’m over at your place. It’s not an unreasonable assumption to make.” He pops the bread into his mouth and reaches for Stiles’ now empty bowl.
“I got it.” Stiles waves him off. “You cooked; I can clean up.” He stands, stacking the empty bowls on top of each other. “I’ll get the icecream if you queue up the next episode of Narcos.”
*
“I’ll be right back,” Stiles says suddenly. “Don’t let the next episode start.”
He disappears from the living room and Derek takes the opportunity to stretch out on the couch. It’s getting late, but the last episode had ended on a cliffhanger so there’s no way they can leave it there.
Reaching for the remote, Derek checks how many episodes are left—three. Tomorrow’s Saturday, so Stiles is off and Derek’s on a late shift so they can probably finish the season before calling it a night.
“You’re in my spot,” Stiles says, shuffling back into the room.
“It’s my couch,” Derek says, making a show of getting comfortable. “I think you’ll find it’s all my spot.”
Stiles slaps jokingly at his legs until Derek lifts them, dropping them down into Stiles’ lap once the human is sitting again.
“You’re such a couch hog,” Stiles complains, but he doesn’t push Derek’s sock-clad feet away. Instead, he stretches out with his own legs up on the coffee table. “You know, I only come over here when Dad’s on the late shift.”
Derek’s finger hovers over the button on the remote but he doesn’t press play. “I know.” And it’s true, because when the Sheriff is home, Derek’s usually over at the Stilinski house with them.
“I just- do other people think we’re dating?” Stiles asks. “Like is this a widespread thing or is it just my neighbour? Do you think my dad thinks we’re dating?”
“I think you’re overthinking this,” Derek says, nudging Stiles’ leg with his foot. “Can I hit play now?” He doesn’t wait for Stiles to respond and the title card of the next episode flashes up on the TV.
*
“Hey, what time is it?” Stiles mumbles, rubbing his fists into his eyes.
Onscreen, Netflix is playing a trailer for another show, but Derek hits the power button on the remote to shut the TV off. Picking up his cellphone, the bright light almost blinds them both as Derek checks the time.
“Late.”
“Ugh.” Stiles mashes his face into the space between the back of the couch and Derek’s leg. “I’m getting too old for this,” he complains. “I’m feel like an old man— gotta be in bed by nine or face the consequences.”
“And all at the ripe old age of twenty-five,” Derek jokes, shifting to give Stiles more room to faceplant into the cushions.
“You don’t understand.” Stiles looks up. “You and your youthful werewolf body will never know my pain. My knees creak now Der, they creak.” He buries his face again, and Derek only just catches his mumbled. “They tell me when it’s gonna rain.”
“It’s a useful skill,” Derek tells him, laughing when Stiles flips him off. “Come on, it’s late. You can crash here.” He lets Stiles use the bathroom first, stacking their icecream bowls into the dishwasher while Stiles brushes his teeth.
“Did I leave any clothes here last time?” Stiles asks, sticking his head out of the bedroom door. Jeans don’t make for particularly comfortable pajamas and it’s too cold to sleep in his boxers.
“Bottom drawer,” Derek calls back over his shoulder.
“Found them.”
Turning off the kitchen light, Derek heads to his bedroom. He’d spent the afternoon lounging around in his sweats so after brushing his teeth he goes straight to bed, climbing into the sheets and rolling over onto his side.
He’s comfortable and warm, drifting right on the precipice of sleep.
“Oh my god!” Stiles lurches upright on the bed, almost elbowing Derek in the gut with his flailing. “We are totally dating.” Even in the dark Derek can see his dumbfounded expression. “How could you not tell me we were dating?”
“Knew you’d figure it out eventually,” Derek mumbles, tangling his fingers in Stiles’ and pulling him back down.
Stiles goes willingly, shifting back so that he’s pressed against Derek’s chest.
“It’s just— all this time we could have been doing… I dunno, boyfriend stuff.”
“We were.”
“Other boyfriend stuff.” Stiles rolls in Derek’s arms so that he’s facing the werewolf. “Like, kissing boyfriend stuff.”
Derek’s laugh is a warm puff that ruffles Stiles’ hair. “We have so much time for ‘boyfriend stuff’” He presses his lips against Stiles’ temple. “In the morning.”