Chapter Text
The first slide of Stiles’ fingers against Derek’s sends a spark all the way up his arm.
He doesn’t mean to jump, doesn’t mean to shift around awkwardly in the uncomfortable movie theater seat, but Stiles’ touch is strange and new and scary.
It doesn’t feel right in his palm. He knows it should, knows Stiles is pack, is home, but no one has held his hand since high school. Laura hugged him sometimes, put her arm around him when they couldn’t sleep, but not — not this.
Derek is hyperaware of every place he and Stiles are touching. Their fingers interlaced, the softness of Stiles’ skin, the coolness of it against Derek’s warmth.
He worries that if he moves his hand in the slightest, twitches his fingers accidentally, Stiles will move away, or judge him or make fun of him or see that Derek’s not really an alpha at his core, that he stole the role without earning it, that he’s really just a scared puppy underneath that cannot handle a simple touch, of all things.
The horror movie plays on screen, and Derek can’t help but jump again. He’s not even watching it, eyes wandering around the theater as of several minutes ago, but the film is far too loud, drilling into his ears. He thinks he might go deaf after this. There’s nonstop flashing on the screen, and blood, and screaming, and Derek’s not even afraid of horror movies after his whole damn life being one itself, but this is too much.
They paid for the premium seats, the ones even closer to the screen where the seats themselves rattle and shake along with the movie. The pack seem to be enjoying it, scarfing down popcorn and soda like there’s no tomorrow, laughing and generally being enthralled with the movie in a way Derek doesn’t have the luxury of.
He just wants to get out of here, but leaving now would be horribly embarrassing, would make him look like a coward, a fraud, a wimp. Did he mention he’s the alpha?
Somehow, Stiles can sense all this. Whether it’s by observing Derek shifting uncomfortably in his seat nonstop, or the way his shoulders feel tense against Stiles’ own — somehow Stiles knows.
So when he reaches over silently for Derek’s hand, it’s like an anchor and a bolt of lightning all at once.
He nudges Derek’s hand on the armrest with the back of his own, testing the waters, and Derek doesn’t move, frozen from the first touch. Stiles takes that as a good sign, and moves to hold Derek’s hand completely.
After a few minutes of stoically staring at a corner of the flashing screen, eyes determinedly unmoving, Stiles can tell that Derek isn’t loosening up any further. The wolf’s hand is limp in his own, because Derek doesn’t know how to fucking do this, yet the action should be so simple. But nothing is simple for Derek.
Finally, Stiles takes the final step and interlaces their fingers, digits slotting against each other like they were always meant to be intertwined.
It’s then that Derek feels himself relax minutely in his seat. Stiles squeezes his hand lightly, just once, and it’s a sign that someone has got him, someone is tethering him and seeing him and holding him up. Despite his ridiculous reaction to the overstimulation of the movie, to Stiles’ touch itself, Stiles doesn’t leave his side, his grasp.
Through Derek’s discomfort, his awkwardness that’s probably clear as day to Stiles’ perceptive mind, Stiles stays.
It takes ten more minutes of Derek blanking out and trying to psych himself up to squeeze Stiles’ hand back. He just wants to say thank you — thank you for being here, thank you for dealing with me. And it shouldn’t be this hard, truly, Derek’s going to claw his own throat out later for how ridiculous he’s acting, but that’s what touch deprivation will do to a person.
He’s overthinking it, he knows it, but he can’t stop, and can’t get himself to move, either. He’s worried his fingers are twitching accidentally, that Stiles will think he’s uncomfortable and move away. Well, he is uncomfortable, but he doesn’t want Stiles to move. Sure, everything would be easier if could escape this situation right now, so he doesn’t have to keep living through this awkward hell, but he has to admit that Stiles’ touch is helping.
His own palm must be sweating by now, though, and his fingers must be tense in Stiles’ grasp. What must Stiles be thinking?
Just do it, he tries to tell himself, over and over. Just squeeze the boy’s damn hand and be done with it already. But like everything in Derek’s life, it’s not that easy.
It’s as if Stiles can hear him overthinking, and he rubs a thumb gently over Derek’s skin for a brief moment.
Derek wants to cry, but he doesn’t know why.
He has to squeeze his hand now, right now. If he waits any longer it will just be awkward.
Like it’s not already? he hisses to himself in his mind.
Derek takes a deep breath, closing his eyes briefly — he’s the alpha, he can do this — and curses his stupid life for making him feel so uncomfortable every single second.
He squeezes Stiles’ hand.
Derek can smell the sudden change in Stiles’ scent from here. It sweetens up from salty-spicy-cinnamon to the sweetest nectar, filling the air around them. It’s intoxicating. Derek wants to smell it all the time.
Through the dark room, Derek can see with his wolf eyes that Stiles turns to him now, flashing him a blinding grin, and Derek would take this shining brightness over the movie’s overstimulating illumination any day.
Stiles turns back to the movie, but not before squeezing Derek’s hand back again, holding on tight for a long second and then relaxing his palm.
Suddenly it feels a little more like Derek can handle the rest of the movie now, with Stiles’ hand clutched safely, reassuringly in his own.
♡
“This book is crap,” Stiles mutters angrily a few days later. They’re on the couch in the loft, reading side by side like they’re an old married couple, and Stiles seems to have completely given up on his book. He throws it on the coffee table with a sigh, putting his head in his palms and scrubbing his face roughly.
“You wanna try mine?” Derek offers, holding his own book out. There’s plenty on the bookshelf, but they’re too far away, and he knows Stiles won’t get up just to find another.
“Nah. Too tired anyway,” Stiles grumbles, sinking back onto the couch with a huff. He pulls his legs up to his chest and grabs a blanket from the back of the couch, the blanket he made Derek buy in the store the other day on account of how soft it was. You can never have too many blankets, Derek!
Stiles wraps it around his shoulders, pulling it tight and snug. He shifts around till he’s comfortable, curled-up knees tilted towards Derek on the couch now, but in his fidgeting, a corner of the blanket falls off the boy.
Derek slips a thumb into the pages of his book as a bookmark, and pulls the blanket back over Stiles so it covers him completely.
“Thanks, wolfy,” Stiles breathes out, head falling back against the couch and eyes drifting closed.
“Want me to read to you?” Derek murmurs. The boy already looks like he’s close to falling asleep.
Stiles just nods, cute pout breaking through his face, and stuffs a hand under his head as a poor replacement for a pillow.
Derek begins reading out loud, starting from the beginning of the book and abandoning completely where he left off. He can always search for it again later. His voice is warm and grounding, gentle and calm and stable, and soon Stiles’ breathing evens out.
It’s a few minutes later of Derek still reading aloud, just in case Stiles needs an anchor as he’s swimming through his dreams, before he feels a soft weight land on his shoulder.
Stiles’ head has fallen onto Derek, apparently finding his shoulder to be a suitable replacement for his hand. The boy shuffles a little closer in his sleep, nose brushing Derek’s neck now, and Derek freezes and can’t help but shiver.
Stiles’ breath is warm on his skin and his arm finds its way around Derek’s torso of its own accord. He sighs softly, still unconscious, and Derek has no clue what to do.
Stiles’ breath and hair tickling his neck is foreign, as is the weight of Stiles’ head, and it doesn’t feel wrong, exactly — just different. He isn’t sure if he’s supposed to wrap an arm around Stiles too, or push him off completely.
If it were anyone but Stiles, he’d feel like his space is invaded, like he can’t stand the touch against his skin, the pressure of someone else on his person. He still feels like that a little, and trapped, as well, like he’s not allowed to move or shift or get up at all. The trapped feeling is most prominent, and makes Derek feel a bit sick and itchy, breathing speeding up.
He doesn’t know what the big deal is. It’s just touch, for fuck’s sake. Is he really that repressed and damaged that he’s freaking out over Stiles’ head on his shoulder?
It’s when Stiles shifts even closer, knees practically in Derek’s lap now, that Derek decides he wouldn’t move for the world. Stiles finally looks at peace, creases in his face smoothing out, features looking innocent and calm.
A sudden urge arises in Derek and he realizes he’s yearning to kiss Stiles’ forehead, or a similar gesture, just something to show his affection for the boy who’s unknowingly invading his personal bubble. But he doesn’t want to move Stiles for the life of him. They both know Stiles needs the sleep.
Derek settles for placing a heavy palm over Stiles’ knees in his lap, brushing a cautious thumb over his pants. He makes sure not to jostle the boy as he moves.
Picking up his book again, he flips through the pages one-handed, not an easy task, and finds where he had left off. As he scans the words, he finds it’s suddenly hard to focus, with Stiles’ hot breath on his skin like that, the warmth of him pressed against his side.
After a moment, Derek tosses the book quietly onto the couch next to him and sighs, making a decision.
He turns his head to the side, burying his nose in Stiles’ hair, refusing to think about how good it smells, and closes his eyes.
After a few more minutes of overthinking, Derek falls asleep.
♡
Derek’s having a day.
First the water heater broke, so his shower was icy cold. Then the milk smelled off in the fridge so he had to drink his coffee black, and despite what the pack would think about their alpha’s coffee preferences, he does actually take it with cream and sugar. When he’s alone.
Then there was that fight with the fairies, and Scott never answered his damn phone when he called, and the deli got his sandwich order wrong, and his smoothie tasted a bit like garlic, and he hasn’t seen Stiles today, and life just doesn’t feel very fun right now. But when does it ever?
He had needed to ask Stiles a question about the fairies anyway, in case they swarmed again, but Stiles has lacrosse practice till late. It’s just that Derek can’t stand the thought of staying in his loft by himself any longer. It’s too dark and depressing here, and although he has trouble admitting it, he doesn’t want to be alone.
So he drives over to the Stilinski house. Stiles’ window is still unlocked — stupid boy — and that’s good enough permission for Derek to slide in through it. Stiles isn’t home yet, and there are no cars in the driveway. John must still be on a shift, as well.
Derek sighs and resigns himself to waiting. He still needs that question answered, anyway. In the meantime, he supposes he might as well sit down. Stiles might not be back for a while.
The leather jacket slides easily off Derek’s shoulders as he tugs on it and drops it onto Stiles’ desk chair. His boots come next, as he arranges them neatly on the floor, out of the way. There’s nothing much to do while he waits; he could grab a book off the shelf, but he’s feeling too antsy to read. There’s video games, but he doesn’t want to accidentally mess up Stiles’ progress somehow.
What he really wants to do is sleep. He’s had enough of being awake for the time being. And Stiles’ bed looks so comfortable, much comfier than his own, with all of Stiles’ blankets and the cozy-looking plaid and the mountain of pillows. He should really get some more pillows of his own.
Plus it smells so much like Stiles here, obviously, his spicy sweet scent permeating the room. It’s a bit intoxicating, and it’s doing things to Derek, nice things, like making him sleepy and relaxed and warm.
It wouldn’t hurt to just take a short nap. He’ll make it quick. He’ll be up by the time Stiles gets back, and then he can ask that question. About the — the trolls — no, the fairies. Right.
Derek awakens some time later to fingers in his hair.
His head is cushioned on Stiles’ pillow, and there’s a blanket on top of him that he didn’t remember putting there. Stiles sits calmly on the side of the bed next to Derek, but Derek refuses to open his eyes enough to see the look on Stiles’ face.
The wolf knows a blush must be creeping up to his own face by now, but he’s afraid to turn his face even more into the pillow lest the movement disrupt Stiles’ gentle petting. It feels good, new, and a bit scary, but he can’t deny how utterly comforting it feels as well, how he suddenly feels taken care of and almost loved.
He shouldn’t jump to conclusions, of course, but now the hand is moving down to his face and stroking his cheek, and Derek wants to sob.
He tries to keep his face guarded, but he knows that even at his most stoic, Stiles would be able to read him like a book. So he leans into the touch, not wanting to make the wrong move but needing Stiles to know how much it’s helping. The rest of his shitty day is melting away, and his body still feels warm and sluggish from the nap, and he maybe never wants to move again.
Stiles’ thumb still strokes along his cheek, brushing against his stubble before it moves back into his hair. His scalp feels tingly and all the sensations and emotions are suddenly hugely overwhelming. He hasn’t had this for years, not since his mother used to stroke his hair to get him to fall asleep when he was young. No one’s done this for him for many, many years.
Derek’s hand curls into the bed covers, and Stiles sees it, of course he does. He retracts his hand immediately, worrying he’s overstepped, but Derek’s faster. Without opening his eyes, he grabs Stiles’ wrist gently before he can move fully away, and places it back on his head.
He’s sure he’s blushing now, but maybe it doesn’t matter, as Stiles’s fingers weave carefully back into his hair, scratching against his scalp soothingly. Derek feels like a cat, wanting to arch into it and press into Stiles’ hand, but he’s already embarrassed himself enough for the day.
His own hand stays wrapped around Stiles’ wrist, and Derek’s skin is heating up in all the places it presses against Stiles’. His grip is loose but he hangs on like Stiles is a comfort object, and maybe he is, in his own way.
After several more moments of what can only be described as heaven, Derek flutters his closed eyelids as the softest bit of pressure is pressed against his forehead. Stiles’ lips are warm and dry where he kisses Derek.
The boy leans away after a second, pulls the blanket higher up on Derek’s shoulders, and goes to his desk chair to start typing away at his laptop.
The background noise is soothing to Derek, and the wolf finds himself falling asleep again within moments, wondering how the day had improved so completely after all.
♡
“Hey, grumpyteeth, I’ll take it from here,” Stiles calls from behind Derek in the kitchen. Something’s burning on the stove, and the timer just went off for the oven, and the betas are being too loud in the other room, and Derek can’t even hear himself think.
“I can do it,” he insists gruffly, turning on the fan above the stove to air out the kitchen, but the noise is horribly loud and overwhelming, and Derek’s on the verge of exploding.
“Sure, Jan,” Stiles smirks from next to him, now. If Derek’s being honest, there’s nothing he’d want more than for Stiles to take over on this, cook the rest of dinner while Derek goes on a run a long, long way from here. But it’s his turn to cook tonight, Stiles had just cooked the other day, and they got take-out in between. It wouldn’t be fair to make Stiles work anymore. He had a long day too.
“Der, just let me,” comes Stiles’ soft urging, right in his ear. Damn his perception, how easily he can read Derek.
The wolf gives a large huff, closing his eyes for a moment, but wishing he could close his ears against all the noise as well. He surrenders the wooden spatula to Stiles, a headache building quickly behind his eyes and along his shoulders.
“Thank you,” he mutters gratefully, wanting to reach out for Stiles, a squeeze to his arm or a touch to his back, but he just can’t manage it. He doesn’t know how.
“Anytime, Alpha,” the boy winks, the last thing Derek sees before he leaves the kitchen. His words don’t do anything special to Derek, not at all. No heat stirs in his stomach, and his chest definitely doesn’t tighten.
Storming out of the main room and up the stairs, Derek makes it to his room and closes the door firmly behind him. He reaches for a pair of earplugs Stiles had given him, his noise-cancelling earbuds hidden somewhere downstairs, also a gift from Stiles.
It’s just too much. Too much stimulation, too much stress, too much noise and chaos. What was he getting into, turning so many teenagers?
He hadn’t realized how long he’d been sitting in silence in his room, stewing and thinking and stressing, when the door opens out of the corner of his eye.
In comes Stiles, slight gleam on his pale face from the steam of the kitchen, a few new stains on his shirt where there weren’t before. He steps into the room tentatively, closing the door behind him, where Derek can still hear far too much noise for his liking.
“You doin’ okay, big guy?” Stiles asks, the wolf still able to hear him through the earplugs. He nods but doesn’t take them out, meeting Stiles’ eyes, brows tipping inward.
“There’s a lot going on, huh?” the boy says, and Derek has never felt more understood. He nods again, gaze averted now.
“I come bearing gifts,” Stiles goes on. “Well, one gift. Here.” He holds out a crumpled piece of paper in the shape of a small rectangle. Something’s scribbled on it. Derek takes it in a clawed hand curiously.
Stilinski’s Massage Services
Good for one free massage
Nothing weird
Derek can’t help but crack a smile. Stiles joins him, slightly anxiously. Derek’s never had a massage before; it’s always been too much touching for him. He doesn’t actually think he could handle it. It’s nice of Stiles, and he opens his mouth to say so and hand the paper back, but Stiles cuts in.
“It’s just, you’ve been looking a bit tense, and I thought even just a shoulder rub would help, um, loosen you up. Like it says, nothing weird, I promise. It’s just for your shoulders. Should help your headache, too.”
Derek wants to ask how Stiles even knew he had a headache, when werewolves shouldn’t even be getting headaches in the first place, when he glances up again and sees the genuine, hopeful look on Stiles’ face. The boy just wants to help. Derek’s head really is pounding now, and it does feel like it’s originating from his neck and shoulders, where he can’t even reach effectively to rub, and if there’s anyone he would trust to — to touch him like this, it’s Stiles.
But he can’t bring himself to speak, communication just feeling a bit too hard still, so he nods again and shrugs the shoulders in question. Stiles’ answering grin could cure him by itself.
“Great! Come here,” Stiles says, slipping off his shoes and going to kneel behind Derek where the wolf sits on the edge of the bed. His arm goes around Derek’s chest to tug him into his own torso, and Derek surprises himself by going easily, leaning back against Stiles.
The boy’s voice speaks lowly in his ear again. “Thank you for trusting me,” he hums, moving his hands to Derek’s shoulders and beginning to rub.
Derek just swallows and tries to get used to the feeling. It’s honestly a bit awful at first. Stiles is doing everything right, and it would feel good for a different type of person, but every touch from someone on Derek’s skin feels odd and usually unwanted.
It almost feels wrong, but in the sense that Stiles is using his time and energy and strength to help Derek, dote on him, touch him. He’s in Derek’s space, breathing him in, and what if Derek smells like sweat? What if his hair isn’t clean enough? What if Stiles himself is uncomfortable?
I wouldn’t be helping you if I were uncomfortable, a little voice that sounds like Stiles rings in Derek’s mind. Derek knows this is true, but why is it so hard to believe?
“You’re tensing up again, buddy,” Stiles murmurs. “Pretty sure that’s the opposite of what’s supposed to be happening here.”
Shit, Derek thinks, I’m already messing this up.
“Just relax,” Stiles whispers to him. “It’s supposed to feel good. Really, nothing weird. I’ve got you.”
Those words, in Derek’s ears, from Stiles; his touch on his skin, his breath on his neck, his fingers digging into his muscles. It’s all too intimate, almost emotional, and Derek isn’t sure how to handle this, how to feel about it. He’s truly a bit fed up of his own brain at this point. Why can’t he just relax like Stiles told him to, and allow the boy to help him?
He growls at himself in his mind, willing himself to stay still and sink into the motions. And the more he lets himself, the more he focuses on Stiles’ fingers and hands and strength and warmth, the more his walls come down, the more a lump builds in his throat, unfamiliar and strange.
“There you go,” Stiles breathes into his ear. He’s starting to feel safer now, getting used to Stiles’ touch, and maybe it’s not quite so bad anymore.
Stiles’ movements are slow, his fingers pressing deep, and it does feel good when Derek lets himself acknowledge it. The motions continue for several more minutes, and by the end, Derek’s shoulders are looser at last, his headache finally receding.
He doesn't know how Stiles did it, his werewolf muscles surely difficult to dig into, but he’s sure Stiles, out of anyone, has his ways.
With the earplugs still in his ears, he can’t even hear what’s going on downstairs anymore, just the soothing rhythm of Stiles’ breathing, his chest moving against Derek’s back.
“All set,” Stiles concludes when he deems Derek relaxed enough. He moves back slowly on the bed, giving Derek’s shoulder one final pat, before getting off the mattress completely and turning to smile at Derek.
“Thanks,” Derek manages at last, voice like gravel.
“Anytime,” Stiles winks. “The coupon is reusable!” he calls before sliding back out through the door again and down the stairs, closing it behind him.
At first Derek doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but then he looks back down at the small paper he’s still holding. Stiles had kept his word; nothing weird happened, he allowed himself to be touched, and it wasn’t awful.
He doesn’t know what to do with all the sudden emotions swirling in his chest.
The paper ends up tucked away safely on his nightstand.
♡
Derek wants a fucking hug.
He doesn’t really know if he does. He just likes the idea of it.
It’s pack night, and they haven’t seen each other in too long, and everyone’s embracing and saying hello to each other, laughing and holding each other like it’s second nature.
It’s Derek who’s sitting by himself on the couch, flipping through the channels on the TV to settle on something for everyone to watch. He’d greeted everyone already with a warm palm to their napes, scenting them, but that’s as far as he’d gotten.
But that was before Stiles entered.
Derek glares secretly from his place on the couch, eyeing the way Stiles holds his friends, encompassing them completely in his long arms. Lydia melts into his touch, and she looks safe and comfortable in his hold, and Derek can’t admit his own jealousy, but it’s somewhere there swimming towards the surface.
He doesn’t even know if he’d like a hug. He hasn’t had one since Laura. There have been attempted half-hugs and touches by the pack, each sending a jolt through Derek, but nothing that intentional, nothing that intimate.
He’d just like to know how it feels. If he’d enjoy it after all. If it would heal something in him or if he’d hate it. He’s been getting used to Stiles’ touches, but never fully gotten a hug from him, and he can feel himself slowly yearning for one.
It’s a few minutes before the pack settles down around him on the couch, at his feet, in other chairs and loveseats, grabbing blankets and pillows and snacks and drinks. They settle on some movie Derek doesn’t remember flipping to, his mind consumed by someone in particular.
Stiles comes to sit down beside him now, squeezing into the space between Derek and the armrest, pressing against his side.
“Hey, big guy,” he whispers as the opening credits play. “How’s it going?”
“Fine,” Derek shrugs, shoulder brushing against Stiles’. The touch feels foreign, but Derek wishes it didn’t.
“I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages. Uh, can I hug you?”
Stiles looks nervous, like he doesn’t want to overstep, and his hands hesitate in midair like an anxious squirrel. Now’s Derek’s chance, and he can’t even quite believe it, but the fact that Stiles is even asking for permission rather than diving straight into the hug is not something that Derek overlooks.
He nods his head jerkily, leaning into Stiles a bit as someone shushes them from across the room. Stiles goes easily, excitement filling his eyes as he grins and wraps his arms around the werewolf.
Derek doesn’t know what to do with his hands, with his body, with anything. The position is awkward, but their bodies are pressing together as much as they can at this angle, and Derek forces his arms around Stiles’ torso, palms opened gently.
He finds himself wanting to cling on tight instead, press Stiles into his body, squeeze him and clutch him close, bury his face into Stiles’ neck where it looks so warm and safe. But he can’t do any of those things, isn’t brave enough despite being the alpha, isn’t secure enough in his own body, in his own space to reach into Stiles’ like that.
So he takes what he can get, and relishes in the feeling of Stiles’ arms around him at last, holding him close and even rocking a little. Derek closes his eyes and dares to lean his face against Stiles’ shoulder. He feels Stiles’ hand traveling up his back, settling against the nape of his neck, and suddenly he can’t remember a time where he’s felt more secure.
It seems like forever yet mere seconds when they part, and Stiles pats Derek’s back a little as he pulls back. He’s smiling again, or maybe he never stopped, and Derek knows that he himself must have a ridiculous look on his face, some combination of scared and anxious and probably a bit lovestruck.
He’s just had his space invaded, and he should be feeling worse about this, recoiling and growling and shoving Stiles away. But the touch had felt nice; it’s the aftermath that’s worse now, the worry that the hug was too long or too short or too awkward, that he did something wrong or messed up or smelled or clung on too hard or too gently. The wet fish handshake, maybe, but a hug.
Stiles doesn’t seem to be thinking any of these things, though, and sinks back against the couch and Derek’s side, turning his attention towards the screen at last.
Derek follows suit, and doesn’t take in one word of the movie the rest of the evening.
♡
+1
It’s hard to sleep with Stiles next to Derek in bed.
It’d been too late for Stiles to drive home, having school in the morning, and being noticeably exhausted from a research marathon. Derek invited him to crash here, thinking he’d take the couch, but the boy had crawled into bed next to Derek, and Derek had found himself not minding as much as he’d expected.
They’ve slept next to each other multiple times by now, but mostly when Derek’s already passed out from either exhaustion or pain, blood loss or a blow to the head. He hadn’t realized how hard it’d be to fall asleep next to Stiles in the first place.
He’s worried again, worried about his movements, unintentionally bothering or waking Stiles, accidentally stealing the covers or snoring or kicking Stiles in his sleep. He knows he should probably be worried about being on the other end of all these things, since Stiles is a known blanket-hogger, but all he can worry about is himself. He wants to make Stiles feel as comfortable as possible, since it’s his own bed Stiles is crashing, and couldn’t live with himself if he made the boy uncomfortable in any way.
Derek is just about to force himself to sleep, having a stern talk with himself in his head, when he hears a gasp coming from beside him.
Stiles is awake in a second, breathing heavily and around a few sobs. Derek turns over at once, sitting up and looking over at the boy.
“Nightmare?” Derek gathers, and Stiles only nods. He grips the covers in clenched, sweaty fists, a tear rolling down his cheek as he gazes unseeingly at the gray comforter.
“It’s okay,” Derek tries to soothe, tentatively reaching a hand out to lay on Stiles’ back. He’s sweaty here too, but Derek doesn't mind.
Stiles can only shake his head, squeezing his eyes shut along with his fists.
“Hey,” Derek whispers from beside him, “can you count with me?” The only thing he can think of to say.
Stiles continues shaking his head, eyes glued shut and body tight with fear and tension.
“Stiles, it’s alright,” Derek says again, laying a gentle, awkward palm on one of Stiles’ hands. “You’re awake, you’re okay. Count with me.”
One by one, Derek touches each of Stiles’ fingers, counting aloud. There’s ten fingers of course, five on each hand, and by the time Derek finishes, Stiles’ grip has loosened just a little. His breathing is still quick but the sobs have receded.
Derek’s own chest is tight in sympathy. He hates when Stiles has nightmares, but not as much as Stiles himself does. He just wishes there was more he could do.
The wolf thinks of what Stiles would do in this situation if the roles were reversed. Probably think of something to make Derek laugh, or just talk to him, soothe him with his words if touch is out of the question. But it’s only out of the question for Derek, usually. He’s seen Stiles hug his friends loads of times, ask for hugs and give them constantly, willingly, easily. Maybe it’s time Derek returns the favor.
“Do you — do you want a hug?” Derek murmurs, and Stiles nearly collapses in his arms. He clings on tight to the back of Derek’s shirt, moving to all but climb into his lap, burying his head in his neck. Derek’s skin is wet where Stiles’ face is hidden, but he doesn’t mind one bit.
It’s his chance to cling back, clutch Stiles close to him and hold the boy as desperately as Stiles is holding him in return. It’s only a little awkward, but Derek is just glad to provide any comfort. Anything he can do to soothe Stiles, anything at all.
“Shh, it’s okay, I’m here. You’re safe, Stiles. Everything’s alright.”
Stiles stops shaking after many minutes, tremors and hiccups calmed down as Stiles’ body stills against Derek’s, until they’re just two people pressed against each other, holding each other dearly.
Derek’s too aware of everywhere they’re touching, the pressure of their bodies together and the foreign feeling of someone else so close to him. It’s not bad exactly, it’s just — different. He thinks he could get used to it, if he tried.
Still, he envies how easy it seems for Stiles, how the boy seems to have no hangups about this, how effortlessly he can reach out to his friends and not flinch away at their touch. But Derek is learning, learning from Stiles himself, and he hopes to get there soon, someday.
For now, he only holds Stiles a little closer to him, like he’s been unknowingly wanting to do for so long, and it’s like his own world is calm as he relaxes against Stiles’ body. He finds he himself can breathe a little easier, relax a little more against Stiles, against his — his person. Whatever the boy is to him.
“Thanks,” Stiles mumbles croakily as he finally pulls back. He darts forward at the last second to press a kiss to Derek’s cheek, and that’s a new one for him as well.
“Anytime,” Derek responds, echoing their exchange from the previous massage. He finds that he means it, too. He’s been craving Stiles’ touch ever since the first brush of their hands at the movie theater, and it seems to be getting easier and easier for him, if he could just shut up the voice in his head that overthinks, that makes everything so awkward.
It’s easier to overcome that voice, though, when he has something to overcome it for, when Stiles needs him and he can be here to help. When he lets himself accept Stiles’ touch right back. When he allows himself to lean into it, revel in the press of Stiles’ body against his own, feel a foreign warmth and pressure against him, invading his space.
But maybe it’s not so much an invasion, anymore, but an allowance, an invitation.
Whatever it is, he’s just glad he can be here for Stiles, make his painful life even a little easier for him by taking him in his arms, holding him close. Despite the newness of it all, the discomfort, the way it still makes something in Derek on edge and wary, the pull towards Stiles is greater, so Derek has no choice but to lean into it. Lean into him.
Then again, maybe it all comes down to the choice he does have, the choice he’s choosing each time he accepts Stiles’ touch, gives it right back to him, says I trust you with only his body, the most vulnerable part of him, the thing that’s been hurt and abused most of all.
It’s scary, making this choice, but as Stiles curls against him in his bed now, heaving a relieved sigh and making himself comfortable on Derek’s chest now that he’s allowed, now that Derek has opened himself up to it, up to Stiles — Derek finds that it’s worth it.