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Stiles stares at the ceiling. “Do you think it’s too late to take my life back to God and demand a refund?” he asks no-one in particular. “Because it has seriously reached a level of ridiculousness that I am not willing to deal with.”
“Stop whining,” Derek says, but there’s no real heat in his voice although he is wearing his I don’t get paid enough for this shit face. There’s just the familiar edge of slight irritation, and this time it isn’t even directed at Stiles but at the puppies squirming in his arms, trying to wriggle free of his hold.
Stiles does not notice the way the muscles in his stupidly perfect forearms flex as he tightens his grasp. He doesn’t.
Stiles sighs. “At least no-one is dying this time.” Except he might be. Death by cuteness overload. It’s a thing. A thing that might happen. “And Scott didn’t try to sniff my crotch. That’s a relief.”
One has to appreciate the little things, these days. That would’ve been too traumatising an incident to deal with, even for him, and he’s used to weird shit by now. Derek’s betas being turned into actual (ridiculously cute, oh god, he just wants to cuddle them) puppies he can handle. His best friend licking his face in excitement when he’d shown up, responding to Derek’s rather frantic call for help? Ugh, werewolf spit, but okay. He’s cool with it. He might even be a good enough friend to not use it as blackmail material in the future. Maybe. But if Scott had continued his journey south, nu-uh, he would’ve bailed.
Stiles thinks he’s lucky Boyd is displaying no undue intention or desire to come any closer than he is now, sprawled across Stiles’s shins and giving off his typical zen vibe even as a fluffy dark-brown dog, and Scott has just curled up against his chest, apparently content enough with being close to his best friend to not make any trouble.
Derek shoots him a look of pure disdain and blatant envy. Isaac is still desperately trying to get close to Scott, and Erica obviously wants to do naughty things to Boyd (which, ew, Stiles is so grateful Derek prevented that by tackling Erica to the ground, and that Boyd is far better at controlling his horniness than Erica is right now), and unlike Stiles, who is feeling pretty chill right now that he’s gotten over his initial hysteria, he’s literally got his hands full.
Stiles grins. “I’m not trading.”
“Of course you aren’t.” Derek huffs, and twists in a way that shouldn’t be physically possible when Erica slips through his fingers, catching her mid-air. She gives an indignant yip, and Derek looks like he’s 200% done.
It also looks ridiculously heart-warming. Although Stiles has to admit that watching four puppies climb all over a clearly overwhelmed Alpha werewolf had been both six hundred times more hilarious and about a thousand times cuter.
Stiles shrugs, because he is a) not feeling generous enough to move from his position and b) not inclined to pass up the opportunity to watch Derek struggle like this. “I usually get the hard parts when supernatural shit goes down,” he says. “It’s my turn to take it easy.”
Derek snorts. “Your part when ‘supernatural shit goes down’ is to stay at the sidelines and look pretty. It’s not my fault your fail at that and get yourself hurt.”
“Yeah, fuck you very - wait,” Stiles says, running the sentence along in his head again. “Did you just say my job is to look pretty?”
Derek….shuffles uncomfortably. There is no other word for it.
Stiles gapes. “Oh my God, you totally think I look pretty.”
“I said you fail at it,” Derek says loftily, apprently having recovered enough to at least try to rescue that conversation from shipwrecking and maintain his superior Alpha status. “But then, you also fail at walking across a flat surface, so it’s not a surprise.”
“Shut up, me and gravity might not have been friends when I was a kid, but we’re totally buddies now,” Stiles defends himself automatically. “Also, you’re deflecting.”
“Am not.”
“Oh my God, you’re actually a petulant five year old.”
Derek opens his mouth, predictably to say ‘am not’, and snaps it shut before the words come tumbling out, realising that it wouldn’t help his case. Instead, he sort of glowers at Stiles, but to be honest? Under his annoyance, he looks mostly embarrassed, and Stiles can’t take his glower seriously. Actually, he never has, not since he realised that Derek’s bark is way worse than his bite, which was around the third time Derek saved his life despite numerous threats to rip his throat out with his teeth.
After seeing Derek looking completely lost under a pile of puppies Stiles may never be able to take him seriously ever again. He still looks lost now, and most importantly, he’s apparently distracted. Very much distracted, because both Isaac and Erica manage to free themselves, biting down on Derek’s fingers hard and jumping to the ground, racing across the room to barrel into the puppies lounging on Stiles’s legs and torso.
“Ooomph,” Stiles makes, because Isaac might be comparatively small and fluffly, but he’s still heavy as fuck, and having him crash on his chest knocks the breath right out of him. Measly human being, right here, anyone?
“Bad dog,” he says, and tries to shove Isaac off. Isaac, of course, is undeterred and simply snuggles up to Scott, while Erica flops down on Boyd’s belly, which….he isn’t even going to ask. “Derek.”
Derek, because he is an asshole, laughs at him.
Stiles admits, grudgingly, that it’s only fair. Payback’s a bitch. Also, Derek’s laugh is nice, and it doesn’t happen often, so he’s content to just listen to that. Not that he wouldn’t rather die than confess that out loud.
“Little help here?” he asks eventually.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Derek says, and there’s a playful glint in his eyes that Stiles has hardly ever seen before. “I think you’re doing fine.”
“If Boyd and Erica start humping on my legs, I’ll sue you,” Stiles warns. “All of you.” He tilts his head. “In fact, I will definitely sue you, Derek, regardless of the potential dog shenanigans on my body parts.”
Derek raises his eyebrows. “Oh really. What for?”
“Withholding of compliments,” Stiles prompts.
“You’re ludicrous.”
“Also, possibly withholing of shenanigans of the sexual kind,” Stiles continues, unfazed, because he has seen the tips of Derek’s ears go red, okay, and there’s no stopping him now. They’ve been dancing around this for weeks, and he’ll be damned if passes up this opportunity. “There might even have been withholding of orgasms, oh my God, Derek, don’t you know that this is a serious crime?”
Derek goes rigid, staring at him like he’s torn between being flabbergasted and absolutely abashed and, under all this, a vague hopefulness that makes Stiles’s heart ache, like he has never thought this might be mutual.
“You’re an idiot,” Stiles tells him fondly. “Now come over here and let me kiss you.”
He doesn’t expect Derek to comply. It’s a pleasant surprise. What’s even more pleasant is the confirmation of his suspicions that Derek is a pretty fantastic kisser. He gets to enjoy a solid five seconds of Derek’s tongue in his mouth until the betas start making gagging noises that Stiles is actually afraid they’re going to barf all over him.
Derek pulls back, groans, and rests his forehead against Stiles’s, letting his eyes fall shut. “I think that killed the moment.”
“The moment is dead, buried, and has been given a moving eulogy,” Stiles agrees.
“The second they’re back to normal, I’m gonna kick them all out,” Derek promises darkly, and Stiles shivers with anticipation.
For now, though, he only grabs Derek’s hand and laces their fingers together. “Sounds like a plan.”