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I Love Your Stupid Face

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Stiles had this bright idea that if he knocked enough times, Derek would have to answer his door. He’d lost count at fifteen, but he was pretty sure he hadn’t been knocking for longer than a minute. So, he kept at it.

The Camaro was in the driveway. Stiles knew Derek was here.

He dropped his arm for a second, taking a deep breath, and then lifted it again. But the door opened right as he swung and Stiles stumbled forward, letting out a startled yelp of surprise. He probably would’ve face planted if not for the hands that caught his shoulders and steadied him out.

Stiles caught one of Derek’s forearms and lifted his head. A grin cracked across his face when he saw the sleepy face of the man glaring down at him.

“Sourwolf?”

“Stiles, what the hell are you— dammit, are you drunk?”

“No,” Stiles said, snorting into his arm. “No, I am completely sober. Completely and totally and… what was I saying again?”

“Stiles,” Derek said, looking pained. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m tired.”

“Your house is fifteen miles in the other direction.”

Stiles blinked for a second. Then he pushed himself up and nodded, turning back toward the open door. But Derek caught his arm before he could make it across the threshold.

“Where the hell are you doing?”

“My house, dude, fifteen miles in the other direction. Are you sure I’m the drunk one? Woah, the room is spinning.”

“You are not driving anywhere drunk,” Derek said, extracting the keys from Stiles’s hand and slipping them into his pocket, despite Stiles’s sounds of protest. “Does anybody know you’re here?”

“I told Scott I was going to go annoy a werewolf, so... Have you seen any of those around lately?”

“Scott is in on this too,” Derek said, sighing. “Great.”

“Dude,” Stiles said, trying to straighten himself up but failing horribly. Derek led him to the couch and Stiles dropped down with his mouth slightly agape. “Do your muscles always look so sexy? Cause they look really sexy tonight.”

Derek froze and stared at him for a second. Then, the man looked down at himself; in sweatpants and a rumpled t-shirt. Stiles thought his hair looked like a mouse had tried to make a home in it. It was unfairly cute.

“It’s not cute,” Derek grumbled, and Stiles realized he’d said all that out loud. He choked on his own breath and shook his head.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You haven’t stopped talking since you stepped foot in my loft.”

“Oh, is that where I am?”

Derek pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose and took a long, exasperated breath. Stiles was pretty sure he looked sexy even when he was irritated. Derek’s eyes flashed red for a moment and once more, Stiles realized he’d been talking out loud, clapping two hands over his mouth.

“Lay down,” Derek said, after his eyes slowly returned to normal. “I’m going to go get you some blankets.”

“And a glass of water!”

His only reply was a low grunt. Stiles turned his face into the couch and buried himself there, feeling like there was a heavy film over his brain and a wad of cotton in his mouth. He groaned into the cushion, trying to get comfortable again, but it was impossible. Pushing himself back into a sitting position, Stiles blinked tiredly as Derek plodded into view.

“Dude, your couch sucks. It’s like sleeping on a cushion stuffed with rocks.”

“Then you should’ve gone home instead.”

Stiles smacked his lips a few times before pushing himself up. “Okay, Sourwolf. Farewell and goodbye, forever and ever.”

“Stiles, you’re not going anywhere.”

“Then you drive me!”

“This is not my responsibility,” Derek said, looking truly and fully pained. “I am not driving you home at two in the morning. You can sleep on the couch and that’s final.”

“It’s two in the morning?”

“Stiles.”

“Okay,” Stiles said, sighing dramatically. “Then you’ll have to carry me.”

“I’m not carrying you home either.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles said. “Fine, I’ll walk then. Except I probably won’t make it because I’m tired, and when I get kidnapped for falling asleep in the middle of nowhere, it’ll be all your fault.”

Derek rolled his eyes.

Suddenly, he was moving forward and Stiles didn’t have the chance to protest before he was being picked up bridal-style. Stiles squawked and tried to wiggle loose, but Derek ignored him, starting down the hallway. After a second, Stiles went limp with a sigh, blinking up at the man. He couldn’t help smiling when he met Derek’s flat gaze.

“You’re such a softie, Sourwolf. You know that?”

“Shut up, Stiles.”

“No, I’m serious,” Stiles said. “You’re a literal puppy when no one else is looking.”

“I’m going to drop you.”

“You wouldn’t drop me,” Stiles said with a sleepy grin. They passed a few other rooms and Stiles suddenly yanked in his arms, twisting his head. “Dude! Are the others here?”

“Stiles, I swear to god—”

“Erica, I love you!”

Derek groaned and kicked the door open at the end of the hall, crossing the room and dropping Stiles unceremoniously down on the mattress. Stiles grunted in protest and tried to sit up, but Derek pushed him back down. Sighing, Stiles gave in and up at him.

“I love you too, Sourwolf, you know that?”

“Stiles, you’re drunk.”

“Only a little,” Stiles said, tugging at the covers. “But it’s true. I love you stupid face and you’re pretty eyes and the way you read Percy Jackson when you think no one else is looking. And I love your eyebrows, dude. I love them so much.”

“Stiles—”

“Did my heartbeat skip, Sourwolf? Am I lying?”

Derek stared at him for a moment. Then he turned and left the room and Stiles stared at the empty doorway in surprise, before dropping back onto the bed. His stomach twisted into a knot and suddenly, he felt a little sick. But it wasn’t because of the alcohol.

“Dammit,” Stiles said, turning his face into the pillow. But before he could drop into a pit of self-loathing, a floorboard creaked and he looked up to see Derek approaching, a glass of water in one hand and a bottle of tylenol in the other. Stiles blinked at him.

“Take two now and two in the morning,” Derek said, setting them on the desk near the bed. “And call me if you need more water.”

“You’re not staying?”

Derek rolled his eyes and sunk down onto the edge of the bed. He studied Stiles’s face for a moment before tugging the covers up to his neck. “No.”

“Is it because—”

“Stiles,” Derek said, cutting him off. “You’re drunk. I’m going to sleep on the couch and you’re going to sleep it off, and we’ll talk soberly in the morning.”

“I’m definitely gonna be a bit hungover,” Stiles muttered. Derek huffed.

“Then tomorrow afternoon.”

“Damn you,” Stiles said, grabbing a pillow and pulling it over his face. It smelled like Derek; like cologne and pine trees. “Damn you and your utter softie werewolfness, Derek.”

“Go to sleep,” Derek said, pushing himself up. “And don’t you dare throw up on my floor.”

“Or you’ll rip my throat out with your teeth?”

“Or I’ll kill you.”

Stiles snorted into the pillow and rolled onto his side. He watched Derek move toward the door and grinned at him and his stupid face. “Your muscles, Sourwolf, are so—”

“For the love of god!” Someone shouted from another room. “Both of you fuckers need to shut up and go to sleep, or I’m going to go feral!”

Derek turned white and Stiles winced. “Erica?”

“Erica.”

“Goodnight, Sourwolf.”

Derek turned from the room, still looking pale. Stiles grinned to himself and burrowed deeper into the covers, silently thanking Erica for shutting him up before he could say anything worse. Because… well there were a lot of things he could still say

“Softiewolf,” he muttered into the pillow. Someone banged their fist on the wall at his head and Stiles startled, before losing it in a series of giggles.

Sitting on the couch, Derek stared at nothing and wondered how this had all happened. He couldn’t quite wrap his head around it. But then he heard Stiles laughing like an idiot down the hall and realized that— that was how this had all happened.

He was in love with an idiot.