Creature Fear
002
"I know you're awake," Derek informs him one night.
It takes Stiles by surprise, and he's too busy choking on his own saliva to come up with some witty response, so he just gargles out a bunch of inhumane noises until he's able to spit something out that sounds a lot like 'who cares' and 'bite me'.
It happens more than he’d like to admit, where he just watches the dark figure sitting at the corner of his bed when they aren’t engaging in quiet, meaningless conversations that roll aimlessly on the top of Stiles’ head. He had stopped asking the hard-hitting questions weeks ago, exhausted from only being met with deafening silence.
Because there's a chance that this might be the closest thing that Derek has ever felt at home, and Stiles doesn't want to ruin that, so he'll ignore his friend's wary glances that Stiles knows are directed towards the heavy bags that pile underneath his eyes.
(He’ll never admit that his recent sleepless nights have been due to the fact that Derek and him play around with lycanthropy on The Sims until morning sneaks up on them both, or when he wrestles to stay awake to press a cold rag against Derek's forehead, cleaning off dirt and blood like it's a normal task to do for a grown man who climbs through his window almost every night).
All Stiles knows is that Derek is here—battered, bloodied, and bruised—and instead of having waves of questions spill between his teeth, he tries to find the answers on Derek's bare skin; long fingers sailing over cold flesh. Thinks it’s okay if he never finds any.
It takes Stiles by surprise, and he's too busy choking on his own saliva to come up with some witty response, so he just gargles out a bunch of inhumane noises until he's able to spit something out that sounds a lot like 'who cares' and 'bite me'.
It happens more than he’d like to admit, where he just watches the dark figure sitting at the corner of his bed when they aren’t engaging in quiet, meaningless conversations that roll aimlessly on the top of Stiles’ head. He had stopped asking the hard-hitting questions weeks ago, exhausted from only being met with deafening silence.
Because there's a chance that this might be the closest thing that Derek has ever felt at home, and Stiles doesn't want to ruin that, so he'll ignore his friend's wary glances that Stiles knows are directed towards the heavy bags that pile underneath his eyes.
(He’ll never admit that his recent sleepless nights have been due to the fact that Derek and him play around with lycanthropy on The Sims until morning sneaks up on them both, or when he wrestles to stay awake to press a cold rag against Derek's forehead, cleaning off dirt and blood like it's a normal task to do for a grown man who climbs through his window almost every night).
All Stiles knows is that Derek is here—battered, bloodied, and bruised—and instead of having waves of questions spill between his teeth, he tries to find the answers on Derek's bare skin; long fingers sailing over cold flesh. Thinks it’s okay if he never finds any.