CHAPTER VI: BAD AS ME

In which there are no such things as bad endings.

Derek doesn't bother with knocking on the door. He just unlocks it and stalks in. Stiles is in the livingroom, reading from some old book that Derek sweeps down on the floor. There are illustrations of bear and naked blonde women on the open page, which vaguely registers as something he really should be thinking about. But fuck that.

Out of instinct, he pulls Stiles out of the sofa and slams him against the wall. He doesn't use that kind of force on him nowadays, but now it feels normalizing and strangely grounding. Violence is a language they both speak and are comfortable with. Historically speaking, this was their communication method of choice. At least Derek's.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Stiles asks quietly. He doesn't sound angry, more… frustrated. His heart beat is quickening, but that might have something to do with the proximity of Derek's claws to his throat.

"You have no idea how much I want you," Derek growls back. He really shouldn't be saying the stuff he's thinking. It's the worst icebreaker in the history of mankind and not at all what he had planned on leading with, but he goes on. "If you don't want any of this, you need to tell me. Because the excuse that you're not good enough for me is getting fucking old." Their proximity hits him when he accidentaly inhales a good whiff of Stiles' sweat and aftershave. That cocktail is quite possibly his newfound Kryptonite. But that's something he'll have to angst about later. "If this is how you're going to be about it I'd rather not have you at all. I can't cope with that kind of shit. I'm not repeating last night, ever. I've had enough of destructive shit in my life."

"Hey, I'm not arguing with you. You shouldn't want me. I mean, why? Why me? You want a family, to carry on your fucking bloodline. I have seen you with Susie and Mags." Stiles' voice breaks at that, like it's one of the most painful things he knows. He struggles to get out the rest of it, but he does. "Don't lie to me, because I'm not that stupid. I don't need your pity. Don't you think I don't know you deserve every bit of that? You do not need some fucked up human junkie like me."

For that, Derek has to tug him forward by the grip on his shirt to be able to slam him against the wall again.

"Were you listening to anything I just said?" Stiles shrugs the best he can. "Yeah, I want a family. I want kids. But I'd rather have you, you clueless piece of shit. And don't think for a second that I'm not every bit as fucked up as you are."

What he said is true. One hundred percent true. It is possible that he has teared up and that his voice broke saying that last thing, but never mind that. Because Stiles goes silent for what feels like a million years to Derek. Stiles' jaw works and his face goes red, then pale, then red again. Derek feels like crying. But he won't. This is how it ends. Now Stiles is going to tell him to back off.

"If you ever go back on this, I'll kill you," Stiles hisses. "Don't think that I can't, because I have the technology."

At first Derek feels like the world has gone silent, and when the words sink in, he doesn't know what to do with himself. His hands go limp and allows Stiles to slither free from him. He doesn't get far though, because Derek moves forward and puts their foreheads together. Well, it's not as much a voluntary move as his knees giving out and slumping him in a forward direction. Stiles left hand sneaks up and cups his cheek, fingernails scratching on three-days worth of stubble.

"Don't mistake this for pity, because it isn't," Derek breathes into Stiles' cheek.

"Okay," comes the answer, so Derek leans in to get a first really, really good kiss. He whimpers very undignified things into Stiles' mouth, and Stiles clings to him like he's trying to climb a tree. This is not like the last time. This is for real.

They don't make it to Stiles' bed this time, in fact not even to his sofa, which is a total of three feet away. Later, Derek is pretty certain that it wasn't him who started grinding their hips together, but that it was him who started to literally tear off clothes. You need claws to do that properly, so logic dictates that it had to be him. But that's all details, right?

Derek wakes up with Stiles sweaty, stinky, and tangled around him in a sleepy mess on the floor. There is a mouth drooling on his left shoulder, a thigh resting between his legs and a hand squeezed in between his butt and the rug. In all likelyhood, he'll have a handprint on his butt for the rest of the day. Derek groans. There's almost nothing he'd want to do more than to stretch out his aching back — since when had he gotten so old that sleeping on the floor made him stiff? — but that would mean waking Stiles up. He doesn't want that, not yet.

Judging from the sharp sun light stinging his eyes, it's about nine in the morning. Derek hasn't slept for that long in god knows how many years. He can't help but to trail his fingers over the deep scars on Stiles' back, seeping tar-like pain from varying injuries, old and new, until the other man starts to squirm.

"Stop that," Stiles groans. His voice is still rough and uneven from sleep. "It tickles. Grown-ass men shouldn't be tickling each other awake."

He takes a while, allowing his eyes to focus and to clear his throat. His fingers twitches under Derek's butt, and Derek would scowl at him, he really would if he could. But he's a bit too much in absolute awe from the fact that this is them. Cuddling on the floor. Naked. And so far nothing bad has happened. This time around, he just might be able to admit to himself that this? This is love.

"Hey you." Stiles smiles. "You. You are late for work, Deputy Hale."

Derek snorts. Fuck work. In fact, fuck everything that involves letting go of Stiles and Stiles' body. If he got to choose, this is how and where he'd want to die. The feeling still makes his heart feel a little tighter and hurt, but now it's in a good way. Mostly.

Stiles finds the photo in the morning newspaper a couple of days later. He has that habit of reading the actual paper newspaper every morning, while Derek whines he should come back to bed. Sometimes he doesn't listen, but sometimes he does. They haven't said anything about that dreadful L-word just yet, but they've both been thinking it at each other. A lot.

Anyway. The photo is blurry and taken from a great distance, but it's no mistaking what's on it. Stiles spills coffee in his cereal. In the photo a pale, butt-naked young woman with heavy ringlets of golden hair is riding a big black bear in the forest.

"What the actual fuck," Stiles says. The article says something like that too, but with nicer language. The journalist thinks it's LARP'ers gone wild in the actual sense of the word. It's that, or Russians.

In the photo, the huldra looks blissfully content.

THE END

(That's all, folks! I hope you have enjoyed the story! Pretty please, leave a comment and tell me what you think!)