Stiles doesn't realize he's drifted again until Derek uses the hand on his jaw to tip his head up, and wow, you could weaponize those eyes. Stiles almost can't blink. Their faces are so close, he can feel the warmth of Derek's breath on his face as he begins to speak again.

"I need you to trust me, too, Stiles."

"I trust you," is Stiles's knee-jerk reply. Because he does. In a life-or-death situation, there aren't a whole lot of people he trusts more. "I mean, you're like a one man army. A wolf man army." He smiles a little at his own joke, but the smile falls when he sees Derek still has that Look. "…and that's not what you're talking about, is it?"

"No."

"So…what, then?"

But Derek doesn't answer. Not verbally, anyway, like a normal person, which really shouldn't surprise him, because Derek is not a normal person. And Stiles thinks he's freakishly okay with that.

Except when Derek starts to push him backwards, and he knows his room well enough to know that the bed is that way, and no, he's pretty sure his heart's not supposed to do that. "Whoa, whoa, whoa," he says quickly, even as his feet shuffle back along the carpet. He's trying to stop, really, trying to plant bare feet in the carpet, but it's just not working. His mouth is working just fine, though. "Hey, I trust you, too, and I definitely like kissing you and, just, you in general, but don't you think this is moving kind of fast? I mean, I'm not opposed to it or anything, like later on." He is a teenager after all, with all the hormones and awkwardness that entails, and Derek is a really attractive guy for whom he's pretty sure he has more-than-friendly feelings. "But I kinda only just figured out you didn't want to kill me like two minutes ago, so maybe we should at least—"

Without warning, his knees buckle, and Stiles lets out a yelp that he hopes, for the sake of his fragile male ego, that they will never, ever mention. He doesn't fall, though. Nope, Derek's got that covered. It looks like Stiles's ego's not making it out of this intact, though, because before he can even get a protest out, Derek's bending low and hooking an arm under his knees and suddenly, he's airborne.

"Oh my God." His stomach does a flip, and he's not sure if that's the sudden change of altitude, or what, but it's not good. He really wants to be down, now. Like, right now. But the more he squirms, the tighter Derek holds him.

"Hold still," Derek growls.

"I'm freaking out!" Stiles snaps back, because seriously, what the hell is going on? He was gonna have a nice hibernation on his laptop, maybe do some homework, and even eventually drag himself to bed. Instead, he's getting carried to bed by a freaking werewolf, who, by the way, just kissed him not once, but twice, and made some sort of confession that Stiles is still trying to figure out the significance of, but he knows there is one. So he thinks a little bit of a freak out is totally within reason.

But Derek doesn't let him down. Instead, he leans in close to Stiles's ear, until his breath tickles Stiles's neck enough to make him shudder, and in a low voice, he says simply, "Trust me."

And suddenly, Stiles gets it. He's not talking about trusting him with his life. Not talking about trusting him not to let some creepy monster rip out his insides or something equally nightmare-inducing. He's not talking about any of that; what he's talking about something a whole lot deeper, a whole lot more important. He's talking about something that starts with an 'l' and ends with an 'e,' and even though Stiles can't really narrow it down any more than that, it's definitely something to think about.

He's so busy thinking about it, he realizes he kind of spaces out for a second, because the next thing he knows, Derek's sitting him down on his bed like he doesn't weigh anything at all. Stiles can tell he's being careful, which is definitely adding fuel to the 'l—e' fire, but it doesn't help a lot when all his muscles do that cool little 'push all the air out of his lungs' thing when he lands. And that's really just super, because it all comes out in a grunt, and he sees Derek's frown deepen.

"You're hurt." It's not a question.

"I'm sore," Stiles says. He's going for levity, and he thinks it only falls a little bit flat. "There's a difference. Sore is okay."

"Not to me."

Well, okay then. Screw Hallmark; Derek can say three words that don't even sound like something sweet and still make Stiles feel like he's swallowed a massive hoard of butterflies. Very manly, totally-not-sappy-at-all butterflies.

The sad thing is, Stiles could talk for hours and still not stumble across something half that meaningful, and believe him, he's tried. But then again, he's not sure the one he was saying it to would've cared even if he had said something like that.

"Hey."

He blinks his eyes open – did he close them again? He's really tired – and he realizes that Derek's sitting on the side of his bed, looking at him with something that looks a lot like worry, but Stiles isn't sure he's optimistic enough to believe it.

Still, "I'm good," he says. "Hunky dory." Especially now that he's horizontal, because like this, not moving, his muscles don't feel quite so shredded. He decides right then and there that he's not gonna move again unless the house is burning down or something. Maybe even not then. He's got Derek, right? Dude could probably just toss him out the window or something. Maybe he'd get lucky and land in a bush.

"I'm not going to toss you out a window."

Stiles blinks again, and huh, since when did he have blankets on. Did Derek tuck him in?

"You were shivering," Derek says blandly.

Because he's cold. Duh.

Derek's lip kind of twitches. "Duh."

Stiles stops. Okay, one's incident. Two's coincidence. But three, that's a pattern. And unless telepathy is on the list of wolf powers he and Scott just haven't stumbled across yet, Derek's got some 'splainin' to do.

He's about to tell him so when Derek cuts him off. "You're saying all this out loud, Stiles." And his voice is this weird mixture of exasperated and…fond, Stiles thinks. Definitely fond. "You really don't stop talking, do you?"

Stiles laughs a little. "Guess not. Sorry?"

"Don't be." But then Derek stands, and Stiles thinks that maybe he should be sorry after all, if he's done something to make Derek leave. And even though he promised himself he wouldn't move, he finds himself reaching out and snagging the back of Derek's black t-shirt.

Derek turns, and Stiles watches his eyes flick down to his hand. If he were any more with it – that is to say, if his head didn't feel like it was scooped out and stuffed with feathers and half-congealed Jell-O – Stiles would probably be removing his hand before Derek does…from the rest of his body.

But he's not. With it, that is, and his head does feel like it's been scooped out and stuffed with feathers and half-congealed Jell-O. He worked hard to get his arm up, anyway, as his shoulders are apparently pretty eager to remind him.

Besides, he kind of likes to think that they've reached a new place in their relationship that doesn't involve quite so many threats of violence and bodily harm. So he leaves his hand right where it is, because honestly, he's too sore to move it and too tired to want to.

"Before you bite my head off," he says instead, "just…stay, okay? Just stay." Because it hits him all of the sudden, like a shot of cold lead straight through his veins: he doesn't want to be alone. Or just…he doesn't want to be away from Derek. He's warm. He's safe.

He's alive.

That—that last one's really the biggie, the whole 'Derek's alive' thing. If anything had gone differently tonight, if he hadn't been able to get to him fast enough, hadn't been able to keep swimming long enough…he might not be. And it hurts, but Stiles knows that's really not because of him. It was Scott that saved them, when he couldn't reach the diving board. It was Scott that pulled them out. If he hadn't been there...Derek wouldn't be here.

Somehow, a couple of sore muscles and waterlogged ear canals don't seem so bad by comparison.

"Relax," Derek says. He's smiling, too.

It settles Stiles's nerves a little bit, and he even manages a scoff. "Psh, I am relaxed." Derek doesn't look convinced, so Stiles forces himself to let go of his shirt and cross his arms behind his head. The jury's still out on which one of those two things is actually harder. "I'm totally relaxed."

Derek eyes him skeptically for a second, but then, "Right." And he turns to leave.

"Hey!" It slips out before Stiles can stop himself. Not that he would've, but it would at least've been nice to get the chance. But no, it's out there, and he's sitting up. He's not really sure what he's planning to do after that – actually standing and going after him seems like it might be a little bit ambitious, now that his legs feel like not-even-a-little-bit-al-dente noodles.

Luckily, it doesn't come to that. "I'll be back," Derek tells him, and it's a sure sign that he's running on empty that Stiles can't even muster up a good Terminator joke.

"I'll be here," is all he can string together. That, and a smile that's probably a lot goofier than he cares to think about, so he doesn't. He flops back down on the bed, drags the blankets back up, and lets his chlorine-stung eyes finally close like they've been wanting to do ever since his adrenaline rush bottomed out.

He's vaguely aware of the sound of a door opening, but it's quiet. Far off. Kind of like it's down at the end of a really long hallway, and all he's getting is the echo. Any other sounds barely even register over the chorus of 'ahhh's and 'thankyouthankyouthankyou's coming from his musculoskeletal system.

He must've dozed off, because he's in that dark, floaty place between sleeping and awake where everything's warm and nothing hurts. Except….

It starts as a tickle. Just a weird little sensation in his ear that he doesn't really mind at first. But then it happens again, only it gets worse. The itch gets sharper, and it's cold, and…and wet. Something's dripping in his ear. Drip. Drip. Dri—

Stiles shudders violently and smacks at his ear. He's hoping, a little incoherently, that he'll catch whatever's doing that weird thing with his ear, because, ugh, it feels unnatural. Gross. Trickley and clicky and just…ugh. He wants it to stop.

But when he slaps at his ear, he doesn't catch anything. Nothing but air. He knows there's something there, though, so with a frustrated huff, he peels his eyes open and starts to push himself up.

A hand settles on his shoulder, firm and warm, and holds him in place on his side. "Hold still." It's Derek's voice. Derek's hand. Derek's weight pulling down the bed behind him. "You're okay."

And Stiles can't really argue with that, because he feels pretty okay right now, all things considered.

Still, when another drop of that whatever-it-is hits his ear, he jerks his head around and glares his best attempt at daggers at Derek.

His best attempt doesn't seem to have much effect on Derek – in his defense, the guy's like the King of Glares…or the Alpha of…well, you get the point – who's just sitting there with that darn eyebrow raised and an utterly unapologetic look on his face.

Stiles eyes flicker from said face of utter unapologetic-ness to his other hand, the one that's not still holding Stiles's shoulder. He's holding one of the waxy paper cups from Stiles's bathroom, and he's got it pinched up at the top so that it looks like the lips of the cup are pressed together. Stiles doesn't have to ask to know that's the culprit.

"What is that?" he says, eyeing the cup.

Derek's nose twitches in a way that would be kinda…adorable, if it didn't look like he'd smelled something funny. "Rubbing alcohol."

And that would be why.

"Okay….And why were you dripping it into my ear like some sort of chemistry experiment?" For a second, he has the completely irrational fear that he's trying to cover up the smell or something. Which is, in fact, completely irrational, he tells himself, because Derek had to lean in close before to smell it, and rubbing alcohol doesn't exactly smell like roses, either.

"It dries it out," Derek tells him, and now that Stiles is really listening, he can tell it sounds like Derek's trying not to breathe through his nose. Definitely not like roses, and Stiles thinks that's kind of sweet, because he's still sticking around and doing it, even if it smells like it's burning the hairs out of his nose. "So turn back around and let me finish."

Derek sounds a lot less intimidating when he's mouth-breathing, Stiles thinks. Or maybe he's just not trying to be intimidating. He's still firm, and his voice is about as dry as Stiles wished he'd been a few hours ago, but there's something else there. That's the thing with Derek. There's always that something else that he can't quite place, but it makes him feel warm and fuzzy and all that fun stuff. It makes him feel kinda…special, too. Not special like 'special ed,' even though he's pretty sure there've been times Derek makes him feel like that, too. Times he just feels kind of derp, because Derek's so cool and he's so…not.

But no, it's not like that right now. It's like…it's like he's the only one that gets to see that something else, gets to see what's behind all the growling and the scowling, and that makes him feel important somehow.

He barely even notices the next drop of alcohol in his ear. It's not until he hears the thud of shoes on the floor that he even realizes he's gotten up, and he manages to roll over enough to see behind him.

And Derek promptly, with two fingers on his temple, pushes his head back to the side. "Hold still," he repeats.

It's a lot easier said than done, though. Especially because what little he'd gotten to see when he'd turned around had been Derek tugging his shirt off over his head. What can he say? He's curious.

He doesn't stay that way for long, though, because the bed dips behind him and he feels the very familiar, very welcome warmth of his personal favorite Alpha settling in around him. He doesn't realize how cold he is until he realizes how warm he can be.

Behind him, Derek pulls up the covers, and there's a flash of cool air from outside his makeshift cocoon before what feels a little bit like an electric blanket presses up right along his back. He tries to turn around, but Derek's arm curls around his waist and holds him in place, and he can't even bring himself to be mad, because sore muscles aside, he doesn't think he's ever been so comfortable in his life.

When Derek's knee accidentally bumps into the back of his own, though, he can't help hissing. Reflex makes his leg jerk, which only makes it hurt worse, all the way up his back and down to his toes, and he groans, because oh God, he's never, never doing that again. Ever.

"Relax, Stiles," Derek says. "Relax." His hand snakes up the front of Stiles's shirt, pressing flat against his chest, and suddenly, relaxing is both the easiest thing and the hardest thing to do. Especially when the heat begins to spread from Derek's hands, like it's going through his veins.

He shifts, but Derek just holds him closer, and he's muttering something in Stiles's ear, but he can't focus enough on what it is. The feeling just keeps spreading, down his legs, down his arms, and it's like this…tension releases. The pain eases with it, slowly, until it's a little less 'I tore every muscle in my body' and a little more 'I overdid it at lacrosse practice.' And it's great, because it feels like he can finally breathe again.

"What was that?" he manages to say, but his tongue feels weirdly heavy and thick and awkward, so he's not sure if it translates well.

"It's not telepathy," Derek says. Stiles can almost hear the smirk, but he just smiles in return. Derek's a smartass; this is not news. And frankly, he likes him just fine this way.

"Thanks."

Derek tightens his arm around Stiles's waist and presses his nose to the back of his head. "You trust me now?"

"You say trust," Stiles replies in his best Samuel L. Jackson impersonation. Which, to be honest, is a pretty awful Samuel L. Jackson impersonation. "I kinda think you mean the other thing."

"What other thing?"

Stiles doesn't have to look to know Derek's giving him a weird look. He knows that one flew right over Derek's head, like every other pop culture reference he makes. Maybe he should make him watch some movies or something, especially if they're gonna be spending more time together. Which he thinks they should, you know, after all this. Yeah, definitely. He should get everyone together – maybe even Derek's leather-loving lycos, because he's sure they can't be all bad – hit some cinematic high notes, if for no other reason than so that he can talk to them without a translator. He's thinking all the Star Wars movies, maybe some Monty Python, and definitely Hitchhiker's…Mel Brooks couldn't hurt, and there's the whole library of superhero movies to consider. Minus some of the bad ones, he guesses, like the first Hulk movie…and the second…and, like, all three Spiderman movies with Toby—

"Stiles."

"Huh?"

Derek sighs against the back of his neck. "You forgot your Adderall."

Stiles starts to turn his head, but catches himself. "How did you know I take Adderall?"

"Where do you think the alcohol came from?"

Right. Well, that's…right. "So…you, uh…you went through my medicine cabinet?" He tries to sound casual. Meanwhile, in his head, he's running a rush-order inventory of everything he's got in that cabinet, because that could definitely be embarrassing. Aside from a box of condoms – he jokes with Scott that it's pretty much wishful thinking, but maybe not anymore – and a few other things that he's pretty sure you'll find in the medicine cabinet of every warm-blooded male, he thinks he's actually in the green.

He's just glad his acne cleared up last year.

"I'll take that as a yes."

"Sorry."

"I told you: don't apologize. Just answer my question." It would sound harsh, except his voice sounds more idle than anything, and his fingers are stroking this really soft, really distracting pattern over his hip. "What other thing?"

Stiles swallows thickly and hopes against hope that Derek doesn't hear his heartbeat pick up. This close, he can probably feel it. "You know," he says, a little bit more steadily than he feels, "four letters, starts with an 'l', ends with an 'e.' That thing."

"What is this? A game of charades?" Derek says.

There's an awkward sort of silence after that, and yeah, Derek has to be able to feel his heartbeat. He's pretty sure the whole neighborhood can.

But then, "Which one?"

Stiles starts to turn his head, but Derek lets out this low sort of growl that Stiles sees more than hears, and he swallows again so he can speak. "Huh?"

"There are two things that start with 'l' and end with 'e.' Which one?" He almost sounds…amused. Like he's humoring Stiles, but not in the bad way. It's kinda…nice. Not getting told to shut up, not getting ignored.

He gives a one-sided, and he's, like, stupid happy when it doesn't hurt. "I don't know," he answers. It's a lie. He knows exactly which one it is for him, which one he feels for Derek. He thinks he probably knew it when he jumped in after him in the pool today.

"Hm." Derek shifts, and for a brief, irrational second, Stiles panics. But then he presses his lips against the shoulder Stiles just shrugged and slips a knee between Stiles's legs so that it's kind of hard to tell where one of them stops and the other one starts, and Stiles is totally okay with that. "I do." And then his lips are right up next to Stiles ear, and he can feel his breath against across his skin as he whispers, "Rhymes with dove."

Stiles doesn't think it's coincidence that Derek's hand slides up his chest and settles, almost possessively, right over his heart.