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isthatbloodonhisshirt · 7 years

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Worry

Sterek A-Z Challenge: Worry

This was definitely harder than he’d been expecting it to be.

Left. Right. Left. Left. No wait, right. Right. Then left again.

Shit, he’d lost his rhythm.

Stiles stopped moving for a second, the world spinning slightly and he pressed his palms hard against his eyes. He still had that weird feeling of the world tilting, even though he couldn’t see it, which meant he had definitely had way too much to drink.

He stood in the middle of the sidewalk for a few minutes with his hands over his eyes, trying to convince himself nothing was spinning. It didn’t work, but at least standing out in the fresh air was clearing his head a little bit.

Lowering his hands, he stumbled the rest of the way home, eyes on his feet and forcing himself to ensure he kept them going properly. Right, then left, then right again. Not right twice in a row, that would just make him stumble and fall.

It took longer than anticipated to get home, but then again, he’d driven to the bar, and was walking home, so obviously it would be longer this time around. He was sad he had to leave his Jeep behind, but it was better than having it wrapped around a tree.

He hoped Scott wouldn’t feel too bad about not being invited. Stiles had just really needed a night to himself. He’d driven out of Beacon Hills to a bar in the next town so that nobody would know him—and stop him from entering due to not being 21 yet—and he could just have a good time.

And he did. He laughed and joked with a group of frat guys, and got decimated at pool. He may or may not have started a fight—not his fault, honestly, it wasn’t like he’d meant to insult the girl’s outfit in a way that her boyfriend would agree with. Overall, it had been a fun, eventful night.

At an hour to close, Stiles had determined he’d had enough, and had also determined he was way too drunk to drive. Thankfully he caught the last bus back into Beacon Hills, and now he was walking home.

Actually he was passing home. Shit. Stiles had to remember how to turn around without throwing up.

Somehow, he managed it. His stomach was being kind to him today, that was nice.

Stumbling up the driveway, he had to check and double check that this was, in fact, his house. He was only unsure because his key wouldn’t fit in the lock. It look much too long for him to realize it was upside down, but then he finally got it where it needed to be and he practically fell into his house, head almost slamming against the hard floor of the entrance.

Laughing to himself, he managed to get to his feet, using the wall for support, and shut the front door. He blinked hard, trying to focus his vision enough to reach the lock and turn it, bolting the door. Thank God his father wasn’t home, he would be pissed if he saw Stiles this drunk while underage.

Wandering to the stairs, he used the railing to help him up to the second level, glad for the support. Once he reached the landing, he debated whether or not to go brush his teeth and relieve himself, or just go to bed.

The latter seemed like too much effort, and besides, his bladder was doing all right, so he just headed for his room so he could sleep this off and wake up with a terrible hangover he would regret in the morning. But that was future-Stiles’ problem, not his.

Pushing open his door, he had barely begun to shut it when his heart relocated itself in his throat. It was an action he was unaware was possible, and a feeling he never expected to be able to feel while drunk. Apparently being drunk just made his mind slow, not his body.

“Where were you?”

Turning to the source of his organ movement, he found Derek sitting in his desk chair, scowling angrily at him. Well, he assumed he was scowling. The lights were off, so it was hard to tell, but he was always scowling, so he was most likely scowling.

Stiles tried to ask him to repeat the question, but his intoxicated mind made the sound, “wruh?” come out of his mouth instead.

“Where. Were. You?” Derek repeated, voice low and dark. He was pissed, even drunk-Stiles could tell. Two blue pinpricks shone through the darkness of his bedroom, and he idly wondered if his father would ever find his body if Derek decided to kill him.

“Out,” Stiles managed to get out, voice slurred. “Bar. Drinking. Fun.”

Derek said nothing for a long while, but Stiles could practically feel him tensing, the air in the room becoming more and more charged as time passed in silence. It was a little sobering, but not by much, because there was no way to tell his body to stop being drunk, it wasn’t its fault. Well, it kind of was its fault, but that was past-Stiles’ fault moreso than his body’s fault, he supposed.

And wow he really needed to get his drunk brain under control right now because Derek Hale looked like he wanted to eat him and he didn’t want to be eaten.

Well… he could think of one part of his body that wouldn’t mind being eaten, but he’d want to shower first. And be sober for it, probably. No, definitely. He’d definitely want to be sober for it. Shit, now he was thinking about Derek’s face in his ass, wet tongue against his skin, and—yeah, he really needed to stop because now his pants were getting tight and Derek still looked ready to eat him. Well… he could think of—

No! You already went down that road!

And oh, was Derek speaking? Shit, Stiles hadn’t been paying attention. Shit, he was still talking, Stiles really needed to tune in.

“—didn’t know where you’d gone! We thought it got you! Scott’s been looking for you for hours with the others—”

Oh, what had almost gotten him? Was there a new big bad in town? Maybe he should do research. Or was the battle over? He hoped it was over, he couldn’t do research right now.

Shit, Derek was still talking. He should tune back in.

Oh, he’d just realized Stiles wasn’t listening and had stopped talking, this was bad.

And now he was out of the chair. And storming across the room. Stiles was definitely not on form for the shove-me-against-hard-surfaces-you-big-bad-wolf game.

But, he didn’t have a choice in the matter, because Derek grabbed his shirt collar with one hand and shoved him back hard into his door, causing it to slam loudly. Stiles was glad to be pushed against it, because without the door he would’ve either fallen over, or his shirt would’ve ripped from Derek holding it while he fell over.

“This isn’t a game, Stiles!” Derek shouted in his face, eyes still flashing blue and fangs lowering so that his words were a little slurred. “We thought you might be dead! You can’t just leave town without telling someone where you are! Do you have any idea how hard we had to work not to involve your dad?! Melissa was calling all the nearby hospitals, Scott and Liam were out hunting for you, Lydia has been driving through town for hours! You know what life in Beacon Hills is like, how could you just leave without telling me!”

Stiles stared at him. At his angry expression. At his rapidly rising and falling chest. At his trembling hand still fisted in the collar of his shirt.

Oh.

“Oh,” he said aloud. He suddenly realized what he was seeing on Derek’s face.

Worry.

“You were worried,” he said, voicing his thoughts. “You’re mad because you were worried about me.”

Derek jerked away from him as though burned. His eyes lost their inhuman glow, returning to their normal colour, shadowed in the darkness of his bedroom.

“Of course I was,” he said quietly, voice tight and angry. “You think I don’t worry?”

Stiles pondered this, brain slowly turning over. “I know you worry. I didn’t think you would worry about me.”

Derek said nothing to this, and Stiles felt the weight of his silence, heavy and suffocating in the room.

“Thank you?” he hadn’t meant for it to be a question, but he couldn’t take it back now.

“Whatever,” Derek snapped. He was suddenly in Stiles’ space again, wrenching open the bedroom door. Stiles would’ve fallen flat on his face if not for Derek’s arm coming out to catch him, pulling him to the side so he could push him out of the room. Stiles stumbled, but Derek had a tight grip on his arm, dragging him along down the corridor.

“My dad is the sheriff,” he reminded Derek stupidly, his brain unfortunately not having been fast enough to stop those words from escaping him. As long as he didn’t say anything damning, like thinking Derek was pretty.

Because he was. So pretty. A pretty, prickly asshole. Like a rose. Derek smelled nicer than roses though.

He let out a shout when he was shoved into the bathroom, colliding with the wall, but thankfully not falling. He turned his head to find Derek putting toothpaste onto his toothbrush, then thrusting it at Stiles.

“Uh?” he asked intelligently.

“Brush your teeth,” he snapped impatiently, giving the toothbrush he held a small jerk which had some of the toothpaste fly off it onto the floor.

Deciding not to argue, Stiles did as he was told, taking the item from Derek and brushing his teeth. He had to stumble to the sink to spit, and even managed to actually get most of it into the sink. Derek helped him clean up the mess with impatient, jerky moves, rinsing the toothbrush for him and wiping at his mouth like he was a messy child with the hand towel.

He was shoved towards the toilet now, almost falling onto the lid. He managed to catch himself on it with both hands, turning to regard Derek.

“Piss so I can get you to bed without a diaper.”

Stiles straightened, swaying slightly in place, but he lifted the lid and unzipped his fly. He started to pull his dick out before realizing Derek was still there. He turned to give him a pointed look—at least, he hoped it was pointed, he was still pretty drunk—but Derek just scowled and crossed his arms.

Oh well. Sober-Stiles would die in the morning, but drunk-Stiles just kept eye contact and pulled his dick out, watching Derek while he took a leak. Disappointingly, Derek’s gaze never wavered, and Stiles finished up and tucked himself back in, flushing the toilet and stumbling back to the sink to wash his hands.

He didn’t even get to dry them, Derek pulling him from the bathroom the second the tap was off. He was roughly manhandled into his room, his shoes and socks removed and then his jeans yanked off. Derek twisted him around, making the room spin, and pulled off the plaid overshirt he wore until he was standing in his boxers and a white T-shirt.

“Sleep,” Derek ordered, shoving him towards the bed.

Stiles fell onto it without even trying, rolling himself up into a cocoon in his blankets and closing his eyes.

If sober-Stiles woke up with a start the next morning at having Derek’s face right in his own, drunk-Stiles was long gone by then to know about it.

END.

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