Chapter Text
Stiles makes a sleepy grumble as he rolls over into the warm spot Derek left. “Don’t,” he says into the pillow, fingers grasping weakly at the sheets.
Derek snorts in amusement, leaning to kiss his shoulder. “I’ll be back,” he promises and ties up the laces of his cross-trainers.
“Or you can stay and we can have morning sex,” Stiles suggests, turning his face so he can leer at Derek, only to squint at the morning sun streaming in through the blinds. “You can ride me and feel like you’re working yourglutes.”
“Tempting,” Derek deadpans back as he stands and pulls on a hoodie. “But, seriously. I’ll be back in thirty minutes.”
Stiles flops his hand uselessly, dismissing him as he rolls over and hugs the pillow to his chest. “I’d offer to make coffee for when you get back,” he mumbles, eyes closed. “But, y’know,” he finishes lamely and stretches his legs out. “Try not to get lost.”
Derek snorts, presses his mouth against the shell of Stiles’ ear. “Thirty minutes,” he repeats and leaves.
—
“It’s still too early,” Stiles whines from the bed, in the same pose Derek left him in before he went for his run. He props himself up, watching as Derek rifles around the drawers looking for a pair of jeans.
Derek shoots a unimpressed look over his shoulder, but it goes unnoticed by Stiles as he tracks a droplet of water sliding down Derek’s back, still damp from his shower. “If you get up now we can still make it to Blueberry Hill in time for their breakfast,” he suggests and pulls the denim up his thighs.
“It’s not worth it,” Stiles hisses and pulls the duvet up around his head.
Derek snorts and tugs on his shirt. “I’ll buy you French Toast,” he vows, knowing how much Stiles swears by their food, even if they were only open for the breakfast rush.
“You should get me French Toast no matter what,” Stiles defends even though he’s already battling his way out of the comforter to roll off the mattress. He stretches his arms up with a dramatic grunt, arching his back and twisting his arms up.
Derek rolls his eyes, watching Stiles pad to the closet so he can dig through the various shirts he’s left. “You’re not going to shower?” He asks as Stiles pulls a t-shirt over his head, hand making a sweeping brush over the STARK INDUSTRIES logo on his chest.
“Who am I trying to impress?” Stiles shoots back, stepping into the jeans he was in the night before. “I already have you, it’s not like I can go up from here.”
Derek snorts, nudging him towards the bedroom’s door. “Shut up and go brush your teeth,” he commands over Stiles’ laughter.
“Seriously,” Stiles insists as he pulls Derek into the hall so he can get into the bathroom. “Ms. Jameson keeps congratulating me, and Mrs. Whitby says I’m the bane of her daughter’s life,” he says with an unbridled amount of glee, squeezing too much Colgate on to his toothbrush.
—
Stiles lets out a loud moan at the first bite of his breakfast. “I’m sorry,” he says around the mouthful of sweet fruit syrup and whipped cream. “For every time I cursed your militant sleeping schedule. Because this,” he motions to his plate, “was definitely worth it.”
Derek quirks his eyebrow, watching the mess Stiles makes as he cuts off another bite. “Do you need a moment alone with your French Toast?” He asks behind his glass or cranberry juice.
“Worried that I’ll leave you for the chef?” Stiles asks with a smirk, reaching out to stab into Derek’s untouched hash browns and push his bacon strips forward.
Derek shrugs. “You went out with me because you liked my coffee,” he accuses jokingly.
Stiles kicks him under the table. “Asshole,” he laughs.
“Everything good here, boys?” The waitress asks, pouring more orange juice into Stiles’ glass.
“Yes, thank you,” Derek nods, stabbing into his eggs and breaking the yolks.
Stiles grins, still watching Derek. “I haven’t had a bad meal here yet.”
She hums, leaning against the table. “That’s good,” she nods. “Can I get you anything else?”
“We’re good,” Stiles answers, prompting her into walking away. He takes another scoop of Derek’s potatoes, shoving it into his mouth. “You don’t have to worry,” he says after swallowing. “Paul’s been married to Cathy since before I was born.”
“Now I only have to worry about the sous-chef,” Derek smirks and rips the meat off Stiles’ bacon strips.
Stiles leans back, his plate demolished and clean. “No, you don’t,” he promises. “But, you might have to worry that Isaac’s going to pop an artery.”
“Why’s that?” Derek asks, finishing off his Eggs Benedict.
Stiles reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone and swiping for his text messages that display a long diatribe about his lack of milk and other food in the apartment. “We’re going to need to do some grocery shopping,” he says as Derek reads them.
Derek snorts. “Okay,” he agrees. “Just go to Safeway after I pay?”
“Sure,” Stiles nods, taking a drink.
—
“We’re almost out of Cheerios,” Stiles says, looking up at the signs, finding the “BREAKFAST CEREALS,” sign before he turns, Derek trailing after with the basket full of chips and a box of snack cakes that Stiles insisted on, along with Isaac’s milk.
They stand facing the wall of brightly colored boxes, the various mascots looking back before Derek reaches for the yellow one with the heart-shaped bowl on its cover.
“No,” Stiles chastises, swatting at his hand. “I’m bored with that, let’s get Captain Crunch.” At Derek’s questioning look, he flaps his arm in an imitation of Vanna White. “Or whatever else, there’s choices, Derek.”
“I know,” Derek nods. “But I like Cheerios.” He makes another grab for the box, ignoring Stiles’ huff of annoyance. “And it’s not like you’re still here in a week for it, anyway.”
“Wow, really?” Stiles glares, watching him set the basket down as he rearranges everything to make it fit. “You’re going there over a box of Cheerios?”
Derek shrugs at him, keeps his head down. “You’re going back to San Francisco soon,” he says. “I don’t want to be responsible for your sugary cereal again, just because you didn’t finish it.”
Stiles rears back, visibly offended in a way Derek knows he shouldn’t find endearing right now. “Only boring people and the elderly like Cheerios,” he tuts. “I should know, because my dad’s supposed to eat it. When he’s not scarfing down cake from your shop.”
Derek freezes, still half-way bent over the basket. “It was only a slice,” he admonishes and stands back to his full height, leaving it on the floor.
Stiles crosses his arms, mouth set in a firm line. “Is it?” He asks. “Or are you going to fork one over every time he glares at you? Because, news flash: he’s going to do that a lot.”
“A lot?” Derek echoes. He’s getting angry—a response to Stiles’ own fuming, evident in his tense shoulders and hard-set jaw.
Stiles laughs coldly, hands thrown up like he can’t do anything. “He keeps quoting long-distance relationship statics at me, like we’re on some timer.”
Derek shrugs, unsure what to say. He knows remind him that they kind of are, the date Stiles has to drive back already circled in three different sharpie colors on his calendar.
But, Stiles takes the silence as an answer, shoulders falling. “I’ll meet you at the car,” he mutters, turning to walk away.
“Stiles,” Derek calls after him, but only gets a dismissive hand wave in response.
—
Stiles is leaning against the passenger side when Derek gets out, plastic bags in both hands because he caved and bought the Captain Crunch, too. He isn’t looking at Derek, though. He just sighs and turns, hand on the handle, waiting until Derek finishes shoving the bags into the trunk.
“I’m sorry,” Derek says when he unlocks the doors, but Stiles only nods at him and gets in, which is the most unsettling thing.
“I don’t want to break up with you,” Derek blurts out as soon as they’re both in the car, quickly following it up with: “I don’t like when you’re not here.” He’s got a tight grip on the keys because he hasn’t started the engine yet, either.
“Derek—“
“No,” he cuts him off. “I just—“ He sighs, deflating. “I don’t like it when you’re not here,” he repeats. “Laura says I mope and Isaac has to take all my shifts for at least two days after you leave.” He shoves the key into the ignition, still scowling. “I don’t like reminders that you’re not near me every day.”
They hit three red lights in silence before Stiles squirms and cracks. “I talked to Laura when I first got back,” he says. “About your vacation days.”
“I don’t have vacation days,” Derek rejects automatically, earning a snort from Stiles.
“Yeah, you do,” he insists. “It’s a little over a month, by the way.” The silence drags as Derek takes a left-hand turn down Vallero. “Because I wanted to know how long I could invite you to stay in my apartment,” Stiles says once he realizes that Derek’s still waiting on him for an explanation.
“Oh,” Derek breathes out. “So, you’re not—“
“No,” Stiles huffs, letting his arm fall so he can grab ahold of the inside of Derek’s elbow. “Of course not.” He squeezes and let's go, pulling back into himself. “The offer’s still on the table, by the way,” he mutters and bounces his knees. “If that’s something you’d want.”
“Yeah,” Derek nods, letting a small smile form. “I’d love to.”
Stiles smiles, head ducking shyly. “Good,” he hums and leans across the console so he can nip at Derek’s shoulder.
“Make up sex?” Derek hazards, quiet over the rumble of the engine as they pull in to the parking garage for his complex.
Stiles laughs, loud with his head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut. “Yeah,” he nods. “It's the only kind we haven't had yet, let's get in on that.”