oldestcharm

Awoken from his nap by the sound of the doorbell, Derek shuffles downstairs, expecting to see Cora. Instead, there is Stiles, standing in the pouring rain, soaked to the bone and alarmingly content. It's a breathtaking sight and for a brief moment, Derek forgets this is highly unusual, taking in the bright smile, the flush on his cheeks and the droplets on his eyelashes and brows.

"Hello!" Stiles says, eyes flickering over Derek's knitted sweater, bare feet and sleep mussed hair. "It's lovely to see you. I'm staying for the holidays, do you have a spare room?"

He says all that like it hasn't been five years since they last saw each other and slips past the gap between the door and Derek himself. Derek stares at the empty space for a moment, before he shuts the door and hopes for his brain to catch up. Stiles has already untangled his travel bag, dropped it onto the floor and is now busy tugging off his admittedly nice weatherproof boots. Derek wonders where he found them. They seem sturdy.

"No, I don't have a spare room. You can't stay here," Derek insists, frowning slightly, because, despite the strange understanding they've always had, Stiles is most certainly interrupting his routine, even if it is doing practically nothing at all.

Stiles doesn't seem bothered by the less than warm welcome. Instead, he flashes another grin and claps his hand on Derek's shoulder, his thumb stroking the skin just where his neck meets his shoulder. "I'm afraid I'll have to, anyway. My Jeep's just died. Died, Derek. Besides, Cora said it'd be alright."

Derek cannot help but pull a face at that. "Cora's in on this? She has to stop meddling, it's getting out of hand."

Stiles laughs, delighted and lets his hand fall from Derek's shoulder, leaving behind a wet trail that almost makes him shiver. "She cares about you," he says simply, as though it's a fact Derek's somehow missed.

"I know," Derek says and folds his arms across his chest, because he's finally beginning to digest what's going on. Treacherously, he almost feels as though he'd invited him in, except he never really got the chance to decide. "What are you doing here, Stiles?"

"Well…" Stiles begins and he looks a bit shifty, less radiant and Derek thinks it might actually be guilt that's being projected. It smells like that anyway. "I know it's been a while and ideally I would have come sooner, but dad wanted me to go to college, get some normal life experience before it all goes tits up. So yeah, I'm a couple of years late, but it's not as though you've actually settled down here." He pauses for a moment, narrowing his eyes. "This hallway is pitifully bare," Stiles says and throws a pointed glance at the old wallpaper with the framed painting of mountains that had been there before Derek bought the place. He doesn't mind it being there, but the judgment still stings.

"What are you saying?" Derek asks, exasperated, and he doesn't know if he should be offended or wary.

Stiles steps up to the clock on the wall. It's cracked in the middle and shows the wrong time. Stiles taps the glass and gingerly takes it off the wall to adjust the hands. "It's alright if you're a bit behind. I'll catch you up," he says in so soft a tone, that Derek almost misses it. He doesn't know if the supernatural hearing is all that beneficial with intruders insistent on dismantling his emotional barriers.

Derek frowns. It's beginning to sound like Stiles has some sort of a plan involving him and he's not sure he wants any part in it. Knowing Stiles, it's probably both elaborate and inconvenient. "I don't like where this is going."

"Well, tough," Stiles says and his eyes fall back on Derek, intense in a way that is unsettling, before he blinks, laughs and carries on like he hasn't just crossed this invisible line between the two of them where they don't actually say things out loud, but see who can manage to throw most meaning in the vaguest of implications. "I'm going to take a shower now. It's fucking freezing here, Derek. Alaska, really?"

He sets the clock back on the wall and pulls out some dry clothes from his bag, heading further into the house, like Derek's invited him. Derek trails behind him, caught between irritation and amusement.

"Sure, just move in, why don't you?" he mutters, because he's allowed to be cross in his own damn house.

Stiles merely smiles. "Upstairs, I think?"

"Yeah." Derek sighs, because apparently, he's incapable of kicking Stiles out. "I'll get you some fresh towels."

"Thanks!" Stiles says and now that he's won there's an infuriatingly smug tilt of lips on his face. Derek kind of wants to smother his face with the goddamn towels he scoops out of the cupboards, but he restrains himself by shoving them vaguely in his direction.

He heads back downstairs to put the kettle on and, hopefully, process everything. In the end, he ends up texting Cora, demanding an explanation, but all he gets out of her is an obnoxious ‘He asked, I delivered. It'll be good for you!'.