[Sterekdrabbles challenge for 04/26/19: “positive, sense, show”]

On AO3.

“It makes no sense. Why would the Empire build a second Death Star with the exact same design flaw as the first one?”

“Derek, I love you very much but if you don’t say something positive about Return of the Jedi in two seconds I won’t be responsible for my actions.”

“Come on, Stiles, show some objectivity!”

“Never! And I’m not speaking to you the rest of the night either.”

“Not even if I do this...”

“No fair! You can’t pleasure me with the same lips that just criticized one of my favorite movies.”

“I can’t? That’s what you think.”

The aroma of cinnamon woke Stiles.

Instantly hungry, he hurried to the kitchen where trays of cinnamon rolls almost made him cry in appreciation of his husband’s praise-worthy baking skills.

“Wait!” Derek said, stopping Stiles mid-reach. “Those are for Ms. Whitley to bring to her church luncheon.”

Stiles frowned as if stricken. How could fate be so cruel?

“These are for us.” Derek lay down another platter stacked with still warm rolls, dripping in white icing. “Try not to eat them all before I get back.”

Stiles replied, but his mouth was too full for Derek to understand a word.

Finally seeing Derek standing at the baggage claim it took all of Stiles’s will power not to elbow people out of his way.

“Derek!” he yelled, making heads turn at how loud he was.

“Derek!”

Security was bound to tackle him to the floor he was raising such an uproar.

But he made his way through the crowd, crashing into Derek’s arms, squeezing him so close there wasn’t room for air molecules between them.

“I missed you so much!” he cried.

“Stiles,” Derek giggled. “I was only gone a week.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Stiles said, between kisses. “I missed you!”

“More coffee, son? You’re not tense enough?”

“I am not tense!” Stiles snaps, then apologizes.

“Sure,” the Sheriff says. “So get your ass in gear, go brush your teeth and put your jacket on.”

Stiles takes a deep breath and does as he’s told, for once.

All he sees when they arrive at the Hale property is the aisle marked off by posts linked with white rope.

The next thing he sees is Derek, his black tux framing a bright sky blue vest and tie.

For the first time that day Stiles smiles, reaching for both hands of his husband-to-be.

“A relationship is such hard work!” Scott complained. He’d been interrupting their Minecraft game all night over-sharing very private details about his latest falling out with Isaac.

Stiles had had enough. “’Hard work’ as in commitment, as in thoughtfulness of your partner’s needs, as in respect and compromise?”

Scott looked confused.

“As in communication? You should be talking to Isaac about these things!”

“What do you mean?”

Stiles groaned, on the brink of a lecture about healthy relationships. When had he become such an adult?

Upstairs reading in their room Derek heard everything, smiling at how great his boyfriend was.

“We’ll sort the rest out tomorrow,” Stiles whispered, tugging off Derek’s shirt.

Though committed to helping Stiles research for his folklore class, Derek didn’t share Stiles’s staying-power. Come 4 a.m. he was drooping.

Despite not being werewolf-kind, Stiles’s sense of smell had sharpened, by association probably. Derek smelled warm, inviting.

But Stiles felt gravitationally drawn to his laptop. He didn’t need sleep. He was a college student!

“You too. Come to bed too,” Derek muttered, head nestled in his pillow.

“I just want to—”

“You too!” Derek rumbled louder, his arm extended, reaching blindly.

How could Stiles say no?

When Stiles plays he dashes. He leaps too. He leaps around Derek, on Derek. Then he dashes away.

Derek can’t find him. Stiles’s scent is everywhere because he dashes everywhere, runs everywhere, like a fool. There’s no scent trail.

Derek can’t hear Stiles’s heartbeat, not among the other heartbeats around him, above him in the trees, even underground.

It’s dangerous in the forest, and he’s just a fool fox!

Derek runs towards a whimper. Stiles’s whimper. Maybe he’s hurt. Maybe he’s—

Gotcha! Stiles leaps from some bushes before he dashes away.

Derek won’t lose Stile’s track again, not this time!

Still half-asleep Derek watched Stiles wield a slippery butter knife to lay three pats artfully atop a stack of pancakes. Over them he poured maple syrup till it dribbled down the sides. No less than six strips of bacon finished the presentation.

Derek wondered what inspired his boyfriend to such attentive plating when Stiles usually scarfed down food with no regard for culinary artistry, like a famished raccoon.

When the bountiful plate was set before him Derek’s surprised expression was answered by Stiles’s flashy smile.

“After what you accomplished last night,” Stiles grinned, not innocently, “you deserve a sweet reward.

Beacon Hills hadn’t had an earthquake since before he was born but Stiles felt the earth move after his dad said, “Son, let me introduce you to Deputy Hale.”

All he’d wanted was to bring his dad lunch, not discover his life’s new purpose, suddenly becoming how to date the jewel-eyed, black-haired new deputy.

“Son?” The Sheriff’s voice failed to pierce Stile’s reverie.

“Stiles.”

“What? Yeah! Hi… Deputy Hale. I’m…”

Sheriff John watched his son lapse into staring again. Not only that, his deputy was blushing as he stared at Stiles.

John sighed, very grateful he was already sitting down.

“We need a bigger bathtub,” Stiles grumbled, voice sleepy. “Let’s move some place that’s got one.”

Derek couldn’t imagine why.

The water was still tingly warm, the bubbles still plentiful, but Stiles felt confined, his drowsy brain fantasizing what else they could do in a tub, like he’d seen in porn.

That’s why.

“This is fine,” Derek muttered, hugging Stiles more snugly. Contact, skin to skin, being all he needed, nothing else mattered.

“But we could do stuff.”

“We’re doing stuff.”

“I mean, besides soak.”

“You can barely keep awake.”

“Mm,” was all Stiles managed to reply, promptly dozing off.