It’s three-thirty in the morning and Stiles’ voyage downstairs and into the kitchen would be comedic if he weren’t half asleep. He’s so drowsy that walking is turning out exactly like those drunk-driving simulations that aren’t actually anything like driving drunk, they’re more like having someone grab the steering wheel and cover your eyes with their hands. Because you’re not actually drunk.
Maybe that’s just Stiles, it occurs to him like a revolutionary dawn on his brain, right as he collides with a wall. He continues on his way and finally succeeds in finding a contraption to fill with cold water. He thinks it’s a coffee mug. Nope, it’s a tiny porcelain milk pitcher. Finally, a use for this thing.
The journey back up the stairs is slightly smoother, but that’s not saying much. He paws at the door a couple times before he finds the doorknob. Settles onto the bed with a yawn. Takes a deep and refreshing gulp of water from his milk pitcher. Yes.
Derek’s hand gropes its way out of the covers and takes the thing from him. He’s too sleepy to be a dick about it, so he just lets Derek drink some of his water and put the pitcher on the bedside table.
Derek slides his arms around Stiles’ middle and pulls him down into the bed. “Do I do a good job providing for you?” Stiles asks, unfocusedly tucking his head under Derek’s chin. Derek hums affirmatively, also lacking the energy to be a dick.
“Stiles will accept fate, and he will accept Derek’s uncalled for self loathing, and he will even accept Firefly being cancelled, but he will not accept any future for Derek that is anything less than bliss.”
ARE WE HAVING A FEELINGS CONTEST NOW