It's been a few weeks, and they're not closer to figuring out what this new set of supernatural baddies wants with Beacon Hills. But maybe baddies isn't the right word since they haven't actually done anything. Not that it makes Stiles feel any better.

And to say he's frustrated by all of it would be the understatement of the decade. No, century. Hell, millenia. Stiles so rarely deals with coming up empty-handed, and he's not handling it well.

But he's with Derek more often than not. And that helps. Shockingly, no one's even questioned the change either. And when Peter jokes that Stiles is Derek's boyfriend, it doesn't even really register. And if the playful jabs bother Derek, he's never said so. Doesn't even flinch. Maybe even leans a little bit closer and gives Stiles a knowing smirk.

But Stiles is still firmly in the phase where he refuses to sit down and have the adult conversation about their relationship that's so desperately needed. Mainly because relationship may be the wrong word. And Stiles doesn't let himself think that far ahead. He just allows himself to be content, which is more than he's ever let himself be in the past. He only thinks ahead to the next few hours and nothing more. Because it's safer that way, on all fronts.

Maybe most surprising of all, though, is the fact that the notoriously strict Sheriff Noah Stilinski has deemed the Hale loft a suitable residence for his only child until the newest whatever they are can be eradicated. And Stiles is pretty damn sure his old man has noticed all the little touches and shy glances, but he hasn't uttered a word. No, he only admits that keeping his very human son out of the supernatural line of fire hasn't been possible since he and Scott walked their happy asses into the Reserve that fateful night, and at least here Stiles has a few beefy bodyguards on hand should shit hit the fan.

But it's been quiet. Quiet and unnerving and oh so frustrating.

"You coming to bed?" Derek prods softly. "You gotta get up early tomorrow, remember?"

He leans over the back of the couch that Stiles has claimed as his own, now almost entirely covered with a dozen or so articles he printed off at school about witches.

"I know, I just..."

But whatever he was going to say sort of leaves his brain because Derek is kissing his neck, biting gently. Not enough to leave a mark. Even though Stiles would let him. Even though Stiles wants to ask him to do just that when they're deep in the throes of whatever is simmering between them at any given moment. Even though Stiles is pretty sure he'd spontaneously combust if Derek could magically read his mind and deliver on that particular deep-seated daydream without Stiles needing to say anything. Because being marked by the Alpha seems like it would likely turn Stiles into a raging asshole on the spot, unable to maintain his silence any longer at having officially bagged the Derek Hale.

Yeah, he'd fucking love it. But probably not a good idea.

Of course, the rational, logical side of his brain devolves into a series of raspy groans as soon as Derek sucks on his earlobe, letting his teeth scrape along the sensitive skin there like he loves.

"Derek," he mewls, "I have to figure out what's going on here. You're distracting me."

He chuckles. The bastard fucking chuckles. And ugh, it sends a jolt right to Stiles' goddamn crotch.

"There's nothing going on, Stiles," Derek tells him. "They moved in and no one's heard a peep. Not even a toe out of line."

"And that doesn't scare the shit out of you?" Stiles demands, his muscles loosening considerably as Derek runs his hands down Stiles' chest, snaking them slowly toward the most affected area of his body. "Because this is the calm before the storm, buddy. That is how this goes. We get lulled into a false sense of security and..."

"Stiles, why can't you just..."

"No," he interrupts. "No, Stiles cannot just anything, all right? That's when we get into trouble. Or don't you remember Jennifer? And cut it out!"

He says her name with a hiss. He says every person who shared Derek's bed before he came along like that. And he knows it's jealousy, but he doesn't care. And somehow Derek finds it endearing.

Stiles attempts to swat his hand away, but Derek doesn't budge. And honestly, Stiles doesn't want him to move, unless he's continuing that particular path. But he does want it known that he tried to fight the good fight and stay focused on the mission. Besides, it's not Stiles' fault that his super hot not boyfriend was interrupting research time with his stupid gorgeous face and abs and really big... never mind.

"Do you really want me to stop?"

"Yes," Stiles lies.

Derek's hand hovers over Stiles' rapidly hardening cock, teasing him. Taunting him. Testing him. But Derek is always doing that, and Stiles hasn't decided how he feels about this particular part of their not relationship just yet.

"Derek," he whines.

"You told me to stop," he unnecessarily reminds Stiles.

"You're a butthole."

Another chuckle, another shake of his head as he straightens back up. "Come on. Bed."

"You're not the boss of me," Stiles comments like it isn't Derek's whole job these days to be in charge. "I'm human, remember? I don't have to listen to you."

Derek perks an eyebrow at him, daring him to keep going. But Stiles just winks back, knowing how to skirt that line without actually crossing it. And he knows Derek loves it.

"Ugh, fine, Sourwolf," Stiles relents, "but if we get murdered in our bed later, I don't want to hear a fucking word."

"Aww," Peter coos, coming out of his bedroom for his usual way-too-late snack. "You said our bed. That's sweet, Stiles. When'd you move in? I must've missed it."

"Last week. Duh," Derek says, never missing a beat. "We took the whole pack for pizza afterwards. Made Issac carry the heavy stuff."

Peter rolls his eyes and Stiles sticks out his tongue as Derek chuckles again, forcing him to leave every bit of that research he's conjured up over the last few days right where he dumped it when he walked in. And it feels weird. Stiles is used to staying up way too late at night to gather as much information as possible. Because a little lost sleep for Stiles has always equaled safety for everybody else.

And Stiles would gladly lose some shut-eye over even the remote possibility of letting one of their own get hurt. Or worse. Because Stiles knows it's the 'or worse' that leaves you hollow. It strips you bare. Until you're just a shell of yourself, struck down by pain and grief.

And he knows that Derek understands that feeling just as well as him, and maybe that's why they fit together so well. But whatever the reason, Derek's hand is warm in his and Stiles finds he doesn't care how or why they're here.

They're here. That's the point.