AN: Oh my god. This is so much longer than the others. AHHHHHH. But it's finished. That's it, I'm done with the movie marathon fic. I'm actually kind of sad about this, but someone gave me an idea for another series involving Teen Wolf characters watching movies, so I'll probably write that soon. So many ideas, so little time! I hope you've all enjoyed the story and that anyone reading this has a great day!

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. At all. Ever.

Technically it would go down in the books that Derek Hale came back to Beacon Hills on a Saturday, but Stiles was pretty sure that the technicalities of the moment were in the po-tae-toe/po-tah-toe zone and they didn't actually keep a book on the coming and goings of the population of Beacon Hills. Besides it was like, somewhere between two am and five am and everything that happened between those weird hours always hung on some technicality or another. Stiles had just gotten up to put in the last DVD when headlights pulled across his front windows, jarring him out of his lazy not-sleepy-yet-but-give-it-twenty-minutes limbo state and into complete alertness. He was the only one who could see it, mostly because of the blanket fort, a slumber party stable at that point, but also because Erica was trying to suffocate herself under a mound of pillows to escape watching the movie while Lydia watched on with a raised eyebrow and everyone else was pretty much completely unconscious or seriously dozing.

They had been hyped and shaky and awake all night for the first five slumber parties, but as the weeks passed they started to return to normal sleeping patterns. It was their tenth slumber party and Boyd was all but comatose in Stiles' dad's old squishy brown armchair, legs over one arm, shoulders pressed against the other and head propped mostly upright against the back, while the snuggling trio dozed in the quiet break between movies. Lydia, Erica and Stiles were the only three completely awake, though Scott woke up at the sound of the car, blinking at the blanket fort's wall like an overgrown child.

"Whah," Scott yawned. Isaac curled further against Scott's stomach and Allison snored softly from where she was wedged in between their bodies. Stiles shrugged at his best friend, just as confused as the sleepy alpha. Lydia frowned at the side of the fort, like she could mathematically equate the options of who the fuck was in his yard down to one.

"Your father's shift doesn't end for another few hours," she announced, looking faintly annoyed. Stiles made a face at her, because if there was anyone who knew his father's schedule it was him, thank you Lydia. She ignored him, because childish faces were beneath her radar.

"Ethan would have texted me if he was coming over," Danny said, from his face down position on the floor. Stiles jolted, because he hadn't realized Danny was still awake. But the goalie was obviously trying to pretend this wasn't how he was spending his Friday night, though Stiles wondered why he still bothered. He had been doing this for over a month and despite his protests he showed up at seven o' clock, on the dot, with the wonder twins in tow each and every Friday. Stiles wondered if it was the choice of movies for that night. There was a fifty-fifty chance about that, because on one hand half of their movies were the shit and on the other half the movies were just plain shit.

"That doesn't leave very many options," Stiles said, frowning. There was pretty much Peter and, well, Peter left after that. Which, just in case anyone was wondering, was exactly where Stiles drew the line in the sand. He was not having creepy undead uncle Peter at his super awesome movie marathon pack slumber parties. Erica made a face at him from where she was curled up against the foot of Boyd's armchair, her nose crinkling. She was wearing one of their shirts, though whose Stiles really couldn't tell anymore, and a pair of Batman boxers that Stiles were pretty sure were his as pajamas. She wasn't wearing any make-up and Stiles found he liked her better like that, all mused and wrinkled, in a baggy shirt and flimsy shorts. It definitely looked more comfortable than her usual tight ass showy clothes, that was for sure.

"Their heartbeat is familiar," Erica said, sounding annoyed. Stiles shot her a lopsided grin at the childish way she spat the words before the actual words themselves hit him, dropping it down into a frown. That pretty much meant whoever outside had probably tried to kill them before. Yippee. "But I can't place it," she continued, trailing off as she cocked her head to one side."

"So, not Peter," he clarified, cocking his head to the side.

"Not Peter," Erica promised. Lydia frowned at her, biting her lower lip faintly as her face scrunched up in thought. Stiles studied her face and then, when the headlights outside cut out, abruptly decided that he didn't care who was out there.

"Fuck it," he said aloud. He picked his way across the room as the previews for the movie started, stepping in the space between Isaac's hip and Allison's stomach with utmost care. Scott sort of lifted his head when he passed, his eyes mostly open and very obviously worried. He was making need backup? eyebrows at Stiles and Stiles shook his head, making a nah, I've got this shrug back. Scott didn't look completely convinced, though, and made moves to sit up until Lydia's hand landed on his shoulder. She was hunched over, the top of her head brushing the top of their fort, and her hair fell down in perfect curls despite the pillow fight reenactment from an earlier movie's battle and the wrestle for the last cupcake. Stiles made a face at her in confusion, because there were some aspects of Lydia he would never understand.

"Head down, Scott," Lydia snapped, not unkindly. Scott automatically dropped his head, making Stiles laugh a little bit under his breath. Lydia would have made a gorgeous alpha, he thought fondly as she daintily stepped over Scott, bouncing in and out of the trio's tangled mess of limbs with practiced ease. Once Lydia was at Stiles' side, her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed as she made for the front door, Scott slumped back into his doze, satisfied that Stiles had capable backup. Stiles snorted again and followed the tiny teenager to the front door, where she was slipping into a pair of old hiking boots that Stiles' recognized from his middle school days.

"You people have got to stop stealing my clothes," he said, no heat in his tone as he followed her example and slipped on a pair of shoes. He didn't have on socks, but he didn't really care. He pulled his metal bat out of the closet, figuring they were better safe than sorry, and Lydia delicately pulled a small spray can from her purse where it was hanging in the hall. The mixture a sort of supernatural pepper spray, courtesy of Deaton, and Stiles had a can himself, up in his room, tucked innocently in the corner of his desk.

"Pick your battles, Stiles," Lydia responded primly, seconds before she pulled one of his plaid shirts over her shoulders, followed quickly by an old sheriff's department windbreak of his dad's. How she managed to pull his clothing out of thin air when he could hardly find a pair of pants and a shirt to wear in the morning for school was another of those things he'd never understand about Lydia Martin.

His freshman fantasies about Lydia had been correct, though; she looked good in his clothes. All warm and rumbled and homey-like. Stiles wondered if that was the pack-feeling Deaton was always going on to Scott about, but was dragged out of his thoughts when Lydia made to reach for the front door. Stiles rolled his eyes to the ceiling and moved past Lydia, gently bumping her out of the way to open the door. Lydia might have been absolutely capable and terrifying beyond all measure and probably going to do more damage with her special pepper spray than he would with his bat, he was never, ever going to put her in between the danger and himself. That wasn't how his father raised him or how his mother had dreamed he'd be. He was brave enough to face whatever wanted to come knocking at his door at oh god o' clock without hiding behind a girl.

"Whatever you're thinking, stop," Erica warned him from the other room. He imagined she looked smug at using her werewolf super senses to pretty much read his mind from one room over. His friends were freaky individuals and if any of them actually got mind reading powers he was officially logging out. He wondered what had given it away, his scent or his heartbeat? Or was it a third spidey-sense, the kind all women had to feel when the men around them were being douchebags? "Because," the blond continued, voice mild and completely flat, "it feels sexist and I would like to remind you that I can break every bone in your body in less time than it would take you to recite them."

"Duly noted," he promised. Lydia snorted behind his shoulder and he shot her a smile before opening the door and trying to step outside. He huffed in shock at the cold and barely made it a foot before he stood frozen in the doorway, shivers tracing down his spine. "Fuck," he breathed, a white cloud escaping between his lips, "it is cold as shit out here."

"It's almost Christmas," the person standing awkwardly at the end of his front porch said. Stiles flinched and made an abortive jumping motion in surprised, then watched as they moved their hands, shoving them in their pockets and shifting on the balls of their feet. The motion was familiar, but the voice was even more so. "Plus it's snowing, so of course it's cold. Idiot."

All the muscles that had tensed when the lights had hit the window relaxed, all at once. The end of the bat hit the wood flooring of his old porch, the quiet thud falling flat in the early-late-early hour of the night. Pressed against his back, probably on tiptoe to see over his shoulder, Lydia sighed, her breath warm and wet against his neck and ear. Stiles would bet money on her rolling her eyes at the looming figure in the darkness.

Something landed softly on Stiles' shoulder and stayed there. A second later a flashlight came on and the beam hit Derek in the face, making him flinch. Stiles glanced back, surprised, and got the satisfaction of being completely right; Lydia rolled her gorgeous eyes at the dramatic nature of the former alpha, flashlight propped on his shoulder for stability.

"Must you be dramatic and creepy at every turn, Derek?" Lydia asked. It was obviously rhetorical, but Derek's mouth opened a little bit like he was going to answer. Lydia moved the flashlight's beam to hit his eyes again and he shut his mouth with a click, ducking the beam. "It gets old, you know."

"Be nice," Stiles said, feeling the need to defend the guy. He liked Derek, okay, and he had missed the creeper when he had been gone. He was even willing to admit that, out loud, if necessary. But only if it was absolutely necessary, because he had his pride, alright. "Besides," he argued, "dramatic and creepy looks better on him than Peter."

Lydia huffed in his ear, sighing like he was a great disappointment to her and then disappeared back into the house, taking the flashlight and Stiles' ability to see Derek's face with her. She didn't even flourish her hair at the creeping, snow dusted werewolf. Lydia must have missed Derek too, then. Stiles turned after her just a bit, listening to the way her voice fell to the edges of his hearing range as she talked to Erica, most likely announcing the return of their wayward sourwolf and griping about the stupidity of boys. Derek shifted awkwardly on the edge of his vision and Stiles squinted at him, feeling like they were teetering on the edge of something important. It was a lot like gripping the edge of that metal tub again, like sitting sprawled in chemistry and looking at the tension in Erica's shoulders, like being eight years old and staring across the playground at the dark skinned floppy haired kid with the scraped knee and the broken dinosaur toy.

When he thought about it, there was only one option for him to choose. So he shifted his weight, rolled his shoulders, and gave Derek his best smile, crooked and lopsided and more than a little bit awkward. "Don't be such a sourwolf, Derek" he said, feeling his chest go tight and his throat go dry as he did.

There was a sound from the dark, at the edge of the stairs leading up to his porch, like Derek was chuckling. Six months ago Stiles probably would have made a big production out of that, tried to wind Derek up until he was rearing for a fight, but he was tired and Derek probably stank of travel, all air conditioning and dusty sun and stale sweat, and he didn't want to fight with Derek right now. Maybe tomorrow, he thought, feeling himself relax further at the thought.

"What are you guys doing? Is everything okay?"

"What?" Stiles asked. He glanced around, more than a little confused, and the realized what Derek was talking about. He rubbed a hand through his hair, shrugging. "You talking about the pile of heartbeats in the living room? Because, I swear, they're fine. Sleepy, but all in one piece and unharmed, except for the wounded pride from the pillow fight. It's Movie Marathon Slumber Party Night."

Stiles didn't have super werewolf eyes, but even he could see the quirk of Derek's lip, could tell from the drawl of his voice that he was amused. "Movie Marathon Slumber Party Night? What are you, twelve?"

Stiles threw back his head and laughed, the sound curling into the corners of his darkened yard. "You're a lot more giving than my dad," he said, taking a few steps away from his open front door and down the steps of his porch. Derek got a little clearer, a little more defined. It wasn't quite the full moon, but it wasn't a new moon either. The snow made everything fuzzy, though, so he was within three feet of Derek's broad, tense shoulders before he could clearly see Derek's features. Derek tilted his head at him and Stiles felt his mouth curl in response.

"Dad said we were acting like five year olds," Stiles added, muttering it under his breath like it was a secret.

"How is he?" Derek asked, shifting awkwardly. Stiles smiled at him, pleased that he had asked, and ducked his head down a little as he answered.

"He still resents the salads, but he's pleased with the Real Bacon On Saturday rule he managed to pass in our corrupted court. He's pretty much adopted the leather trio, though Lydia and Allison are, admittedly, his favorites. I think he likes the girls more than he likes me."

Derek snorted a little bit and his eyes gleamed in the dark. Stiles watched as the man's eyes darted behind him and he imagined Derek's shoulders were tight with curiosity and not, like, cold or discomfort. Stiles bit his lip and stuffed his freezing fingers into his pockets, only to find he was wearing pocket-less sleep pants. He scowled down at his pants, remembering that somehow he had been bullied into wearing one of the girl's pajama pants. In the name of equality or something. He couldn't quite remember, but he wasn't wearing his own pants and they didn't have pockets.

"Why don't girl's pants have pockets," he wondered aloud. He didn't expect Derek to answer, but then the man took a step forward, shrugged his shoulders and cracked his neck. Stiles looked up at him, only to find he was actually looking down on him, Stiles eyes being level with Derek's hairline from his perch on the step. Huh, he thought. Derek cleared his throat.

"Laura used to say it was so that they could scam more women into buying purses," he offered, quiet and careful.

"That makes sense," Stiles said, just as quiet, just as careful. Derek's dead family would probably always be a sore tentative topic with him, just like Stiles' mother would be to him. Stiles glanced back at the house, light creeping out of the open front door as he considered how to continue. He could just see Lydia standing at the end of the front hallway, leaning against the doorway to the living room. Her red hair gleamed in the light from the kitchen. It looked warm in his house. He turned back to Derek.

"Do you think I would make a good Han Solo?"

Derek's face wrinkled in confusion. From back in the house Stiles faintly heard Erica shout something, something that was probably give it up, Batman, but he wasn't sure. He grinned at Derek's confusion, shrugging his shoulders at him when he made a noise like a rumbling growl at him.

"Stiles," Derek growled, which was the equivalent of a pouty whine on anyone else.

"We do this thing every week," Stiles explained, running his frozen hands through his hair. There was snow in it, though it was falling from the sky at too slow a rate for Stiles to really track. He made a face at it and continued, trying not to feel ridiculously self conscious about their little game. He liked their game, he told himself. It didn't matter what Derek thought of it.

"We trying to, uh… What's the word I'm looking for here? Cast?"

Derek's head tipped to the side and he said, "Erica says sort."

"Sort'll work," Stiles agreed. "We pretty much sort each other into the different character's roles of whichever movies we're watching. We started with Avengers and then we watched Disney movies. We've watched Harry Potter and, uh, Indiana Jones and, like, six other things I can't think of right now because it's cold as shit."

"Yeah? Who were you in all of those?"

"Spider-man, for Avengers, though he isn't in the movie, he's in the comic universe. For Disney I was Mushu-"

Derek laughed suddenly, before Stiles was even finished talking, his teeth glinting in the dim light from the house behind him. "Erica says you were Belle," he said, leaning up into Stiles' space and grinning at him. Stiles' heart seized up a little bit and he tried to scowl, shooting an overdramatic glare back at the house.

"For the last damn time, I am not Belle," he told the house behind him. In front of him Derek laughed again, a warm sound that made Stiles' toes curl in his boots. Or at least they tried to, but his toes were too numb to curl. Everything about him was going numb. They probably needed to move this conversation inside.

"Other than that I was named Headmaster, deemed to be Indiana's museum buddy, the one that always runs off in the wrong direction and shit; I can't remember his name-"

"Marcus Brody," Derek supplied, quietly. Stiles grinned at him, wider than he had in months. He nodded.

"Yeah, Marcus. But right now I'm trying to argue to be Han Solo instead of Isaac."

"Ah," Derek said, humming in the back of his throat. He was grinning a little bit too, or maybe that was a shadow. Stiles didn't think it was a shadow, though. "Who is Isaac trying to argue you are," Derek asked, playing along.

"R2D2, which would be cool, except, you know, Han Solo." He made a broad gesture to show how Derek knew Han Solo and Derek nodded, short and serious. "Wanna know who you are," Stiles prompted, bouncing on his toes. Derek's eyebrows shot up and he looked over Stiles' shoulder at the house again. Stiles thought that if Derek was anyone else he might have bitten his lip. Stiles steamrolled on, figuring the less time he gave the former alpha to back out the easier it would be on everyone.

"If you wanna know you'll have to come in and watch Episode Three with us."

Derek glanced down and then back up, eyes focusing somewhere between Stiles' eyes and the space over his shoulder. His little shadow grin was gone and Stiles found he missed it. "The new one?" he asked. He was already taking a step forward and Stiles bounced up the steps and back toward the house, matching Derek move for move.

"Yeah, it's the last one of the night. We started with the original ones and then the new ones, because we figured it wouldn't be such a big loss if Scott wasn't awake to see them. Can you believe he hadn't seen Star Wars before this? Dude, even Lydia had seen it before now!"

They reached the top of the porch and Stiles' back bumped into the doorframe, nearly clocking the side of his face on his own house. Derek, once he stepped further into the light from the hallway, was just as scruffy and gruff looking as he had been upon hightailing it out of town, though some of the pain around his eyes had leeched away. Time did a lot for guilt and pain, in the right place, given the right amount of room to work. Stiles knew that from experience. Leaving had been a good move on Derek's part, Stiles acknowledged reluctantly. He just wondered why Derek had come back.

I missed you, Stiles thought. He almost said it too, but then Derek took a step around him, into his house, muttering, "I like Natalie Portman," under his breath and Stiles let it go.

"Sure you do, Chewy," he said instead, bouncing into the house. Lydia glanced at him, something in her eyes that he couldn't place, but he ignored her. Derek gaped at him for a second as he darted around him, shedding the jacket he had pulled on and dropping the bat back against the closet door with a loud clunk. Stiles saw the exact second Derek spotted the poster with the glitter glue rules on it, the man's shoulders fall slack as he chuckled under his breath. Stiles grinned at him, feeling his face start to ache with the joy.

"Stiles," Erica shouted, dragging him away from his Derek induced grinning, "close the goddamn door and stop letting all the heat out. I'm not above stealing more of your clothes to keep myself warm over here."

Derek stiffened at the sound of Erica's voice and Stiles flashed back, as he did sometimes in his nightmares, to Derek crouched over Erica's barely alive body, pale and stricken and scared. Stiles reached out, curling his hand around Derek's bicep and giving him a little squeeze as he kicked off his shoes and blindly shut the door.

"Jeez, Catwoman," he called back, not caring if he woke Boyd. "Maybe we wouldn't have this problem if someone was a little more economical with their fort building and saved a few blankets for other uses, hmmm?" He turned around to lock the door and whirled back around, only to find Derek in Lydia's place in the doorway between the hallways and the living room, kitchen glimpsed over his shoulder. Derek was looking between the living room and Stiles, a little bit baffled, a little bit amused.

"I cannot believe you built a blanket fort," he said, eyebrows rising judgmentally. Stiles bounced up, knocking his shoulder into Derek's. They really were the same height, Stiles noticed, their shoulders touching as they took up more room than there was in the doorway. It was kind of squished and kind of warm and kind of nice.

"Shut up, sourwolf," he teased, shoving past Derek. The shove was even more gentle than the one he had given Lydia earlier, to get to the door. He decided not to dwell on that and instead made his way to the couch. He turned to talk over his shoulder, however, because he could never leave well enough alone. "If you make fun of our awesome fort I'm taking ten points from Hufflepuff."

"Hufflepuff?"

Derek's shocked and slightly appalled face was worth the two and a half hours it took to get the pack to agree to that decision. It really, really was. Stiles crawled through their blanket fort (Erica really needed to make them taller) and collapsed on the couch with glee, his body twisting so he could fix his eyes on Derek's face to watch every flicker of conflicting emotion dart across his face.

"Hufflepuff is a noble house," Danny imputed, still face down. He sounded a little more sleepy than he had before, which, added to the way his limbs were starting to spread like a jellyfish's tentacle-things, probably meant he had about ten minutes before he was out cold. Stiles marveled at Danny's ability to take things in stride.

"Talk shit get hit, Miguel," Danny continued, smirking a little at the corner of his mouth as he turned to curl on his side.

Stiles fell off the couch, knocking his legs into Erica's as he roared with laughter. Boyd didn't even flinch. Stiles couldn't breathe for a few minutes as Derek stared at the living room, mouth a little bit open, cheeks a little bit more pink than they had been before, the color barely showing under his stubble. Lydia rolled her eyes to the ceiling and Erica made curious noises in the back of her throat, kicking Stiles' leg when he didn't answer her who the fuck is Miguel questions.

"Fifty points to Hufflepuff, Danny boy," Stiles promised, making his wobbly, grinning way back onto the couch next to Lydia. Erica groaned loudly from the floor, twisting around to glare at him venomously.

"For the last time, Stiles Stilinski, you are not and will never be Dumbledore. Dumbledore doesn't even sort people into the houses, the Sorting Hat does!"

Derek blinked at the living room as a whole. "I regret coming home," he informed them, which was total bullshit. Stiles opened his mouth to call him on it, but Lydia knocked him in the ribs, stopping him. Lydia gave Derek a quiet, chilling look, one that had their big bad former alpha fidgeting slightly like a child.

"Shut up and sit down, Hale," she said, eventually. "You're blocking my view of the television."

Derek did as she bid, kicking off his shoes and shedding his jacket (proving he wasn't raised in a barn, Stiles thought, internally snickering) before he carefully stepped his way through the room and to the portion of the couch Lydia indicated with a small flick of her fingers. Erica gave the man a tight small smile after Stiles not-so-discreetly kicked her and Lydia pressed play, just as Derek sat on the couch, his jean clad thigh pressed slightly against Stiles'. Lydia threw her legs over both their laps like this was business as usual, which made Erica snort and grin at her, tension easing from her shoulders.

"Welcome back, Derek," Scott slurred from the cocoon of tangled limbs. Derek shot him a surprised look before ducking his head as the famous Star Wars intro started, leaving Stiles to only catch the barest of glimpses of the smile that spread across Derek's lips.

The Sheriff didn't really have much to say about coming home hours later and finding Derek Hale wedged onto the couch in Lydia's usual place, his son sprawled mostly against him. If he was surprised that Lydia Martin, unofficial boss of everyone, had moved to the armchair while Boyd was tangled on the floor with Erica he definitely didn't say anything about it. It wasn't that he wasn't surprised, Stiles overheard him tell Melissa over the phone days later; it was just that it didn't seem right, kicking out that boy after all that had happened to him. (Those were his father's exact words, Stiles reflected with a snicker. He had called Derek boy like the man wasn't six foot and all muscle. It was great. Perfect even.) But Derek had called the Sheriff sir in a stiff and awkward way all morning until his dad took pity on him and told him to cut the crap and loosen up.

It had been the best moment of Stiles' life, because a second later the Sheriff had shoved a plate full of flower shaped pancakes into Derek's hands. Derek had hunched over them like he thought they might explode, his ears glowing pink, his shoulders curling up to his ears over as he stuttered sir again, reflexively. Stiles snickered until Allison kicked him in the shin, shushing him sleepily.

"Be nice," she said as she passed him.

"I'm always nice," he replied, which made Derek snort and grin at him, abrupt and quiet like he couldn't help it. Stiles grinned back at him, leaning over to grab the edge of Derek's shirt and haul him closer. The rest of the pack, minus the wonder twins, filled up the kitchen and the dining room with noise, his dad presiding over them all with a little half smile he and Melissa had shared a lot during Scott and Stiles' childhood. It was the half smile of a pleased parent and Stiles was so glad to have that expression back on his dad's face.

"I missed you," he whispered to Derek, bumping their shoulders together as he snatched a piece of bacon off of the former alpha's plate. Derek shot him a look and his grin got a little bigger, a little looser, and his shoulders relaxed even more fractionally.

"I think you'd make a good Han Solo," Derek replied, bumping his shoulder back into Stiles'. Isaac groaned from his position starfished on the dining table, any actual words he was trying to use getting tangled between the hardwood surface and his face. Erica made a face at both of them over the rim of her coffee mug (the one Stiles had painted for her at their paint-a-pot outing three weeks before, because painting premade pottery was surprisingly relaxing) and muttered something about playing favorites.

"Did you sort me into every movie," Derek asked, three days after he returned. He was perched on Stiles' windowsill, seeming to appear out of nothing at all, but Stiles didn't jump or scream, because Derek didn't scare him. The late afternoon sunlight was a halo around his shoulders, making the way they were hunched to his ears even more obvious.

"Yeah," Stiles answered, easily. He was supposed to be writing a lab report for chemistry, but he had been playing League of Legends instead. His headset was curled around his neck, his buddies still shouting and grumbling through the speakers. He muted his mic and glanced at his screen, but he was still dead, would be for another ten seconds.

Derek didn't move or say anything. Stiles snorted and cracked his neck, reaching for his mouse when the countdown to his respawn hit three. "You can come in, you know," Stiles said, idly reengaging in the game. "I'll even tell you who you were, in most of them. We didn't sort you in all of them, because sometimes there just wasn't a fit, but you were in most."

Derek slid off the windowsill and quietly made his way across the room. He pulled up the spare chair Isaac had dragged up earlier that month and sat on it, slow and unsure. Stiles swore quietly under his breath when some bastard playing Caitlin shot his ass down.

"Hufflepuff," Derek said, like a prompt. Stiles hummed and didn't bother to hide his grin.

"You care about other people, don't lie. It's your best feature, especially since you got rid of your shiny car."

Derek huffed something that might have been a laugh and ducked his head down. He was sitting backward on the old kitchen chair and Stiles watched out of the corner of his eye as Derek folded his arms across the back of the chair and dropped his chin to rest on his arms. "Avengers," he said, instead of arguing. Stiles was a little disappointed; he had put a lot of time into sorting his friends into the different houses and he had wanted the chance to show off his reasoning.

"Wolverine," he responded, clicking at his mouse furiously.

"Wolverine," Derek mimicked. Stiles wished he could look away from the screen long enough to parse apart Derek's expression, but then Derek shrugged and moved on. "Disney?"

"Beast," Stiles said. He felt the back of his neck go warm, remembering that particular argument. He had been the one to suggest Derek as Beast, which had been a great idea, until Boyd remarked that Stiles reminded him of Belle. That night had spiraled out of his control after that.

"That's the best you could come up with?"

"There were arguments to make you Sebastian instead," Stiles informed him primly.

"Who was Ariel?"

"Erica."

"In that particular movie I think you'd be Scuttle," Derek informed him, just as primly. Stiles sputtered, finger slipping on his keyboard, and promptly died.

"Asshole," Stiles replied, a little fondly. "That makes Isaac Flounder."

"And Boyd Prince Eric?"

"But what about that old geezer that follows Eric around?"

Stile turned to Derek, slumping down onto his elbows in thought. "Huh. I don't know. But Scott is definitely Eric's dog." Derek snorted in reply, giving Stiles a crooked little smile in response.

"You're character's respawned," Derek informed him. Stiles yelped and whirled back around, wildly grabbing at the mouse. The countdown to respawn was still on his screen.

"You asshole," Stiles raged. "Just for that, I'm not gonna tell you who you were in the Mummy."

"The cult guy, right? The one with the cheek tattoos who is trying to keep them out of the pyramid."

Stiles sputtered, twisting a little so he could see the screen and Derek. Derek was grinning at him blatantly now, hair flopped over his forehead, nose pressed against one wrist. "No," Stiles lied.

Derek laughed a little bit more, picking up his chin so he could shift forward. "Bet you were the librarian chick," he said, "and that Scott was the main guy, the one played by Brendan Fraser."

"I was the brother, Jonathan," Stiles informed him, sticking his tongue out at him. "Lydia was Evelyn." Derek hummed, a sort of if you say so noise, before falling into a comfortable silence. The sun slipped further down the sky and Stile's character died several times before Derek spoke again.

"Have you guys watched the Riddick movies yet?"

Stiles paused. "No, we haven't. Holy shit. Why didn't I think of that? I cannot believe I didn't think of inflicting Vin Diesel on everyone earlier. I mean, who the hell would pass up the opportunity to watch Vin Diesel do shit, because hot damn, that man is fine."

There was a short awkward pause where Stiles realized he may or may not have just admitted he liked guys. "Pretend that never happened," Stiles told Derek, feeling the back of his neck heat up again. Derek gave him a small shit eating grin and opened his mouth. "No," Stiles hissed, feeling his entire face go red.

"I was going to ask what you were playing," Derek said, which was probably the worst lie in the world. But Stiles told him anyway, because it was easier than having to have a you're a curious teenager and that's okay speech with Derek. He had already had, like, three with Scott's mom and a couple more scarring conversations with Erica and Isaac. He absolutely and utterly did not need one of those from Derek. He would die.

That weekend the pack decided that for once Derek got to be the protagonist. Stiles pretended that he didn't find the thought of Derek with Riddick's strange eyes a compelling image. Isaac and Lydia had no such qualms, which lead to the first time any of them saw Derek blush like a lit up Christmas light. Stiles took a picture. They almost broke another lamp. Their record of unbroken lamps couldn't go on forever, though.

"And here I thought Derek would be above lamp breaking," his father said, two weeks after their Riddick marathon, when Stiles had to go lamp shopping once again. Derek was standing stiffly at his side, embarrassed and guilty like a little kid. Stiles resisted the urge to pinch his cheeks or take another picture. The Sheriff cleared his throat, pointedly glancing at the place where the lamp had been.

"We were watching Xena, dad," Stiles said, exasperated. "I cannot believe you expected the house to come out unscathed from that."

"Xena," his dad repeated, skeptical and more amused than he probably would have been had there not been werewolves in his life. "Oh? And who were you this time, son? Since Derek's obviously Xena."

Derek turned pink and then grinned, mean and vicious. Stiles tried to hush him, smothering his hand over Derek's mouth, but Derek just licked him. Stiles pulled back with a small shriek, his face heating because someone licking his hand like they were in elementary school should not be hot. While Stiles was distracted Derek took the opportunity and said, "He was Joxer, sir," before Stiles could interrupt. The Sheriff laughed so hard he had to sit down.

Stiles bought the most hideous lamp he could find. Isaac broke it the weekend before St. Patrick's day and everyone cheered, even Cora, who had come to visit Derek for his birthday only to find that he was too busy hanging out in a pillow fort arguing over the pros and cons to being Xander and didn't actually want to go out to eat with her.

"I drove, like, over twelve hours to be here," she said. She was standing in front of the television, staring in disbelief at the image before her. Stiles wondered what was the weirdest part of the picture, to her; the fact that her brother was wearing a pair of pajama pants with cutesy little moons on them and cuddling on the couch with Lydia Martin and himself, or the fact that the wonder twins were there, sprawled across the floor like tamed, lazy lions. It was probably a mixture of everything, Winnie the Poof blanket covering their heads included, he figured.

"Huh," Danny said, from his spot propped against Derek's legs. Ethan was sprawled with his head in Danny's lap, hording a bag of chips all to himself like the annoying bastard he was. Danny shot a look at Stiles, eyebrows raised. "You were right, Stilinski."

"Of course I was," Stiles said, without missing a beat. "But what was I right about?"

"Cora," Danny said.

"Cora," Cora repeated, looking murderous.

"Cora," Stiles echoed. He didn't really remember having a conversation about Cora with Danny. But most of his memory for conversations was saved for every little thing Derek said these days, so it wasn't that surprising.

"He said you were Tinkerbell," Danny elaborated, shrugging. "I can see it."

It took Cora less than ten seconds to decide that she didn't want to know. They explained anyway.

"You're all morons," she declared in the late-early-late hours of the night, after she had stolen a pillow from Isaac and claimed one of the floor spots as her own. Stiles had been dozing against Derek's shoulder, his nose jammed in the crook of the man's neck while his legs tangled with Lydia's. It was only too easy to fall asleep like this, he thought, what with Derek's heartbeat a lulling thump in his ear, but he grunted his protest to Cora anyway.

"Don't be rude, Anya," he muttered. Cora threw a pillow at him. Derek raised his arm and knocked it out of the air, so it fell on Ethan and Danny's sleeping forms instead. "Fifteen points from Slytherin for Headmaster abuse," Stiles grumbled, mostly into the fabric of the Wolverine shirt Boyd had gotten Derek for Christmas. Derek snorted into his hair and kicked at Cora's legs when she hefted another pillow to throw.

Cora subsided with a grumble. Derek curled down against Stiles' body, arm pressing against Stiles' stomach to keep their bodies together. Lydia pressed her cold toes against his ankle and mumbled in her sleep, while Isaac and Scott slept on, pillow still mostly on top of them, Allison tucked underneath them both. Aiden was sleeping next to Ethan, who was curled around Danny like the goalie was his favorite childhood stuffed animal. Erica and Boyd were practically one person in the armchair. Stiles stared at them all sleepily while the television showed Giles puttered around his house, Spike sitting on the man's couch, and felt content. Despite the deaths and the fear and the nightmares he still had that kept him awake more nights than not, he was happy.