#I'm debating whether to stain the wood I think I will but I definitely need to test a patch of scrap first because

[neverendingford]

hardwood comb project

I forgor to buy a lighter colored wood for the spine/core so I can't keep working on it tonight cause all I've got is the walnut.

[pale-silver-comb]

Hi. I love your blog and all the little headcannons (canon?) you do. I also noticed you're amazing for writing little stories for people who are having a tough time. Would it be too much to ask if I could have one? I'm suffering from a bout of depression/insomnia and I'm running on about 4 hours sleep in about 3 days. What do you think of Derek or Stiles getting insomnia from all the stuff they've seen and the other just cuddling them through it? Trying to stay awake so they're not alone?

Hey, sweetheart. The depression/insomnia combo is horrible. I don’t know if it will work for you but earlier this year I stumbled upon ASMR videos. I know some people find them weird but they really helped me when it came to getting to sleep. In the mean time, I hope this little fic does something to help. 

Stiles thought being able to sleep after the Nogitsune had been the universe’s way of balancing out the good and bad in his life: get possessed by a psychotic Japanese fox but sleep like a baby every night after. As it turned out, being able to sleep after a spirit uses your body to murder a bunch of people came down to the fact Stiles hadn’t had a break since finding Laura Hale’s body that night in the woods.   

He believed joining the academy would be a fresh start, and in many ways it was. He just didn’t count on the fact that now he didn’t have pure evil trying to kill him at every waking moment that his brain would finally find time to process it. Stiles had always been a fan of ignoring his problems until they eventually, just, go away; watching his friends die, looking down at his own body and knowing it wasn’t really his but the cardboard cutout left behind by the Nogitsune, the memory of watching Derek almost -

He assumed - stupidly - that he had been successful in that particular endeavour. As long as he had his pillow, he was fine. You’re going to be fine. That was what the faceless people of the internet said. Stiles didn’t think “fine” was ever going to be an option for him but he guessed hope was a nice sentiment. 

“Insomnia,” Scott said, repeating the word back to him. Stiles could practically hear the concern, loud and clear, ringing through the phone. It instantly made him feel worse. Heaving a sigh, he scrubbed a tired hand down his face. Maybe he shouldn’t have called.  

“Yes, insomnia.”

Scott was quiet for several seconds.  “Do you have your pillow?” he asked. 

“Yes,” Stiles answered. He was currently clutching it to his chest, sprawled out on his bedroom floor. It was 3am, the floor was hard, and if he didn’t get some sleep soon he was going to start crying; the kind of crying he hadn’t done since he was a kid and his mom took ill. 

“What about drugs?” Scott suggested. “I could ask my mom-”

“No drugs, Scott.”

“But-”

“I said no drugs, Scott.” 

The line went quiet again and Stiles felt his eyes begin to sting. This was a mistake.

“Sorry, man, I have to go.” 

He hung up before Scott could respond, deciding he could feel guilty about it later.

~

At the academy, he was on auto-pilot. Luckily, Stiles had come up with some of his best plans during the last four years on little-to-no sleep, so it wasn’t overly obvious to his fellow agents-in-training that he needed several cups on coffee just to get through the day.

It was obvious to someone though. Someone who clearly thought it was their sworn duty to haul Stiles over their shoulder in the middle of his third run to the coffee shop that day and deposit him in the back of their car. 

Stiles wanted to protest - he should protest, call for help, maybe? - but he had had his eyes closed when the stranger grabbed him, had been drooling on a statue, leaning against it for moral support, as he had waited for his order.

Plus, the stranger’s arms felt nice. 

In the back of his mind, Stiles couldn’t decide if thinking a stranger’s arms felt nice during a potential kidnapping - fuck, please don’t let it be a supernatural kidnapping - was because of his sleep deprived state or if that was just the way he was wired now. 

It was only when a door opened and a familiar pair of eyebrows slid into the driver’s seat did Stiles begin to laugh. Hysterically. 

“Of course,” he said, shaking his head and pressing his lips against the cool leather interior. Familiar hands strapped him into the his seat. “Of course it’s you, big guy.”

Derek just gave a slight huff and muttered something Stiles couldn’t hear, but it sounded an awful lot like, yeah, I missed you, too. 

Stiles laughed again. It was crazy, what your mind came up with when it wasn’t functioning properly. 

~

Stiles didn’t sleep on the way to….wherever Derek was driving them, but he also wasn’t present enough to argue when Derek lifted him out of the car and carried him up several flights of stairs. 

“Hey, dude,” Stiles slurred, suddenly very, very comfortable. He wrapped his arms around Derek’s neck and nuzzled into the power of The Scruff. He wasn’t ashamed to admit he had thought about nuzzling Derek’s beard more than once. “Where have you been?” He yawned, nuzzled in further. “Also, you’re a fucking built teady bear, did you know that?” 

Derek stopped at a door - hopefully is own - and manoeuvred Stiles until he took the hint and wrapped his legs around Derek’s waist. It wasn’t as good a position but Stiles would take it, shooting finger guns behind Derek’s back as he heard the sound of keys jingling. It was definitely his apartment then. What a good sourwolf. 

“Were you getting better?” he asked, when Derek didn’t answer. He yawned again and tried to muffle the sound against Derek’s neck. “Man, I hope you were. Hope you got a bunch of nice friends and a barbecue. I always thought you’d look good with a barbecue. I’m going to be in law enforcement. How crazy is that? I’m finally going to get a gun.” 

Derek snorted but it was the kind of sort that could also be construed as fond. Stiles didn’t know why, but it made something in his stomach ache, just a little.

Man, he was tired. 

“I got better, Stiles,” Derek whispered, carrying him inside…..somewhere that was much nicer than Derek’s old loft and definitely nicer than that train depot. Stiles shuddered at the memory of it. He could only make out a couch and a rug so far, his eyes felt so heavy, but it was a bright couch and rug: blue and orange, respectively. Stiles grinned. Derek was a secret Mets fan, he knew it. 

Derek snorted again and muttered something about Stiles having poor taste in baseball. 

Stiles was about to say something, because excuse you, but Derek beat him to it.

“Shhh,” he said, entering another room. A bedroom. It was huge with a massive window. In the corner was the biggest book case Stiles had ever seen. “It’s okay. I’ve got you this time. I’ve got you.”

Stiles let the words wash over him like a balm. He didn’t even know he needed those words but apparently he did. Apparently he needed them a lot. He kind of wanted to cry and again, he didn’t know why. 

Stupid Derek Hale, making him feel things. Always making him feel things.  

“That sounds nice,” he said instead, eyes permanently glued shut now. They were never going to open again. It was decided. This was his final resting place. In Derek Hale’s bed. “Please don’t leave this time.” 

What a way to go. 

~

When he woke, it was 3am again. Stiles’ first, miserable thought was, it’s always going to be like this, but then he stared a little closer at the alarm clock.

First of all, it was an actual clock, not just his phone. Secondly, there was a picture of Cora next to it. The last time he checked, he did not have a picture of Cora on his night stand. For another scary moment, he thought he might have amnesia but he quickly ruled it out. Not that he didn’t like Cora but she was definitely not the Hale he’d choose to have a picture of next to his bed. 

“I called the academy,” Derek said, making Stiles jump. He was standing in his bedroom doorway, carrying a mug and what looked like….a historical novel. Stiles bit his lip hard, more than a little amused by the cover: two guys, locked in an embrace, wearing togas. “I told them you had a fever and were pretty out of it. Said you’d be back Monday.” 

Stiles frowned, tearing his eyes away from the book. He’d tease Derek about it later. “What day is it today?” 

“Friday.” 

Derek stepped hesitantly into the room and handed Stiles the mug. It was filled to the brim with milk. Strawberry milk. Stiles smiled, feeling a little shy, and took it, wondered if Derek Hale was the type that drank strawberry milk now or if he just spent the last hour in some supermarket debating whether or not to add it to his basket. 

Stiles kind of hoped it was the second one. Derek Hale in a supermarket; now there was an image. 

“So,” he grinned, not entirely certain if this was about to slide on down to awkward territory or not. Derek was back. He was in DC. The last Stiles heard, he was in France. “I half passed out in some coffee shop and you just happened to be passing by? I always knew you were a creeper Derek, but really?” 

Derek raised an eyebrow - ah, there we go - and Stiles dropped his grin, looked down instead. He was wearing a jumper over the t-shirt he had been wearing yesterday. It was soft and smelled strongly of coffee. Inhaling, Stiles briefly wondered if it was possible to breathe in the caffeine. He’d never been a coffee drinker - milkshakes all the way - and if he had to stare down one more cup just to stay awake, he didn’t know what he was going to do. 

“Actually, you passed out in the coffee shop where I work,” Derek said, causing Stiles to look up so fast he practically fell out of the bed. The picture of Cora went flying and what once was very delicious strawberry milk, he was sure, was now a giant pink stain on Derek’s bed. 

“Um,” he said, trying to look more sad about Derek’s sheets rather than the loss of his milk. He had no doubt he failed. “Oops?”  

Derek’s other eyebrow rose to meet his first, before he ducked his head and smiled. Stiles had the strongest, stupidest urge to say, please never stop doing that for as long as you live. 

“Is it that unlikely for me to be working in a coffee shop?” Derek asked, looking up again. Stiles couldn’t read his face but somehow he knew he wasn’t waiting for a punch line. 

“Derek Hale: barista.” Stiles tried it out on his tongue. “I like it. Do you threaten people with your teeth when they’re rude to you?” He waggled his eyebrows and winked, lying back down more fully on the bed. “Wait. Do you help bake the pastries?” Shifting to the other side of the bed, he buried his nose in what he assumed was Derek’s pillow and shamelessly breathed in. Whatever, he could blame it on his lack of sleep later.  

Derek laughed, light and lovely, and Stiles was a little more than instantly smitten. Then again, he’d always been just a little instantly smitten with Derek, hadn’t he? Even when he used to fantasise about punching him in the face. 

“No,” Derek said, “but I do spit in their drinks.”

“Classy.” Stiles nodded slowly and tried to remember the last time he saw Derek look like this: happy, like his whole life hadn’t fallen apart when he was sixteen. It was sad that the answer to that was never. Even through all the fucked up weirdness during the past four years, Stiles at least had had snatched moments of normality. 

He wondered if Derek had gotten to see the new Spiderman movie yet.  

“Hey, Sourwolf?” he asked. “What are you doing until Monday?” 

~

Stiles still didn’t sleep. 

He didn’t think it would be as easy as having someone to sleep next to, having someone to hold and be held by. But it was easier. When he felt like screaming, Derek was right there. He listened to him, listened to every thought that entered his head and poured out of his mouth - the good, the bad and the ugly. 

Derek opened up the coffee shop for him sometimes and made him hot chocolate and talked more than Stiles had ever heard him talk; he told him about his year travelling around the world and the three months he stayed with Cora. He talked about his family. He told him how Isaac was getting on and that having this job was the first time he felt good about himself. He talked for an hour, one night, about the youth group sessions his colleague ran for troubled kids and how he sometimes went along, fully shifted, and let the kids pet him. 

“I knew you secretly liked belly rubs,” Stiles accused him, spraying his buttered scone everywhere. Derek grimaced. “I had a dream about that once, the night you left.” He felt his cheeks flush and watched as Derek blinked and did the same, before reaching out and lacing his fingers through Stiles’.

It was the first time Derek had ever held his hand and Stiles had to admit, it was a pretty damn good feeling. 

“Sometimes I dream of you, too,” Derek said, biting his lip. “I dream of you a lot, actually.” He rolled his eyes. “You’re usually talking me ear off about something.” 

Stiles laughed. “Hey! How do you know that wasn’t really me? I could have been trying to reach out to you, dude!” 

The air went tense - Stiles had already told Derek about the dread doctors - and they stared at each other. 

“I suppose,” Derek said, shrugging, “but….”

“But?”

Derek took a deep breath and averted his gaze. “But in my dreams you were always….you always returned my….” He frowned and stood up, going to make himself another piece of toast. Stiles had learned that Derek was a bit of a toast fiend, especially when there was chocolate spread on the go. He no longer had that ridiculous six pack, either, Stiles had noted fondly. Not that he still didn’t look like a Greek God. 

“I always returned your what?” He was almost afraid to ask, in case it wasn’t what he thought, in case it was what he thought. “You know, Derek, we’ve always had a pretty solid relationship based on mutual exchange. You save me, I save you. I’m cool with, you know, carrying on that….tradition.”

Derek’s eyes lifted to meet his, toast half smothered in something that smelled like chocolate and hazelnut. It’s going to get cold, Stiles thought distractedly, staring at it. Getting up and walking over to him, Stiles leaned across the counter that Derek was standing behind - he looked like an adorable little kid, like he was hiding, hunched over. He took a bite of the toast. 

Derek zeroed in on the chocolate spread now sticking to Stiles’ chin and blinked, like he was realising something. 

“You know I’m not ready for something…..like that, right?” he asked, looking away. His hands were shaking a little. 

“Well, neither am I,” Stiles said, climbing on top of the counter, until he could put both hands on Derek’s shoulder. “All I’m asking is for someone to make me hot chocolate when I can’t sleep and for that person to sign a contract saying a full night of spooning is not an unreasonable demand.” He took in Derek’s tired eyes, the nervous slope of his mouth, and wondered how much better Derek had really gotten. How far away he really managed to get from it all. 

“I’d do the same for them,” he continued. “I mean, I don’t have a fancy ass coffee shop or anything, but I always keep ice cream in the freezer. Plus, I have all the Harry Potter movies on DVD and a kick ass Star Wars blanket.” 

Derek slowly looked up, smiled at him. The tips of his ears were pink. “And how do you feel about versatile spooning rights?” He coughed. “Is that in the contract?” 

Stiles pretended to think about that, even though it was a lost cause. He knew Derek would hear the way his heart was thumping treacherously away at the prospect. “Okay but I get to be the big spoon, like, at least seventy percent of the time. I like being held okay? I do but holding you -” Stiles froze, eyes widening. “Uh, I mean….holding someone. Holding someone has always appealed to me more.”

Derek narrowed his eyes and held up the toast for Stiles to take another bite. Stiles wasn’t sure if feeding him was a werewolf thing or a Derek thing, but Stiles found he liked it. It had been happening a lot lately. 

“Does that mean I’m going to have to suffer you talking in my ear seventy percent of the time? Because if you are, I’m going to have to invest in a pair of ear muffs.” 

Stiles smacked him across the shoulder and Derek grinned. 

“Just kidding,” he said. 

Sudden drowsiness swept over Stiles then - he was never going to catch up on all his lost sleep -  and he rested his forehead against Derek’s. It felt nice, really nice, and a terrifying thought came into his head. Terrifying because it didn’t even scare him that much: I could do this forever. 

“Let’s go home?” Derek asked, cautiously. 

It took them both a minute to realise what he had said. 

Stiles grinned, offering Derek the last bite of toast. “Yeah, Mr Barista Man, home sounds like a good place to start.”