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So Stiles wakes up up like, five minutes late – okay, maybe ten – okay, three hits of the snooze button, but he spends half his nights running around in the woods lately, so he's entitled to a bit of a lie in. It's not his fault it happens on a school day. Stiles can't exactly control the cycles of the moon or anything to tailor them to a convenient weekend.
He leaps out of bed, grabs the first clothes he finds lying around on his floor, hopes they're not too gross, and sprints out the door, throwing himself into his Jeep. He floors it. At least with all this werewolf chasing, he's a lot better at speeding and staying in control than he used to be. Kind of awesome practice if he ever takes up a career as a getaway driver.
Sorry, Dad.
He gets to school a little late, but he totally gets away with it. Mostly because he skids into class around the same time as Jackson, and Jackson-(co-)captain-of-the-lacrosse-team gets away with a hell of a lot more than Stiles could ever hope for. Jackson actually looks even worse than Stiles feels, and Stiles hasn't showered since last night and possibly slept with a few leaves and twigs.
It's kind of gratifying.
Better than the weird looks that Stiles can feel Scott sending his way all morning. Like Scott's never been late himself, too. At least Stiles has the excuse of catching up on his beauty sleep and not, like, having his millionth wet dream about Allison.
He pulls a face, shuddering, because Allison is really kind of hot, Stiles can see that, but the thought of Scott having wet dreams really, really isn't. Mr Harris gives him a weird look at that, but he still doesn't get into trouble.
For a day that started with him almost face-planting off his bed onto the floor as he noticed the time, it's working out kind of well. Stiles 1, school 0.
Except then Scott grabs his arm outside their lockers just before lunch and says, “Stiles, hey, can we talk?”
Scott is his best friend and Stiles loves him – hence the sticking around through the whole teeth and claws and fur thing, and the whole Scott nearly killing him thing, and hell, even the Allison thing – but he's not a serious, talk about our feelings kind of guy, except again, sometimes with the Allison thing. They haven't even shared any classes with her yet today, though. It can't be that, and so the solemn expression on Scott's face is a little unnerving.
“What is it?” Stiles asks.
Scott drags him out to some random bench in the courtyard, because Scott still thinks that being seemingly alone guarantees more privacy than the buzz of the cafeteria that means no one can hear a thing. It blows Stiles' mind that even after Derek lurking around all over the place and appearing like magic from behind trees, Scott still thinks like this.
Stiles is bracing himself for Scott's latest werewolf discovery – maybe the stuff Stiles read on the internet is true and Scott is like, going to go into heat or something, even worse than regular teenage dude hormones – when Scott just says, “What are you wearing?” He's frowning.
Stiles looks down at himself. Okay, so it's not one of his wittier t-shirts or anything, just stripes with no slogan and a pair of jeans that may have seen better days, but what the hell? “Clothes,” he says. He looks Scott up and down. “Since when have you been the fashion police? Are you really in any position to criticise someone for their unexciting clothing choices, buddy?”
Scott's still frowning, like Stiles is transforming into some particularly tricky algebra problem right before his eyes. “You... you kind of smell,” he says eventually.
Stiles blinks. “Excuse me?”
“You smell,” Scott repeats slowly.
“I smell?”
“You smell.”
“I smell.” Stiles shakes his head. “In case it escaped your notice, Scott, I spend like, an insane amount of my time out in the woods with a werewolf. I didn't get time to shower this morning, I think it's natural I'm not gonna smell of flowers and perfume. Maybe I stepped in dog shit.” He looks pointedly at Scott. “Hey, here's a thought, gross, maybe I stepped in your shit.”
“No, you smell...” Scott actually looks uncomfortable. Jesus. “You smell like Derek,” he mumbles.
“I smell like Derek?” Stiles says. Sort of yelps, a little bit. What does that even mean?
“You smell like – like his scent, I don't know, it's weird.”
“I smell like Derek's scent?” Stiles' eyes widen. “Oh my god, dude, you think Derek smells? Can I be there when you tell him he smells?”
“He doesn't smell, Stiles, it's just his scent!” Scott is looking frustrated now while Stiles feels like he's a few steps behind in the conversation – it's a nice change of pace, except Stiles hates not knowing what's going on. “It's just – it's a wolf thing, it's like, it... transfers, I don't know, so his scent's just like, rubbed off on you.”
“Derek Hale has rubbed off on me,” Stiles says, and then he realises how that sounds, and that's – okay, he's bright red now, because that is an image that will never leave him and it's not quite as horrifying as the mental pictures of Scott he got earlier. Derek would be sort of forceful, probably. It probably wouldn't matter that Stiles is the most inexperienced person since the Virgin freaking Mary, because Derek would just... rub off on him.
Fuck. What were they talking about again?
“Stiles,” Scott says, “why do you--”
“I don't know!” Stiles says quickly. “I didn't even notice, you've got the wolf nose, you tell me!”
“I think it's your clothes.”
“Why would my clothes – oh!” Stiles looks down at himself again, and something clicks. He laughs, and hopes some of the heat is fading from his face, because look, a totally innocuous explanation. Obviously. “It's just the shirt! When Danny was over, you know, he noticed Derek had blood on his shirt – like what an idiot, way to look casual, who just walks around with blood on their shirt – so he had to change into one of mine. He was wearing this one for a while, that's all.”
“That's all?”
“What else would it be, dude? I slept through my alarm, this was the first one I grabbed.”
The worried look is starting to fade from Scott's face, although he still looks a little confused. “Okay. That... makes sense.”
“What did you think it was?” Stiles asks.
“I don't know, dude, it's Derek, he could've gone crazy and kidnapped you for all I know.”
“Scott.” Stiles rests his hand on Scott's shoulder. “I promise I will tell you if Derek goes crazy and kidnaps me. Okay?”
Scott grins. “Okay. Good.”
*
The rest of the day is comparatively uneventful to the revelation that he's had a werewolf's smell rub off on him. Transfer to him. That his t-shirt apparently stinks of Hale.
Stiles actually catches Lydia's eyes across the cafeteria when they go back inside, and she smiles, which is totally down to him and not because of whatever Allison is saying to her. He gets top marks in the Physics pop quiz. He kills it in lacrosse practice – even coach notices. He almost gets Stiles' name right. It's a good day. Stiles might do some homework later uninterrupted save for his own mind. If they go the whole day with no more mysterious animal attacks, maybe he'll have dinner with his dad.
Then he gets home to find Derek sitting on his windowsill, waiting for him like some overgrown, Gothic ornament.
“Oh, God,” Stiles says. Bad manners, but damn, he was having like, an un-supernatural afternoon, and he'd been enjoying it. “What are you doing here?”
Derek stalks across the room over to him. Stiles thinks Derek is incapable of a normal walk. He'd like to see him try the whole casual thing one day. “Stiles.”
“Scott's at Allison's,” Stiles tells him. He doesn't know that for sure, but it's a pretty safe bet. “Not here. Sorry, dude.”
“I'm not looking for Scott.”
“What's going on?” Stiles frowns. “Is someone gonna try and kill me again? I could really do without that for a little while.”
Derek shakes his head. “It's not that.” Stiles actually can't tell if Derek is frowning back at him or not – maybe it's just the natural shape of his eyebrows. Maybe all those tales Stiles' parents told him when he was a kid were true, and Derek was just glaring when the wind changed. “I was tracking a scent. It led me here.”
“What, your own scent?” Stiles asks. Derek tilts his head, which is as good as a question from him. “I had, uh, a weird conversation with Scott earlier? Apparently taking our friendship to this clothes-sharing stage has made me smell of you. You've rubbed off on me.” And okay, why do people even let Stiles talk? Maybe if he never opens his mouth again he'll save himself at least a small amount of embarrassment. Maybe not, though. He has a special skill for it.
“Almost my own scent,” Derek says. He keeps glowering. He's – whoa, he's very close. He breathes in deep, and Stiles tries to look away from the intense, maybe about to commit murder look on Derek's face only to catch sight of his own reflection in his window. Burning red. “It – I didn't expect it to lead me here.”
“And yet here you are.”
Derek looks more perturbed right now than he did when he was asking Stiles to hack his arm off. “Our scents have mixed.”
“On my t-shirt? Yeah. So I don't do enough laundry, so what?”
“You shouldn't be wearing it.”
Stiles doesn't know how this is his life. He got through the whole school day without getting into trouble and now Derek Hale is telling him off for wearing his own clothes. “Dude, it's my shirt.”
“You smell...”
“Like you, yeah. Scott told me.”
“No.” Derek is even closer now, like, Stiles is backed up against his door and there's no more space between them close, and Stiles is kind of concerned his face might explode, especially when Derek sniffs and adds, “You smell like us.”
Stiles opens his mouth. He closes it again.
Look at that – he's lost for words.
“Take it off.”
Stiles gapes. “What?”
Derek's face is near-impossible to read, but Stiles could swear that for just a moment, he looks shifty. Then again, maybe Stiles just isn't used to seeing Derek's face up so close. “Do you know how dangerous it is for you to smell like this with everything that's going on out there?”
“Are you serious?”
“I tracked it here.” Derek raises an eyebrow. “Doesn't that make you wonder who else could?”
It's a good point. It's a sound, logical point, but Stiles is having a little trouble getting past the fact that Derek is asking him to take his shirt off in front of him. Stiles isn't Derek. He isn't used to parading around half-naked all the time, and he doesn't have that body, either. He's not exactly comfortable with the idea.
And yes, he's noticed. He's not blind. He's noticed in detail. Derek is that guy all guys wish they could be.
Stiles has just never undressed in front of anyone. The locker room doesn't count.
“Fine,” Stiles says, and huffs out a breath like this is inconvenient to him, not like it's just intimidating and making his heart beat a little faster. He pulls the shirt over his head fast, like ripping off a band aid – except it gets tangled around his head somehow, because of course it does. “Better?”
Derek snatches the shirt from him. His nostrils flare. “Yes. Now go and shower.”
“You're just going?” Stiles asks. He doesn't know what else he expected, but – something, maybe. More of an explanation. What the hell Derek means by us. At the very least, some sort of taunt about his heartbeat picking up; Stiles did a lot of research for Scott, and he knows Derek can hear it.
“Shower,” Derek repeats stiffly, and stalks back across the room to jump out of the window.
Stiles showers, and he does not think about being shirtless in front of Derek or the deep way Derek had been breathing, breathing him in, or anything at all about rubbing off.
Not as much as he could, anyway.
*
Stiles isn't snooping.
He isn't snooping because it's patently impossible to snoop around the home of a werewolf. Stiles knows. Derek's not in right now, but he probably won't even need to have his house in sight to sense Stiles' presence. There's no point trying to hide it, and Stiles isn't doing anything wrong.
So Stiles is here. Coincidentally. While Derek is not. He's waiting for Derek to show up.
Stiles just isn't very good at waiting.
The Hale house has always kind of fascinated him, and now that he's here without Derek breathing down his neck or anyone trying to kill him, it's the opportune chance to explore. The place is what his dad would definitely call a death trap, and Stiles is what his dad calls bizarrely accident-prone, so it's not really that surprising when he almost pitches down the staircase to his doom in his explorations. He has no idea how Derek survives out here. He doesn't even have a bed, just a mattress and a pile of blankets.
From his new vantage point sprawled across the dusty floorboards, Stiles spots something out of place in amongst the dark blankets.
It's a flash of orange and blue. It's familiar. It's – well, it's his t-shirt, Stiles realises as he drags himself up and tiptoes closer, uncomfortably aware that he's essentially trespassing in Derek's bedroom right now. Somehow it feels even more invasive than when Derek forces his way in through Stiles' window.
Maybe because Stiles isn't hiding articles of Derek's clothing near his bed.
After he's demanded Derek takes them off in front of him.
He's still pondering that one when Derek sneaks up and scares the shit out of him, silent in his approach until he's in the doorway and saying Stiles' name. Stiles jumps about a mile in the air, the sort of athleticism he wishes came more easily to him in lacrosse, and blurts out, “Scott!”
“No.” Derek's frowning again. Or still. He needs to work on his range. “Derek.”
“No!” Stiles waves his hands around, gesturing wildly to the mattress behind him. “I just mean, I came here to ask you about Scott, he's being weird, like, weirder than normal – but you've got – that's my shirt.”
“This is my shirt.” There's that look again – shifty, if Stiles was going to label it, as though Derek is being deliberately dense.
“But – in your bed, dude, that's my shirt!”
“Oh. That. Yeah.”
Stiles waits, but Derek doesn't seem to be forthcoming with any explanations, and so Stiles flaps his arms around a little more. “Are you sleeping with my shirt?”
“Why are you here?”
“Why are you sleeping with my shirt?”
Derek sighs, as though Stiles is the one being weird in this situation. “I'm not. I told you, someone could track it. I couldn't just leave it any old place.”
“So you hid it in your bed? Like that's your security? I can't leave this thing in any old place, so I better sleep with it?” And damn, Stiles really needs to think through his word choices before he opens his mouth. Now he's thinking of Derek, Derek sleeping with – well, not sleeping with Stiles, but--
And not rubbing off on him, but--
Derek steps back away from him. By this point, that's actually more intimidating than the looming. At least looming is standard Derek, and Stiles know where he stands with that. “It's a scent thing,” he says stiffly. “Don't worry yourself about it.”
Stiles' wonders if Derek even realises who he's talking to. All Stiles does is worry himself. His brain rapid-cycles through every conversation he's ever had with Derek before it settles on the right moment. “Do you mean an us scent thing?”
“You shouldn't have worn it. Then I'd never have known... You shouldn't have.” Derek jerks his head in the direction of the door. “You can go now. If Scott's having trouble he needs to see me himself.”
“Huh?”
“Stilinksi. Leave.”
“Leave?”
“Leave. Opposite of staying right here.”
“But like – dude.” Stiles gapes at Derek. “What do we even smell like? How do we smell like anything?”
“Nothing.”
“Look, I may not be a big bad wolf, but even I know you can't track nothing.”
“Scents mix.” Derek glares at him. “It's not rocket science.”
“And you think we make some sort of tasty scent cocktail?”
Derek looks as though he'd be much happier ripping Stiles' throat out than having this conversation. He shakes his head. Stiles would never say it – or Stiles would never say it deliberately in a place where Derek could hear – but he reminds Stiles of a dog shaking off water. He grinds out, “It's a wolf thing. Forget it.”
“And what--”
“What do you smell like?” Derek growls, really growls, and that as much as the fact Derek is apparently reading his mind now and knows what he's about to say makes Stiles feel hot. He's flushed all over as Derek – yep – stalks back over to him. “You're a teenager, Stilinksi, you smell of hormones and hope and neediness.”
“It's kind of insulting to reduce me down to that,” Stiles says, while his hormones go crazy. With Derek's sudden renewed proximity, Stiles is grateful for once that his mouth seems to run on batteries independent to the rest of him. Stiles' fight or flight instinct is going crazy, except it's not, it's like, flight or fuck.
This is not good.
Or it's awesome.
“I am so not needy,” he adds.
Derek doesn't snort – Stiles thinks that would be too expressive for him. He exhales heavily through his nose though. “Okay. You smell of washing powder and like your dad, too, is that better?” He pauses. “Not as much as the neediness. And I need you to go.”
Stiles' heart is beating so fast Derek would probably be able to reach out and grab it and kill him with his eyes closed. “What else?” he asks, and what the hell, why does his voice have to tremble, what's up with that? “Why do you want me to leave, what else do I smell of?”
“You smell...” Derek's eyes are dark, burning, and Stiles could swear for a second he sees a flicker of red. “Right now, Stilinksi, you smell of arousal, you know that? You stink. I could smell it before you even felt it.”
Stiles gulps. His mouth is dry. Then again, the air is dusty, so there's the perfect explanation – places like this always used to set Scott's asthma off. “I... I have never seen someone look so pissed off when they talk about arousal,” is what comes out when he opens his mouth. It's true – Derek's claws are making an appearance, his hands clamped down by his sides – but it's probably not going to serve him well, pointing it out. Stiles wants to deny the whole arousal thing, but what's the point? Fucking werewolves. “Like, wow. You got some intimacy issues there, Derek?” He throws his hands up before Derek can retort. “I'm sorry, but this is like, crazy.”
“Tell me about it,” Derek mutters, and he could make sounding disgruntled an art.
“So together... we smell like...?” Stiles prompts. He's sweating. He is actually sweating, palms slippery, and he doesn't dare glance down because if he doesn't, he'll never know just how obvious his boner is. Ignorance is bliss, after all.
Derek is actually gritting his teeth. “Mates.”
Derek's breathing sounds like Scott's mom's when she does her yoga, deep and intense, but he doesn't look at all relaxed. Which is good, because Stiles is going out of his freaking mind here. “You don't mean that in oh, say, a British gangster movie, alright mate Guy Richie kind of way, do you?”
“You know I don't.” Derek's nostrils flare. “I know you know I don't.” He swallows hard. Stiles watches the movement of his throat. “You need to leave, Stiles.”
“Are you kidding me? You think I'm gonna leave after that? This is huge, this is like, a revelation. This is big.” Stiles is reasonably sure that Derek won't kill him right now, not if he associates Stiles with the whole mate thing, but he makes an effort to shut himself up. Not the time to push his luck. “Like, wow.”
“Stiles.” Derek's claws are back in now, but his fingers are still stretched out as though he expects they might make another appearance. “I need you to leave.”
If Derek could smell Stiles' arousal before, he must be drowning in the stench of it now. Stiles is pretty sure it's coming off of him in waves because Derek is so close, and Derek keeps growling, and Derek is talking about the two of them and Stiles is so turned on he can no longer think.
This explains so much about Scott.
“So what do mates do?” Stiles manages. This close Derek must be able to smell everything, the desperation – maybe even those times Stiles jerked it and tried and failed to pretend he wasn't thinking about Derek. “Is there like, an etiquette?”
“We don't do anything.”
“Derek,” Stiles says.
“Stilinksi.” There's a beat. “Stiles.”
Stiles keeps his eyes fixed on Derek's. “I don't want to leave.”
And Derek bites out – actually bites the word out - “Fuck,” and strides over, gets Stiles against the wooden doorframe and presses his nose to Stiles' throat, breathes him in.
*
Stiles has a splinter in his back and scratch marks on his wrists and he comes in his pants before he can even drag Derek over to the mattress, Derek pinning his hands up above his head and letting Stiles rub himself off against the solid thigh he presses between Stiles' legs. He sniffs at Stiles' neck, digs (human) teeth into Stiles' shoulders, and Stiles would be ashamed of all the noises he lets out, but it's the hottest thing that's happened in his life. In anyone's life maybe.
It's not like Derek seems to mind.
“You're infuriating,” he mumbles roughly into Stiles' neck. He rubs his jaw against the line of Stiles' throat, a rough drag of stubble. “You drive me crazy, you stupid, reckless kid, you just. You smell.”
He sounds nothing like Scott did when he made that accusation. Thank God.
“Do you know what you do to me?” Derek scrapes his teeth over the marks from his stubble. “You shouldn't be here.”
Stiles drags in a breath through his open mouth, swollen from the wet, hot clash between him and Derek, panting. He fists his hands in the lapels of Derek's ever-present leather jacket. “Yeah, yes,” he stammers, “tell me,” and then he comes in his pants before Derek can say another word, hits the back of his head on the doorframe as he shudders through it.
It doesn't even hurt. Or it barely hurts. Stiles loves endorphins.
“Oh my God.” He's struggling for breath. “Oh my God.”
Derek noses at Stiles' jaw. “Shouldn't be doing this,” he says, even as he lets go of Stiles' wrists to slide one hand up under Stiles' shirt. His palm is hot. Stiles is burning up though, so they're well-matched.
“Dude.” Stiles laughs breathlessly, desperately. “Derek, this is so – it's so too late for that, we're so past should and shouldn'ts, we're - ohhhh,” he moans. When he arches just right it's almost too much sensation, right after coming, but he can feel the hard shape of Derek's cock through their pants.
Derek is hard. Derek is so hard, all because of Stiles, and Stiles wants to feel it, he wants it in his mouth, he wants--
“Bed,” he manages, and the smirk Derek gives him is filthy, and look at that.
A whole new expression.
*
Stiles stretches his arms up high above his head, peering into his locker. He's already forgotten what book he needs. He can barely keep track of what classes he's got today. He aches all over, sore but good, and the low burn in places he didn't even know could hurt before is seriously distracting.
It's also seriously awesome.
“Hey, man,” he says as Scott leans against the locker next to his. “What's up?”
Scott's wearing his confused puppy look. He says, “You smell weird. You...”
He breathes in deep and his eyes go wide. Stiles winces, waits for it, and does his best to clamp down on the grin he hasn't shaken since Derek crept out of his bedroom window at ass o'clock this morning.
“Oh my God, Stiles!”