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When Derek approaches Stiles in the dark locker room, Stiles' body lights up with anticipation. His heart rate thrums so fast there's something musical in the cadence of it. A wet-smelling musk rises from Stiles' armpits, ripe and warm under the ugly scent of his deodorant. Stiles is not afraid. He wants.
Derek smiles, showing his teeth. "Are you ready?" he asks. It won't be complicated. Not here with Stiles in a towel, the pale skin at his side exposed -- that bare swell above his hip made for the shape of Derek's mouth.
"Um. Here?" Stiles asks. His eyes dart around the empty room.
"Did you have somewhere else in mind?"
"I -- you know. No? This is. Well, it's a locker room." Stiles' tongue darts at his lips. "This is about to become a big cliche, isn't it."
Irritation flares in Derek's gut. He's chosen Stiles because Stiles is intelligent. He's a problem solver. He's bold. He's loyal.
But he's also a colossal pain in the ass.
"What are you talking about?" Derek asks, letting his voice dip to the gravely snarl that makes people listen carefully.
"Making out? In a locker room? Gayly? That's kind of a thing on the internet. You might have heard of it, it's this literally world wide network. Like a web, you might even say."
Derek's careful snarl falls apart. "Making out? What?"
Stiles looks around the room. "The lights are out? We're alone? You're doing that... stalky thing? Unless." He blinks. His lashes are long, like a giraffe's. "Are you here to kill me? Because seriously. Not cool."
"You think I came here to kiss you," Derek says, tripping over the word kiss because Stiles' stupid, pretty mouth catches his attention right as he says it.
"I'm really kind of out of options if you're not. I mean we don't usually chat with the lights out. Actually, we don't usually chat at all. And whatever, fine. Then what are you doing here?"
"I came here to offer you the bite," Derek says. "A decision I am now regretting."
"Because you think I'm gay? That's discrimination, you know."
"No." Derek snarls. It isn't a self-assured, persuasive kind of snarl. It's the resisting the urge to rip Stiles' soft belly to shreds or push him against a wall to make his heart beat even faster kind.
The sound makes Stiles flinch. His shoulders rattle back against the lockers, and that's satisfying. For about a second and a half. Because after that, Stiles says, "Anyway, I don't want it."
Stiles looks away as he speaks. His fingers bunch up in the edge of the towel around his waist and he pulls the white fabric up, fidgeting. Covering more of his body. He's not lying, but something else is wrong.
The scent of him changes.
Derek frowns, thrown off. Teenagers are confusing. He's getting used to their whiplash moods and hormones and hyperactive bodily functions but he didn't expect Stiles, of all of them, to be this... confusing.
"What do you mean you don't want the bite?" Derek asks slowly.
Stiles clears his throat and shrugs. He has a mole on his shoulder. "Your creepy and now very dead former alpha already offered it."
"And you said no," Derek says.
"Yes, even after his ultra dramatic speech about how I could level up out of my pathetic existence. I said no." Stiles looks at Derek directly. It's clear in his stance and the darkness of his eyes that he's angry, but there's something else, something Derek can't quite place until it's there in his nose and his mouth. The scent is raw and unpleasant, like stale water.
Disappointment. Embarrassment.
Derek takes a full step back, exhaling to clear his head.
"Are we done here, Derek?" Stiles asks. "Because the answer isn't changing." His jaw twitches. "Not even for you."
Derek is halfway home before he realizes what that meant. His claws rip long furrows into the bark of a tall oak as he uses the tree to catch his momentum.
"Fuck," he says.
***
The next time Derek sees Scott and Stiles, one thing is immediately clear:
Scott has no idea what happened. He doesn't give Derek any more attitude than normal, and the aura of possessiveness about him is mostly focused on Allison. As usual, Scott reeks of love.
Stiles acts like a little shit. Nothing unusual there.
***
Derek likes dawn. He likes the way the landscape of the forest changes as the light creeps in. The trees appear to shift, as if they're stretching and waking to the morning light. Derek likes the way the sounds mingle as the night's creatures settle and the day's buzzing insects and wakeful animals stir.
As the sun comes up, Derek stands on his porch and breathes in the change of day. He's not an idiot. He's aware of how he looks standing there barefoot on the splintered wood, gazing.
But this morning, it's like that little snot is standing next to him. If Stiles saw him now, he'd spout off asking Derek to see his werewolf poetry notebook or he'd smell like warm sleep and precome and--
What?
Derek roars, sending a small flock of doves fluttering for the canopy in terror.
***
People don't say no to Derek. It's a thing. He knows that if he stays quiet, people talk themselves into knots and twist themselves up with indecision and in the end, it's just easier for them to do what Derek wants.
Or he smiles and flirts, which he's perfectly capable of when he needs to. He'd do it more often if it didn't seem like cheating.
Stiles doesn't stop at saying no. He starts acting like a complete brat every time Derek's around, and it takes a lot for Stiles to be upgraded from annoying shit to complete brat.
Derek chooses his words carefully. He speaks when it's important. Right now he has important things to say.
And every time he glances at Stiles, Stiles is rolling his brown eyes so hard it looks like he'll cause himself permanent vision damage.
"Derek?" Scott asks, noticing, probably, that Derek trailed off in the middle of talking about how important their strength as a unit is. How they're all going to die, horribly, if they don't get their shit together in a major way. It's undeniably important. Life or death important.
But Derek forgets what he's trying to say when he sees Stiles. Instead, he thinks about how much he wants to take Stiles by the back of the neck. How much he wants to hold him down. How much he wants to mouth at Stiles' skin all over, to find the secret places that hurt and want.
Derek wants to fuck Stiles Stilinski.
"I'm right here, Scott," Derek says irritably, rubbing the hard ridge of bone at his forehead. "I'm just thinking about your moronic puppy love getting us all eviscerated."
Shit. Shit.
***
With the Argents crawling through Beacon Hills like a virus, and a pack full of horny, emotional and sometimes menstruating werewolves, Derek doesn't have much time to sort out his feelings.
So he ignores them. It isn't that hard. Most of his attention is taken up by being either frustrated or infuriated.
Until the Argents run Stiles and Scott off the road and into a muddy ditch. In the dark, racing toward Stiles' Jeep on all fours, all Derek can feel is fear. Blind, bloody fear. Not fear for his fellow werewolf, Scott, but fear for Stiles and his human, breakable body.
Derek doesn't think, he runs. And he runs. And he runs.
"Holy Werewolf Christ!" Stiles shouts when Derek shows up at the wreck. "Please, Derek. Scare me to death. That will definitely help with the enormous freaking car accident."
It takes Derek a moment to shift. Stiles watches him, unflinching. Despite the blood on his face and the unnatural angle of his trapped body, Stiles still looks pissed.
"Why are you acting like this?" Derek asks. He's yelling more than he means to but the situation is unsettlingly overwhelming and he's so absurdly happy that Stiles' heart is beating strongly.
"I honestly cannot," Stiles says. "Are you serious right now?"
"Where's Scott?"
"Oh, are we asking real questions now? Or just -- making no goddamn sense ever still?" Stiles' eyes are overly bright with emotion, and maybe he's in a little bit of shock.
"Are you bleeding anywhere else, or just from your thick skull?" Derek asks.
"I'm not bleeding. I'm just pinned," Stiles says, more quietly now. "In my totaled Jeep."
It doesn't take very long to twist the ruined frame away from Stiles' body. Derek has to work his arms around Stiles to lift him out. When he lowers Stiles to the unstable ground on the incline near the wreck, he doesn't let go of him.
"Listen," Stiles says against Derek's neck. "I appreciate this weird, crushing hug thing you're doing, but--"
"Shut up, Stiles."
"The hunters are after Scott. In the woods. You should, you know. Get him." Stiles moves to push Derek away, but he doesn't try very hard. Derek has seen Stiles practice. He's stronger than this.
"It's all right," Derek says, speaking awkwardly against Stiles' short, fuzzy hair. "You're okay."
"Of course I'm okay! I just hit my head. My Jeep." Stiles' voice breaks. "Why'd they have to kill my Jeep, Derek?"
Derek catches himself rolling his eyes and sighs instead. "Where's your phone?"
"Crushed."
"Here," Derek says, pushing his cell into Stiles' cold hand. "Call your dad."
They break apart slowly, haltingly, as if they were doing something other than recovering in a completely normal, natural way from what was probably a very stressful car accident.
Stiles licks his lips as he nods. "Yeah. Thanks, man."
***
For being the home of an officer of the law in a town ravaged by resourceful wild animals, Sheriff Stilinski's house is surprisingly easy to break into.
Derek goes to Stiles' bedroom. He can't even tell himself it's to startle Stiles and throw him off guard when Stiles gets home. Because Stiles is in the hospital under observance after getting his head stitched up.
In the still, empty house, Derek enjoys the smell of Stiles. It's out of control. (It's not like the kid stinks. He's just -- it's heady.) And the bed smells like the sex Derek knows Stiles hasn't been having with anyone but himself. The thought of that makes Derek ache to relieve his own arousal, but he won't cross the wobbly line he's drawn for himself.
Sitting in Stiles' room on the floor smelling things is okay. Crawling up into Stiles' bed and masturbating is probably not okay.
He'll do that when he gets home.
***
"I have a webcam," Stiles says.
Derek raises his brows. "That must be riveting for your computer friends."
"In my room, Derek."
"That's how those things work, right?"
They're in the forest because Stiles, despite having been discharged from the hospital less than four hours ago, decided to walk to Derek's house. Derek met him a quarter of a mile out after hearing him shuffling through the dry leaves like he was deliberately trying to attract every predator in the county.
When Derek travels, he doesn't amble. So it's incredibly strange to be walking slowly next to Stiles, so close their hands nearly brush together.
"I don't think you're getting what I'm saying," Stiles says. "I don't use it to jerk off to strangers on the Internet. I use it to catch Scott trying to gank my porn."
"That's not a webcam, it's a security camera," Derek says. Arguing is much better than processing what Stiles is telling him.
"It is, in fact, a webcam. Functioning, yes, as a security camera. It works remarkably well for catching broody werewolves creeping on your bedroom. Apparently."
Derek doesn't say anything.
A tenth of a mile later, Stiles mutters, "Unbelievable."
***
The Hale House isn't exactly set up for entertaining.
They sit on the porch.
"You know, it's actually kind of pretty here. Despite the ambiance of violence and terror," Stiles says.
"It's nice in the morning."
Stiles laughs. "Sure. I bet you sit out here sipping tea and reading the paper. To woodland creatures."
Derek shrugs.
After another long pause punctuated by trilling birdsong, Stiles breaks a twig he's been fidgeting with and looks at Derek. "You were serious."
"I'm not opening a bed and breakfast. I said it was nice."
"That's not a bad idea, you know. You've got a whole pack to run the place," Stiles says. Under the smell of antiseptic, the bitter scent returns. Derek doesn't like the way it lingers on Stiles' skin, masking the sweetness of it.
"You could join us."
"The hospitality industry isn't really my thing."
"You know what I mean," Derek says.
"When I said no to Peter, he told me I was lying to myself."
"No," Derek says. "Or at least, you're not now."
"It's stupid, I guess." Stiles is mumbling now as he drums his broken twig halves against his knees. "But I like myself. Not all the time, but more or less. I don't want to be different. More focused. Better. All that stuff. I want this to be good enough."
Playing therapist usually comes with the territory, but Stiles isn't in his pack and if he was, Derek would probably throw him into a few trees until his bones hurt too much for his feelings to hurt.
"I didn't turn Scott," Derek says.
"Yeah, I know. I was there. Sort of."
"Will you just listen to me?" Derek says, snapping. The birdsong goes silent.
Stiles turns toward him slowly and folds his hands in his lap and tilts his head. At least the snark is back.
"The others? The ones I chose? It was because they needed me. They needed this. But you?" Derek takes an agitated breath. This is worse than being electrocuted. "I wanted you. I -- my pack -- could use you. Because you're good enough."
"Wow, you could do after school specials."
Derek pounces before he thinks. Reason doesn't catch up with him until Stiles is on his back, cringing. Derek is so close he can see every blue-black suture just below Stiles' hairline. The skin around the cut is angry. Swollen and already bruising.
"Your anger management skills sucks, man," Stiles says softly.
"Only around you."
Stiles' heartbeat accelerates. Derek frowns, the timing of that sinking in. Stiles wasn't scared. He's still not scared.
"Sorry," Stiles says, "But I'm calling bullshit on that. You're half a raised hackle from tearing someone's lung bones --"
Derek kisses him.
Stiles squirms at first, grabbing Derek's jacket and wiggling beneath him. Then he eases into it and parts his lips, and when he wiggles again it's to roll his hips up at Derek like he's ready to go straight from first kiss to dry fucking right there on the Hale House porch.
Derek controls the kiss, barely. It's more like the kiss equivalent of a thumb war. With his tongue pressing against Stiles', Derek realizes this isn't going be any easier than it was before. He doesn't care. Stiles doesn't smell sour anymore. He doesn't taste empty. Stiles is smiling into the kiss.
When he pauses long enough to let Stiles catch his breath, Derek asks, "Lung bones?"
"Shut up. I have a concussion."