Work Text:
“I’ll drive you,” says Derek, standing abruptly and snatching the keys from his father’s hand. There’s a lag for a few seconds before books flick shut, pots stop clanging against each other and the chatter ceases. Cora snorts.
“There’s a reason why Stiles doesn’t come over anymore, Derek,” she tells him. Even Talia looks concerned, leaving her afternoon’s work on the counter and striding forwards to place herself by the door.
“And whose fault is that?” Derek snaps back at her, vividly remembering Cora’s role in the sabotage Derek campaign, totally ruining any of his chances with the one person he’s met who smells like summer.
His words do the trick for his sister, her lips fastening and her feet stepping quickly over the floorboards and to the front door. Now he’s got to convince his parents it’s a good idea to drive Cora to the Stilinski household.
“Derek,” his father Andrew states. “Last time that poor boy was here you glared at him, you told him he smelled rotten, you manhandled him outdoors, almost stripped him and left him standing in the rain.”
“He did smell,” Derek argues. “Besides, if I drive Cora over maybe I can apologise.”
Peter chooses that moment to walk up, smile tight over his sharp teeth. “He also has your clothes, Derek.”
He remembers. Derek almost doesn’t want them back, wants Stiles scent to coat the fabric forever. The wolf inside him paws at that idea, relishes in such a beautiful scent outlining Derek’s property. The rest of the family can guess what he’s thinking.
“I think you’ll scare him,” his mother says.
“I won’t.”
“First you hated his scent-”
“It was corrupted.”
“And now you like it-”
“It’s not bad,” Derek admits. His mother sighs.
Really, this is all Peter’s fault. The man knew Stiles’ scent would drive him crazy. Now that Derek’s been privy to the warm slide of air in his nostrils he feels starved. It’s gotten to the point where as soon as Cora steps in the door from school or visiting the boy he migrates to the door and tries to catch the boy’s scent. It’s never very strong, always mixed with the other friends Cora has hung out with. His family have noticed though, and their concern grows.
“Fine, go. Don’t do anything stupid.”
Peter laughs. “Your words are wasted, sister. Derek is in love.”
“Obsessed,” he hears Cora yell from outside, followed by some harsh words at him to hurry up. Before his parents can say anymore, before they can interfere, Derek steps out of the room and slams the door to their shaky sighs.
His sister commandeers the radio as soon as the engine is on and for once Derek can’t bring himself to care because holy fuck he might see Stiles. He might smell Stiles. He might have an opportunity to put himself back in his good books.
“Derek? What are you doing?” Cora whines at him when he pulls into a convenience store. He ignores her protests about already being late and drags her by the elbow to the confectionary section of the shop. He points.
“What does he like?”
“Derek, come on.”
“Tell me. Chocolate? Sour sweets?” His eyes travel the selection of multi coloured sweets, a slight panic pressing down on his shoulders. He doesn’t eat lollies; he can’t remember or decide what someone else would like. “What does he eat?”
Cora stares at him. “Seriously?”
Derek gives a stiff nod. As far as he sees it, the longer she takes to help him the longer it will take to get to Stiles’ house and they’re already pushing fifteen minutes. She scowls, elbowing him in the ribs when she steps in front of him to get a good look at the merchandise.
Honestly, two werewolves trying to pick from chemically altered sugar train wrecks is hard enough. It all tastes disgusting to them unless it’s the good, over priced options. Or there’s the stuff that’s meant to taste like chemical blandness, but their family and most werewolf families don’t even bother buying it.
“I can’t believe you expect me to know what Stiles like,” Cora mutters. “He’s a teenage boy! He’ll eat anything.”
Derek tilts his head to the side. “Okay,” he says and takes one of every packet into his arms before striding off to the counter. He tries to glare as menacingly as possible while the old lady serves him, eyebrows raised in question at the purchase.
Cora sits next to him half embarrassed and half entertained. She can hear the uptick in Derek’s heart the closer they get to the Stilinski house hold, can probably smell the distress coming off him when they pull to the kerb.
“Don’t be freak,” she says as they knock on the door.
Within seconds the door pulls open.
“Hey-” his eyes travel over and his greeting stops instantly. Stiles’ eyes narrow and he gives a sharp nod. Inside, Derek is using all of his energy to keep his feet planted firmly on the ground, so much so that all he can give in return is silence. Cora rolls her eyes and pushes past the pair, leaving them to their own foolishness.
“Derek,” Stiles’ lips curl over the name and Stiles positions his body so that Derek can’t see the view into the house, arm raised so that Derek can see the mad flutter of fingers before they settle against the frame of the door. It’s a defensive gesture. Instead of answering, Derek shoves the plastic bag to Stiles’ chest, nose coming close, close enough to get a whiff of that same scent he’d gotten that rainy afternoon.
He steps back again and the bag slips to Stiles’ knees before he manages to catch it. The crisp afternoon air is silent, and Derek awkwardly avoids eye contact while Stiles stares at him. Slowly, so slowly that Derek feels like his patience is going to snap, Stiles opens the bag and lets out a huff of air.
“Um,” he says. “Thanks?”
“I’ll pick Cora up at eight.” Without another word he turns on his heel and stomps back to the car.
»
The night is a dull navy behind the passing streetlights and every few minutes Cora groans. Derek just grips the steering wheel tighter, pressing his toes down on the accelerator so that they can arrive at the Stilinski household before Derek loses his nerve.
They pull to a stop on the kerb and Cora’s hand reaches out to the strap of her bag. She shoots Derek an unimpressed look and a defiant stare meets her and holds. Derek twists his keys, hearing the soft jangle as he yanks them out. He leans over to the back seat as Cora exits the car, pulling the large plastic container into his hands.
Cora sighs when Stiles opens the door and the boy’s eyes snap to Derek’s. It’s not difficult to hear the slight uptick of Stiles’ heart, apprehension raining down from his eyes. Derek swallows, trying not to inhale, trying not to memorise the pattern of Stiles’ heart.
“Here,” Derek says, as Cora slips past them in the doorway. Long fingers reach out to meet Derek’s extended arms, and their fingers brush as Stiles awkwardly takes the plastic container.
When Stiles goes to inspect the box, a sceptical expression printed onto his face, Derek takes the opportunity to rake in the image before him; the soft light behind Stiles’ hair, the way his white shirt clings against his shoulders. He dares to sniff. It’s still intoxicating, mixing this time pleasantly with the smell of his mother’s cooking.
“Cookies?” asks Stiles.
“We had a lot.”
“Smells good.”
“Yeah,” replies Derek, ears turning pink as he thinks of what actually smells ridiculously wonderful.
“Not like me then,” Stiles says back, the corner of his lip winding into memories of distaste. Derek hesitates, eyes fluttering down before muttering a quick goodbye.
Derek turns on his heel, pausing ever so slightly as he hears the hitch in the boy’s breath. It’s not difficult to feel the confused stare on his back, and his ears prickle when Stiles finally closes the door.
He hears his sister’s voice from the kitchen. It’s not a secret that he’d be able to hear her words or the dull thuds of either heart beat, yet she speaks anyway.
“Sorry about Derek, he’s kind of weird.”
“No he’s not,” he hears the lie jump as Stiles speaks. “Yeah, okay, maybe he is. But cookies?”
Derek kicks his toes on the wheel before sliding into the car.
»
Carefully, Stiles takes the cardboard box of donuts made at the local shop down the road. Their eyes meet and Stiles looks unnervingly calm; movements smooth and precise. It’s really not Derek’s fault that when he dropped Cora off Derek heard the drawn out whine of Stiles craving donuts. He wanted to help.
The pair’s project is almost over and Derek is still scrambling for opportunities of redemption. Cora’s already in the car, a shrill laugh trailing after her as soon as she smelt the damn things, the sugar, theheat of the dough. Derek blushes. He doesn’t need his younger sister to tell him he’s pathetic, and the way Stiles’ shoulders are square and lips pursed in a determined expression, he knows Stiles is going to tell him too.
He’s going to be accused of being a creep and then Stiles’ father is going to shoot him. And get away with it since he’s the Sheriff and Derek is a fast healing werewolf.
Stiles moves around the corner to place the box on the kitchen table, leaving Derek standing awkwardly on the front steps with his hands in his pockets. Why did he have to go and fuck this up? Why?
He lets himself breathe in Stiles’ scent because it’s probably the last time he’s going to get the opportunity to do so.
“Dude,” says Stiles, when he comes back around. This time he’s not meeting Derek’s gaze. “You could’ve just said sorry. That is what you’re trying to do, isn’t it?”
Derek frowns. “Sure,” he mutters, wanting more than just that.
“Or not,” he hears Stiles say under his breath. “Your parents probably put you up to this,” he gestures around them, “the lollies, the cookies, the donuts.” Stiles finishes awkwardly, and Derek feels his chest tightening in embarrassment.
“I assure you,” he mumbles, “a plan as incredibly foolproof as this one could only be mine.”
Stiles snorts.
“And, I do, uh, apologise. So, sorry,” Derek manages to say somewhat clearly. Finally, Stiles’ gaze becomes more direct and Derek wishes he could touch him. He wishes he could let their scents mingle.
“You apologise?” Stiles repeats again. Derek nods. “For glowering constantly?”
Derek sighs, shrugging a little in affirmation.
“For manhandling me?”
He winces in return.
“For coming perilously close to stripping me?” continues Stiles with a grin and now Derek is just mortified. He tries to stammer his way out the door, mischievous eyes raking in on him. Stiles’ tongue darts out to lick his lips as he chuckles and Derek is dying.
“Wait here,” Stiles says abruptly, before whipping around and rushing up the stairs. He returns moments later with Derek’s clothes. “I, uh, washed it twice so it wouldn’t smell like me too much.”
Derek rolls his eyes. “That doesn’t sound like something you would do.”
Stiles scowls. “Bye, Derek. Apology accepted.”
Derek hesitates when Stiles hands over the soft fabric of his shirt and pants. Their fingers press against each other for a moment and Stiles’ fingers trail unconsciously across the fabric. Derek’s wolf stretches with satisfaction, because whether Stiles knows it or not, he is leaving the remains of his scent over the smell of laundry detergent.
“You know,” says Stiles when he still doesn’t move. “Since you seem to like buying me a whole bunch of shit, why don’t you move that legal ass of yours to the liquor store and buy me some –”
“I’m not buying you alcohol, Stiles.”
He frowns. “Fine. Have it your way.”
Derek bites back a chuckle before he leaves.