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It started with a faded blue shirt riddled with tiny little holes near the armpits and lower hem. Stiles didn’t even realize it was missing for two weeks – and why would he, with how often he managed to do his laundry (that is to say more often than in high school, but not nearly often enough) – but when he managed, the missing piece rattled around in his head like spare change. "It just doesn't make sense. That shirt is practically falling apart, why would someone take it?"
"Dude, it's probably stuck under something in your closet," Scott shrugged. "I'm sure it's in there."
"But what if it's not, Scottie? What if this stupid town was just waiting for me to come back and it’s the latest plot to track and hunt down the human stupid enough to stick around a pack?" Stiles gestured wildly, voice growing half in jest, half in underlying terror. Scott's eyes met his, assessing the ratio in his scent before rolling his eyes.
"No one is tracking you. I'd smell a strange were."
"Are you sure? Because I love you, I love you, but you're not exactly the best at this!"
"Okay, so get someone else in here."
"Fine."
"Fine," Scott shook his head. They were playing video games moments later, friendly hostility forgotten in favor of the nostalgia their old controllers brought.
"You think you're being tracked?" Derek's nostrils' flared, eyes dangerously close to flashing.
"Yes, thank you, an appropriate response," Stiles threw his arms to his sides and congratulated himself on his expert decision to ask Derek to sniff around – ha, sniff around. Derek didn't so much as accompany him home as much as charge through the front door, up the stairs. The bedroom door he shoved his way through retained minor damage from where the doorknob slammed into the wall, but hey, Stiles wasn't going to lift his nose at it. No, actually – okay, something was wrong with Stiles' brain, he knew this. But it was kind of – well –
Hot. It was hot. Derek storming the house to protect him? H o t.
So sue him.
Derek circled several times before he turned back to Stiles, visible relief on his face. "There's nothing here."
"Not you, too!" Stiles flopped down on his bed. Derek pointedly did not join him, even if his hands fisted at his sides to stifle the urge. "Scott said I'm stupid." Derek huffed at that, eyes cast to the side in a hard glare. "That it's no big deal if I can't find a shirt, even if it's the most comfortable sleep shirt and hey –don't look at me like that, we don't all sleep naked." Stiles regretted the words as fast as the image of Derek sleeping naked snaked into his (very) willing mind.
"I don't sleep naked," Derek squinted at him, shifting from foot to foot.
"Whatever. Point is – shirt's missing." Stiles could pout pretty damn well, not that Derek ever caved.
Or actually, Derek always caved, because it took less than five seconds for him to sigh and say, "Which shirt?"
"This blue one, it's like falling apart but it's soft and it has a faded BHPD logo in the corner." Derek's face turned a delightful shade of pink as Stiles' spoke, but he hardly noticed before Derek was cutting him off, reassuring him it was probably hiding somewhere in his laundry. Stiles rolled his eyes, accepted that this would be of no help, and shooed the werewolf out his window.
When he got out of his shower later that night, the shirt was tucked under a hoodie in his closet, carefully folded.
Derek didn't feel guilty, more like he felt embarrassed and stupid and so, so, young. Of course Stiles –beautiful, infuriating, intelligent, notices the tiniest clues in the world, Stiles would notice his stupid shirt was missing. Idiot, Derek. Idiot. But –
It's just that, when Derek came back to Beacon Hills after – after everything – and Stiles came back for his summer break from another year of college, well… well.
Derek had done a great job at denying there was something alluring about Stiles for several years. (The fact that their age difference wasn't terribly different from his and Kate's, that Stiles was his age when – It didn't hurt to keep himself in check from thoughts and feelings that were Not Okay.)
Seeing him as an adult? Grown, scruffy, hair neater than it had been in high school, hands callused and nails sometimes painted with fading black or red or sometimes, an embarrassingly endearing pink (Derek suspected it was stolen from Lydia, and no, that didn’t put his stomach in knots), seeing the way he filled a shirt or how his jeans fit… Derek couldn't stop himself.
Stiles was out of his league now, was the issue. Maybe always had been. Now that Derek wasn't some elusive bad boy, he knew his appeal must have wavered for Stiles' new look and all the attention he could smell on him. Even still, those other scents faded fast, replaced with Derek's own as his hands met Stiles' shoulders, back, each time they met. Any excuse to brush his leg against Derek's was met with zero avoidance, and Stiles smelled a little more like home, so Derek excused it as natural. A simple desire for pack to smell like pack.
He enjoyed denial, was great at it, had a decade of practice with it. Didn't matter though, because Stiles would laugh at his own stupid jokes and tug his sleeves up and Derek's heart would stop, and Scott would look at him, and Stiles never noticed but it was happening, it had happened.
Derek, somewhere along the way, fell in love with Stiles.
So, whatever - he stole a fucking shirt. He slept better near Stiles' scent and fine, it sounded insane to the humans of the world but every goddamn supernatural wouldn't even bat an eye at it. Of course he would sleep better near the scent that steadied him, grounded him, held him. Of course.
But Stiles, brilliant, attentive Stiles, noticed.
In exchange for the shirt, Derek took a hoodie from the back of the closet. He isn’t perfect, okay?
It was the red one from high school, one that didn't even start to fit him now, so he figured it was a safe bet. Didn't hurt that it somehow still smelled faintly of Derek and years and years of Stiles. If he slept on it like a pillow, stretched it over his arms to make breakfast the next morning, shoved it into a couch cushion, well –it was instinct. Don’t hold it against him.
Stiles didn't notice, which was important. It made Derek brave, made it so the next time he was in Stiles' room on the floor playing video games, shoulders touching because Derek liked the way his heart could race around Stiles without there being a threat – made it so Derek snuck out with a pair of basketball shorts. Stiles didn't notice, so it was fine. His couch smelled better, too. More of Stiles' scent mingling with his, more home.
It was fine, probably.
Stiles watched Derek's deft fingers tuck the shorts under his hoodie before he slipped out the window and Stiles thought holy shit, holy shit.
Because his red hoodie was also gone, and it wasn't exactly the best tracking material, was it? So, tracking didn't make sense, but something had been happening and now – now!
Derek fucking Hale was stealing his clothes! Derek! His Derek!
The revelation was life altering, really. Derek Hale was sneaking touches since Stiles got to town (not that he minded! No sir, not at all, don’t get it wrong) and Stiles was trying his goddamn hardest not to read into it, because he had been gone for so long and hey, all the weres were a little clingier because he didn't smell right, but – but this was different. This wasn't Derek trying to make him smell like pack, this was Derek trying to smell like him.
And holy shit – holy shit, Derek liked him.
That was the only explanation and oh my god, Derek Hale liked him! Stiles didn't sleep at all, too keyed up with his heart racing, thinking about how many years he had spent wanting this, wanting Derek to brush their hands against each other and not pull away, or to rub his stupid beard against Stiles' face (or other places – a thought that had him coming embarrassingly fast because oh god, it might actually happen now). After hour 4 of rambling thoughts, Stiles resolved that he couldn't let Derek know, not yet. But he could help the guy out, try to make it clear that he didn't mind. Not at all, nope.
Stiles knocked on the door to the remodeled Hale House with a thermos of coffee in hand. As he rubbed the sleepless night from his eyes, the door swung open to reveal a disheveled Derek with wide eyes. Stiles knew he had heard his car a mile away, and the only reason he didn't already have the door open for him meant he had to do something before seeing him. Smug, Stiles considered the possibility it was changing out of Stiles' shorts, and god, not the time for that thought.
"Stiles. What uh –"
"Couldn't sleep," Stiles shrugged and pushed into the house, brushing his body against Derek's side in the process. "Thought I'd come bother you since it's probably your fault for those Four Locos we drank last night." It was a shit excuse, but he was going off a gut instinct that Derek wouldn't mind.
"Okay…" Derek closed the door awkwardly and offered him breakfast. Bingo. Stiles knew in that moment he was right, that Derek liked him as much as he had been trying to deny he liked Derek.
They ate on the couch, and Stiles hid his grin behind his hand when Derek fumbled to push a throw pillow over one of the corners where a splash of red hid in the creases of cushions. Stiles shed his hoodie and made small talk before they put on a movie.
Derek’s hand brushed against his shoulder as he grabbed a throw blanket, then again when he shifted in his seat. Stiles hid his smile as best as he could, but the reality was no amount of clothes between them could stop the lingering touch on his skin. Wherever the confidence had come from that morning, it was vacant now, lost in Derek’s eyes when they were a little too close. Even as he shied away, Stiles felt Derek’s knee bump against his.
He left his touching as a point of contact, settled his heart, and sank into the couch.
Derek couldn't handle this. Stiles had fallen asleep some time ago, and had proceeded to slump into Derek's side. He didn't watch the movie, eyes instead turned on the curve of Stiles' lips, the ruddy flush of his skin against the warmth of Derek's body. At some point, Derek's arm found its way around Stiles' body, his palm running up and down Stiles' bare arm in a comforting gesture that scented him all the same. Even as Stiles shifted, hummed, tucked his feet up on the couch and slumped further down to rest his head on Derek's thigh, Derek thought he might cry.
He knew humans were different, but for a were to sleep like this with someone, to sleep with their belly facing another, it was the ultimate show of trust. His ever treacherous mind told him it meant nothing, but he couldn't deny all the moments when Stiles had proved he trusted Derek and, well, Derek let his hand rest over Stiles' heart until he woke. He could have that much, he decided.
Stiles left the hoodie there, obviously. He wanted to see if Derek returned it and was frankly a little too pleased when he didn't. It took another week of this – and another missing shirt, a missing pair of boxers, and an inexplainable shoulder grab to pull him closer at a pack meeting – before Stiles felt confident enough to bring it up. They were in Stiles' room, a book of runes in front of Stiles on the bed as Derek turned slowly in his chair, eyes trailing around the walls of Stiles' childhood bedroom as if he hadn't spent years studying them. "So, I was wondering something," Stiles began. Derek lifted a brow, but otherwise stayed silent. "I've noticed something." Derek drew quieter somehow, body still. "That you're… I don't know. Tactile. More tactile. This time around."
"This time around?"
"This time, this visit. This summer, more tactile than you have been in the past with me."
"I think Scott would argue that I've never been 'tactile' with you," Derek attempted to deflect by playing at an ongoing argument between the three of them where Scott accused Derek of being reckless letting Stiles fight, or threatened him for how he pushed Stiles against walls, or shoved him, or any other gesture involving any part of him touching any part of Stiles.
"Derek," Stiles murmured, just soft enough to pull his attention. Derek swallowed. "Where are my clothes, Sourwolf?" he teased with a smirk. The shade of red Derek turned was delightful, as was the way he shot out of his seat and began to pace.
"I didn't –I don't know what – "
"I'm not mad," Stiles laughed. "I think it's – well, you know, it's not a big deal or anything! I think it's kind of cute you're squirreling away my things in your big ol' house."
"Stop, please," Derek grimaced, but Stiles' grin stayed firmly in place. "It's – fuck." Derek wandered to lean against a wall, as far from Stiles as he could get. "It's a werewolf thing. The scents, it's – nothing personal."
"Sure," Stiles nodded and feigned belief. Derek rolled his eyes and insisted, but the grin on Stiles’ face made him huff in return.
"Do you want me to… stop?" Derek asked, guarded.
"No! No no no, no don't do that," Stiles rushed out. Derek met his eyes carefully.
"It's just a werewolf thing," Derek tried to reiterate, and Stiles nodded quickly, anything to prevent Derek from stopping any of what was happening here.
And if he pushed the blue shirt back into Derek's hands before he left that night, and if Derek's ears turned pink as he met Stiles' eyes, and if their hearts skipped in time with each others', well – Derek wouldn't complain anymore than Stiles.
Derek's hands had a mind of their own. Now that Stiles had all but given him the go-ahead to scent mark him, it seemed like years of latent instincts were released in an afternoon. Stiles couldn't be in the same room as him without his hands itching to find skin, and without any logical reason to stop him, Derek let himself have that.
Every brush of his hand against Stiles' skin seemed to soothe them both, which surprised him immensely. It was as if a hand against Stiles' neck was as comforting as Stiles' hand on his knee, or wrist, or back. At a pack movie night, Stiles sat next to him and smiled shyly when Derek brushed his hand against the outside of Stiles' thigh, unsure of what he even wanted. Stiles placed his hand face up and Derek took it, sighing out all the air in his lungs. Palm to palm, Derek knew his scent would seep into Stiles like perfume and mark him, just as when he had cupped the back of his neck when Stiles arrived that night. Even when Stiles dropped his hand, he only did so to sprawl out on Derek, and oh god, Derek wanted to ask if he knew he was leaving his scent all over Derek, too.
They'd meet for coffee and Stiles would wear shorts and let his leg press against Derek's. They'd play video games and Stiles would toss his hoodie at Derek to wear while they played, then ask for it back. They'd see each other in passing at the grocery store and Stiles would walk over, pout until Derek scent marked him.
It was intoxicating.
Stiles was walking around town smelling like he belonged to Derek, and Derek knew he was walking around smelling like he belonged to Stiles just as much.
It was everything he had been craving for so long that it nearly made him wept if he thought about it too hard. He would sit in the library – a made to scale copy of his father's – and speak in hushed tones to his parents memory about the settled hum in his chest when he thought of Stiles, how right it felt when he had his skin under his palm, how he slept better when he could smell him near. He thought they'd quite enjoy Stiles' exuberance, his kindness, his sarcasm. The way he could draw Derek out of the shell Kate had built around him.
He tried to explain this away to Stiles several times as a simply gesture between werewolves, but Stiles never seemed to either care or understand his explanations. In fact, Stiles waved his hands around to dismiss the notion. He didn't mind. Derek was scent marking him, and Stiles simply didn't care, not if it meant Derek was being affectionate. He could scent the happy endorphins on Stiles every time he did it, and something softer, smoother, warmer under his skin. Something like –
Well, a matching sense of affection. Of care, of – of love.
So maybe it didn't matter that Stiles didn't seem to understand or care that scent marking was an instinct for him. Maybe it only mattered that Stiles didn't mind, and in fact enjoyed it just as much.
And he did – enjoy it as much. Stiles soaked up the touches Derek granted him and locked them away in his mind for later when he'd have to return to college and do without. More than one night was lost to the thoughts of being separated from Derek now that he had him – or, as much of him as Derek seemed ready to give him. They'd fall together each afternoon and evening to cuddle to movies or make dinner together, hands on hands and backs and shoulders and Stiles was dying for anything more. Derek kept telling him it was scent marking, but it felt like everything and nothing and he leaned in each time like a puppy, head resting on Derek's shoulder as Derek rubbed his back, or Stiles' eyes dropping when Derek's hand made contact with his thighs, or god, the times he'd lay on the couch and Derek's nimble fingers would press against the muscles in his calves or the tendon on his ankle. He knew Derek could smell the interest on him, and sometimes Derek would meet his eyes, press his palm against Stiles' skin, and smile gently – it was more than Stiles ever thought he'd get.
One night, Stiles dragged himself over to Derek's and found him in Stiles' blue shirt with sleepy eyes. It was overwhelming, the affection Stiles felt for him in that moment. It must have come off him in waves, the overwhelming love he felt in his chest for this man, so much so that Derek's breath caught. Even as he pulled Stiles in to rub his beard against Stiles' neck, Stiles shoved his hands under Derek's shirt to press his palms over his back, hoping to god that even though he wasn't a werewolf that it would scent him back. Derek trembled slightly and pulled back to drag Stiles inside onto the couch that even Stiles knew smelled like him now. Derek grabbed a fluffy blanket and put on one of Stiles favorite movies, and the two fell asleep cuddled together, Stiles practically on top of Derek.
When he woke, Derek was tracing the lines of his face with his fingertips.
"Scent marking isn't something werewolves do with everyone," Derek whispered. "It's – it means something."
Stiles yawned and pressed his cheek to Derek's hand. "I know."
"And you're okay with… with," Derek struggled and licked at his lips.
"Am I okay with you touching me?" Stiles asked groggily, rubbing at his eyes before looking back at Derek. "I wish you'd touch me more," he admitted, uncharacteristically shy. Some level of understanding passed between them as Derek pushed strands of Stiles short hair back, not quite long enough to reach his ears so they kept falling forward.
"I wish you'd touch me more, too," Derek whispered. Stiles knew that Derek admitting to wanting anything was a goddamn miracle considering his relationship trauma, but it seemed so natural for him to admit this to Stiles that neither of them knew what to do.
They snuggled together until Stiles' stomach grumbled. Derek made scrambled eggs for them with Stiles cautiously plastering himself to Derek's back, hands roaming his chest as he cooked. One of Derek's palms rested over both of Stiles, and in a moment of bravery, Stiles pressed his lips over Derek's spine. "You know, I bet kissing me would help the whole scent thing, right? It would be more effective. I'm just suggesting, you know," Stiles shrugged, fingers dancing around Derek's chest until he found a nipple. He bit his smile back when Derek jerked at the contact.
"It would, yes," Derek huffed. "Are you asking me to kiss you?" And Stiles was so gone, because Derek was teasing him, for Christ's sake. He'd reached the point where Derek was comfortable enough to tease him about how badly they wanted each other – a goddamn win!
"As if you aren't dying to," Stiles teased back. Derek hummed and turned the stove off before turning in Stiles arms to face him. Derek's palms met Stiles' neck. Since they were the same height now, Derek had to reach to do so, wished for only a moment he was an inch taller to force Stiles chin up, but it didn't matter. He did so anyway, leaned in to brush his lips against Stiles' neck, scenting him in the way he'd been craving. "Oh - that's, yeah that's, not what I meant but god, that's nice," Stiles rambled.
"You said I should scent you," Derek teased. "This is scenting you."
"Oh you – you fucking tease, kiss me," Stiles begged.
And Derek, well Derek was never one to deny Stiles, was he?
Stiles stared at the boxes around him and shook his head. "This is too much stuff."
"That's why we're getting an apartment," Derek shook his head. "It's not going in your shitty dorm."
"I don't have a shitty dorm. It's a shared –"
"Apartment, yeah," Derek finished, looking back at Stiles with a pointedly raised brow. Stiles retaliated by kissing him until Derek had to force air into his lungs. Smug, Stiles wandered back to the bed he'd woken up in and sat. "I need stuff."
"Remember when you were living out of like, a backpack?"
"Stiles," Derek rolled his eyes and joined him. "I don't have to go, you know," he said softly, but Stiles turned to him in alarm.
"What do you mean – are you having second thoughts because, Derek, I mean fuck I know I'm kinda loud and you probably like your space I mean you have this big house and –"
"Stiles," Derek interrupted with a hand on his neck. "You know I'm keeping the house, this is just a second place for us. Besides, you know I don't want any space." And god, Stiles loved the sound of it.
Loved it, so much, because when he'd confessed one night to Derek that he didn't know if he could physically handle losing this thing between them to his final year of college, Derek had shrugged and said he couldn't either, and that they'd just move in together.
As if that was a normal thing to suggest on a random Wednesday night.
But Stiles had to admit, it was a nice thought – Derek always around to give him the affectionate hugs and brushes of hands that he'd grown very, very accustomed to. And one closet meant stealing all the clothes they both wanted, something that had become so normal in their relationship that sometimes Stiles had a hard time telling if something was his or Derek's, actually.
They had a small place lined up, a two bedroom just for them because Derek insisted Stiles should have an office to focus his energy in. And Derek would return to the Hale House once a month to take care of things, meet with the pack, etc., and Stiles had a sudden flash of their entire lives spent together and –
He was so in love with Derek, so in love.
He'd been helping Derek pack for the move – tomorrow!! – when they'd finally finished and Stiles looked around at Derek's life packed into neat boxes and felt the gravity of it all. Derek's hands rubbed down Stiles' back, over his arms, pulled him into Derek's chest which was rumbling the way Stiles liked so much. The nerves settled back down with the assurance of Derek's touch, and when he met his boyfriend's eyes, he knew everything that had happened was exactly what was meant to happen.