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Once highschool ended and Stiles realised that the supernatural was going to be a permanent fixture in his life, Stiles changed his daily routine drastically.
He started college with a raw determination to be ready in any type of supernatural emergency. Gone were the days of random research into the history of circumcision. All of his obsessive fixations on specific subjects now revolved around the supernatural and how to deal with or stop supernatural events from happening. Hence his various herb gardens. Hence the colossal bookshelves in Derek's loft full of magical tomes and a variety of books he had made himself as a kind of cheat-sheet to the supernatural.
But simply knowing that the best way to deal with a fairy is to drop sugar or salt in front of them and watch as the pain-in-the-ass sprite counts each grain, giving you time to figure out how the hell to get rid of them permanently - simply knowing that isn't going to help you run away from the little fuckers until you can come across said condiments.
So Stiles runs.
Every morning.
Stiles runs until everything hurts. Until breathing in is akin to a dry white hot fury in his lungs. Until his body is moving on auto pilot, one foot after the other without his recollection of doing so.
Then he turns around and runs back home.
Every morning.
He usually gets up at about five in the morning, just as the sun rises to light Beacon Hills. Derek's still sleeping by this point, greedy limbs trying to pull Stiles back into bed.
Donning track pants, a hoody, and one of Derek's shirts because it makes Derek's chest puff up a bit - something Stiles will find forever funny - Stiles ties his running shoes on tight and buckles his slim travel backpack on securely.
It's an emergency backpack, filled with various types of wolfsbane, several pouches of various herbs, an elixir or two for good luck, a whole jar of mountain ash, and a basic first aid kit. For obvious reasons. His baseball bat, the one without the nails, gets slotted into an elastic loop that Stiles sewed into the backpack himself. Its smaller than the widest part of the top of the bat, so the bat doesn't fall through, but the elastic lets Stiles pull the bat free with little resistance.
He generally runs with the bat that has been lacquered with mountain ash, just to add that extra supernatural kick to anything that might attack him on his runs. It's grey and flecked with black where the ash is its thickest, the lacquer making the bat gleam with it's polished finish.
By the time Stiles gets back, anywhere between six or seven, Derek is usually already up and into his own morning exercise routine. Crunches, push-ups, pull-ups on the doorframes, sit-ups, handstands that dip down until Derek's nose nearly touches the floor then back up again. Derek goes out for his runs when Stiles is at college, runs the perimeter of their territory, scent marking to let other supernatural creatures know that trespassers will be dealt with.
Their morning routines' have changed a little though recently. Stiles will get home, put his backpack away and his baseball bat in the plastic bin with all the others. Then Derek will stop whatever exercise he was doing to come lick the sweat from Stiles' brow, the hollow of his throat, the nape of his neck.
A heavy make-out session usually ensues, Stiles tasting his own salt on Derek's tongue, ending either happily or with Derek shoving Stiles towards the bathroom with a muttered, "You stink", resuming his exercises with a smirk.
Stiles showers hot, cold, hot, relieving the tension in his overworked muscles. He often considers working out like Derek does, building muscles instead of just honing them through running. But muscle mass would be wasted on him against the supernatural, he has to remind himself. Best to just be able to either run away or towards danger as fast as he can.
Once he's clean and doesn't smell like a boys locker room anymore, Stiles dresses in whatever the day calls for, then heads to the kitchen to make breakfast for himself and Derek.
They eat together and talk about their plans for the day, and the domesticity isn't lost on Stiles. He revels in it. These quiet moments where nothing is trying to kill them or usurp them - rot in your grave Theo.
Derek is left to do the dishes whilst Stiles goes to shave if his five o'clock shadow has finally come in four days after the last time he shaved. He brushes his teeth, then packs his shoulder-bag for whatever college has in store for him that day.
Then just before he leaves the loft Derek kisses him goodbye. Holds him tight. Breathes him in. Tries to lull Stiles back to bed with gentle kisses, soft touches. Nine times out of ten it doesn't work.
Eight times out of ten.
Seven times out of ten. Derek has a thirty percent success rate, constantly trying to push it to forty percent.
Not that Stiles is complaining or anything...
So Stiles' routine had changed a lot since highschool. He'd be lying if he said he didn't miss the days before werewolves took over his life, but he wouldn't go back and change a thing, loving where his life currently is.
Except maybe killing Theo sooner.
Yeah, he'd totally kill Theo sooner.