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It starts with a sneeze. No one pays it any attention because, well, have you seen where they spend their time? Sneezes are going to happen. But then it's more sneezes and Stiles has to go outside so Derek can keep talking to the pack without them saying "bless you" in unison every few minutes. When Stiles comes back his eyes are red, his nose is runny, and he’s scratching absently at his arms. Scott looks a bit concerned, but Stiles waves him off, saying that he must have caught something at school and that he's going to go sleep it off. Scott wishes him the best, the others give a collective mumble, and Derek nods because he is Derek and Derek doesn’t voice concern. Stiles mutters a nasally “thanks”, grabs his bag, and leaves.
After a hot shower he's feeling a million times better. He shrugs it off, thinking it was just the dust and checks his phone. A few messages from Scott, making sure he got home alright and telling him to get some rest... and what's this? A message from the Sour Wolf? Stiles can't believe it, he reads it once, then again, and then a third time just to make sure he's reading it right. Derek told him to--direct quote here--"feel better". Stiles is over the moon. He has evidence Mr. Sour Wolf cares. He quickly locks the text, saving it for all time. For blackmail purposes, of course.
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Stiles, having missed the five texts Scott had sent warning him he was coming over, is still not dressed, when Scott shows up in his doorway. He waits patiently on the bed while Stiles searches for something clean to wear. He should really do laundry soon; everything he owns seems to be covered in dirt, grease, and dog hair.
When he sneezes this time, it’s loud and messy. (Like most of his life, he muses silently.) Scrunching up his nose, he tries not to do it again, but it's too late--his eyes are itchy and watery, his nose is stuffed, and he's sneezing into one of his shirts, trying to muffle the noise.
"Should I go?" Scott asks once Stiles pauses to try and catch his breath. "Hey, you don't look so good..."
Stiles rolls his eyes and winces because that was far more painful than it should have been. He opens his mouth to respond, but is caught in a fit of coughing instead. His eyes feel like sandpaper, his chest is tight, the skin painfully sensitive , and he can’t seem to catch his breath without hacking.
And then it hits him, he understands. He knows these symptoms.
He curses under his breath, dropping the (now snot covered) shirt. “I think you should leave.” His voice is raw. Scott looks crushed, but nods. Scott goes to squeeze Stiles’ shoulder in goodbye, but heads straight for the door when a sneeze wards him away.
“Shit.”
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Stiles texts Scott after his third shower in 24 hours and busies himself carefully loading his laundry into the washing machine, trying to avoid contact with his clothes as much as possible. His phone dings back within a few minutes; Scott must not be with Allison. Stiles can almost taste the concern though the text, he sighs and pours a generous amount of detergent into the machine.
He doesn’t want to avoid the pack, they are, quite literally, his only friends, but there’s not much he can do about it until he gets this all under control. Scott seems to take it personal as the third and fourth texts indicate; by the seventh Stiles has decided to ignore his friend’s desperate pleas.
A shrill jingle breaks the silence and his phone nearly vibrates off the desk. It’s not his dads ringtone, or the obnoxious Ke$ha song Scott had programed in for himself. A quick glance at the caller ID drains his face of color. Sour Wolf the little screen tells him. No, no, no, no, why is Derek calling him? He hits ignore and falls into his desk chair, sitting on his hands to try and stop the shaking.
The phone rings again; Stiles holds his breath, willing it to go to voicemail. A text appears only a few seconds after the call. Stiles takes a deep breath and checks it--‘Call me.’ stares back at him. Two little words and his stomach is in knots. He yelps as the phone goes off again. Another message from Derek, ‘NOW’.
Scott must have told Derek that Stiles wasn’t answer his phone. Damn it, Scott.
Stiles is in trouble and he knows it. Groaning, he drops his phone and smacks his head on the pile of discarded books and homework strewn across his desk, willing himself into some sort of coma.
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Stiles isn’t sure how long has passed when he hears his window being forced open.
He’s up in seconds, desk chair knocked aside as he backs up towards his closet, tripping over a pile of clothes and falling back into his closet door. “I hate you,” he mutters to himself, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He pulls himself into an upright position and takes note of Derek half in his room already.
“You weren’t answering.”
Derek climbs the rest of the way in, tracking dirt and god knows what else into the room. He smells vaguely of road kill, grass and… something Stiles can’t quite place. It’s all unmistakably Derek, and Stiles sneezes in response.
“You can’t be here,” Stiles says, kicking at the pile of laundry, eyes becoming scratchy once more.
A quick glance at his hands confirms it. He’s starting to get a rash; red itchy welts cover the back of his hands, making their way up his arms. “You really need to go,” he tries to say. It probably comes out more like “you re’ll go” because of the coughing and sneezing between words.
Stiles feels Derek’s heat before he sees him; a warm, worried hand on his shoulder. The smell of grass and road-kill is overpowering now. That something he couldn’t quite place is now, undeniably, dog.
Derek smells like a dog, one who rolled in something that had died out on the lawn. Did the guy never bathe?
Stiles’ eyes are watering terribly now, he can barely see out of them. His hands itch and he can’t catch his breath. He pushes weakly against Derek, coughs wracking his body. His skin feels raw everywhere. Why won’t Derek move? Why can’t he breathe? Derek, Derek needs to leave. His eyes, he can’t see anything--itchy. He’s so itchy.
He can feel Derek’s hands all over him, holding him upright as he tries to curl in on himself, make himself as small as possible to limit Derek’s touch. He’s not sure if he’s actually moving or if the world has started to spin. Either way, Stiles doesn’t really like it.
“This is going to be cold.” Stiles barely hears the warning before he’s gasping for air, flinching against the ice cold water and trying to writhe out of Derek’s grip. Derek holds him tighter with one hand, the other splashing water in his face. Stiles sputters against the onslaught, but begins to calm down once he realizes that Derek is not actually trying to drown him in ice water. Honestly, Derek wouldn’t go through all the effort of finding ice water when there’s a lake not too far away, and the water didn’t taste green, so, really, Stiles shouldn’t have been panicking in the first place.
Stiles takes over after that, figuring out he’s bent over the edge of his shower. He starts to wash every inch of skin he can get to and peels himself out of his now soaked shirt. Derek hisses, no doubt Stiles’ back is also covered in that lovely rash that his hands and arms succumbed to. “Stiles, are you…?”
“Fine. I’m fine,” Stiles says, coughing a few more times for good measure before righting himself. He’s cold now but a little less miserable, so he counts it as a win.
“When was the last time you took a shower?” He grabs a towel, hoping Derek hasn’t touched that, too, and pats himself down as gently as he can. “You, take a shower. Take a few.”
He sneezes again, because one can never sneeze too many times in one night. Stiles isn’t sure if Derek responds or not, he’s too busy trying to dry off and he would really appreciate it if he would stop sneezing. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Derek inch nearer. “Stop, don’t touch me until you’ve washed. A lot. Like, use the whole bottle, I don’t care, just make sure you come out of here smelling like roses or something. Not... whatever you rolled in.” And with that Stiles exists the bathroom.
The sneezing seems to take a break, for a little while, at least. It allows Stiles the chance to find a clean shirt to change into, strip his bed, and start another load of laundry. The bathroom door is open by the time he returns, steam still curling out from the doorway and into his bedroom.
“You better smell like roses,” Stiles warns as he enters his room.
Derek is sitting on the now stripped bed, shirtless, with a towel wrapped around his waist. Stiles doesn’t want to admit that he’s had dreams that start off similarly. There’s usually less sneezing involved... about the same amount of tissue though, strangely enough. “Why aren’t you dressed?”
“You’re allergic to me aren’t you?” Derek doesn’t even seem fazed about being mostly naked in Stiles’ room. He shifts on the bed, grabbing at the towel, trying to keep himself covered.
Stiles nods, refusing eye-contact because Derek is hot, wet, and mostly naked on his bed. It’s taking a lot of willpower not to run screaming from the room right now.
“Why didn’t you say you were allergic to--” Derek gestures to himself and moves to stand up.
“No, no, no--no touching!” Stiles flinches away, making sure not to trip over the pile of laundry he should really think about moving. “I’ll just… Stay.” He’s out of the room in a flash, racing towards his dad’s room. He has to have something that’ll fit Derek, right? Something that’s not covered in dirt and dog hair and three sizes too small. He doesn’t need a repeat of last time, especially since he’s not sure he’ll survive it again.
Five minutes, three drawers emptied and hastily put back together, and an armful of clothes later he’s back in his room. Derek hasn’t moved. Stiles thinks he should really reward him with something--a Scooby snack, maybe--since he was such a good boy.
“Here.” He keeps himself an arm’s length away, holding out the pile of slightly rumpled, but clean, clothes to Derek.
“So I’ll ask again, you’re allergic to me, yes?” Derek is dressed now, mostly. The important parts are covered, at least. He’s also moved to the chair, allowing Stiles to sit on the one wolf-hair free object in his room. Stiles nods and shifts on the bed. “Have you always been allergic to me?”
“Yes? No? I… I’m not sure?” He really isn’t sure, anymore. He doesn’t remember being allergic before this whole, werewolf-Scott thing, but they hang out in either a dusty burnt out house or a dusty abandoned subway car, sneezes are going to happen. The rash is new though, and a bit annoying, if he’s going to be honest. And the chest pains; he could really live without those. “It’s never been this bad before... or quick acting."
Derek doesn’t look happy. Derek never looks happy, but right now Derek looks like he’s trying to glare Stiles into oblivion.
“And you never told anyone you have these allergies -- why?”
“Have you seen my group of friends Derek? In case you haven’t noticed, half of them turn into werewolves, and the other half? The other half hang out with said werewolves. I can’t exactly avoid dogs or wolves or whatever you are right now. And besides, I wasn’t allergic before,” Stiles gestures wildly around, “this.”
Derek huffs in response. Never big on conversation, Stiles is impressed he’s gotten this many consecutive sentences out of the guy. They sit in silence for a while, Stiles tapping his leg in time to a song only he can hear and Derek, still trying out-glare himself.
After what seems like a lifetime, Derek makes to leave. Stiles watches him climb through the window. “I’ll be back,” Derek says. Stiles stifles a laugh, because of course that line can really only be said in a terrible Austrian accent, unless you’re Derek Hale.
Stiles sits around for a while longer, still tapping out the song no one else can hear until he can’t take it any longer. He’s pretty sure his laundry is done, or something, he just needs to move.
He doesn’t see Derek for the rest of the night; no texts, no calls, nothing. Stood up by Derek Hale. He’s not offended or anything, it’s not like Stiles was expecting him to come back. That’s ridiculous and you should stop that train of thought this instant.
His dad gives him a questioning look in the morning; no doubt he’s seen the piles of laundry in the garage that never made it back up to his room. “Don’t ask,” is all he gets for an answer as Stiles begins making omelets.
By noon, Stiles is bored. He’s beyond bored. He’s exhausted all means of entertainment hours ago. So he texts Scott. Who doesn’t reply. Of course he doesn’t reply, he’s probably with Allison. Stiles wasn’t really expecting a timely response or anything. Nevermind that Scott was the one person Stiles knew he could talk to about how weird Derek had been last night.
Five minutes later, his phone chirps. It’s Derek. He ignores it, he has homework to do.
Derek breaks his window. Stiles panics and starts sneezing. He’s getting really sick of this.
“You didn’t answer.”
“You broke my window!”
“You. Didn’t. Answer.” Glaring, again. Derek really needs to work on his happy face.
Stiles sneezes again and points desperately at his now broken window. Derek scowls and promptly leaves through the broken window, not even attempting to close it.
“Really? Really, Derek? Thanks.” He sneezes once more and rubs absently at his eyes, trying to will the itchy feeling away. This was going to get old really fast.
Derek comes over twice more, never once fixing his window. Stiles still sneezes in his presence, but he doesn’t care at this point. He’s doomed to be miserable around his friends, he accepted this long ago.
Scott finally responds to him with the usual excuse, “Sorry blah blah Allison blah bah”. Stiles has heard it all before. He’s not in any sort of mood to deal with this right now and if Derek would kindly stop barging in every few hours, smelling different each time and setting off Stiles’ allergies, it would be a good end to the day.
Stiles settles into his bed, curled around his laptop and his science textbook, trying to understand cellular something-or-other. He’s not sure what, exactly, the assignment was, but he knows it had to do with his textbook.
He hears rustling outside his window and looks up just in time for a small bottle of pills to smack him in the face. He sees stars momentarily and curses under his breath. Who the hell throws bottles at people’s heads? Seconds later, Derek appears in the window. Stiles’ life is really starting to feel like a 90’s sitcom.
“What the hell was that?” Stiles clutches at his head, trying to will the pain away; he’s pretty sure he has a giant red mark on his forehead now.
“Allergy pills. The pharmacist said they were non-drowsy.” Derek smells… different. The scent is overwhelming, but Stiles can’t quite place it.
And then he notices he’s not sneezing. His nose isn’t even threatening to run, his eyes don’t itch, his hands are fine--what the hell?
Stiles opens and closes his mouth a few times, trying out the start of many words until he settles on “whyhow?” which he knows is not actually a word, but damn it he’s really not sure what is going on.
“I… I-also-got-some-new-shampoo” It all comes out as one word and Stiles isn’t quite sure what is said until his confused brain catches the word “shampoo”. Derek has bought new shampoo. New shampoo that allows him to be in the same room as Stiles and not cause Stiles pain. New shampoo that smells… unlike any shampoo he has ever come across. New shampoo that… no. There’s no way and Stiles can’t help himself--
“Did you buy dog shampoo?” He wants to take it back as soon as he’s said it. Damn his mouth.
Derek blushes. Derek Hale, Mr. Sour Wolf himself, blushes. Stiles is speechless. He cannot comprehend what is going on. Derek Hale bought dog shampoo, and used it. For Stiles. That’s the part he really can’t understand, why would Derek do that for him?
“You’re pack.” Derek’s voice cuts through the mild panic attack Stiles is having inside his head. He hadn’t noticed Derek moving his homework and sitting himself next to Stiles on the bed. Close to him, too. Stiles can feel Derek’s body heat, warm and all along his thigh. Stiles can’t help but lean into it. He mutters thanks and gets a low growl in return. It’s more than Stiles had been hoping for, so he leans in more, forcing Derek to shift to accommodate his weight.
The Sour Wolf really does care, and now Stiles has evidence.
Lots of evidence.
A sneeze breaks free and destroys the comfortable silence they had settled into.
“Pills, now,” Derek all but growls, pushing Stiles away and making for the window again. “Pack meeting tonight.” And with that he’s gone.
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Pack meeting is a loose term for what happens that night. Stiles doesn’t know what to call it, honestly. There are dog shampoo bottles everywhere and a few very upset, wet looking werewolves sitting around Dr. Deaton’s office. It’s after hours, of course, and Stiles can’t help but wonder what Deaton was bribed with to let Derek and his pack gather there.
Derek looms in the back of the room, soaked from trying to get his pack to bathe in the odd smelling shampoo. Stiles can’t take it anymore, he excuses himself and stands out in the parking lot, sobbing for air; his chest is tight he’s pretty sure there are tears streaming down his face. He feels Derek before he hears him again, a warm hand on his shoulder gripping him tightly when he sobs again.
“Did it not work?” Derek’s voice is laced with concern. Stiles lets out a shaky breath and wipes the tears from his eyes.
“Did you see Erica’s face?” He can’t seem to offer more than a few words at a time; his stomach is starting to hurt from laughing too hard. “And I’m pretty sure Isaac snarled at me.”
He’s not sure if he actually got to finish that sentence out loud or not because soon his mouth is occupied. Derek’s kissing him on the mouth. A real kiss, tongue and everything.
Stiles isn’t quite sure how to process this new information, which results in him moaning, smiling, and flapping his arms all at once. He’s thankful that it’s dark out and no one can see him try to figure out what to do with his arms as his face is assaulted. After what seems like hours, they break apart, both gasping for breath.
“What? Why? Can we do that again?”
“Shut up, Stiles.” And Derek kisses him again. Stiles figures out the best place for his hands is Derek’s upper back; it’s warm, like the rest of him, and quite broad, lots of space for his hands to roam.
“So all this was so you could kiss me?” They’re sitting on Stiles’ bed; it’s late, or early, depending on whose internal clock you want to go by.
“Among other things.” Derek grins at him, an honest to goodness grin. Teeth and all. Stiles is dumbstruck.
And then he sneezes.