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Stiles finds the shirt when he's opening every drawer in the new dresser at Derek's still somewhat new loft apartment. To be honest, once upon a time he'd assumed that Derek had lived out of boxes and duffel bags and suitcases or maybe even just plastic grocery bags; because really, if a person was squatting in the ruins of a burned down home or an abandoned train car, would they seriously bother with a dresser or wardrobe or even a trunk. Nah, he didn't think so.
But now Derek has a dresser, an honest to goodness real dresser, from a proper, nice furniture store and not just Ikea even, and it is a moral imperative that Stiles open all the drawers to see all the clean and neatly folded things inside (folded! If he discovered anything within was ironed, even present day Stiles would probably fall over in shock, but younger Stiles? Who'd always thought Derek was one step away from going feral and ditching clothing altogether to go live as a wolf in the woods? Discovering Derek ironed would've made younger Stiles' head would explode.)
And Derek has a lot of things. A lot. It sort of made sense that he'd own a lot of clothes, what with things always getting ripped and shredded and bled on. Even now--when their lives were calmer and more settled (and somehow feeling stranger because of that), when the worst they usually had to worry about was finals and whether Scott or Allison would beat the other to proposing and if the Jeep would make it another year and would Stiles' dad make them watch Dirty Harry on cable again when he and Derek came over for dinner, just so he could look Derek in the eye when he quoted 'Go ahead punk, make my day' along with Clint Eastwood--even now Derek's always ending up with ruined clothing, constantly having to throw this shirt or that pair of jeans out.
So Stiles is rifling through the dresser drawers, marveling at there being dresser drawers and how freaking full those drawers are, when he finds it. Pretty much everything Derek owns is plain, servicable, Wal-Mart special sort of stuff (even if he has to buy a lot of clothing, he's frugal about it, and looking at state of the dresser drawers, it seems his attitude about it all boils down to 'buy in bulk'). Except, that is, for one item.
Derek owns a Batman t-shirt.
Derek owns a Batman t-shirt.
This is the best day of Stiles' life.
Stiles grins, wide and amused-as-hell, as he discovers another moral imperative. Then he's shrugging off his flannel and the Wolfman Jack t-shirt beneath (c'mon, it's ironic), pulling on the Batman t-shirt instead, and thumping down the spiral staircase to find Derek. Derek, who makes a cross between a grunt and a huff when Stiles vaults over the back of the couch and flops bonelessly into his lap, who tries to remain intently focused on the television even as Stiles makes his best mouth-gaping goofball smile, arms spread out wide in a silent TA-DA!
Finally Derek breaks, because of course he had to eventually, especially since Stiles would've remained frozen in that pose until he finally gave in and acknowledged him. They've been together how long now?, so Derek knows Stiles.
"You're wearing my shirt."
"I am." Stiles' grin goes even wider at Derek's flat, unamused-feline expression (Stiles is an equal opportunity sarcastic person, he's fair, of course he'd make as many cat jokes as dog jokes about Derek). "And you're a geek."
"I am not."
"You aaaaaaare," Stiles sing-songs, "you're a geek and you like Batmaaaaaan."
"Or maybe I bought that shirt for you. Because you're the geek who likes Batman."
But the t-shirt's soft against Stiles' skin, and worn from repeated washings, the logo faded and veined with cracks; It's aged, which means Derek's only been wearing it when he can keep it nice, when there's no risk of it being torn or damaged or bled on. Wearing it in secret, perhaps, but more like Derek's been careful with it. Also, his cheeks beneath his scruff-stubble (scrubble?) are pinking, and Stiles has totally caught him out, j'accuse!, guilty werewolf is guilty. Derek likes the shirt. Derek loves the shirt. Because Derek is a geek who likes Batman. And so Stiles has to kiss that blush, because yeah, moral imperative.
And then he has to press a kiss to Derek's lips, because he knows Derek doesn't just like Batman--Derek kind of is Batman. He's Batman, he's Bruce Wayne, and that's all he'd be, just I am the night and justice and vengeance and loss. Except he's got his betas, his pack--so he's got his Robins and his Justice League or no, his Super Friends, his pack's definitely more doofy Super Friends than cool Justice League--and he's got Stiles. LIke Alfred, but in younger, sexy boyfriend form, no, like better than Alfred even, SuperAlfred, Superman plus Alfred.
One kiss leads to other kisses, as Derek sitting on the couch with Stiles on his lap leads to Derek laying on the couch with Stiles straddling his lap. The heat of Derek's hands through fabric as he runs them over Stiles' back becomes the caress of Derek's palms against his skin after Stiles pulls the t-shirt over his head, folding it carefully before setting it down on the floor. Yeah, Superman plus Alfred. Stiles can totally handle being the Superman in this relationship. He can be the Supes to Derek's Bats.
As other clothing items just get tossed wherever, as his hands stroke over Derek's chest and he presses a smiling kiss under Derek's jaw, Stiles makes a mental note to head out for some clothing shopping tomorrow.
He's got a certain superhero logo t-shirt to buy.