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Contrary to his teachers' opinions, Scott McCall is not stupid.
Nope. Not stupid. Just really fucking distracted. Werewolves, man. They'll keep you busy. And girls. Like Allison.
Hell, Scott's distracted right now just thinking of her. Especially since that's all he gets to do. They won't be apart forever. But man.
Still, he's not stupid.
So he's definitely noticed the change in Stiles.
A person walks differently after they've been laid. Scott knows. After he slept with Allison he was swaggering around the hallways for two straight days like he was in a fucking Usher video or something. Sometimes it's more subtle. Actually, most of the time it is. Scott just has issues with subtlety when he's happy. Stiles is walking totally different. Not that anyone would notice if they weren't around Stiles all the time like Scott is, but hey. And he smells different too.
Werewolf noses are cool like that.
When he mentions it, Stiles waves it off.
“Dude, I'm sore from practice. Don't worry about me.”
“But you smell different.”
“Guy can't change body sprays?”
Again, Scott isn't stupid, and he doesn't really like being treated like he's stupid. He spends the rest of the day pouting.
The next day, Scott is certain that something's up, because Stiles is quiet. Too quiet. He's probably recognizing exactly how Stiles's parents felt when he was just a kid with a wild imagination and a great purpose for breaking things. He's distracted, staring aimlessly off in class while scratching pencil lines so think in his notebook that he's surely tearing through the paper.
The third day, Stiles is wearing a fucking scarf. And it's like eighty degrees outside. That's basically broadcasting that he has a hickey, so Scott tugs it in the hallway until Stiles basically twirls right out of it. Vindicated, he stands smug, looking at purple smudges up and down Stiles's neck and collarbone. And little nibble marks. Well.
Stiles turns about every shade of red that ever existed and wraps it back around before anyone else can see. “Scott!” he scolds.
Scott is happy. Again, not subtle. “DUDE.”
“Scott--”
“DUDE. Your neck.”
“I'm aware, Scott, thank you,” Stiles huffs, his spine straightening until he's so rigid that Scott's certain he could knock him over with a little breath.
“Who's the lucky lady?” Scott asks, completely ignoring the fact that Stiles is uncomfortable and pulling him in with an arm. He struts down the hallway with his arm around his best friend, beaming at him, waiting for response.
“N-no one,” Stiles stammers in reply.
“Uh huh. So. You did that to yourself? Vacuum cleaner?”
“Ha ha. Very funny.” Stiles glares.
“I knew you smelled different.” Scott makes a great show out of sniffing Stiles from his belly button up to his chin. “That's not your body spray.”
“Oh? And what's my usual musk?”
“Depends. After practice you usually smell like ass.”
“So does everyone.”
“Not Danny.”
“Danny smells like cologne twenty-four seven. He sweats cologne.”
“I... actually believe that.” Stiles tries to make his escape immediately but Scott is too fast for him.
Werewolf reflexes are cool too.
“Come on, Stiles. Tell me. Is it Lydia?”
Stiles actually laughs, albeit a little bitter. “Hahahayeah. Totally.” He rolls his eyes. “That is definitely what happened.”
Scott doesn't have to have a werewolf nose to smell sarcasm, but if it did have a smell, he's pretty sure Stiles would reek with it.
“Then who is it?”
“Uhh, how about none of your business? It's not like you constantly regale me with your sex life all the time.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Much to my chagrin, yes, you do. Even the nonexistent part of late. Which I totally relate to by the way.”
“Not anymore.”
“Shut up, Scott. I'm not telling you.”
“Whyyyyy,” Scott whines over the rhythms of shutting lockers following Stiles down the hallway.
“Because I don't want to.”
“That's a terrible reason.”
“That is a wonderful reason.”
“No it isn't.”
“Yes. Yes it is.”
“No it isn't.”
“Ye-- I'm not arguing with you, Scott.” Stiles tries to bail up the stairs but Scott gets his arm around his waist and lifts him with perfect werewolf ease and sets him back on his feet in front of him.
“Tell me.”
“I'm going to punch you in the face, Scott. Then you're going to kill me and you're going to seriously regret it.” Stiles crosses his arms and gives Scott a look to say he means it. “You need me.”
And he whirls on his heel and takes off.
Scott is determined.
The fourth day, shit goes down. Because Beacon Hills is never quiet for long. God forbid Scott get a paper done or something like that. No, no. There's crazy supernatural shit to fight. Always. Always. Scott is tangling with one of the Alpha-pack, feeling a little overwhelmed at the guy's abilities. They're tough. Every single one of them. Scott's not holding his own very well, but neither is Derek's pack. Erica gets thrown into a tree with a loud crack, slumping into the leaves, blood dripping off her lips. Isaac is spry and fast, but he gets grabbed by the wrist and slung into the river. He thrashes a bit in the water, then sinks, waiting to make the next attack. Boyd tries to tend to Erica. It's a mistake. He gets slashed across the back of his shoulders and lets out an inhuman howl before fighting back in a rage. But he's wounded and a lot slower.
Derek takes one down, teeth bared, eyes gleaming crimson. He looks at Scott, communicating wordlessly. Scott jumps back just in time for Derek to push his claws through the guy's chest. Unfortunately, two other Alphas take the opportunity to attack Derek. Derek roars, but Scott can't help. He's preoccupied with another Alpha. Isaac emerges from the water, running for the Alpha that's on Scott, water droplets flying off his blonde curls. He tackles the Alpha and looks up at Scott with intensity in his eyes.
“Help Derek,” he commands as the claws slice his leg.
He doesn't have to.
The Alpha doesn't expect it. When fighting werewolves, one expects werewolf-esque attacks. Perfectly reasonable. A bat to the skull is the last thing the shapeshifter expects. Stiles slams it into the guy like he's playing t-ball and he rolls over into the dirt, basically fine, but really, really pissed.
“Why did you do that?!” Derek yells at Stiles before attacking the Alpha, keeping the raging beast off of Stiles.
The skirmish continues for a long time. Scott and Isaac and Derek fight hard until their bodies start wearing thin. Stiles keeps wielding the bat like his life isn't on the line until one of the Alphas grabs it and splinters it with one hand. Chunks of wood fly into Stiles skin, and he bleeds, small streams leaking from spots on his chest, bicep, thigh, and neck. He stumbles backwards and then falls.
Peter shows up. Jackson does too. The Alpha-pack falls back. Peter's experience is clear. He doesn't have his Alpha strength anymore, but he's got more skill than Derek. He fights less with rage and more with tact. Derek, meanwhile, goes mad, basically wailing on the guy that splintered Stiles's bat.
Scott's a mixture of impressed and terrified. Then he tends to Stiles.
The fifth day, Stiles isn't walking with any swagger. Yes, he's bandaged up, but he's not in awful shape. Tis only a flesh wound.
But man. He is mopey. Like. Bad.
“What's wrong, dude?” Scott asks. They're sitting on the hood of his jeep, looking out over the city from the cliffside. Scott used to bring Allison here. Now he's got Stiles. Which, yeah, he loves Stiles, but he doesn't want to do Stiles or make out with Stiles or cuddle with Stiles. Even if he did, Stiles isn't making for great company as of late. He's being a massive wet blanket, so something has to be done.
“Nothing,” Stiles says, pressing the bottle of Jack Daniels that he stole from his dad's cabinet to his lips and knocking back a hefty amount. “Got my ass kicked. That's all.”
That's not all. Scott does not appreciate Stiles being so certain that he can outwit him.
Day six comes along. Scott plans to bail on Stiles until his attitude improves, but apparently Stiles has the idea first and doesn't even show up for class. Scott calls but Stiles's phone goes straight to voicemail. So Scott goes looking for him. Because he's wishy-washy sometimes. Lydia doesn't know where he is. Jackson basically laughs in his face when Scott asks. Scott wants to punch Jackson. Kind of all the time. But still. Way to be a massive dick, Jackson. When he asks Danny, he raises an eyebrow.
“How do you of all people not know where Stiles is?”
“I dunno. Maybe he's mad at me.”
“No way, McCall. He's probably just busy.”
“With what?” Scott doesn't actually want an answer to that. But Danny provides:
“Oh, I dunno. Probably the guy he's sleeping with.”
If Scott had anything to drink, it would be the perfect moment for a spit take. Yep. He'd spit water all over Danny's face.
“What.” It comes out as a statement more than a question.
Danny is amused. “You can't tell me you haven't noticed.”
“Well, I mean, I figured he had someone but a guy-”
Danny raises his eyebrows and gestures Scott to lean in closer. “Let me tell you a little secret, McCall. Guys don't walk like that unless they're with a guy or with a strap-on.” Scott feels all the blood run out of his face. Danny continues, “And those bites on his neck come from the back of him, not the front. Willing to bed he's off boning this dude right now.”
“I-- don't even know what to say that.”
“Me neither. I mean, Stiles hits on me all the time, but.”
“He does?”
“Scott, he hasn't asked you if gay guys are into him? He's been trying to get an answer out of me for months.”
Scott goes looking. He has no clue where to start. How the hell can Stiles sneak around with someone without Scott knowing? That's like, massively good. Then again, Scott has been distracted lately. He passes Allison in the hallway and nearly runs into a locker door. By the time he gets to Stiles house, though? He's already home, and he's sleeping sound in his bed. And Scott's not about to check, but he's pretty sure he naked underneath his blankets.
The seventh day, Scott confronts him again.
“Stiles. Dude.”
Stiles grimaces as if to say not this again. “Scott, I already told you-”
“You weren't even at school yesterday. Don't you think this is getting to be a little much?”
“Ha. Ha ha ha!” Stiles states each syllable, mocking Scott. “Oh, hi Pot. I'm Kettle. Nice to meet you.”
“Not funny.”
“Liar. That's hilarious. That's like Abbott and Costello stuff.”
“Are you gonna tell me?”
“Nope.” Stiles grins. At least he's back to his old self.
Scott is stubborn though. He decides to abuse his werewolf powers. He tracks Stiles all the way back to his house and camps out in a tree by his window, watching silently. Stiles casually strolls into his room and drops his notebook on the table with a long sigh. He sits down to do his homework. He scribbles a little in his notebook until his phone buzzes.
“Yeah? Hey dad. No problem. Stay safe. See you in the morning. Love ya. Bye.”
Scott sees him before Stiles does. He almost wants to warn Stiles, but just can't do it. Stiles turns a little in his chair, then jolts, falling completely out of it.
“Jesus Christ, Derek!” He yelps from the floor. “Can you not just hang out in my room and wait to scare the shit out of me? Is that like a wolf thing you guys do? Is it a game?”
Derek looks bemused, arms crossed. “How are the wounds?”
“Fine. You basically fixed them. Don't be so concerned,” Stiles grumbles, embarrassed.
Scott doesn't get why Derek's there. Like. Not at all.
Derek finally offers Stiles a hand up. “Don't be so dramatic. Can't get up on your own?”
“Jerk.”
“Oh, my feelings are so hurt.”
“You mean the one? One feeling?”
Derek smirks. Scott's eyes widen. Derek pulls Stiles in close by his wrist and leans in close, nose to nose with him.
“It is a game,” he says, and his voice is smooth, sliding over his lips like a poison. “Keeps you on your toes.”
“Toes?” Stiles jests. “I know I'm not quite as tall as I'm used to, but you definitely don't need me on my toes.”
Derek raises an eyebrow, and leans in. His hand slides over Stiles's ass and up his back. Stiles turns liquid in his arms, sharing breath with him until his eyebrows knit in annoyance.
“Are you going to kiss me or what?”
“Depends.”
“Whaaaaat?” Stiles whines.
Scott cannot breathe. He seriously cannot breathe.
“Depends on if you want to put on the show for Scott or not.”
“What?!” Stiles turns quickly to the window.
Scott falls out of the tree in a flurry of limbs and leaves.
He lies flat-backed on the ground. Derek lumbers into his vision, looking down at him.
“Were you guys playing a joke on me?” Scott asks, still a little winded.
“Scott,” Derek says with ease.
“What?”
“Don't be stupid.”