Work Text:
The air smells astringent.
Stiles bursts open the door to the loft in a rush of energy, sliding it closed with a bang and setting his backpack down on the floor with a loud thud.
At Derek’s wince, he apologizes for the noise— “Shit, sorry!” and runs straight to the kitchen for a glass of water.
He’s just come home from hanging out with a new friend from college and Derek can already smell that he’s freaking out. Stiles has always been anxious, always smelled like anxiety: sweat and salt, sweetness turned sour.
He’s good at hiding it when it matters, and it doesn’t usually manifest in social anxiety, preferring to keep to nightmares and panic attacks and flashbacks to his high school horrors.
It only started becoming a thing when Stiles started college, trying to make new friends and distance himself from his past. But how do you hide I’ve been possessed by an evil fox spirit when you’re still stuck counting fingers in a classroom?
So Stiles had tried to branch out, joining clubs at college, some with similar interests like mythology (he was bursting to whip out the Bestiary, but knew it wasn’t actually an option) and even the art club.
The other night he had come back from his paint-and-sip night sporting a grin and a swatch of dried acrylic paint on his cheek, and holding a messy squint-or-you’ll-miss-it painting of a wolf amongst the trees howling at a moon.
Derek had hung it on the wall that very night.
Coming back into the room now and collapsing on the couch next to Derek, the cushions bounce at the additional weight as Stiles leans into his boyfriend, a nervous grin on his face. No dried paint on his cheek, this time, but something is off.
Derek raises an eyebrow and sets his book down.
“Have fun?” he asks, but the air smells wrong, like the sour, bitter tang of Stiles’ anxiety that Derek’s become all too familiar with.
“Yeah, I — it was fine, fun, I mean. Um.” Stiles is fidgeting already, leg bouncing, fingers of one hand picking at the skin of his cuticles. He had gone for a hike with a new friend and clearly was anxious like he’d taken to feeling after social meetups these days.
Derek remembers when Stiles didn’t used to feel like this, when the only souring of Stiles’ scent was due to supernatural reasons and not human reasons. It’s strange seeing Stiles so vulnerable from such a normal, everyday human experience.
But Derek understands the anxiety around this, around fearing what people think of him, worrying if he’s said the wrong thing or offended them or didn’t say enough or—
More than anyone, Derek understands.
The spiraling for hours after the interaction. The overstimulation from the event, the noise, the music, the fast thinking and talking and moving. The racing heart and sweating palms and the shaking, none of which should even be happening to werewolves, but sometimes the mind is stronger than science. Sometimes the mind is science.
So, Derek understands.
“What are you reading?” Stiles asks, still fidgeting, peering over Derek’s shoulder and gently grabbing his wrist to turn the book so he can see the cover. The Hobbit, of course, he should have known. It’s one of Derek’s favorites.
Derek shakes his head, seeing where Stiles is going. Stiles has admitted he sometimes worries he talks too much and wants to give Derek as much space as he can to say what he wants to in return. Stiles loves Derek’s voice, could listen to him talk for hours, not that Derek ever would.
It works out perfectly, then, that Derek loves Stiles’ voice just as much.
“How did it go?” Derek deflects. He’ll talk about his day later, but Stiles needs him right now. He’s almost bursting to explode with it, knee still bouncing and limbs almost vibrating with energy. This is anxiety in its purest, most physical form, and Stiles’ pounding heart nearly drowns out his words when he speaks next.
“It was — fuck, I’m so anxious I’m gonna combust,” Stiles laughs nervously, before he seems to choke on his own air and he coughs a little, eyebrows tilting in and face coloring, almost holding his breath unconsciously.
He stares down at his hands, now clenched together tightly as if he’s trying to stop himself from moving and fiddling even more, trying to contain his own anxiety, like keeping it inside will keep it from being experienced.
His scent is far too bitter and Derek can’t stand it, has to fix it immediately.
He gently tugs on Stiles’ hand and tangles their fingers together, stroking carefully on Stiles’ skin with his thumb. He leans into his boyfriend and turns Stiles’ face towards his own, their eyes locking, Stiles’ overly-tense ones meeting his own, calmer orbs.
Derek doesn’t say “breathe with me,” doesn’t say “count to ten,” or “it’s okay,” or “I’m sure you did great, you have nothing to be worried about.”
None of it will work, anyway, and Stiles hates to be told things that aren’t true.
The fact is, it’s hard to breathe, and it’s not okay, and he doesn’t know if he did great, and he has plenty to be worried about, and even though it doesn’t feel good, that part is okay. He’s allowed to be anxious, nervous about whatever he’s worried he said wrong. He’s allowed to stew about this for however long he needs to until it’s out of his system, and no amount of breathing exercises can go against that.
“Talk to me?” Derek offers in his calm, grounding tone, and Stiles’ shoulders relax minutely at his words, always finding his greatest comfort in Derek.
Stiles heaves a huge breath that looks like it was difficult, and turns towards Derek, catching his other hand in his own and squeezing tight. He knows he won’t hurt the werewolf.
“It’s just — it was fine? And I’m fine? But I’m just — so fucking anxious,” Stiles starts, and his eyes move rapidly all over the room, searching for nothing, trying to put his thoughts in order.
“I just wanna be normal, you know, make some friends and pretend that everything’s okay and get a fresh start. But it’s fucking hard, and nobody tells you that, they’re all like, go to college and make new friends and go to parties and it’ll be grand! And easy! And you’ll have fun!
“And yeah I had fun, I mean we hiked in the forest, it was fine and dandy and the flowers were starting to bloom and it was warm and pretty out, but — god, I’m just worried I said all the wrong things, and talked too much, and he hates me, but I had to talk to fill the silence because silence means that he was thinking and if he had time to think then he could form a negative opinion about me, and — fuck, I’m just anxious.”
Stiles is known for word vomit; however, he’s unique in that his word vomit actually makes sense, and Derek can understand every bit of this as though he lived it himself, highlighted by Stiles’ still-heightened chemosignals and body language. Their hands are still connected and Stiles is gripping tight.
“I don’t even know what I’m anxious about, specifically,” Stiles can’t help but continue, after Derek nods to show he’s listening. “I don’t think I offended him with anything I said, but, like, who knows? What if he thinks I’m weird? Or stupid? Or regrets hanging out with me? It’s not like I have a lot of options for friends, Derek,” Stiles finishes, and seems to deflate in on himself like a balloon once he’s done and gotten it all out.
The loft is quiet for a beat while Derek lets the silence wrap around them in a semblance of calm. He squeezes Stiles’ hands before he speaks. Their eyes meet again, and Stiles’ are still frantic.
“First of all, I’m sure you did great. Secondly, you are weird,” Derek starts, and Stiles grins, albeit nervously, still, but Derek is glad to see his Stiles come back, just a little.
Self-assured, confident Stiles. Not that anxious-Stiles isn’t him as well, but it’s a part of him — a temporary part, Derek has a feeling. And even if it’s permanent, well, Derek will love him just the same.
“Thirdly, you’re not stupid except for when I kiss you stupid,” Derek goes on — another grin from Stiles at the absolute cheesiness — “And lastly, you did your best, and it was new for you, and I’m proud of you,” he finishes, to Stiles’ reddening cheeks. Derek’s an absolute goober, honestly.
“Wish I could kiss you stupid,” Stiles mumbles around his grin, and he does.
When they break apart it’s to Stiles’ slightly calmer heart, but his face is still flushed and he still smells wrong. So it’s Derek’s turn to fill the silence, again.
“Did he talk to you as well? Was he interested in what you had to say?” Derek prompts.
Stiles shrugs, “Well, yeah, that’s what a conversation is, he had to. Or else he just went along with me pointing out the wolfsbane in the forest and all the weird types of moss.”
“He didn’t have to participate, Stiles, he chose to. He stayed and walked with you because he liked talking to you,” Derek tries to impart, though Stiles looks skeptical.
“Yeah, dude, but we were in the middle of the forest, it’s not like he could’ve just left and gone home,” comes his excuse. “I’m just — I hate feeling so different, like I’m always watching everyone else interact so easily and wondering what went wrong in my brain where I’m not like them. When did it get so difficult?”
There’s heartbreak in Stiles’ voice, and Derek can’t help but tug him closer, sitting back on the couch and pulling Stiles towards him with an arm around his shoulder and waist. Stiles sighs and nestles into Derek’s neck, his own arms around Derek’s chest.
This is where he’s supposed to be, where Derek wants him to be at all times. While he’s happy that Stiles is getting out and making friends, he selfishly just wants him to himself all the fucking time. He doesn’t think that’s going to change.
“Stiles,” Derek starts, “you are different, but that’s not a bad thing. It’s a you thing, and you’re amazing, and the right people will find you, just like Scott did. I love how you communicate. I’m sorry it’s hard for you, but you know I understand.”
Stiles can’t help but let out a huge sigh again, and Derek is relieved to hear his heart beating a pace slower, scent smelling less acrid already. He squeezes Stiles to his chest and Stiles squeezes back willingly, turning his whole face into Derek’s neck and breathing in.
“I know,” he mumbles into Derek’s skin. “I just wish it were easier. I wish I didn’t feel this way afterwards. I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he admits, and he sounds sad, and Derek is sad for him.
“Now you know how I feel after every social interaction,” Derek says around a self-deprecating laugh, and Stiles looks up at him suddenly, heart leaping again.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize,” Stiles laments, and he pouts so genuinely that Derek can’t help but lean in and kiss him again.
Stiles opens up willingly and they spend the next few minutes wrapped up in each other while Derek observes Stiles’ heart rate lowering significantly, at last, his grip on Derek slacking and his mouth and tongue turning lazy and soft and sweet.
Derek isn’t much for words, but he’s glad he can help in any way.
When they break apart, foreheads together, Derek speaks again.
“It’ll get easier,” he promises. At Stiles’ open mouth, ready to jump in with another question, he continues, “It won’t always be like this. Know how I know?”
Stiles shakes his head and looks so innocent, big brown eyes and parted mouth, and Derek can’t resist kissing one more time over Stiles’ bottom lip, so slow and gentle.
“Because you’re Stiles,” Derek says resolutely. “Something was taken from you these last years, I know. But you’re strong. You’re the strongest person I know, and I’ve seen you overcome so much, Stiles. In a few months you’ll be the popular kid, and you’ll come home telling me you’re overwhelmed with how many friends you have now, and I’ll have to beg for your attention,” Derek smiles, and Stiles pouts again, looking indignant.
“Will not! You’re my first priority, Der—”
Derek only kisses his forehead in response, and Stiles shuts up immediately, a pinkish hue coloring his cheeks again. He always melts at Derek’s forehead kisses.
“If I’m the popular kid, can I at least be the hot girl? You know, the hot girl that everybody wants?”
It’s Derek’s turn to look indignant now, eyebrows furrowing. He will not be sharing Stiles with anyone, ever—
“Chill, Sourwolf, it’s a joke from high school. Text Isaac about it,” Stiles beams cheekily, and Derek rolls his eyes, wary of the inside joke. He makes a mental note to seriously ask Isaac about it later. “You know I’m your one and only.”
“If you say so,” Derek accepts, unsure, though he knows their matebond is true, can feel every day that Stiles loves him as strongly as Derek loves him back. That will never change. “I’m serious, though — this’ll pass. You’ll feel better one day, I promise.”
Stiles will always believe Derek’s promises, and this one is no exception.
He gazes into his mate’s hazel-lichen eyes and knows he should believe Derek, but it’s hard. He’s spiraling less than when he walked in the door, but it’s like there’s a hurricane inside of him, still, bursting to get out and swirling and writhing and anxious.
He can’t envision a world in which he isn’t anxious, though he knows he’s been there before. But ever since his mom got sick, it’s all he’s known. The worry had just been directed at different things throughout his life, and now he trades monsters that go bump in the night for people, of all things, suddenly anxious about his stupid social life and how he’s being perceived.
But the thought makes him tense up all over again and he just hates how he’s feeling, hates how riled up he’s getting about this, but his anxiety had to go somewhere.
He supposes this is better than evil fox spirits, at least.
“You’ll get there,” Derek murmurs to him, breaking through the hurricane in only the way Derek can. He squeezes Stiles’ hand and brings up his own to cup Stiles’ face, brushing his thumb against his cheek. Stiles nearly melts, figures Xanax could never compare to the way Derek never fails to calm him down.
“You’ll get there. I promise.”