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Their heads are awfully close together, aren't they?
He's trying to be objective, but, just—fuck. Can't she look at the book, and then Stiles look at the book when she's done? Do they both have to look at it at the exact same time?
They're practically breathing the same air at this point. And there's only so much oxygen in a cubic liter of air. They'll be getting lightheaded any minute. Maybe he should put a stop to it. His wolf thinks so; he can feel it inside, antsy and pacing, whining unhappily.
Derek's lingering—creeping, Stiles would say—in the hallway outside the library, watching through the wall of glassed-in French doors. He's pretty sure that she doesn't know he's there, she's human, after all. But he's also pretty sure Stiles does, because Stiles has developed an impressive Derek-sense these last few months. Derek is simultaneously proud and currently disgruntled, because he's got to make a real effort to sneak up on Stiles these days and he's too unsettled at the moment to plan well.
Janey is...she's Stiles, really. Stiles in a girl-body, and Derek at first wondered if Marta did it on purpose, if she sent a Stiles-a-like to tempt Derek, or a girl Stiles could relate to, to tempt Stiles. If she could lure Stiles away, or forge a mating-bond with the Hale Alpha it would benefit the Rodriguez pack either way.
Derek remembers, though, the look on Marta's face when she spoke of his mom, the genuine affection she's shown for Derek, and knows it for what it is- his own groundless paranoia. Marta's only done what Stiles asked- sent a well-adjusted pack-human smart enough to learn the magic Stiles can teach.
Janey smells like lavender. It's nice, not perfume-y lavender, just a little bit of it in her shampoo or something. Noticeable, but not overwhelming to wolf-noses. Pleasant. And she's whip-smart. Unintimidated, but still mindful of her visitor status and respectful to Derek and cognizant of boundaries, places and times, where and when she shouldn't go or be. Pretty, but in an uncontrived way that makes it clear that it's low on her priority list.
Derek has tried—maybe harder than is becoming for an Alpha werewolf—to find a reason not to like her, maybe even to come up with grounds for sending her back, and he can't.
Stiles thinks she's pleasant, that much is clear.
He's snapped out of his internal self-torture by a burst of squealing and sees them clinging to each other and jumping up and down. There's a small cube, a children's block, the letter J, levitating over the mahogany table their books are strewn over. It crashes down the moment he bursts into the room with a growl.
As soon as Derek opens the doors all he can smell is them, together, not a Stiles-scent and a separate, distinct Janey-scent, but a single, mingled one. Logically, he knows it's probably a product of the magic that has just coalesced in the room, but he can't reel himself in and he feels his eyes go red.
"Did you see!? Did you see it Derek? Janey did it, all by herself..."
Stiles is still looking at Janey, not him, and is clearly unaware of anything amiss, lost in the euphoria of his pupil's success. That's all Derek needs to know to realize that he's been oblivious this whole time, which makes him feel only slightly better. He shakes the red down, and leashes the wolf with more effort than he likes to admit.
Janey, though, Janey is not only book-smart, it seems, but people-smart, and also wolf-smart. She smiles gently without showing her teeth, dropping her gaze and slowly disengaging herself from Stiles who's still babbling about her levi-what-ever spell.
"I'm feeling tired, Stiles. I think I need a nap," she says quietly.
"What? Wait! You should try again, right away, solidify the feel of it in your gut before you forget—"
"Stiles!" Janey elbows him, and jerks her chin at Derek, gaze never leaving him. Smart girl, like he said. Stiles just gapes, first at her, then Derek, then he—fucking finally—lets go of Janey's elbows. His expression starts to morph into something else that Derek recognizes. Exasperation, understanding. Endearment.
He gets that look from Stiles a lot.
"With your permission, Alpha?" She's smart to ask, since he's blocking the doorway and approaching him in the state he's in without making sure it's okay is suicide. She slowly and deliberately gathers all her things, stuffing her book-bag with papers and the remains of her lunch, leaving nothing she's touched behind, nothing that could carry her scent.
Only Stiles.
"Go," he growls, already planning an apology as she darts past him but right now he just wants her out and his hands on Stiles to make him smell like he's supposed to.
Like he's Derek's.
"Okay. Okay man." Stiles runs a hand through his hair and takes a deep, shaky breath as he crosses to the windows. Derek growls, because all he can think of is that it's a way out, a way to get away from Derek and that maybe Stiles is taking it.
"Easy," Stiles says, low and soothing. "I'm right here."
It's contrary, the opposite of what should happen when Stiles calms him, but Derek feels freer now that Stiles has figured out where Derek's head is, and he looses the wolf a little when Stiles turns away, feels his fangs drop and his brow wrinkle into thick wolf-heaviness.
It's a relief.
Stiles opens the windows and a breeze immediately sweeps through the room, rattling papers to the floor. The cube that had been floating when Derek had burst in tumbles across the table-top until it hits a stack of books and stills, a raised picture of a jellyfish stained in blue facing up at them.
The air slowly clears, freshening, the ozone tang of magic dissipating along with the scent of Janey.
"You're gonna smell her again," Stiles says softly, turning back and gesturing for Derek to come closer, wisely waiting for Derek to move instead of trying to close the distance himself.
Derek doesn't know when Stiles got so fucking smart about wolves, but he's achingly proud of him, both as his second and his someday-mate. Derek should tell him that, he really should, can just picture how Stiles' face would light up and how he'd vibrate with Derek's approval, but Derek's not sure he can articulate words right now.
He will later. He promises himself he will, later.
Stiles doesn't seem at all surprised to see Derek's wolf-face; it's almost as though he was expecting it. He doesn't startle or flinch when Derek starts to move.
"When you touch me, you're gonna smell her again, and I'm sorry for that."
Derek wants to say he's sorry, that he's ashamed of not having better control, but aside from a barista or a brush in the hallway at school it's the first time since—since he and Stiles—it's the first time that someone who's not pack has had hands on him and Derek is wild with it. He wishes for his mom, or Laura—someone who could tell him if this is normal or if he's as fucked up as he thinks he is just because of an innocent, excited hug.
Derek stops a few inches from Stiles and buries his claws in his own palms to keep from snatching Stiles and crushing him to his chest the way he wants to. He wonders how much worse it would be if he—if he let Stiles have his way, if Derek had given in and claimed Stiles the way his wolf had wanted. Or maybe it wouldn't be.
Maybe it'd be better.
"I—it's okay. I'm being an idiot."
Stiles smiles at that, reaching out for Derek's hands, turning them palms-up and rubbing the pinpricks of blood away.
"Almost always, yes," he grins, and Derek can't help but laugh a little and roll his eyes, even though the effect is probably lost under the wolf's features. "But you're my idiot." Stiles drops his hands and reaches for Derek's belt, yanking Derek those last couple inches forward until they're flush, tilting his head up for a kiss.
"And I'm yours," Stiles says. It should be sappy and overly-romantic, but the way Stiles says it is so matter-of-fact that it's just the balm he needed. Derek feels the thrill streak through him, rumbling his approval as he opens for Stiles' mouth on his, shuddering as he tries to rein in the wolf, to sheathe his fangs before Stiles can kiss himself bloody.
Stiles can tell he's struggling to put the wolf away; Derek knows this. They've played at it, Stiles with his back to Derek, standing with foam plugs in his ears at ever-growing distances, signaling with a thumbs up or down whether or not Derek had shifted. It had been a game at first, one Derek had endured with long-suffering sighs, but he had to admit that Stiles becoming that attuned to him—enough to know whether he'd shifted or not even without sight or sound—could prove vital someday.
It was also undeniably intimate.
"Don't," Stiles says, pulling back as his hands squeeze Derek's waist. "I want you to be...I don't want you to put on the face you think I want." He pauses, reaching up, and deliberately pricks one finger on Derek's fang, rubbing the drop of blood on Derek's bottom lip. "I want all your faces."
Derek doesn't know what to say, like always. This kid...man...his mate, someday, there's no denying it—Stiles always has these words that knock him over and Derek wonders if he ever feels cheated, short-changed when Derek doesn't know the right ones to give back to him.
"I—okay," he breathes out heavily. "Okay."
The smell of their blood in the air—his palms, Stiles' finger—goes a long way toward erasing the remaining scent of Janey still clinging to Stiles. But not far enough. He backs Stiles up to the big leather couch along the far wall, kissing him and tugging carefully at his hair, claws scritching at his scalp. Stiles is making noises—the good, happy kind that make the wolf inside him preen.
"You good with this?" Derek's rubbing his wolfed-out face into Stiles' neck, inhaling deeply as his hands roam lower, smearing his own sweat and oil and scent on Stiles' skin. Marking. Stiles peels off his own shirt, giving Derek more skin to get at. Derek feels the wolf's approval, eager and with none of the human inclinations to take extra time to delight or tempt, to be sure. But Stiles hasn't answered his question, despite all the positive-sounding noises he's making and the very eager fingers struggling to open Derek's fly.
"Stiles," Derek says more forcefully, putting a little of the Alpha into it. "Is this okay?"
Stiles' head snaps up comically, clever fingers stopping just as they were reaching into the fly of Derek's briefs. Derek feels himself smile, a real one, the first since he froze to a standstill in the hallway. Stiles looks confused and aroused and annoyed at being literally cock-blocked by his Alpha.
"Wha—? Yes, yes I'm okay. Fuck," he pants. "Why're you putting the mack-daddy whammy on me? Dammit, Derek." He reaches for Derek again, greedy, but Derek grabs his jaw first, tilting his face up. Stiles' heart is already beating so fast (and so is Derek's) that he's not sure he could hear a lie.
"Because we—we haven't. Like this." Stiles is as still as Derek's ever felt him. He's seen Derek wolfed-out, sparred him in beta-form, even rubbed noses with and doled out affectionate ear-scratches to Derek in his pure Alpha form. But when it comes to sex, Derek's never let anything wolfish happen beyond the appearance of his knot that first time.
"You gave me, I mean, I asked for the werewolf porn," Stiles stammers, blushing furiously as he suddenly flings himself onto the leather behind him. Derek sits beside him, one hand resting lightly at the base of Stiles' spine.
Derek isn't capable of not touching him at this point.
"Doesn't that—I mean, it's sort of a tell, don't you think?" Stiles continues.
"People watch a lot of things in porn that they wouldn't ever do in real life, Stiles," Derek says dryly.
"They do?"
"Well, other people do," Derek's holding in laughter at this point, and it feels really good to be in this easy place with Stiles again. He relaxes back against the sofa, pulling Stiles over to recline against him. It should feel ridiculous, he's shoeless and Stiles is shirtless and Derek's cock is almost literally hanging out, but he's really, honestly happy right at this moment.
He can practically feel the wolf curling up contentedly inside him.
"I mean, I can see it happening once," Stiles pauses, clearly considering this new information Derek has shared. "Maybe twice, if you just had to confirm that you really saw what you thought you saw. But my personal hit count on some of those links is, uh, pretty conclusive."
"I just needed to make sure," Derek says quietly, playing with Stiles' hair. He likes it longer; there's more to get hold of. "I don't want to take—"
Derek stops, wanting to say 'things', but he knows, knows it isn't the right word, not the best word. And Stiles has to fill in the blanks a lot already, has to put up with a lot of missing and stunted words from Derek as it is. He doesn't seem to mind, but Derek feels like he should at least make sure he doesn't skimp on the really important ones.
"—I don't want to take...you...for granted."
"I got you," Stiles answers softly, snuggling back into him for a few minutes without saying anything. But it's Stiles, so it doesn't last long. "If this is about that thing, with the panties, I told you we didn't—"
Derek clears his throat hurriedly.
"It's not about the panties."
"Okay. Okay, good." He pauses, then, "So, that's maybe still on the table, then...?"
"Stiles."
"Fine, fine. Letting it go." He squirms around until he's lying belly-down on top of Derek, immediately poking him in the belly.
"Hey. Where'd you go?"
Derek stares blankly up at him.
"What?"
Stiles lowers his brows dramatically and mimes fangs, curling his fingers at his lips like a ten-year-old. The move drives his elbows into Derek's ribs.
"Ooof," he grunts.
"Did you say 'woof'?"
Derek struggles to dig Stiles' elbows out of his chest, taking the opportunity to haul him up to within kissing distance.
"Not in your lifetime," he says meaningfully.
"Funny," Stiles rolls his eyes. "You know, you didn't have to put him away," Stiles says quietly, settling and gazing down at Derek, running the index finger with the pinprick across Derek's forehead where the wolf's ridges are always most prominent. "I'm not afraid. It's just another flavor of you, you know? Like panties vs. briefs."
It clicks, finally, and Derek realizes that his wolf has slipped away of its own accord, without his awareness. He's been caught off-guard by the wolf's sudden appearance many times, but not without knowing it was there, or that it was retreating. He's never had that happen before...never been so comfortable in someone's presence that the wolf could come or go without Derek's conscious thought.
"I didn't mean to," he says. Derek's not sure he has the right words, and he's hoping Stiles gets it, that he understands what it means.
How much it means.
Stiles' eyes widen and his big, slow smile shows that he does.
"Really? You mean it just happens around me?" Unsurprisingly, he doesn't wait for a reply, his stupidly amazing big brain already leaping five steps ahead of any answer Derek could give. "So, will wolfy-Derek come if I call?"
"So help me, if you whistle at me from the porch rail I'll have the internet disconnected."
"C'mon, come back, wolf-man," Stiles shimmies on top of Derek. As if that will work, or something. "Derek."
"No."
"Deerrrreeeeeckkk...."
"Nope."
"It'll be fuuu-unnn!" he sing-songs, hips rolling suggestively down into Derek's. And that—that piques the wolf's interest.
"C'mon. We're bringing sexy back!"
Derek laughs, feeling the ripple only a split second before—
"Awww yessss!" Stiles crows victoriously, punctuating it with a ridiculous fist-pump.
When Derek growls and rolls Stiles beneath him, he can't smell anything but leather and them.