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Stiles doesn’t like going to the antiques store so much as he recognizes that it’s something he needs to do periodically. It’s always dusty, and while it’s usually pretty vacant, he occasionally has to fight through crowds of antiquers looking for commemorative glasses of the Apollo 11 moon landing - which are located in the back, with the other glasswares, not with the books - and people trying to be the next American Pickers.
For the most part, though, Stiles avoids the crowds and huddles up in the book section, flipping through dusty tomes with titles like 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue and The Prose Works of Jonathan Swift, D.D. - Volume 8 and The Meritorious Price of our Redemption. Every once in awhile, though, he’ll find something interesting. A Scientific Study of the Metaphysical Properties of Common Herbs was particularly useful, which he’d found tucked behind another copy of The Lord Of The Rings and some Nora Roberts junk.
Right now, he’s thumbing through a brown and cracked copy of The Werwolfe, or, The Baleful Beast. There’s a lot of stuff in there that he knows is nonsense (something about wolves not eating starch, and he’s pretty sure he’s seen the pack put away pizza and potato chips without issue) but there are bits of it that ring true, especially when it comes to pack dynamics. He dusts it off, sneezes a little bit, then tucks it under his arm and walks to the register.
The woman behind the counter is probably older than half of the stuff in the store, and as far as Stiles can tell, she thinks he’s some sort of Wiccan weirdo who sacrifices animals on the full moon to some terrible old god or dances naked in the woods. She always looks at him over the top of her horn-rimmed glasses with something approaching disdain, and as she enters the price of his book into the antique cash register (which is really cool, all ornate brass trim with a glass panel in the front that shows the little numbers as they ring up the total), he can feel her judging him as she takes in the title of the book.
“Interesting reading,” she comments, her voice dry and cracked with age. “Wouldn’t you rather like the Narnia series? It’s much more... appropriate for your age, instead of this nonsense. We have a few copies in the back, if you’d like. And it’s much more wholesome,” she continues, hesitating a moment before placing Stiles’ book in a plastic bag.
“No, ma’am,” he answers, trying to be polite.
“I’ll throw it in for free,” she pushes, starting to get off of her stool. “A young man like you could use some wholesome reading.”
“Uh, that’s okay!” Stiles says, trying to stop her from stepping around the counter. “I’ve got a copy at home, my favorite series. Yes, definitely. Gotta love Aslan and the whole wardrobe... thing. And the British kids, definitely love the British kids!” He grins, wide, then realizes what he’s said.
“Um, but... not in a creepy way or anything, you know. More like a... role model... thing. Yeah...”
She doesn’t look too convinced, but she pulls herself back up onto her stool and passes him the bag.
“That’ll be fifteen dollars,” she says. Stiles passes her a twenty, tells her to keep the change, and power walks out of the store.
The drive to the Hale house is basically done on autopilot. Stiles has been making this drive for almost three years now, and the careful turns that he used to have to squint to find come as second nature to him. Even in the slowly fading light of dusk, he’s able to make his way easily to the forested gravel path. He and Scott had tried to convince Derek to get the driveway paved, but the cost ended up deciding it for them. It’s not too bad during the summer, like now, but once winter comes, Stiles’ Jeep is pretty much the only car that can get through before the plow shows up.
He pulls into the roundabout in front of the house. Derek’s Camaro is sitting in the detached garage, but there’s no sign of the rest of the pack. There are lights leading up to the house, casting the concrete path in a soft glow. The house itself is phenomenal, considering what it used to be. It’s three stories with tan siding and a dark slate roof. There are dormer windows in the attic, where Isaac’s room is, and a widow’s walk that no one really uses. The lower level is covered in wide windows and a wrap-around porch that’s screened in, with a porch swing near the front door and an outdoor dining set where they sometimes have pack meetings. Stiles can see a few dishes that have been left out, and he rolls his eyes. Derek’s not the neatest person (werewolf? Is there a difference between the two and cleanliness? Stiles is gonna have to check his new book) but Isaac usually remembers to pick up after him.
Stiles parks, then clambers out of the Jeep. He knocks on the front door, then turns the knob and lets himself in.
“Derek!” He shouts, toeing off his shoes. “Have you ever heard of werewolves with a gluten allergy or a general aversion to starches?”
Stiles pads his way into the kitchen, where Derek’s standing over the stove, frowning at something bubbling away. Stiles imagines it’s only boiling because of Derek’s glare and laughs to himself.
“What are you talking about?” Derek asks, turning down the heat.
“A gluten allergy. Like, can’t eat bread and stuff?”
Derek rolls his eyes, then looks up at Stiles.
“No. Why are you asking me that?” He leans against the kitchen island, arms crossed and eyebrows pulled down into a sharp V.
“I got a new book,” Stiles says, holding up said text and waving it. “It said that werewolves can’t eat starch, I just wanted to see if you’d heard anything about that.”
Derek rolls his eyes, then holds a hand out.
“I don’t know how many times I’ve told you to stop going to the antiques store. You always come back with the most inane stuff. Let me see this thing.” He crooks a finger, then holds his hand out again.
“Don’t go dissing my books,” Stiles says, holding the book out. “I’ve found some good stuff, and you know it.”
Derek starts to say something as Stiles presses the book into his hand, but there’s a flash of light and sound that knocks them both back, and Stiles doesn’t hear or see anything for a while.
Unconsciousness will do that.
---
When Stiles wakes up, he feels fifty pounds heavier. His head is killing him. His ears are ringing, and his eyes are watering so badly, there are tears streaming down his face.
“What the fuck?” He asks, his voice rough. It rattles in his mouth, feels unfamiliar. He coughs, then rolls onto his side, and pushes himself up.
Right around then is when he notices something is seriously wrong. He’d come to Derek’s house wearing his red hoodie, and now his arms are covered in grey cotton. And they’re bigger than they were earlier.
“Derek, what the fuck?” Stiles asks. Except it’s Derek asking. Derek’s voice coming out of Stiles mouth.
He wipes his eyes, feels stubble scape against his hand, then turns to see himself, sprawled across the kitchen floor, propped up on his elbows, eyes wide and confused.
“Stiles?” He asks himself, and Stiles thinks he’s losing his mind.
“Derek?” He stumbles forward, his body unfamiliar. Everything moves with more purpose, more strength than what he’s used to. He’s shorter, though not by much, and when he reaches out to pull himself (or is it Derek?) up from the floor, he comes up short.
Stiles also almost throws himself across the room, muscles bunching tight and powerful. He watches himself stumble, then slowly balance.
“Derek,” he asks, Derek’s voice overly loud in his ears, “is that you?”
“Yeah,” Derek says with Stiles’ voice, “yeah, it’s me. This is why we don’t buy books from the antiques store.”
Stiles can tell that Derek’s trying to use his “I’m the Alpha, you’d better straighten up and fly right” voice, but it’s Stiles’ voice, and there’s something about it that just doesn’t work. Stiles laughs. It’s weird, hearing Derek’s laugh come out of his mouth. It’s surprisingly bright and open, warm in a way Derek usually isn’t. As the laugh echoes around the kitchen, they both pause.
“Stiles,” Derek says, “what kind of book did you buy again?”
Stiles shrugs, then leans down and picks the book up from the kitchen floor. He’s getting the hang of moving in Derek’s body, and he’s able to grab it on the first try. Though he does bang his elbow into the kitchen island on the way up.
“Just an old book about werewolves,” he says. There’s a burnt pattern on the back that looks similar to the triskelion on Derek’s back. “I... I, uh, think there may have been a spell on it?” He says.
“Well, make it happen again,” Derek says, reaching out to grab the book. When his palm slaps down on the cover, they both tense, wait a second, then sigh when nothing happens.
“I don’t know how I did it in the first place,” Stiles says, flipping through the pages quickly. He gets about halfway through the book when something burnt falls out. Derek bends down, awkward and ungainly in Stiles’ skin, then sighs when he picks it up and it falls to dust.
“Wolfsbane,” he says, rubbing his fingers together. “Figures.”
“We’ve got to get this figured out,” Stiles says, still flipping frantically through the book. “I mean, not that the packaging isn’t nice or anything, but I’d really like to be back in my own body as soon as possible.”
“Feeling’s mutual,” Derek mutters, standing. Stiles pauses, raises an eyebrow, and watches as Derek’s brain catches up with his mouth.
“I mean about getting back to normal,” he says quickly. He glowers, though it just doesn’t work the same with Stiles’ face. There’s just something missing around the eyebrows. “Just figure this out, Stiles.”
Stiles nods, then sniffs, something catching in his nose. He sneezes, then looks around the kitchen.
“Dude, what is that?”
They both turn to the stove, where whatever Derek was cooking before is now bubbling frantically, smoke rising from around the bottom of the pot.
“Shit,” Derek says, then rushes to turn off the stove.
“I’ll just... be over here... researching,” Stiles says, backing away from the stove as Derek angrily grabs the pot handle. He curses, then pulls his hand away, shaking it.
“Get on that,” he says, blowing against the palm of his (Stiles’) hand, which is bright red, “and throw me that pot holder.”
---
An hour later, Stiles has realized a few things:
One, reading with werewolf eyes is exhausting. He’s been struggling to stop focusing on the minute details of the page, but it’s like he’s got telescoping lenses instead of eyes, and everything is an extreme close up. Stiles has to hold the book out at arms length, or he ends up seeing the individual fibers of the page instead of the words.
Two, old books smell awful. He’s always enjoyed the scent of books, the musty-moldy-vanilla smell that rolls out when you crack the pages open. As a wolf, though, it’s overpowering. He gags a couple of times, then has to open a window to get the smell out of the kitchen. Derek looks at him like he’s lost his mind (an expression that does work well with Stiles’ face) but goes about salvaging his dinner.
Three, there’s no way in hell Stiles is going to be able to do anything to fix this.
“Derek,” he says, closing the book with finality, “you’re not going to like this.”
Derek shambles into the kitchen. He’s still uncomfortable in Stiles’ body and has taken to shuffling around, barely picking his feet up when moving forward. He looks like he’s ice skating or trying to slide across the floor, but it keeps him upright (he’d fallen over while walking upstairs, banging his knees hard enough that Stiles winced in sympathy; grace is not a trait that Stiles’ body has in spades). Derek sits down next to Stiles carefully, then frowns.
“What’d you find?” He asks, drumming his fingers against the table top.
“Well,” Stiles says, trying to hear himself over the loud tapping, “I don’t think I’m going to be able to do anything about this... situation that we’re in. According to the book, werewolves aren’t able to do magic.”
Derek gives him a blank stare, fingers still tapping against the tabletop.
“And in case you didn’t notice,” Stiles gestures, swiping his hands in the air in front of his body, then holding them out in a ta-da like manner, “I’m a werewolf right now.”
Derek stops tapping his fingers, then reaches out for the book and starts flipping through the pages. His leg starts shaking under the table, bouncing up and down furiously.
“This thing isn’t entirely accurate, right?” He asks. “There are things in here that aren’t right, like the starch thing.”
“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, “but I think that might have been put in there to throw people off track. There are more things in here that are true than aren’t. Like,” Stiles shifts his chair, sliding it across the floor until he and Derek are on the same side of the table, peering at the brown pages of the book.
“Here, go to page 213. It talks about the different eye colors, and you know that most people don’t even know that’s a thing. I mean, Allison has the Argent bestiary, and it doesn’t say anything about what it means.”
Derek frowns, then nods. He sits back in his chair, stretching his (Stiles’) long limbs out until he’s almost spread-eagle in the seat. He hangs his head back, his (Stiles’) throat arched in a gentle curve, his pulse beating slow and sure beneath thin skin, and Stiles feels his fangs drop.
“Derek,” he says, “shatp doing that.”
Derek tips his head back up quickly, then windmills his arms as the chair tumbles backwards. Stiles get a hand out, grabs onto the heavy wood of the back of the chair, and easily stops Derek from falling to the floor.
“Gotta be careful,” he lisps around the fangs. “I don’t have the betht balanthe.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Derek asks, pressing his hands against the tabletop, holding himself steady.
“I don’t know, man. I jusht don’t shtay balanthed very well,” Stiles says, frowning.
“I meant with your voice, you idiot.” Derek glowers. Still not effective.
“It’th your fangths. They feel weird... Esthes don’t work right. Shtiles. Shtiles Shtilinshki.” Stiles stops, runs his tongue over the long canines peaking out from his front lip. “Thith ith really weird.”
“Just... relax. Take a deep breath, count to ten. They’ll go down.” Derek sighs, then lays his head on the table.
Stiles shuts his eyes, starts counting. He reaches twenty before he starts to feel anything, and by thirty-seven, the fangs are gone.
“Okay, that’s better. So, what do you want to do?” He asks.
“Die?” Derek responds, the words muffled against the table.
“C’mon, it’s not that bad. You’re just going to have to figure out how to use magic. Can’t be that hard, right?”
Derek turns his head so that its side is pressed against the tabletop and shoots Stiles the greatest Death Glare (and it deserves capitalization, because this thing could be used to strip paint) he’s ever seen on his own face.
“You’re gonna have to teach me how to do that,” Stiles murmurs, transfixed, “once we get back to normal.”
“How do you propose I learn magic, Stiles?” Derek says, still glaring.
“I’ll teach you, it’s not that hard. It’s all about belief. And, like, there should be some muscle memory or something, right? My body knows what it’s doing, it’ll help you through things.” Stiles says, fighting the urge to pet his own hair (Derek’s hair? He’s still confused about pronouns) the way he knows calms him down immediately (like his mom used to, but he stops that thought before it gets started).
“I’d be more worried about how we’re going to convince everyone that you’re me and I’m you. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re not exactly doing a great job right now,” Stiles says, leaning back in his chair.
Derek looks at him from the tabletop, groans, and then rolls his head so he’s face-first on the table. Stiles hears little thumps and realizes that Derek’s pounding his forehead against the solid wood.
“You’re gonna bruise,” Stiles comments, slipping a hand between Derek’s forehead and the table. “Not gonna be a good look for you.”
“Just give me five minutes,” Derek mutters.
Stiles hums and pulls his hand back.
“Does this mean that I’m the alpha now?”
“Shut up.”
---
Stiles and Derek agree to keep this between the two of them for as long as possible. The pack’s solidified around Derek as Alpha, and neither of them want to consider the repercussions of the betas - or Peter, who Stiles still doesn’t trust - finding out.
Derek calls Stiles’ dad and does a manageable job of it, rambling just enough to convince the Sheriff that he’s staying at Scott’s house for the night. It’s summer break, so it’s easier than during the school year to get the okay.
“Just call me when you’re on your way home. I may be at the station, but I’d like to know when you’re headed that way.”
“Okay... Dad,” Derek says, stumbling over the word.
“Have fun, kid. Don’t get into any trouble,” the Sheriff says before hanging up. Derek cradles Stiles’ phone for a long moment before sliding it across the table.
Stiles texts Scott that he’s at Derek’s and needs Scott to cover. Scott sends back a simple “yep.” Stiles starts to slip his phone into his pocket, then pauses.
“You should probably hold onto this,” he says, sliding it back across the table to Derek. He catches the phone, barely, then puts it away.
Stiles recognizes the tightness in his () shoulders, has seen it too many times reflected back at himself over the years (his shoulders cased in a black jacket, white shirt collar tucked up around his neck, his father waiting downstairs with a bouquet of flowers and the faint taint of whiskey on his breath), and he reaches out to lay a comforting hand on Derek’s (his) shoulder.
“It’ll be alright,” he says, voice deep with sympathy and concern. “We’ll get this figured out.”
They have a quiet moment, something about the look Derek’s giving him making Stiles feel like, yeah, they can get this figured out. I mean, we took out the Alphas. We can handle this. What could go wrong?
Stiles hears the door slam shut, and Peter ambles into the kitchen, then raises an eyebrow.
“Stiles,” he says, leaning against the kitchen island. “What a surprise. What’s brought you over here so late?”
Stiles starts to open his mouth to respond, but Derek’s head snaps up, eyes wide, and shakes his head.
“Just doing some research,” Derek says, grabbing the book from the table and waving it in the air. “Have you ever heard of werewolves having a gluten allergy?”
Stiles lets out a choked laugh while Peter just cackles.
“I understand why you keep him around, Derek,” Peter says, walking over to lay his hands on Derek’s shoulders. “He’s so... entertaining.”
Stiles feels himself bristle, and then the fangs drop. His eyes itch, and he wouldn’t be surprised, if he were to look in a mirror, to see them glowing red back at him.
Derek, however, has frozen. Stiles can see Peter’s fingers rubbing gently into his shoulders, a small massage that Stiles hasn’t ever thought too much of, besides the general creepiness of it. Apparently, Derek hasn’t noticed before because he looks like he’s about to throw up.
“What do you need, Peter?” Stiles asks, remembering to avoid any unnecessary esses.
“Can’t I say hello to my alpha,” and it drips out of his mouth, “and my pack member?”
Stiles can see his fingers bite into Derek’s shoulders, and Derek pushes himself away from the table and Peter’s hands, scrambling to stand next to Stiles.
“You’ve said hello,” Derek says, his voice unsteady, “and now you can leave.”
“I’m hurt,” Peter says, holding a hand up to his heart.
“No, you’re not,” Stiles mutters, then watches as Peter stiffens. He frowns, then turns out of the room.
“If you need me,” he calls back, “I’ll be upstairs.”
They both jump when Peter slams his door, then Derek slumps back into his seat and rubs his hands over his face.
“Is he always that creepy?” Derek asks, sighing.
“Do you want the truth?”
Derek sighs, then shakes his head.
“No,” he says, opening the book again to flip idly through its pages, “but let me know if he gets handsy again.”
“I’ll keep you posted,” Stiles says as he stands and stretches.
“So, how’s the sleeping arrangement going to work out?”
Derek looks like a deer in headlights.
“I mean, we can always share your room or something, but that might give people the wrong idea.”
Derek goes sheet white and shakes his head.
“No, let’s... I don’t... There’s a spare room,” he says. He stands up carefully, tucks the chair in beneath the table, then hesitantly picks up the book and passes it to Stiles.
“See if you can find anything else,” he says, turning towards the stairs. “I’m going to bed.”
---
Stiles doesn’t sleep well under the best of circumstances. Sometimes it’s the Adderall, his last dose and his bedtime too close together or too far apart so that he’s jittery and anxious, lying in the dark and thinking a million thoughts at once. Sometimes he just needs the extra time to process everything that’s happened that day, especially with werewolves and kanimas and half-dead Argents.
Tonight, though, it’s the incessant tapping that he hears coming through the wall.
Taptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptap.
It’s been going on for thirty minutes. Rustles, then the squeak of bedsprings, then that god-forsaken tapping. Stiles groans and buries his head underneath his pillow, but it doesn’t help.
Taptaptaptaptap.
Stiles gives up and rolls out of bed, tired and furious. He stomps out into the hallway, following the sound to one of the other bedrooms on the second floor. He pounds on the door, then waits as he hears whoever’s in the room stumble their way to the door.
His own bed-mussed head pokes out, eyes half-lidded and angry.
“What do you want?” Derek asks, leaning against the doorframe and doing nothing to let Stiles in.
“You have got to stop tapping,” he says, shaking his finger in Derek’s face. “I can hear you down the fucking hall.”
Derek frowns, then steps aside and walks back to the bed, throwing himself down.
“I can’t,” he mumbles into the bedding. “I try, and then it just starts. How do you do this?”
“Just calm down or something, I don’t know,” Stiles says, walking into the room and shutting the door behind him.
“You have too much energy,” Derek sighs, rolling onto his back. “I feel like I’ve chugged a pack of Red Bull.”
Stiles sighs, then sits down on the edge of Derek’s bed.
There are nights where he can’t sleep because he can’t stop moving. Can’t keep himself still long enough to rest. Just jittery and anxious and unable to slow down the never-ending roll of thoughts in his mind. On those nights, he’s only found one way to calm down, to relax.
“Dude, just jerk off and go to sleep.”
Derek turns to him, eyes wide. “What now?”
“It’s the only thing that helps,” Stiles mutters, standing. “Just... it won’t take long, and I won’t judge you for it or anything. We can pretend like this conversation never happened. Just... take care of it, and we’ll figure this out in the morning.”
Derek just lays there, eyes wide, heart pounding. Stiles can hear the mild panic that’s flooding through his body, and he sighs.
“I give you permission to touch my dick,” he says, running a hand over his face. The rough scrape of stubble still feels weird. “I need to get to sleep, dude, and I’m not going to be able to do that until you stop tapping.”
Derek swallows and nods.
“Okay, fine.” He says. Stiles sighs again, then leaves, shutting the door firmly behind him.
He goes back to Derek’s room and lies down. He does his best to ignore the muffled noises coming from down the hall. The slight catch of breath, the squeak of the bed, the sound of skin-on-skin. He doesn’t let himself notice the stifled groans or his borrowed body’s response to them. Ignores the building ache, the thrum of his pulse beneath his skin. Ignores his own reaction to the final gasp that Derek can’t contain and the echoing silence that follows.
It takes Stiles a long time to fall asleep.
---
When he wakes up the next morning, Stiles thinks for about thirty seconds that it was all a dream. He doesn’t feel uncomfortable, doesn’t feel out of place, just feels like himself. Eyes closed, breathing slowly, he’s just in a comfortable bed that smells like aftershave and woods, body tucked into soft sheets and warm blankets.
He runs a hand through his hair, and that’s when the illusion shatters. It’s too long between his fingers, too stiff from gel left in overnight. He groans, then rolls out of bed. His feet are too wide. He stares at the carpet between them, allowing himself a second to panic that those feet could end up being his forever.
Then Derek comes stumbling in through the door, hair mussed and eyes red rimmed.
“We’re fixing this today,” he mutters before falling onto the bed. He groans, then flips himself face first into the comforter.
“I can let you sleep, if you need to?” Stiles asks.
“Let’s just get this taken care of,” Derek says into the sheets. He sighs as he slowly pushes himself up off the bed. “I feel like my skin is too tight.”
Stiles nods like he understands, but he’s felt surprisingly comfortable in Derek’s skin. He tries not to think about it as he shoos Derek out to get dressed.
Derek’s closet is pretty much exactly what Stiles would expect: a wide range of black, faded black, and grey shirts. He shimmies into a pair of jeans that are tight enough to make him worry about Derek’s sperm count, then throws on the most colorful henley he can find (it’s bluish-grey) before heading downstairs.
Derek’s got a half-eaten bowl of cereal and a small vial of mountain ash on the kitchen table. Some of the ash is spilled out on the dark wood, curled into a semi-circle. There’s a quarter in the center of it, and Derek is carefully closing the circle when Stiles sits down at the table.
“You need a bit more than that,” Stiles says, reaching out and touching the quarter. “It’s about belief.”
“I get that,” Derek says. He stares intently at the circle of ash, then raises an eyebrow at Stiles. Stiles reaches back out and touches the quarter again.
“C’mere,” he says, sliding to stand behind Derek. “You have to believe that I won’t be able to touch the quarter. Close your eyes.”
Derek rolls his eyes, but closes them. Stiles lays his hands on Derek’s shoulders, then leans in.
“Okay, this is what works for me. I imagine a wall of light coming up from the ash. It’s bright red, and it pulses, and I know that nothing can get past it, like a shield. Anything that comes up to that light that I don’t want to cross is stuck.”
He pauses, can feel the tension in Derek’s shoulders. He squeezes them gently, then continues.
“Picture it in your mind. There’s an energy inside you that matches that shield. You have to focus it, narrow it so that it can power the shield. You’ll feel it, it’s like holding a live wire.”
Derek frowns, then nods.
“Yeah, I can feel it. Just... hold on.” His brow furrows and his head ducks down slightly. Stiles feels the tension building in Derek’s shoulders, feels the muscles tense and bunch beneath his hands. He knows they’re really his shoulders, his muscles, but there’s something inherently Derek in the tightness stretched across his skin. There’s a long moment, and then the muscles beneath Stiles’ hands fall loose and heavy, and Derek’s gasping, eyes flashing gold.
When Stiles reaches for the quarter this time, he can’t get any closer than the dark circle of ash.
---
Stiles is finishing up his breakfast, Derek upstairs taking a shower, when Peter saunters into the kitchen.
“So, you’ve finally made your move,” he says, grinning.
“What?” Stiles asks, trying to get the right tone of gruff annoyance that Derek has when asking questions.
“With Stiles,” Peter says, sliding into the seat opposite Stiles at the table. “You’ve finally decided to give into temptation.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stiles says, leaning back in the chair and crossing his arms.
“Derek,” Peter sighs, leaning forward to rest his arms on the table. “I know you don’t trust me, and I certainly understand your... hesitancy to admit to this, but I heard you last night. Do you honestly expect me to not comment?”
Stiles looks away, confused and embarrassed. What is he talking about? Derek doesn’t think about me like that...
“I’m not going to discuss this,” Stiles says, pushing away from the table and standing. “Don’t you have some other people to annoy?”
Peter rolls his eyes but doesn’t stand.
“I’m just happy for you, nephew. It’s been a long time coming, and I’m glad that you’re finally going for something that will make you happy instead of miserable. I don’t personally understand the attraction,” and he grins as he says it, “but whatever rocks your boat...”
Stiles frowns, then heads upstairs, Peter’s laughter following him the whole way.
Derek finds him sitting pensively on the bed, brow furrowed and hands clasped. Derek’s wearing one of his own shirts, with Stiles’ plaid from the day before tossed over top. He leans against the door frame, hooking his thumbs into his pockets and crossing his legs at the ankle.
“So, what’s our next move?”
“Getting rid of Peter, I think,” Stiles says, running his hand over his face, fingers catching on stubble, before standing.
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah,” Stiles sighs. “I think we should go back to the store, see if we can find anything there. There may be a lot number that we can reference. If we can find out who sold them the book in the first place, we may be able to find whoever that is and get this fixed.”
Derek nods. “Alright, let’s go.”
“Can I drive the Camaro?”
The door stings as it hits Stiles in the face.
---
The bell above the door chimes happily as Derek and Stiles walk into the antique store, the cover of the book biting into Stiles’ hand. There’s a quiet beat as he starts heading towards the bookshelves in the back of the store, and then he hears a quick gasp.
“Oh dear.”
Stiles turns, then sees the prim old woman, eyes wide, hand over her mouth.
“Oh dear,” she says again, shaking her head and hurriedly coming from around the counter. She rushes to the door and flips the sign to closed, then puts her hands on her hips and shakes her head.
“I knew I shouldn’t have sold you that book,” she sighs. “Narnia is always a safer bet.”
“What are you talking about?” Derek asks, stepping between Stiles and the old woman. “I bought the book.”
“Dearie, I appreciate the effort, I really do. But I know,” and she points to Stiles over Derek’s shoulder, “that that young man bought a book from me yesterday, and I’ve never seen you before in my life.”
“Wait, what?” Stiles asks, stepping forward.
She sighs, then shakes her head again.
“Let me make you boys some tea.” She potters over to a door leading off of the main sales floor. “This will take some explaining.”
Derek does some complicated head motion, eyebrows rising and falling dramatically. Stiles really wishes he knew what it meant, but he’s at a loss. He shrugs, then follows the old woman into a small kitchen where she’s putting a kettle on a burner.
“What’s going on?” Stiles asks, crossing his arms and waiting as Derek steps into the room and quietly closes the door.
“Before we get into the nitty-gritty of it all, let’s not be rude. I’m Carol,” she reaches her hand out, and Stiles pauses, mumbles his name softly, then shakes her hand carefully.
“I found the book a couple years back,” she continues. “It was mixed in with a whole mess of things about the arcane. Spell books, candles, crystals, the whole kit-and-caboodle. Most of it, I was able to get rid of safely. But this book,” she sighs, “this book is different.”
Derek steps forward, hands clenched.
“Did you do this?”
“In a way,” she says, smiling. “If you’re looking to point fingers, you can certainly direct one of them my way. But it’s rude to interrupt, child. Now, please,” she gestures towards a small table with a few old chairs arranged around it, “have a seat and some tea, and we’ll get this all straightened out.”
Derek huffs and looks like he’s going to keep standing, but Stiles just pulls a chair out, flopping into it gracelessly. Derek glares, but shuffles over to join Stiles around the table.
“See?” The woman asks, bringing the now shrieking kettle to the table. “Isn’t this much nicer?” She pours the steaming water into a small teapot on the table. A burst of something sweet and tangy erupts from the teapot. It tickles the back of Stiles’ nose, and he sneezes.
“It’ll do that,” she says, smiling. “Do you have the book?”
“Yeah,” Stiles says, passing it to her. She cradles it in her hands, something about the movement both reverent and hesitant. She sighs and runs her fingers over the embossed title, then sets it in the center of the table gently.
“The first person who wanted to buy the book didn’t even get out of the store,” she says, eyes sad. “He opened it in the middle of the aisle, and that was it. He just... disappeared.”
Stiles sits up. “What?”
“It’s the book, you see. The Werwolfe is a tome of collected knowledge on werewolves, a work carefully crafted from... first hand accounts. The way those accounts were gathered, however, is dark. Instead of interviewing or writing things down,” she smirks, “whoever first created this book simply made a spell to absorb the knowledge of the reader. Specifically wolves.”
Stiles looks over at Derek, who’s stiff as a board. His hands are in tight fists, and Stiles thinks he can smell blood from where Derek’s nails are digging into his palms.
“What’d you do to it? Derek was able to open the book without a problem.”
“I wasn’t able to remove the curse, though I tried. Instead, I... warped it.” She pours them both a cup of the fragrant tea, then gestures for them to drink. “Instead of getting pulled into the book, the wolf would be pulled into their closest ally. Inevitably, they would come back to my store, and I’d get them right, and I’d go back to the drawing board.” She shakes her head, then takes a sip of her own tea.
“I really thought I’d gotten it this time. It’s the only reason I let you leave the store with the book.”
“Well,” Stiles says, blowing on his tea, “looks like you weren’t quite right.” He takes a careful sip, the flavor of the tea strong on his tongue.
“This is good,” he says, then looks up to find Carol glaring at him.
“Thank you,” she says stiffly, then turns to Derek. “You’ll need to drink, too, my dear. It’s part of getting you back where you belong.”
Derek frowns, then takes a quick, angry gulp of tea. Stiles can see the instant Derek burns the shit out of his mouth and cringes in sympathy. Derek swallows the mouthful, then starts coughing.
“That’s one way to do it,” Carol says, smiling with just a hint of self-satisfaction. “Now all that’s left is to mingle your essences, and you’ll be set.”
Stiles freezes, then looks at Derek out of the corner of his eye. He’s gone sheet white, the tea cup held limp in his hands.
“We have to do what?” Derek asks, voice breaking slightly.
“Mingle your essences, dear. It’s not that hard. It’ll only take a few seconds, and then you’ll be as right as rain.”
They both look at Carol, then at each other. She frowns.
“What’re you waiting for? Just go on with it so I can open my store back up.”
“You want us to do it right here?” Stiles asks. “While you watch?”
“Well, why not?” She asks, frowning.
“That’s kind of... private, don’t you think?” Derek says, setting his cup down loudly.
“I don’t even think I’d be able to get my... essence flowing, if you know what I mean, with an old woman watching. No offense,” Stiles adds, feeling a blush bloom across his face.
“What are you two talking about?” Carol asks, looking scandalized. “You just have to breathe the same air for a second.”
“What?”
“Just breathe on each other, oh my God. What did you think I meant?”
“It’s not my fault you’re using ambiguous language,” Stiles says, pressing his hands against the burn in his cheeks. “Jesus, I thought you meant-”
Derek slams his hand over Stiles’ mouth, glaring.
“Thank you for your help, ma’am,” he says. He turns in his chair so he’s facing Stiles, then grabs Stiles’ shoulder to twist his torso.
“Let’s get this done,” Derek says. He pulls his hand from Stiles’ mouth and meets Stiles’ eyes. “It’ll take two seconds, and we’ll never talk about this again.”
Stiles nods. His eyes drift down his own face, tracing the familiar moles that spread across his skin. It’s a little weird that he’s about to basically kiss himself, but whatever. There’s a certain set to his face that shows that Derek’s in there, a particular mix of muscles that’s just not Stiles.
He leans in until there’s just a hint of space between his and Derek’s mouths. He looks up from under his lashes and finds Derek’s eyes locked on his. He feels it like a punch to the gut, a sudden flood of heat spreading beneath his skin, and his breath stutters out of him on a stilted gasp.
Stiles feels the spell trigger in an instant. There’s something like a fish hook buried in his belly button, pulling him inside-out. For a second, he’s inside his body, inside Derek’s, and floating outside of it all at the same time. There’s a rush of vertigo, then a wash of cold that spills through the top of his head and into his gut, and then he’s looking up into a pair of gold-green eyes.
He starts to grin, and then the whole world shudders to a stop as Derek leans in and kisses him. Stiles freezes, and then he lets out a soft gasp and presses closer, lips and teeth and tongue fighting for more. There are hands buried in his hair, pulling him in, and all he can feel is the push and pull of Derek’s lips against his own, the hurried breaths that slip out between them, and the rush of blood in his veins.
There’s a quiet cough.
And another one, slightly louder.
Stiles tries to ignore it, but the next cough sounds like someone’s about to lose a lung, so he pulls back, Derek’s hands still tangled in his hair.
Carol is blushing furiously and looking away, and that’s when Stiles realizes what’s going on.
He and Derek are making out. In front of an old lady. While she serves them tea.
He rips himself free, arms flailing, and the chair underneath him gives out a load groan, then collapses, dumping him onto the floor in a pile of wood.
“I think you two had best leave now,” Carol says. “I’ll be keeping the book. Feel free to take something else from the shelves.”
Stiles nods from the floor, then watches as Derek rushes out of the small kitchen. He hears the bell chime, then looks at Carol again.
“I still have that Narnia series, if you’re interested,” she says, blushing. “It looks like you might need some good, solid, Christian direction in your life.”
“Maybe,” Stiles says, walking back out onto the main floor of the store.
He takes a couple Nora Roberts books instead.
---
It takes Stiles a day or two to get used to being in his own body again. He’s startled by the smooth skin of his face in the mornings, his peach fuzz stubble nothing compared to the hard grit sandpaper of Derek’s. His muscles aren’t as strong, his motions less purposeful, less sure. He stumbles out of bed in the morning, not because he’s groggy, but because everything’s suddenly slimmer, longer, lighter.
It’s kind of trippy.
His dad notices. He raises an eyebrow from over his newspaper, then goes back to reading.
“Be careful,” he shouts as Stiles leaves. “I’d like to not go to the hospital today.”
“Ha ha, real funny,” Stiles mutters as he shuts the front door behind him.
He’s not sure where he’s going to go. School’s out. There’s no lacrosse or cross country practice to take up his time. Stiles could go visit Scott, but he’s on-again with Allison, and Stiles knows better than to try and get in between that. He and Lydia have become good friends since junior year, and he could probably talk to her about the last day and a half, but she’s visiting Jackson in England, and the time difference and long-distance-love-of-her-life thing make him uncomfortable texting.
He’d go bug Derek, but...
All in all, he’s kind of at a loss of what to do with himself.
It’s why he finds himself pushing the door of the antiques store open, the bell chiming quietly over his head. Carol looks at him from behind the counter, blushes, and then buries her nose back in the book she’s reading.
Stiles wanders the aisles, fingers brushing against the thin layer of dust that coats most everything. He gets lost in it. Imagining the people who bought these forgotten things in the first place. Who they were. Why they thought they needed another blown glass paperweight. What they did with the missing pieces of china and cutlery before they became lost. Where the memories that are locked in the small cracks and dimmed paint have gone.
He’s making his way towards the books out of habit. He’s not going to get anything, feeling a little gun shy after the whole body-swap thing. He’s trailing his fingers over broken spines, not really paying attention to anything but the quiet thump his fingers make as they jump from book to book, and runs into a wall.
Or rather, a human-shaped wall.
A familiar human shaped wall.
Shit.
“Stiles,” Derek says as he crosses his arms, “what are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here?” Stiles shouts. He steps in closer, lowering his voice. “I should ask what you’re doing here. You’re the one who’s always against the antiques store.”
“I’d think you’d have more sense than to come here after what just happened,” Derek whispers back, furiously.
“Same to you, assface.” Stiles mutters, stepping in closer and jabbing a finger at Derek’s chest. “I’m not the one that triggered the damn thing.”
“Yeah, well,” Derek says, stepping closer and pressing Stiles back until he bumps against the bookshelf, “I’m not the one who somehow convinced my uncle that we were dating.”
“What?!” Stiles shouts. He thinks he hears something fall somewhere in the store and a familiar cough from the front.
“Peter asked me how my boyfriend was doing today. And do you know what I told him?”
“What?”
Derek leans in, the shelves biting into Stiles’ back and neck.
“I told him I didn’t have a fucking clue.”
Stiles swallows.
“You mean what he was talking about, right?” Stiles asks, suddenly focused on the way Derek’s arms have him caged against the shelves, the way his eyes are half-lidded and focused on Stiles’ mouth. Derek doesn’t say anything, but his lips part and his tongue darts out to swipe over them.
Stiles feels a grin start to pull at the corners of his mouth.
“This is kind of a mess, huh?”
Derek smiles, just a slight upturn of his lips, and huffs out a laugh.
“Yeah.”
Stiles leans in, keeping his eyes locked on Derek’s, waiting to see any sign that this isn’t what he’s waiting for. Instead, there’s a quick flash of Alpha red, and they’re kissing again.
It’s soft, less hurried. Stiles lets his hands trail up Derek’s sides while he brushes his lips gently against Derek’s. Derek sighs, opening his mouth just enough for Stiles to press deeper, touching his tongue to the softness of Derek’s lips. He groans, then pushes Stiles hard against the bookshelf, their bodies touching from chest to hips. Stiles fists Derek’s t-shirt and pulls him closer, trying to fill the space between their bodies when it doesn’t exist anymore.
That’s when the whole shelf of books gives out a long shriek and topples to the floor, Derek landing hard on top of Stiles, whose back is suddenly screaming in agony.
“Get out!” Carol shouts from the front of the store, Stiles and Derek scrambling to their feet.
Stiles books it to the parking lot, Derek hot on his heels, and is laughing so hard, he can’t see, bent double on the hood of the Jeep. Derek joins him, grinning widely.
“So,” Stiles says after catching his breath, “you want to go get coffee or something?”
Derek smiles back.
“Or something.”
Stiles seriously hopes Carol will let him back into the store, because he’s suddenly a huge fan of antiques.