The café Stiles staggered into on his way to work this morning played Thrift Shop on their speakers for markedly nefarious purposes. It’s the only explanation he has for why the song is now stuck in his head.
He might be unforgiving of that if the coffee wasn’t unfailingly good there and the people behind the counter hadn’t also mastered the act of standing upright and alert at unnatural hours. So, it’s something of a minor blunder that he’s willing to ignore.
Unfortunately all it takes is one barely-audible chorus of the unholy tune and then he can’t get the damn Macklemore song out of his head all day.
A song from the hidden recesses of 2012 should not still be this catchy but somehow Stiles ends up humming it at his desk after he checks through security and makes it to the fifth floor. Then in the break room when he ducks in to liberate a handful of sweet biscuits to accompany the coffee from the red cookie jar which Baraz always stocks without fail due to an insatiable sweet tooth and a freakish desire to share with his coworkers.
Then Stiles is humming in the damn toilets when the coffee, now drained, inevitably makes itself known to his bladder twenty minutes later. The song follows Stiles around for the rest of the day like a demon he accidentally summoned from the pits of hell that just happens to have co-dependency issues.
Even Danielle, the girl he went through training with before they became qualified agents, and who now sits only a desk over from him, starts singing the song around lunchtime before she realizes she’s an accessory to Stiles murdering an already tragically unpopular song. Once she figures out the menace has spread, she spins on her chair to send Stiles the glare to end all glares before snapping a pencil rather violently in her grasp and returning silently to her work, jamming earbuds in to bleach the song from her brain.
Stiles supposes that might be deserved.
Though hopefully the pencil isn’t meant to be a metaphor for what she’d like to do to his neck. Even with that kind of discouragement staring him in the face, the tune refuses to let him go. He gets told by at least three more colleagues, including his supervisor, to shut the hell up with the damn song already. And he sorely wants to. It’s not like softly crooning Macklemore to himself while everyone within earshot mentally strategizes his slow demise is a current life goal.
It’s a weird kind of day.
On the plus side, when Stiles is heading home and actually sees a thrift shop on the short route back to his apartment, he’s suddenly very aware that he doesn’t own any suitable winter clothes yet and his monthly paycheck has already been spent on rent, groceries and other wallet-emptying purchases.
He’s humming the damn song still before he realises that he’s actually got a twenty dollar bill in his pocket. And that maybe that means he was destined to buy a recycled coat all along. It might have exactly what he needs. The stars aligned for this moment. Stiles isn’t about to turn his nose up at the opportunity to be warmer just because there’s an irritating song in his head.
Feeling very suggestible, he heads in through the doors in the hopes that he won’t completely regret it afterwards. There is so much clothing in here. Strangely enough, he’s so distracted looking at all the offensive styles that after a full day of humming, singing and generally getting on everyone’s nerves, the song finally becomes unstuck.
Amazed by his newfound mental freedom from the haunting tones of Macklemore on repeat, Stiles sidles over to the rack by the main counter, drawn in by the ripple of unusual colours. He shifts through the stand until he pauses on an Under Armour shirt, fingers digging into the breathable fabric.
It’s purple and not the type of thing that Stiles would normally wear under his business suit, but the temperature has been dropping lately and he could use some extra insulation when winter sets in. He gets a surprising whiff of alpha from the material as well and there’s something uniquely comforting about it.
It puts Stiles at ease almost immediately. He doesn’t even realise that he’s about to bring the material under his nose until there’s a woman standing reproachfully at his shoulder.
“Those aren’t for sale.”
Stiles drops the arm of the shirt and jerks back in shock. Had he really been about to sniff that scrap of fabric in the middle of the store just now? He needs to blink a few times before his automatic responses come back online.
“Uh- I’m sorry what?”
“They’re not for sale yet,” the saleswoman explains, side eyeing him as if to figure out how much of a freak he is. The business attire must be misleading. “They’ve just been donated. Need to go to scent removal first.”
Right. That’s why this stand full of clothing is sitting next to the main counter and hasn’t been put out onto the floor. He should have noticed that. Why else would he be able to smell alpha?
“Oh,” Stiles says, stepping away from the rack like he’s no longer interested. “Sure.”
The woman quickly decides he won’t be a problem and heads over to the counter where another customer is waiting for her. As soon as her back is turned, Stiles yanks the purple Under Armour shirt off the hanger and disappears quickly into one of the aisles.
It’s a heat of the moment thing.
Stiles didn’t even check for cameras, or if anyone else happened to be watching the impromptu act. Luck seems to be on his side though because nobody is looking at him and the store doesn’t have any surveillance. Stiles can’t believe they’re actually expecting people to be honest in here.
He retreats into the bowels of the store, disappearing into one of the long aisles and getting as far away from other people as he can. He doesn’t really know for sure why this is important, it’s a flimsy piece of fabric that he could probably find literally anywhere else.
It's not like it's actually rare. Or precious.
Stiles isn’t even sure that the proportions are right for his body. It’s meant to be compact and figure hugging but he thinks it might be a bit broader in the shoulders, maybe a little loose in the arms.
Whoever wore this has bigger biceps than Stiles does.
So it’s not even really a perfect fit. And it’s not entirely about the smell either. There’s nothing life affirming in it, it’s just- nice.
Stiles is pretty sure if he was smelling his mate for the first time that the reaction would be a lot stronger. That the earth would shift under his feet or something. It’s not- it’s not an omega thing. He just happens to prefer the style and the colour. And the smell.
This is just something else. Comfort. Stiles knows that it’ll look good on him, and that it’s practical to wear in the upcoming months. There’s nothing weird about that. It’s not weird at all really. Stiles just wants the shirt. Whatever.
The brand is usually worth about forty bucks. And this will save some much needed money for the time being.
He wanders down until he locates another section full of men’s shirts. There he finds another grey Under Armour shirt amongst them, except with this one the material cuts off just above the elbow rather than covering the length of each arm. Casually, Stiles checks the price for the grey shirt, which is ten bucks, so he reaches into the collar and removes the tag.
Stiles knows about price tag switching and although he’s never done it before he's aware of the theory at least. He manages to stick the price of the grey shirt onto his purple one and picks up another white shirt with a Ralph Lauren logo and an image of Ralph Wiggum from The Simpsons riding a horse and playing equestrian polo underneath in the same rack.
It’s only worth five bucks and it’s better to have two items so the purple shirt won’t be under suspicion. Also, The Simpsons reference is awesome.
He’ll only be caught if the salesperson tries to scent the clothing, and Stiles really thinks that’s out of the realm of possibility. Salespersons aren’t generally known for sniffing things. Despite being confident on that, he lingers in the store for another five minutes, idly browsing until the lady who told him the shirt wasn’t for sale leaves the counter to help a customer in the winter coat section and another guy takes over the empty spot.
She probably didn’t even see him looking at the shirt in particular but he’s not willing to take any chances. Stiles is a little breathless when he reaches the counter and the beta cashier is either extremely unobservant or just uninterested enough not to bother asking questions. Stiles thinks it’s probably the latter.
“Fifteen dollars,” the guy says, folding both of the shirts and putting them into a bag for him.
Stiles already has the cash ready and practically shoves it into the guy’s hand. “Thanks,” he says shiftily, and tries not to make a break for the door.
This is ridiculous, Stiles is an FBI Agent. He’s licensed to carry a gun. This should not be making him so nervous.
The cashier glances at him before shrugging his shoulders. “No problem.”
His heart is beating a little fast when he heads outside but nobody pulls him up on it. It’s not technically stealing. Stiles paid for it and everything. But he can still imagine what his father’s expression might have been if he’d gotten caught.
He clutches the bag to his side, and wonders not for the first time why he went to so much effort.
He doesn’t wash the shirt when he gets home. Even though he throws the Ralph Lauren one straight into the washer with the rest of his dirty laundry.
Stiles tells himself that he’s checking to see if it still fits properly when he puts it on almost immediately after leaving the laundry room. And although he was right about it being only slightly bigger in some areas, the purple Under Armour shirt still hugs his body well enough. It’ll keep him warm alright.
He doesn’t even realise he’s ducked his head into the right shoulder to inhale the scent on the shirt again until his nose is practically buried in the fabric. Stiles pulls back quickly, a little embarrassed with himself even though he’s not doing anything wrong. It just smells pleasant.
Stiles refuses to feel bad because he happens to like it.
And he thinks he might like it even more once it’s combined with his own scent.
Stiles actually goes to check his calendar after that to be certain that he’s not scheduled to start his heat soon but the timing is way off. Usually he only does weird, unexplainable stuff when it’s getting closer to the date. Once he literally built himself a nest full of blankets and Cheetos packets on the bed because new people moved into the building and the strange new smells set off his need for safety and privacy.
But apparently this isn’t a heat thing. Stiles is just really attached to this item of clothing for some reason.
He takes the shirt off to make dinner because he doesn’t want any stains or another reason to wash the fabric more than absolutely necessary.
Later on, once he’s showered and climbed into bed, the temperature in his apartment has already started dropping. The heater in his place is unreliable at best so he throws on some sweatpants and a loose fitting shirt and clambers into bed.
He can see the purple Under Armour shirt hanging over the back of the armchair where he left it and Stiles stares at it for a good twenty minutes before the need to have it in his hands outweighs his reluctance to leave a warm bed.
He hurries over to the shirt, drags it off the chair and crawls back under the sheets. He knows it’s probably odd to clutch the shirt to his chest and sleep so Stiles makes a deal with himself to take a few hits of the scent before going to bed. He doesn’t want it to fade too quickly after all.
Stiles tosses it onto the edge of his mattress once he’s finished because he’s not that desperate okay. Just because he hasn’t dated for a few months (more than a few if he’s being honest) that doesn’t mean he needs to start being completely pathetic. Stiles would never live this down if it got out. Especially if anyone at HQ caught wind of it.
Horrified by that possibility, Stiles forces himself to stop thinking about it and settles in to sleep.
But he still wakes up with his face pressed into the shirt the next morning anyway, gripping it tightly between his fingers so there's no chance to write it off as accidental. He's not even embarrassed enough by that to stuff the shirt deep into a bottom drawer somewhere and try to forget about it.
He slips it on instead.
Man, he really needs to get laid.
Scott wrinkles his nose almost as soon as Stiles takes a seat at the table he managed to snag in the lunch rush.
“Who’s that?” he asks immediately aware of the strange alpha's smell. Stiles couldn’t stop himself from wearing the shirt under his clothes to work this morning. “Are you dating an alpha? Who am I smelling right now?”
They’re only a block away from HQ so Stiles can make the best of his one hour lunch break.
Particularly since Scott came out to meet him today. From the directness of the question and the way Scott leans over the table to peel the front of Stiles’ buttoned long sleeved shirt back by the collar to reveal the purple one underneath, Stiles knows now is the time for evasive manoeuvring.
“I went thrift shopping,” he says, leaning back out of reach. “It’s just something I bought cheap. No big deal.”
Scott’s expression is very much attempting to argue that it is a Big Deal and needs further explanation. Stiles would rather be eating than discussing the intricacies of foreign scents right now. It’s been a busy day and he’s starving.
“Do you like the smell or something?” Scott asks, perplexed by Stiles' skittish behaviour. “I thought they removed scents before selling old clothing.”
He shrugs and tries not to act guilty. It’s not like he hasn’t stolen stuff before. Some of Scott’s stuff even. Stiles has a very specific skill set. He can pick locks too.
It never hurts to be prepared.
“Must’ve just forgot this time around. It’s cool I don’t mind. It smells- good. Whatever. It will fade soon anyway.”
Scott stops probing when the waitress comes over with their lunch and Stiles has the excuse of not talking in exchange for stuffing his face. He also does his best not to show that the idea of the scent fading is a disappointing concept to him. It’s not hard to see that he’s gotten way too attached to the scent in a startling short amount of time.
But there’s no point getting tied up in knots about it now.
Stiles doesn’t even realise he’s ducked his head into his shoulder to sniff the alpha’s scent again mixed with his own natural aroma until he gets caught. Scott’s eyebrows climb ambitiously at him.
“Dude, are you seriously sniffing some strange alpha’s shirt right now?” he demands, sounding very judgemental about the fact.
It might be really pathetic, okay. Stiles is aware of that.
“No,” he snorts, even as a nearby alpha turns in her seat to look at them after overhearing the conversation. He makes a show of rubbing his face into the material covering his shoulder, lifting his arm to bring it closer. “My nose- itches.”
It’s a clear lie but thankfully Scott decides to drop it. Probably in favour of chewing Stiles out in another location that doesn't expose his unusual quirks with an unfortunate side dish of public humiliation.
He’s a good friend. Even if Stiles is prepared to avoid the hell out of that future conversation.
It’s been three days and Stiles hasn’t been able to take off the shirt.
He’s sleeping in it. He’s wearing it to work. He's wearing it everywhere. Stiles nearly forgot it was covering his chest and took it into the shower yesterday. Luckily he'd figured it out before the water started running.
He’s been going out of his way to protect the scent, keep it as clean and stain free as possible because it’ll only take about twenty washes before the scent vanishes completely. And that’s only if Stiles doesn’t use any washing powder or fabric softener products.
Stiles has got a thing for planning. So the math checks out and if anything, all it really makes him aware of is how much free time he has on his hands these days. Which isn’t much, but his brain tends to get hyper focused on things. Like say a random alpha’s shirt that smells pleasant and makes him feel good whenever he puts it on.
Stiles knows that he’s probably a bit obsessed, and this is what comes from too much thinking, a collection of unusual interests and maybe a pinch of loneliness. He might even be willing to admit that this compulsion is much too far into the realm of the strange now, but that doesn't mean he can stop.
He’s sleeping in the damn thing and Stiles knows that the longer he wears it, the quicker the scent is going to be completely replaced by his own.
He gets desperate by the fourth day, when it’s starting to smell a bit more like Stiles than that random alpha and suddenly he’s heading back to the same thrift shop with the faintest hope of success. People can donate clothes more than once, can’t they? Maybe this alpha donated again. It’s super unlikely but Stiles is too invested now not to try.
This is obviously a problem. But Stiles is still firm in the belief that it’s not a dangerous one. More like an odd impulse that he can’t seem to shake. It’s more than likely that the smell belongs to some wizened, doddery alpha who just happens to remind Stiles of the things that make him feel safe and comforted and nostalgic.
It’s not weird. Stiles isn’t particularly worried about it.
Sometimes he gets strange urges for things and that’s okay. It’s not like he’s getting wet over this damn shirt or anything, that would be a cause for worry. If he was getting slick just wearing some random alpha's clothes then he’d be absolutely certain that something is up.
But this is just Stiles being a little unconventional. And he can’t really explain why.
He just likes it, like he likes warm drinks on cold days, and having two books open at once and carrying at least three pens and two highlighters on his person. One of his quirks. There’s no big scientific explanation for it. It just is.
But he knows as soon as he’s walked into the store and spotted an empty counter where the new arrivals sat last time, that it's a bust. Even if he’s wearing the very same shirt under his suit like a good luck charm. Stiles didn’t really think it was going to work out that easily, but it would have bothered him for a long time if he hadn’t at least tried.
Finding this shirt was just one of those peculiar little flukes in life that he can’t really explain and doesn’t quite need to because where’s the mystery in that? He nods at the cashier, who isn't someone he recognises before turning off to wander aimlessly down the aisles.
He could still do with some more winter gear after all and it’s guaranteed he’ll find them at the right prices here. He brushes his fingers along the clothes as he wanders past, getting the faint odour of the products used to strip scents from the material.
There’s no way a scent could last through the heavy duty cleaning process. Stiles just happened to be lucky that one time, that’s all. He reaches the coat section and smirks at a particularly ostentatious get up that reminds him oddly of something Cruella De Vil might sport while she's attempting to hunt down Dalmatians.
Before he even really knows what he’s doing, Stiles is setting his messenger bag on the floor and taking the ridiculously fluffy coat off its rack and sliding his arms into the sleeves. It’s faux fur at least, but it’s surprisingly heavy and the colours could pass off as bear or wolf fur. That doesn’t make it’s any less hideous though.
Stiles snorts at himself, and he’s only started to figure out that this is undoubtedly a woman’s coat before there’s a man suddenly right in front of him, pushing directly into his space. Stiles lets out a cry of astonishment and backs into the rest of the coats in shock, almost vanishing in a rush of faux fur and gaudy colours.
Except the man catches the front of Stiles’ Cruella De Vil coat first to prevent him from becoming one with furs- and then keeps moving in.
Stiles barely gets a chance to think alpha, hot and looming before he’s getting a hit of the exact scent that’s slowly beginning to fade from his Under Armour shirt.
“You smell like me,” the guy says, scowling as he crowds in and Stiles staggers back between the coats and finally hits the wall. “Why do you smell like me?”
He barely lets out a garbled sound as the blood rushes to his cheeks. “No reason,” Stiles squeaks, struggling to get his footing and grasping at a whirlwind of puffy fur.
The alpha doesn’t seem to know a thing about boundaries because he pulls on the coat Stiles is currently trapped inside and shoves it apart, exposing the suit he wore to work today.
“What-?” Stiles tries to ask, bewildered and maybe a little overwhelmed when the alpha gets a hold of his crisp, white business shirt and pulls at the v between the collar.
And suddenly it’s very clear to Stiles that this alpha is trying to undress him.
What the shit? Stiles has no idea what’s happening. Not until the top buttons literally pop off the thread and the top of his shirt falls open, exposing the purple Under Armour one underneath.
The alpha’s eyebrows furrow but he doesn’t drop his hold. “You’re wearing my shirt.”
Stiles has finally gotten his wits about him and manages to push the alpha back, hard enough that he stumbles and is forced to let go. “Yeah. I bought it.”
The alpha glances back at the counter but they’re far enough in the aisles that the cashier hasn’t even noticed the commotion. “They’re supposed to be cleaned first. You smell like-“
“That doesn’t mean you push me into a sales rack full of furs, you dick,” Stiles hisses, given enough recovery time to be annoyed now that this alpha thought he could be manhandled so easily. “Jesus, what’s the matter with you.”
The alpha has the unfortunate ability of looking attractive even when he’s frowning. The stubble on his face has a kind of profane sculpture of perfection to it that Stiles didn’t think was possible in real life. Talk about unfair.
And what shade exactly are his eyes? Stiles didn’t think that eyes could have so many different flecks of colour at once. Is this alpha just designed to defy the laws of nature or what?
“You smell like me,” the alpha says, frustrated even as he steps back as far as the aisle will allow, hitting the clothes on the opposite side. “I lost my head for a minute.”
Stiles retreats out of his makeshift fur wardrobe and wriggles out of Cruella De Vil’s coat before shoving it back onto a hanger. The alpha doesn’t go anywhere, though Stiles’ back is turned and it’s a perfectly good opportunity to run.
He is eyeing Stiles very intently however as he realises when he finally turns back around. The alpha's nostrils are flared and everything and Stiles makes attempts to adjust his clothing in a self-conscious gesture. But since the alpha ripped off two of the top buttons, he’s stuck looking like a guy on the front of a romance novel with a billowing shirt and no naked chest to display.
The purple Under Armour shirt is good for something after all.
Once he’s straightened up a little, Stiles manages to unleash a particularly irritable glare at the alpha. “You know typically after attacking someone you should apologise.”
“I’m sorry,” the alpha says like he’s startled that he didn’t think of it first. “I wasn’t expecting to come across a random, unbonded omega practically rolling in my scent. It- got the better of me.”
He says it like he's furious to admit such a thing. Or angry with his own instincts. And now Stiles is blushing. “Hey, I didn’t roll in anything.”
The alpha raises an eyebrow. “Sure. Like you didn’t steal my shirt.”
Oh here we go. Stiles should have expected this.
“I paid for it,” he protests, angry now. “It’s mine.”
“But I bet you took it without permission,” the alpha points out, unfortunately more observant than Stiles would have preferred. “They don’t sell donated clothing unless it’s been thoroughly cleaned. To avoid situations like this.”
Well that rule is starting to sound very reasonable now.
“Alright, fine,” Stiles concedes because the alpha isn’t wrong exactly. “So, who am I making my restraining order out to then?”
“Derek Hale,” the alpha says automatically before he realises what Stiles said and his expression creases.
Before he can do anything else though, Stiles steps in close and maturely yanks at the top of Derek Hale’s shirt. The material doesn’t give straight away and Stiles anchors a hand against the guy’s shoulder, finger’s splaying out across the alpha’s throat for purchase. For a second, Stiles could swear his eyes flash a different colour before he finally manages to rip through the fabric, creating a deeper v in the shape.
Until they completely mirror each other. The only difference is that Derek Hale wasn’t wearing a shirt underneath. Stiles tries his best not to be distracted by that. Or the clear, muscled definitions of his chest.
The alpha is more like the billowing shirt guy on a romance novel than Stiles could ever be. Dammit.
But he decides that they’re even now and flips the alpha off, ignoring Derek Hale's thunderstruck expression while he scoops up his messenger bag and heads straight for the exit without another word.
Stiles passes the main counter on the way out and catches sight of an abandoned garbage bag full of clothes sitting on the countertop that smells familiar. The alpha, Derek Hale, must have been here to donate more material before he got a whiff of Stiles and his sensibilities became unjustly offended by the prospect of a strange omega sharing his clothes.
It’s really not a big deal. Stiles doesn’t understand why he has to keep explaining that.
He makes his way outside and tries not to look like he’s fleeing the scene of a crime. Though in all fairness, any actual crimes he committed occurred some time earlier. If anything, he’s the one who’s been harassed. With furs.
What a day.
“Why did you do it?” someone asks, and Stiles spins in time to catch the alpha striding towards him on the sidewalk, garbage bag full of clothing in hand.
It looks like Stiles’ unexpected kleptomania turned him off donating for good. Oops. There goes being charitable. Derek Hale is clearly going to take his wares elsewhere. Should Stiles feel bad about that?
“It’s not weird,” he insists, not for the first time. He's a broken record now it's official. “I just- liked the scent. I- it’s not weird.”
The alpha stares at him for a moment and doesn’t say anything. Stiles wonders if he’s the one about to be threatened with a restraining order. He should have just denied everything and acted like it was all some strange kind of accident. A coincidence or something. He practically just confessed.
“Sure, it’s not,” the alpha agrees easily but his expression says otherwise. Stiles has never felt like more of a freak, and that’s not counting the time he accidentally set the microwave at work on fire.
This is not looking good.
“Here,” he says, shoving the bag full of clothes into Stiles’ hand impulsively. “Keep it.”
Stiles is practically inflamed with embarrassment at this point. “I can pay for my own-“
“Consider it a donation,” he says tersely and then the alpha is storming off toward the parking lot behind the store before Stiles can get another word in.
There’s only one flashy car parked there and somehow Stiles knows for certain that it belongs to him.
He wants to shout after the alpha, throw the garbage bag full of clothes onto the sidewalk and flee into the night. To never mention this incident to anyone, not even Scott. Stiles could very well go back into the thrift store and give them Derek Hale’s clothes.
But then they’d clean them, completely erasing the scent from the material. And that would be a damn shame.
Stiles is angry about the situation but it’s not like the alpha was even really that interested in him in any capacity besides the first knee jerk reaction at catching their scents together. He didn’t even ask for Stiles’ name, so it’s doubtful he plans to get him into trouble, or is even interested in seeing him again.
He definitely wasn't hitting on him.
Stiles isn't the type of omega to turn his head. Not that he'd want to anyway.
This was just a random act of mutual awkwardness since he wouldn’t exactly label it a kindness. The ripped shirt he’s now sporting certainly doesn’t suggest that he’s been treated kindly.
But the bag of clothes carrying Derek Hale’s scent that he’s gripping tightly in hand tells a different story. If it means losing two buttons to Derek Hale’s hellish crusade on his shirt in order to get more alpha smelling material, then maybe, well-
Maybe it was a little bit worth it.
So Stiles decides not to harbour any grudges in future and sets off down the street towards home, taking the garbage bag full of an alpha stranger’s clothes with him.
First time for everything.
Stiles thinks he should regret taking some unknown alpha’s clothes home with him after said alpha basically intimidated him into a clothing rack and ruined one of his favourite work shirts.
Obviously now that he’s put the smell to the face, Stiles knows he’s not some doddery old alpha who gives off a comforting scent. Not when he looks like that.
Stiles can’t believe he’s been sleeping in that guy’s clothes. He looks like he could bench-press Stiles with ease. Could probably fuck him up against a wall too, but that’s obviously not relevant to the problem at hand.
He's deliberating now because it's different knowing the alpha is a real person who exists and probably goes through a sliding door of people desperate to jump into his bed every night. None of which would include some odd little omega who's walking about wearing his clothes like he's playing house or playmating. God, does Derek Hale think Stiles was wearing his shirt because he's pretending they're mates?
Stiles should toss the bag into the trash right now.
But then again, he's already taken the bag of clothes and carried it all the way back to his building. Why waste them? It's not like he'll ever run into Derek Hale again. And he'll get good use out of whatever is in the bag. Wasn’t that the whole point of donating the clothing in the first place?
Stiles doesn’t want to work against philanthropic efforts, he’s not that much of an asshole. So then maybe he just got a bag of clothes for free. It happens. Though, he’s pretty certain it doesn’t often happen like that. He still can’t believe the alpha just ripped his shirt open. That’s- harassment, that’s ridiculous, that’s just plain embarrassing.
The alpha should be ashamed. Or at least maybe learn an important lesson from the interaction. Stiles wonders if he should be reporting him. Out of control alphas are a problem, especially for omegas. But then he did apologise. And he didn’t touch Stiles again after that.
He didn’t really seem out of control. Just overwhelmed. Probably as overwhelmed as Stiles had been. He wasn’t trying to force himself onto Stiles or anything, he would remember smelling the alpha’s interest if he had.
Stiles buzzes himself into his building and takes the stairs up to the fourth level to his unit. He should stop in the mail room first but he can’t be bothered today, too distracted by his encounter with Derek Hale, the confrontation still fresh in his mind. Once he reaches his door and uses the key to get inside, tossing them carelessly onto the counter, he decides that even though the incident today was bizarre beyond belief, he isn’t going to mention it to anyone.
Or think about it. Ever again. And hey, he got pretty good compensation for the whole experience so all in all Stiles came out on top. If he can just forget who the clothes came from, Stiles will be sitting pretty for a few months at least. Until of course the scent fades.
He disappears into his bedroom next, setting the bag of clothes down against the wall with his messenger bag and starts pacing the room to get his thoughts in order. Stiles still feels a little adrift and doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. Until he remembers that he knows the alpha’s full name and things like the internet exist.
Stiles goes searching and finds his laptop buried underneath the duvet next. He flops onto the bed to get comfortable, opens the laptop up and clicks into google chrome. His fingers tap against the keys while it loads and once it’s ready, Stiles types the alpha’s name into google.
It’s a disappointing search it turns out.
Derek Hale’s name doesn’t uncover much. In the same way that Stiles doesn’t turn up on these kinds of searches because he’s a federal agent. It certainly gives the alpha an air of secrecy. He could do anything, he could be involved in espionage, could kill people for a living.
There’s obviously something about him that means his identity needs to be protected. And his Facebook is set to private. Or he’s just absolutely terrible at technology and prefers to be completely switched off from everything. Though that wouldn’t fully explain the absolute lack of information about him.
Stiles gives up eventually and shuts his laptop in defeat, glancing at the bag full of Derek Hale’s clothes sitting in the corner of his bedroom. Which he hasn’t even looked at since he got home. He gets up and grabs the bag to inspect his winnings. There’s a remarkably nice volume of Derek Hale smelling apparel. He upends it onto his bed, tipping clothing everywhere and has a look at the unexpected haul.
There’s a pair of tight jeans, three long sleeved shirts, five t-shirts and two hoodies. It’s an amazing collection. Stiles might even be able to fit into the jeans. He leaves the clothes on the bed and goes into the kitchen to make himself a meal of the leftover scraps in his refrigerator. He should probably go shopping as soon as his next paycheck comes in.
Stiles needs to start managing his money better. Later when he goes to bed for the night, he puts Derek Hale’s clothes back into the bag so his own scent won’t wash out the smell.
But he can still smell traces of alpha in his bed.
“The higher ups want us to bring in a consultant, some big shot alpha who’s the best tracker in the country.”
Stiles immediately rolls his eyes.
The guy they’re after, Gerald Roax is trying to escape the U.S. He’s a big time arms dealer and he’s left a pile of bodies in his wake across at least twenty states, fourteen that they can prove. They managed to pick up one of his men at the border for Mexico and he was real chatty once Stiles and Danielle got him into the interrogation room.
Luckily his story about the rumours of Roax’s attempts to make it to Yemen- where there aren’t any extradition laws- only further corroborated the chatter Stiles picked up from other informants carrying ties with Roax. So it’s more than likely that he is actually planning to get out of the country and make his way there.
They’ve put out warnings to U.S airports, and sent out requests for Interpol to raise him up higher on their most wanted list to increase the likelihood of capture. But apparently, Stiles’ superiors don’t think the FBI are up to scratch to track him down successfully without help. Danielle doesn’t seem that impressed either.
Usually most of the consultants brought into the FBI to help with cases are gigantic dicks who think they can do everything better, and usually end up taking credit for other people’s work. Which is annoying because Stiles has no problem working with other departments and further inter-cooperation with other law enforcement. He’s got plenty of friends in Interpol and even some in SIS and ASIS.
But yeah, consultants who come into HQ usually always end up bringing their egos along with them. This alpha won’t be any different. Stiles curses and starts searching through Roax’s known contacts again in the faint hope that he might be able to uncover his whereabouts before this expert alpha tracker arrives.
He’s running out of time as it is.
They’re in one of the main conference rooms waiting on this damn alpha to arrive while Stiles pours over the files in a last ditch effort to make the alpha's presence unnecessary.
He’s bent over the desk, scanning the collage of documents laid out in front of his eyes because sometimes it takes a different perspective to find an unforeseen pattern. The door opens quietly while Stiles is still in the zone and he figures it’s one of their supervisors coming in to check on his and Danielle’s progress.
“I need all the files on Gerald Roax.”
Stiles’ head snaps up at the sound of a familiar voice, turning over his shoulder to look at them.
It’s that alpha. The one whose scent Stiles is practically covered in. Derek Hale. The guy who crowded Stiles into a fur coat rack and then shoved a bag full of his clothes into his hand by way of apology barely a week ago. Stiles is suddenly very aware that he’s wearing one of Derek’s hoodies today and is practically swimming in the alpha's scent.
Derek Hale’s nostrils flair and they lock eyes.
Stiles turns around, lips parting and lets the hoodie string he was absently chewing on fall out of his mouth. Shit. What’s the protocol for situations like this?
Derek Hale strides forward and Stiles stumbles back like he’s planning a quick retreat but hits the edge of the desk first. The alpha still hasn’t gotten the hang of personal space yet. Stiles swallows and tries to ignore the way Derek’s gaze drops to his hoodie and then back up to his face again.
“What’s your name?” the alpha asks immediately, without bothering to introduce himself.
Danielle, who’s standing by the evidence board, raises an eyebrow at the sudden strain in the room.
Stiles has never had an alpha watch him so intently. God, how does Derek Hale smell even better in person? And Stiles thought he was starting to become accustomed to the scent. Right now he’s doing his best not to take a deep breath. Otherwise he’d be pressed up against Derek’s chest, face pushed into his neck and practically radiating bliss.
And Stiles totally should not be thinking about things like that right now if he wants to keep his job. The FBI aren't in the habit of letting agents sexually harass each other in the workplace. Should he just run? That seems like the most appropriate response. Although maybe not the most professional. Or mature.
“Stiles. I’m Stiles.”
Wait, what. Why did he just admit to that? He should have kept his mouth shut in the hope of plausible deniability for whatever Derek is about to accuse him of. Even if Derek Hale would have gotten his name eventually. But Stiles could have used that extra time devising an escape plan.
“You two know each other?” Danielle demands, surprised. “Hold on,” she says a second later once she’s inhaled some of Derek’s scent. “Are you mated?”
He really shouldn’t have worn Derek Hale’s hoodie today.
Stiles flushes. “What- no!”
Danielle does not seem to consider that a worthy argument because she gives him an unimpressed look and asks, “then why are you sharing clothes?”
The alpha is frowning now, no doubt not predicting this kind of situation to greet him when he first walked into HQ, and Stiles can’t help but notice that he’s on edge. Derek glances over at Stiles, his gaze sweeping somewhat suggestively over his bare neck but doesn’t say anything. The silence seems worse somehow. More incriminating.
But neither of them have an answer for her. Thank God. Stiles has no idea what he’s meant to say. How would anybody explain this?
Derek steps back and walks over to Danielle instead, shoulders looking insanely taut from where Stiles is standing before he extends a polite hand towards her. “Derek Hale,” he says. “I’m consulting on this case.”
So this is why he didn’t show up in a google search. Stiles can’t help but notice that he didn’t identify what department he’s with or that he’s even an agent. That might seem suspicious but he’s wearing the correct pass on the lanyard around his neck, labelling him as a consultant of the FBI.
He’s got to be a secret service assassin or something. And Stiles has been sleeping in this guy’s clothes every night. Jesus.
“Agent Danielle Moss,” Danielle says, glancing at Stiles in silent question. “That’s Agent Stilinski.”
Of all the alphas in the world with the skills to track down slippery and elusive perps, it had to be Derek Hale here today. Stiles doesn’t know whether to be embarrassed, angry or promptly slip into some kind of coma in order to get him out of this room. Each reaction holds a certain appeal.
But he has no idea how he’s meant to let this situation play out. Should they just pretend they don’t know each other? How is Stiles supposed to concentrate on Roax when Derek Hale is less than a metre away and smells like that?
“What organisation are you with?” Stiles demands first, wondering why Derek didn’t refer to himself as an agent, or even bothered to identify himself properly.
Derek glances over at him and his mouth quirks. “That’s above your clearance levels.”
Stiles laughs first before he realises that Derek is absolutely serious. “Are you fucking kidding me? How are we supposed to trust you if you can’t prove you’re qualified for this?”
He doesn’t answer at first, but then Derek pointedly and obnoxiously raises the lanyard around his neck that says consultant. As if that’s enough and an ID can’t be forged. Stiles could make a fake ID when he was in high school, this isn’t much to go on at all.
Danielle folds her arms as well, on Stiles’ side in this instance. She’s not so impressed with Derek Hale’s lack of credentials. “You should have some indication that you’re permitted to be here,” she points out reasonably.
“You’re welcome to get Wash,” Derek suggests, already inspecting the evidence board. “But you’ll just be wasting her time.”
Stiles would rather not bug their supervisor, Adlena Wash, unless they really need to. Danielle’s expression says she’s of the same mind. And Derek did get into the building and past the security check points. If he’s not who he says he is then accessing this conference room wouldn’t have been easy.
That’s a lot of effort to go to. And Roax isn’t that high profile. Not compared to others. Nobody in their right mind would infiltrate the FBI just for Roax. At least that’s what Stiles is betting on. Danielle seems to have reached her own conclusion too because she backs off.
“What’s Roax’s timeline since yesterday?” Derek asks, getting straight down to business.
Stiles has finally gotten a hold of himself and turns back to his own documents while Danielle gives a reply.
That’s when he notices the picture of Calim Grayson with Roax at a fancy restaurant together. Grayson is the one who screwed up their shipment two months ago, siphoning off some of the cargo to sell for himself and finally connecting Roax to the operation through the blunder when he tried to sell to an undercover agent.
Stiles remembers Roax’s psychological profile. He’s uncommonly driven and has an ego the size of a small country. Sure he’s smart, but there’s no way that he’s letting Grayson get away with crippling his entire empire just because he got greedy.
Roax would prioritise revenge over his escape. He wouldn’t be able to leave the U.S without ensuring that his reputation remained intact. And since Grayson crossed him, that’s under question. Stiles wiggles the photograph out from under the pile of documents and startles once he realises that Derek is standing at the opposite chair, peering at the table and watching him.
“Did you find something, Stilinski?” Danielle wonders.
“Grayson,” Stiles says. “He’s the one that destroyed Roax’s whole operation. Years and years of careful work. Roax won’t be able to leave before putting him in the ground.”
He tosses the photograph towards Derek, careful not to touch him. Stiles knows that he’s on to something, and he’s willing to argue the point. But Derek picks up the picture without a word and scans it.
“That’s a pretty big hunch,” he murmurs, sounding sceptical.
“Read his psychological profile,” Stiles mutters, tossing the paperwork towards him too for good measure. “And you tell me he wouldn’t make sure the man responsible for ruining his entire business regretted it.”
Danielle finally joins them, reading over Stiles’ shoulder. “We could delegate a small force to track down Grayson,” she suggests. “That way it won’t take away from the main search. If you’re wrong then it won’t matter.”
Derek doesn’t answer for a few minutes and Stiles tries not get irritated by how dismissive that is. Trust an alpha not to listen to a single word an omega says.
“I’ll go,” Derek says. “I’ll take this lead as soon as I track down Grayson.”
Huh. That’s unexpected.
Especially when Derek pulls out a chair and sits down to start reading. Stiles hesitates for the briefest second because everything this alpha touches looks good and it’s kind of melting his brain a little, but he perseveres. However briefly.
This is going to be a long day.
Stiles is tapping his foot impatiently and scanning Roax’s bank records when someone sets a cup of coffee down on the table in front of him.
It’s one of the mugs from the break room and Stiles barely looks up in time to see Derek taking a seat opposite him, setting down his own mug on the table without even looking in his direction.
Oh so that’s where he disappeared to. Stiles figured he was in a meeting with Wash. But he actually went into the break room and made coffee. Colour him surprised. And what's with all the casual gift giving here? Stiles doesn't know what he's supposed to be thinking about this. But the caffeine is definitely appreciated.
“Hey where’s mine?” Danielle grumbles pointedly from the other end of the table. “Just cause I’m not wearing your scent I don’t get coffee?”
Stiles sputters a flustered protest but Derek levels her with a blank, unimpressed look. “You just finished your third cup,” he mutters. “I assumed you didn’t want more caffeine.”
Danielle mutters something unflattering under her breath and that’s when Derek actually smiles, turning back to the paperwork in front of him as if he could understand her. Stiles is too offended by how damn fine Derek is when he smiles that he can’t speak.
“Close your mouth, Stilinski,” Danielle says. “You’re a FBI Agent.”
“You’re an FBI Agent,” he retorts, hastily closing his mouth and glancing away before Derek can meet his gaze.
At least the coffee is good.
Scott is chilling at Stiles’ apartment once he gets home and Stiles drops his messenger bag and joins him on the couch with a relieved sigh that quickly sums up his day at work. Scott’s in the middle of a game but he passes Stiles a controller and switches over to two player with a welcoming nod.
“Did you get more clothes from that alpha?” Scott wonders, giving him a very unsubtle sniff.
Stiles groans and drops his head back on the couch in open protest of this whole situation. “He came into my work today. He’s on the Roax case.”
“No,” Scott gasps, amazed and scandalised all at once by Stiles’ sudden misfortune. “With you smelling like- what did he say? Shit, what did you do?”
“Nothing,” Stiles mutters, still feeling flushed and hot from the whole ordeal. “Danielle was the one who asked if we were mated because of the clothes sharing. Derek just- wanted to do his job.”
“So he’s FBI?”
“Nah man,” Stiles mutters. “Pretty sure he’s like secret ops. He didn’t even identify the organisation he was with.”
“You’re wearing an assassin’s clothes right now?” he demands, taking another sniff. “Whoa, cool.”
Stiles nudges Scott’s face away with his hand. “Dude, don’t make fun. This is humiliating enough.”
But Scott only shrugs at his defeated tone.
“So what? Just ask him out. He doesn’t smell like he’s mated.”
Stiles drops the controller. “I’m- I’m not asking him out,” he splutters. “Are you insane? What makes you think he’d even look at me?”
Scott snorts like the question is funny and gives Stiles a sly look. “He gave you a bag of his clothes to roll around in. Seems pretty into you. Alphas don’t just go around throwing their scent at people.”
He’s trying to make a point but Stiles really doesn’t see it. Derek was already at the thrift shop to get rid of his clothes when they ran into each other. It just sort of worked out that he ended up giving it to Stiles. After of course Stiles expressed a distinct interest in the way the alpha smells. If anything, Stiles is Derek's charity case. He probably just feels sorry for him.
It definitely doesn’t mean what Scott thinks it means.
“God, I’m so hungry,” Stiles complains to Danielle when lunchtime has come and gone and he hasn't left the office. “My stomach has started joylessly eating itself.”
“Gross,” she replies, not looking up from the files she’s reading. “Go eat something then.”
Stiles groans and stretches, spine popping as he gets to his feet. They’re in conference room six today and have had the entire room to themselves. Along with their mysterious alpha consultant. “What’s the time anyhow?”
“Two thirty,” Danielle answers without looking up. “Why didn’t you have lunch before? I literally left for an hour and I swear you didn’t move.”
He’d planned to go and eat but he’d gotten so absorbed in reading that time just slipped by. Stiles goes through a brief fantasy reel of what foods he can get for lunch before he realises that the file in front of him is actually important and might require his attention. Then he notices that they're missing a consultant.
“Hey, when did Derek leave?”
Danielle glances around them. “I think just a minute ago. He doesn’t talk much.”
Yeah, doesn’t Stiles know it. Things might feel less strained if he actually had some indication of where he stood with the improbably imposing alpha, but Derek is surprisingly hard to read.
Stiles can’t even tell if he feels weird about the clothes sharing thing. They haven’t spoken a thing about it since he first walked into HQ. And Stiles isn’t ashamed enough to stop wearing Derek’s clothes. Not even if it means he’s seeing Derek every day and Derek’s seeing him and knowing that Stiles is covered in his scent.
It’s more than a little pitiful at this point but Stiles couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. And it’s not like Derek asked him to either.
He’s chewing on a pen and on the twentieth page of a case report when the smell of hot food rolls into the room and there’s a hand setting a plastic bag down onto an empty spot on the table not completely inundated with paperwork.
“What-?” Stiles starts, surprised.
“Here,” Derek says shortly. “Food.”
Stiles doesn’t even question it. He just removes two burritos from the bag and tries and fails at not immediately salivating. “Oh my god,” he groans. “Thank you.”
Derek doesn’t look at him but when he sits down again his skin looks a little pinker than usual. Generosity must run in his blood.
Stiles doesn’t even realise he’s going to repay the favour until the opportunity presents itself when he’s heading home that night.
It’s nearing six pm and Stiles has done all that he can do for the day. He fetches his messenger bag from his desk but when he walks past the conference room they’ve been using Derek is still there, his suit jacket resting on one of the nearby chairs, pouring over paperwork with his sleeves rolled up.
Damn, Derek looks good with his sleeves rolled up. God, Stiles would do serious things just to have those forearms wrapped around him, or holding him up while they-
Yeah fuck, those are some forearms. Stiles doesn’t even realise he’s moved forward until he’s opened the door and stepped inside.
“Hey,” he says, nervously when Derek looks up. “You should have this if you’re staying late. The air con gets intense.”
Stiles drags out the hoodie he carries around in his messenger bag for late nights at HQ and passes it over to Derek. One of his own hoodies this time, but it’s big enough that it should still fit Derek’s broad shoulders.
It’s sort of an empty gesture though. Derek obviously isn’t cold if he’s removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves already.
Maybe this is some latent feelings of guilt leftover from all the clothing Derek’s donated. Stiles is just returning the favour. The clothing sharing coming full circle. But one blank look from Derek and he is suddenly very aware of how stupid this is, now that he’s gone ahead and offered it. What a terrible idea.
But then after a beat, Derek gets this incredibly cute crease between his brow and accepts the hoodie with only a slight twitch of his mouth as if he’s resisting saying something. Stiles feels a lot like an omega attempting to clumsily gain an alpha’s favour and hurries out of the conference room before Derek can call him out on it.
Peace offerings should not be this difficult.
Stiles is carrying three cups of coffee, a file tucked under his arm and two pens in his mouth when he walks past conference room three and catches sight of Derek inside.
They’ve been using conference room six these past few days so Stiles barely starts to wonder what he’s doing there until he recognises one of the beta agents who works on this floor in there with him. Stiles doesn’t exactly know her by name but it’s hard to miss the Tupperware container full of cookies in her hands.
Holy shit, she’s trying to win Derek Hale over with baking. He realises a second later that Derek’s finally noticed him through the glass, staring at him keenly while the agent hands over the container and twirls a finger nervously through her hair, a sure sign of flirting.
“Oh my God,” he hears a familiar voice whisper over his shoulder. It’s Kowalski, the agent who always ends up using all the creamer in the office kitchen, but never seems to replace it. “Juanita made that big shot alpha cookies. Did you see Andre yesterday? Practically fell over himself giving the guy his number.”
“Even Wash got flustered,” Nielsen, who is not only Kowalski’s desk buddy, but his buddy in pretty much all things. A true bromate. “I saw her blush yesterday, man. Blush. Plus did you see Agent Elbagir? He offered his chair to the alpha. Do you remember how hard he fought for that lumbar support?”
Holy shit. Stiles tried to get that fancy chair for his desk, but Wash said they’d only buy them for agents who needed it for actual medical reasons. Elbagir’s chair is literally the envy of the entire floor, Stiles can’t believe he offered it to Derek. What an honour.
Kowalski and Nielsen snigger afterward, as if watching the rest of the agents fawn over an impressive alpha is somehow amusing. Like these agents are a group of lovestruck idiots with hearts in their eyes, trailing after Derek and practically drooling.
Fuck, and Stiles gave Derek his hoodie the other day when he clearly didn’t even need it. One that was completely saturated in his scent. Stiles is totally one of them, embarrassing themselves over Derek Hale who so far hasn’t shown interest beyond that of one acting professional within a workplace.
How humiliating. Why the hell did Stiles think that was an appropriate thing to do? Or that an old hoodie could measure up to homemade cookies or a really rocking chair with extra lumbar support?
How many other agents have handed things over to Derek to vie for his attention? Stiles has made such an idiot of himself already, they’ve really passed rock bottom a long time ago. But who even said he wanted to compete for Derek Hale’s attention anyway? He has no intention of doing that. And it’s not like he was declaring interest or anything, like half the office seems to be. Stiles was just repaying the clothes sharing favour.
Derek started it first. It’s only fair.
He remembers that he’s still staring at Derek just as Derek’s gaze drops to his mouth and Stiles abruptly recalls the two pens currently held between his teeth and how that does not a dignified image make.
His supervisor has chewed him out for carrying too many things at once before but he only dropped that pot full of hot coffee the one time. And that was because he genuinely forgot that it was in his hands. That could happen to anyone.
But apparently getting hit on, and handed gifts at random while he’s just trying to do his job is something that happens to Derek Hale all the time. And that kind of knowledge is something Stiles could have happily continued onward in life without knowing a thing about.
Cheeks hot with mortification, Stiles turns on his heel and hurries back to reach Danielle and escape the possibility of more embarrassment. He prays that rumours of the hoodie incident don’t get passed around the office. Though he hadn’t seen anyone else around when he’d made that horrifying mistake. That might just be enough to save him from the added failure of being lumped in as a member of the alpha’s infatuation squad.
He doubts Derek will talk though. Since he’s never said anything about Stiles wearing his clothes to anyone. And luckily no one else but Danielle seems to have realised that their scents smell a little too similar. Stiles is hoping to keep it that way.
He focuses on the deadly path in front of him, dodging Anne Gibson who might be clumsier than he is and carrying a handful of files that are stacked dangerously high in front of her. They exchange terse nods, a brief second of solidarity in precarious times before Stiles manages to squeeze past her without disaster. Kowalski whistles at them in encouragement but Stiles suspects he would have cheered harder if they’d collided and spilled coffee and paperwork everywhere.
He’s a bit of a dick sometimes.
Stiles keeps going and tries to forget the hoodie mishap ever happened. That'll serve him for trying to be nice. At least one of these mugs in his hands is for Danielle and she’ll be pissed if he doesn’t bring it to her ASAP anyway. The other two are the extra fuel he’s going to need compiling a list of Roax’s every known associate and who he might contact to help track Grayson down.
Though Stiles thinks it's very likely that he's going to try this alone. Roax is a bit of a lone wolf.
Roax. Yes, that’s what he needs to be focusing on right now.
Not Derek Hale. Or HQ gossip, insanely comfortable chairs and cookies made to perfection. Especially not hoodies. Or whether Derek actually wore it that night. Or if he’s planning on giving it back.
Nope. None of that. Stiles needs to focus.
Stiles gets up to pee about twenty minutes after he finishes his second cup. Danielle stood up to stretch her legs and is now pacing the conference room and Derek left a few minutes ago without explanation.
He tends to do that a lot.
Stiles doesn’t have the time to ponder that right now though because his bladder is majorly full.
”Oh man,” he mutters. “I should not have had that second cup.”
”That’s your third cup,” Danielle points out, rolling her eyes before she bends over to touch her toes with a soft groan. “I’m surprised you haven’t exploded already.”
”I’m about to,” Stiles admits, hurrying to the door and looking over his shoulder at Danielle as she snorts and stretches her arms over her head.
Stiles runs into a wall. A wall that’s living and breathing and lets out a sharp hiss of pain. Stiles whips his head around as the take-away cup of coffee drops out of Derek’s hands. After most of it got thrown all over his white shirt.
A few drops land on Stiles’ hands, and the liquid is hot. Jesus, what temperature does Derek drink this stuff at? Boiling?
“Oh my God,” Stiles cries, eyes widening in horror as Derek winces. “Oh shit. I’m so sorry.”
He grabs at Derek’s shirt, fingers fumbling with the buttons to get the material off his skin. He needs water. You’re supposed to run burns under water straight after it happens, right? The spots on Stiles’ hands are already turning red, and the sharp sting is enough to tell him Derek is definitely worse off in this situation.
When Stiles gets the shirt open though, pushing the wet material off Derek’s skin all he sees is abs, a happy trail that disappears past his belt buckle and the kind of muscle definition that makes his mouth water.
And then he catches on that Derek’s skin isn’t even red. How is that possible? He’s covered in hot coffee. Stiles doesn’t understand what’s going on. Not even when he reaches out and touches where Derek’s skin is wet.
”What?” he says stupidly. “How are-?“
”Stilinski, quit undressing him,” Danielle calls. “Jesus, you’re gonna get us all written up.”
Derek doesn’t push his hand away. ”I’m fine,” he says, voice a little deeper than usual. “Let me clean this up.”
And then he starts taking off his long-sleeved shirt, muscles shifting with the movement, exposing his thick arms, body stretching as he wriggles free of the tight shirt.
And Stiles is in physical pain. Who even looks like that normally?
Danielle grabs the jacket off the back of one of the chairs and tosses it at Derek’s chest. “Here,” she says when Derek automatically catches it. “Take Stilinski’s jumper. It’s the least he can do. Since he’s still being inappropriate.”
Stiles glances over at her, and follows the direction of her gaze to where his hand is still pressed flat against Derek’s abs. Oh. Hastily, he withdraws.
”Yeah, have it,” he agrees when Derek starts straightening out Stiles’ zip up hoodie.
Stiles likes baggy clothes, so it should fit. He also still needs to use the bathroom. ”I- uh sorry, kind of a walking accident magnet over here. I- I’ll be right back.”
Derek’s jaw twitches and Stiles rolls out of there before he spills something on Derek’s pants next.
Not like that would exactly be a bad thing per se.
When Stiles comes back from the bathroom Derek is sitting at the long desk, Stiles’ hoodie zipped up just past his chest, exposing skin and making it very obvious there’s nothing else under there.
Stiles practically trips over his own feet. Danielle is within reach though and is kind enough to catch at his arm, keeping him upright. ”You’re a disaster,” she says, sounding fond as she pushes another file into his chest.
”One of a kind,” he agrees, accepting the paperwork and taking a chair on the opposite side of the table from Derek, a few seats down.
He glances at his hands, which are still stinging after he ran them under water, and opens the file to start reading. He can’t stop glancing at Derek though. At that bare expanse of flesh below his throat, his collarbones, the beginnings of chest hair.
Dear God he looks good.
”What’s the damage?” Stiles asks, feeling awkward and remorseful all at once.
Derek glances over at him. “I’m fine.”
”That- it was hot liquid- which I spilled all over you.”
Derek doesn’t even blink. “You missed.”
Say what now? Stiles knows he hit his target. Aim seems to be one of the skills he's perfected in his clumsiness. Plus Derek's stomach was wet when he touched it. How could he not have gotten burnt?
”But-“ Stiles glances down at his own hands, which still seem kind of raw and splotchy. He winces at little but at least it wasn’t worse.
Derek’s chair squeaks as he rolls it back and stands up. Stiles shakes his fingers out and starts turning pages. A hand comes down on his bare forearm unexpectedly a moment later.
”You should run that under water,” Derek says, nodding at the marks on Stiles’ hands and his hand is startlingly hot on Stiles’ arm .
”Uh- I did.”
When Derek takes his hand back and returns to his seat, the smarting sensation on Stiles’ skin from the coffee spill is gone. Huh. That cold water must have helped after all.
Stiles tries to concentrate on the task at hand, but he can’t stop looking over at Derek. Who is shirtless. Underneath Stiles’ hoodie. He’s actually wearing one of Stiles’ hoodies right now. Stiles gave him another one a few days ago. But right now he can see the actual proof. Turns out Derek looks good in his clothes.
And his scent is stronger too, half naked that he is. Jesus, he smells good. Goddammit.
Stiles tries he really does. He does his best to focus and read the files and do his job. But Derek’s hair is all ruffled from taking off his shirt, and he obviously hasn’t seen himself in a mirror since then because he hasn’t tried to fix it up. Not to mention Stiles can actually see the shape of his nipples through the hoodie.
When he absently reaches up to scratch at his bare chest, Stiles has reached his limit. He gets up abruptly, striding over to Danielle at the evidence board. ”I gotta go,” he says unhappily. “I’m pretty much useless now.”
Danielle gives him a sideways look. “What are you on about?”
”I can’t concentrate,” he says. “Not when he’s sitting over there half-naked and looking like that.”
Danielle raises an eyebrow as Derek clears his throat unexpectedly from across the room, like he’s choking on something. There’s no way he could have heard that though, Stiles kept his voice down. In the spirit of secrecy and everything. Must just be a reaction to something else.
”Alright,” she says. “But I’m not the one who’s going to explain this to Wash if she asks.”
”I’ll handle it.”
Stiles is willing to take that bullet. He’ll only be leaving a couple hours earlier than usual. And Wash is pretty understanding about taking time off for personal problems. And Derek is definitely becoming a personal problem.
How is Stiles supposed to work in these conditions?
It only takes another few days before evidence of Grayson’s activities surface. Danielle catches him on camera withdrawing money from an ATM in Arlington.
“What’s the go?” Adlena Wash asks, ducking her head into the conference room to see their progress just as Derek is heading out to take Grayson into custody before Roax can kill him.
Stiles is at the other side of the room with Danielle and they’re in the midst of trying to prepare a final report.
“I’m going after Grayson, a known associate of Roax’s,” Derek mutters, pausing in the open doorway. “They have a score to settle.”
She frowns at them. “That sounds like an unnecessary risk. Why haven’t you joined the rest of the agents in the leading search?”
Stiles turns his head to hide his expression, since it was his idea that they go after Grayson instead of Roax. If it fails, not only will he face scrutiny, but it’s very possible that he could get Derek into trouble. With whichever organisation he works for.
“It’s good intel,” Derek says, shrugging and unconcerned by the interrogation.
Stiles’ cheeks flush at the praise, but he manages to keep his mouth shut.
It’s probably a good thing he keep his distance for now. Wouldn’t want his supervisor to smell Derek on him and think there was something unprofessional going on. Even though there isn’t. Not technically.
Wash considers the answer. “Alright. We’ll defer to your judgement, Hale. The rest of my field agents will focus on Roax.”
Derek nods and marches out of the conference room with the kind of determination that would make most people nervous. It’s almost a relief not having his scent filling up the room anymore. Even if it lingers.
Their supervisor glances over at them with an interested look. “And how are we going with our departmental cooperation?” she wonders.
Danielle frowns first. “Which department is he with again? He hasn’t identified himself.”
“That’s classified,” Wash says with a tone of finality. “But are we all playing nicely?”
Stiles thinks of the long shirt he’s wearing today that belongs to Derek and of the purple Under Armour one he slept in last night. Not to mention the sideways looks Derek’s been shooting him all morning. Is it because of the hoodie? Or the fact that he’s still wearing Derek’s clothing like some kind of a maladjusted creep?
“Sure,” he replies weakly.
When Derek finally returns that afternoon, he has both Roax and Grayson in custody. The agents are practically clamouring to get the details, and Stiles does his best not to feel irritated that it was his intel that sent Derek to the right place to begin with.
And not forgetting Danielle’s help in locating Grayson in the first place. Once again, the consultant is going to take all the credit for their work.
Stiles shouldn’t be surprised that this particular alpha is capable of being a jerk but it does make the fact that Derek smells so good rankle that much more. People who smell that good shouldn’t be assholes. That’s just unfair.
The conversation isn’t difficult to overhear. Especially when it’s taking place so close to his desk.
“How did you get him?” Kowalski wonders, unable to sound anything but impressed.
Geez, Stiles would’ve thought people might settle down about Derek already. He’s not that great. In fact, if they’d bother to look past the face and the general hotness and that ass, he’s actually pretty rude. Kind of irritable. Definitely not interested in interdepartmental cooperation- whichever department it turns out he belongs to.
Derek shrugs at Kowalski like it’s no big thing. “I caught up with Grayson first. Put him in custody, stole some of his clothes and lured Roax in with the scent.”
Huh. That was actually pretty smart. Stiles doesn’t know if he should be surprised that Derek thought of it, or that he pulled it off on his own. Stiles really hopes he wasn’t inspired by his own experiences of other people stealing his scent. The scent he practically handed over.
When the rest of the group starts asking ridiculous questions like whether Derek’s going out tonight to celebrate, how often he goes to the gym and if he’s single, Stiles decides he doesn’t want to listen anymore. He excuses himself from typing up another report and goes to the break room to make some coffee and to avoid the rest of the fanfare that follows closing an interesting case. He’d rather not witness the agents practically falling over themselves to admire Derek Hale. Any more than they have already.
Okay, so he’s unfairly attractive, seems to be proficient at his job and likes to donate to charity in his spare time and feed absentminded omegas, but he’s not that special. He probably doesn’t even deserve Juanita’s homemade cookies.
Stiles heard it on the grapevine that he shared some with that omega receptionist on the first floor after one of the security guards gave him a hard time for not following proper protocol with two visiting government officials.
Those security guards have made people cry on occasion. Even with the proper identification. Apparently the poor dude went to pieces after they were done reaming him for letting the officials into the building without appropriate screening. Stiles would have shared cookies with him too. But he doesn’t doubt that Derek hurt Juanita’s feelings in the process.
The crying omega- alpha rescuer incident travelled all over the office less than five minutes after it happened. There’s no way that Juanita didn’t hear about it. Stiles heard about it when he was in the bathroom. News spreads fast around the office that’s for sure.
But Stiles can’t believe HQ gossip is currently centred on a guy that refuses to identify which department he’s from, and the chatter isn’t even about that. Not to mention the fact that he shares romantic gift cookies with other people.
What an ass.
Stiles really just wants to know his division, even if Derek Hale is less than interested in sharing that information with anyone. And he’s probably leaving now that the case is closed and his role as a consultant is finished. It’s very likely that Stiles might not ever find out which department he works for.
That’s the kind of unsolved mystery that could keep him up at night.
Stiles is humming the tune for Europe’s The Final Countdown when he enters the break room, yet another irritating song to have on the brain, even as he bops his head along with it.
He slides over to the kitchen fridge first, drags the carton of milk out and unscrews the cap. He heard the song in the very same café that plays bad, outdated music on the way to work this morning, and Stiles should seriously consider changing coffee haunts if this is his punishment now for a quality cup of joe.
“You’re still wearing my clothes,” Derek mutters at his ear while Stiles is pouring milk into his cup and shaking his hips a little while he gets into the snappy chorus.
Stiles jumps violently at the sound of his voice. Then he nearly spills milk all over the counter when he fumbles his grip on the carton. Derek reaches out but Stiles manages to catch it before it drops completely. And doesn’t even spill anything. Small miracles.
He can’t believe Derek got this close without him noticing. Stiles didn’t even hear the alpha come in. But he feels an odd flicker of something when he turns around and Derek steps back immediately. Keeping a polite distance between them. Right. Professional. Not sharing clothes.
“It’s not weird,” he says automatically like he’s already given this answer a thousand times.
Scott has heard enough of that excuse to last a lifetime. Stiles will admit it’s a little played out but it’s not like he has another explanation that makes sense. None of this really makes sense. Derek’s giving him this look though, like that response isn’t enough anymore. Maybe that answer was never enough to begin with. But denial is so much easier.
“Hey congrats on finding Roax,” he says, shifting back to stir his coffee and trying to keep his voice even. Nonchalant. “And Grayson.”
“You were the one that figured it out,” Derek says quietly. “I just went where you told me.”
Stiles can’t ignore the small thrill that admission gives him but he does his best to seem casual when Derek moves over to the fridge and gets out a bottle of water.
It’s an accident really. Stiles is hyper aware of Derek’s presence in the break room but for some reason he doesn’t realise that Derek is directly behind him when he turns around to get sugar from the opposite counter.
He shifts from where he’s stirring his coffee and suddenly Derek’s right there in his face. They’ve been fine working together so far but that’s because they’ve been at opposite ends of the room and Stiles is used to the almost faded scent of Derek in his clothing.
He hasn’t been this close before. Not since the fluffy coat confrontation where Stiles had literally no idea who he was. Things have definitely changed since then.
Stiles doesn’t really know what happens next except suddenly he’s got a grip on the front of Derek’s shirt and his face is buried in his throat. He inhales like he’s forgotten to breathe, falling into the intensity of the alpha’s scent eagerly. Locating where it’s the most potent. He’s gasping and panting, open mouthed and flushed before he realises that maybe he shouldn’t have his face in a strange alpha’s neck, practically getting stoned off his scent.
And that Derek is essentially shuddering in his arms under the attention.
When he finally manages to pull away, his hands are still buried in the fabric of the alpha’s buttoned down shirt and Stiles’ face is on fire.
“Oh my god,” he wheezes, horrified. He practically climbed Derek just now like he was about to mount him. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t even- fuck-“
He gathers that his hands are still gripping Derek’s shirt impossibly tight and yanks them back like they’re weaponised. Derek has an unreadable expression on his face and Stiles has never been more embarrassed by his own actions in his entire life. And he dropped a box full of condoms in front of a nun once.
Somehow, this is worse. He straight up just jumped an alpha because he got the slightest hint of his scent and went hare-brained. What kind of omega does that? It’s shitty alphas who try that shit because they think they can get away with it when omegas are in heat.
Stiles is one of those disgusting alphas right now. And he’s never so much as sniffed someone funny before.
He’d always turned his nose up at people who lost control around different statuses because the idea seemed so absurd to him. But now he’s sunk to their damn level of dishonour. How the mighty have fallen.
“Oh god,” he says, the skin of his face practically melting off now, it’s so red. “I’m so sorry. I’m so-“
Derek slowly puts a hand to his throat, right where Stiles’ face was. Right where his mouth was. And how in the hell has security not already sensed this disturbance in the force and arrested him? Stiles is waiting for the sirens somehow but he can’t hear a thing. Though that could have more to do with the klaxons already sounding in his own head.
“You said that,” Derek finally answers, sounding a little odd. “Already.”
“Yes,” he agrees, backing away until he’s standing at the other side of the room. “Because I am so sorry. Again. You should report me to Human Resources. Fuck, I can’t believe I did that. Fuck. That was- well, pretty fucked up, man. Sorry.”
Derek swallows and doesn’t answer right away but he’s standing there so stiffly that Stiles can’t help but feel like actual scum of the earth.
He might not have pulled his dick out of his pants in the break room like that temp guy did last month before he was fired and escorted off the premises, but Stiles is clearly tenting in his pants and Derek has obviously witnessed the event. This is not the time for unwelcome boners.
“It’s fine,” Derek says eventually, pointedly avoiding staring at Stiles’ crotch as if that will drive his erection out of existence. “You’re wearing my clothes. Your instincts became… confused.”
Whatever’s going on in his pants now is certainly not confused. And Stiles’ instincts seemed like they knew exactly what they were doing a moment ago. What the hell is up with that?
“I practically jumped you,” Stiles hisses, astonished that Derek’s so calm.
He shrugs. “You barely even scented me,” he promises, like it’s no big deal.
What the hell is happening? How is Derek not angrier about this? Stiles feels like every rational part of his brain just took a spectacular swan dive out the window. “Barely even scented you?” he repeats. “I nearly-“
-bit you, Stiles realises he’s about to say and his mouth snaps shut at the thought.
Holy shit. Was he about to try and bite this alpha just because he smells good? And because Stiles has been wearing his clothes non-stop ever since they met?
Something is definitely wrong with this picture. Stiles has never been so out of control before. Maybe there’s a chemical imbalance with his suppressants and it’s starting to affect him. Oh God is Stiles about to go into heat at work again?
“I gave you my clothes,” Derek says with an unexpected amount of gravity. “I wanted you to have them. I think you might be-“
“I need to go,” Stiles says miserably, thinking if he stays here a second longer then he’s going to be fired. “I- sorry again.”
He abandons the coffee and practically launches himself out of the break room, beyond grateful that there aren’t any cameras in there which caught his temporary bout of insanity. Subtly he adjusts himself so his erection isn’t obvious and tries not to fall into hysterical laughter at the horror of the situation.
Who just jumps people at work that they’re decidedly not sleeping with? Not Stiles, that’s who. Or at least, he didn’t used to. Maybe he’s finally losing his grip on reality. Maybe that purple Under Armour shirt was really a gateway shirt to inappropriate scenting and break room disasters. Because now suddenly he’s stealing, taking home stranger’s clothing and jumping said stranger in his work environment because his brain briefly shorted out.
Okay maybe there’s a little bit of a pattern emerging here. Stiles is obviously having some kind of odd reaction to alphas. And if he’s not in heat, which he’s at least 80% sure that he’s not, then he probably needs to visit a doctor. Because this is so not happening again. Imagine what the rest of the office will say if they find out.
Stiles would rather try and befriend the fired pervert guy.
He heads over to visit Wash in her office straight away, trying not to seem suspicious as he passes the other agents at their desks. She’s on the phone but she’s in the middle of hanging up when Stiles knocks on the frame of her doorway and heads in.
He lets her know that he’s taking a sick day and his face must be convincing enough because she doesn’t question him. Not even when he goes back to his desk, picks up his messenger bag and then practically runs out of the building.
Stiles doesn’t have any of his usual symptoms of an upcoming heat but that could mean anything. Usually his heats come on fast, hot and unexpected. This could be just that. Wearing Derek’s clothes probably hasn’t improved the situation any either. He should take this hoodie off, he should stop sleeping in Derek’s shirts, wearing his pants. Stiles is only making this harder on himself.
When he arrives at his apartment, he dumps his messenger bag on the counter with a sigh and kicks off his shoes. He opens the fridge and drinks straight from the milk bottle, downing at least a quarter of it in lactose induced misery before putting it back and collapsing onto the couch to stew in his thoughts instead.
What if Derek decides to tell everyone that Stiles jumped him in the break room? He could get into serious trouble. Stiles might even lose his job for that overstep. It was super inappropriate for a workplace environment no matter what is going on with all the clothes sharing business. Whatever that even means.
If it even means anything.
Not to mention the rumours that could be spreading around the office right at this very moment. Jesus, Stiles can never show his face there again. Maybe he should leave the country like Roax planned to before Derek caught him.
Yemen seems nice this time of year.
He’s not in the mood for real cooking, so Stiles microwaves some two minute noodles for dinner and practically falls asleep in front of the TV as soon as Antique Roadshow is on.
He startles into alertness when there’s a knock at his door.
Stiles is reluctant to answer it. In case it’s Wash telling him that he’s been suspended. Or if it’s Scott wondering why Stiles didn’t answer his last few texts. But it’s not like he can deny what happened. And he doubts that Wash would arrive in person just to make that announcement. He’d get a phone call. Or at the very least a disapprovingly worded email.
Somehow he’s not expecting Derek standing in the doorway, awkwardly holding a pile of folded sheets out for him. What is he even doing here? Is he- is he seriously apologising right now?
What the hell?
“Hey,” Derek says a little uncertainly and how does he even know where Stiles lives? “I- I brought you these.”
He moves the sheets within reach of Stiles and he finally gets a whiff, understanding they’ve come off someone’s bed directly. And whose bed specifically it belongs to. Stiles snatches them out of his hands and brings the folded pile to his face, inhaling with a happy moan.
Then he catches sight of Derek’s expression. The way his eyes are hooded and his mouth has fallen open in silent wonder. And then Stiles remembers that he never told Derek where he lives and that he showed up here, unannounced, to bring Stiles the sheets from his own bed.
Now that’s definitely weird. What is going on?
“How did you get here?” he demands, dropping his hands away from his face, which are still clutching the sheets. “Are you- are you making fun of me?”
“No,” Derek says quickly, hand scraping awkwardly against his jaw. “This was listed as your address at HQ. I- I thought you might like-“
Stiles wishes he could just throw the sheets in Derek’s face and slam the door shut. But it turns out they’re going to discuss things like adults. It's the worst.
“Yeah, okay you’ve got me. I like how you smell, alright? Fine, okay I admit it. I like wearing your clothes and you can bet your ass I’m probably going to roll around in these sheets after you leave. Go tell the whole office. I don’t care anymore, you’ve had your fun.”
“I’m unmated,” Derek blurts out and then winces like he can’t believe he just said that. “I mean, I’d- like to date you.”
Stiles glances down at the sheets in his hands and then slowly back at Derek’s face. Derek’s serious face. Because he is serious right now. Holy shit. What?
“Huh?” Stiles says eloquently, stepping back when Derek moves into his apartment.
“I want- me and you,” he says. “You were wearing my shirt- I thought you were interested, but then I made that terrible first impression and I figured that was it. Except it turned out you work at the FBI and you’ve been wearing all those clothes I gave you, practically buried yourself in my scent and I-“
“I’ll date you,” Stiles exclaims, hardly daring to believe it. “I mean, shit, you’re actually serious?”
“But what about Juanita? Or the omega at the front desk? Or Andre. Or-“
“Who?” Derek asks, genuinely perplexed by the question.
Stiles wants to crow triumphantly but that’s probably in poor taste. “Agents at the office. The cookies! The chair! People who’ve you know- made their intentions known.”
“Oh,” Derek says, face scrunching up at the thought. “I didn’t really notice there were intentions. I figured they were being friendly.”
How did he not pick up what they were putting down? It was kind of hard to miss. “Agent Elbagir won’t give up his chair upon pain of death, dude,” Stiles feels the need to say. “That is coveted FBI property, okay.”
“Okay,” he agrees, smirking a little now. “So… when you gave me your hoodie. Was that-?”
“No,” Stiles replies quickly, suddenly very interested in wall behind Derek’s head. “I was being nice obviously. Returning the favour. And you gave me your clothes first.”
Stiles doesn’t know why he points an accusing finger into Derek’s chest but it’s satisfying nonetheless. He should be sorry. This is all his fault. Smelling so good that Stiles developed a pathological need to embarrass himself beyond recognition just to get another hit of it. Derek should be ashamed. Except he doesn’t actually seem sorry at all. Zero guilt factor from where he’s standing.
How dare he. Stiles practically made a nest out of his clothing and Derek was totally in on it all along. What a butt. But then he smiles a little, mouth curling up in an agonisingly handsome way and Stiles ain’t even mad.
“I think we’re- compatible,” Derek admits, meeting his eyes again. “Really compatible from the way our scents mix together. You were worried about jumping me in the break room today- I’ve been trying to hold back since I first pushed you into that clothes rack.”
Stiles still can’t believe that’s a thing that actually happened. Who even shoves some stranger into a thrift store winter coat rack anyhow? This guy can’t be real. But Stiles steps in and places a hand on Derek’s chest anyway. “You do make a terrible first impression,” he agrees. “But so did I. And you more than made up for it.”
“Good,” Derek agrees boldly, and leans in to kiss him.
Stiles tosses the bed sheets into the corner and buries his hands into Derek’s hair, nudging the front door closed behind them with his foot. “But,” he gasps, pulling away. “You don’t even know anything about me.”
Derek leans into his neck and takes a breath. “I like that you’re brazen. That you don’t let anyone say you can’t have the things you want. You’re clever. You’re- fuck- so attractive-“
“Okay,” he agrees, grasping at the back of Derek’s suit and hauling him closer. “So you know some things.”
They stumble towards the bedroom together, but Derek draws back when they reach the doorway. “We don’t have to dive into it,” he promises, sliding his arms around Stiles’ waist, tracking heat there.
Stiles shivers with pleasure under his touch. “If you want slow, we can do slow,” he agrees. “But we can just as easily get to know each other while we’re naked.”
Derek gives Stiles a heated look in reply and lifts him into the air, hand settling on his ass while Stiles wraps his legs around his hips. Then he wordlessly carries him over to the bed.
“Good idea,” Stiles agrees breathlessly.
Derek makes a strange noise when he deposits Stiles onto the mattress and catches the mix of scents in the room. “You brought my clothes into your bed?”
“Yeah,” he admits, already wiggling out of his dress pants and kicking them onto the floor. “Don’t know why I kept insisting that wasn’t weird.”
“It’s a good weird,” Derek insists, leaning in to bite gently underneath his jaw, relishing how Stiles shudders as he spreads his hands along his chest.
This is gonna be good, Stiles can tell. Derek helps him take his shirt off before they get started unbuttoning Derek’s. It's a real team effort. Soon enough Derek’s taking off his shoes and Stiles is figuring out the best plan of attack to get him naked faster. He doesn’t even care that not in the remotest of possibilities did he expect things would go this way today.
No chance he’s passing up the opportunity to get laid right now. Not if it’s with Derek Hale. He’s not going to question how through some miraculous twist of fate Derek seems to be into what Stiles has been putting down.
Not questioning that at all.
So he climbs aboard Derek’s incredible abs and rolls his hips until he’s seated comfortably on Derek’s pants. They breathe heavily together for a moment before Derek takes a hold of him to push him down a little further and gets access to the belt holding his pants up and Stiles actually feels a throb of slick leave his body when Derek starts to unbuckle his belt.
And it’s not like Stiles needs to admit to how wet he is right now. He’s pretty sure Derek can already smell it. When Stiles can feel the strength of hands, gripping his hipbones all of a sudden he's convinced that yes, Derek definitely can.
“Stiles,” he grunts, sounding so heated that Stiles doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. “Take off your underwear.”
The rigid control in his voice makes Stiles a little reckless. He rocks down against Derek’s erection first. Just to toe the edge of the line.
Something hot and hungry flashes in Derek’s eyes and in the next second he’s tipped Stiles over and onto his back on the mattress, slipping between his open legs.
“F-fuck,” Stiles says, struggling to keep his voice even.
He swallows heavily and lifts his hips under Derek’s hands, watching him catch the edge of his waistband before he tugs Stiles’ underwear off, not even trying to help when it gets caught around his knees.
Stiles watches Derek unzips his pants without even bothering getting out of the rest of his clothing, just frees his cock as if anything more would waste too much time. Stiles scrambles for the edge of the nightstand and drags a condom out of the drawer, tossing it at Derek’s chest so that it bounces off one of his pecs.
Stiles honestly can’t believe how much muscle he’s got going on. He feels like a wet noodle in comparison. But when Derek tears the foil open and quickly rolls the condom onto the thick, wondrous vision that is his cock, Stiles is practically thanking the gods for this opportunity.
But when he squirms against Derek and starts shifting, he reaches out to put a solid hand on Stiles’ chest, keeping him still. “What?” Derek starts to ask, even as he’s withdrawing his hand. “You don’t want-?”
“To hurry up and roll over?” Stiles finishes, maybe a little too amused by Derek’s expression. “C’mon, you gonna mount me or what?”
Derek reels back in shock, but Stiles can smell his arousal when he rolls over onto his stomach, still half tangled in his underwear as he bows his spine and lifts his ass up. He knows he’s presenting. Stiles might even give himself a moment to feel flustered by that if Derek didn’t curse and slot his thumb straight up against Stiles’ rim, catching the slick there.
Stiles barely has the chance to shift his weight before there’s pressure at his ass and Derek’s pushing his cock into him.
“Holyyy shit,” he groans, arms collapsing under him as he drops face first into the pillow, body frantically opening up as Derek fucks in and in, carving a place for himself, pressing impossibly deep on the first thrust.
Stiles’ mouth falls open in a soundless cry and his slick almost doubles at the scent and feel of virile alpha, filling him up, taking what he's offered.
Jesus, he’s thick. Much thicker than Stiles first glimpsed. Thick and long and hitting exactly all the right places before he can even think to beg him for it. Derek slides back, cock abusing Stiles’ prostate in the shift before he's gripping his ass cheeks, holding tight as he slams back in.
Stiles is so turned on, wet, and shocked and burning beyond belief at the feel of Derek’s cock drilling him into the mattress that he comes almost immediately, making a mess of his sheets, shaking with unimaginable pleasure.
“Don’t pull out,” he whines when Derek feels his ass clench and stops moving. “Fuck, keep- keep going.”
“You’re so wet,” he breathes, sounding awed when he trails his fingers around Stiles’ rim, knuckles bumping against sensitive flesh and cock still buried in Stiles’ ass. “Never got an omega this slick before. Do you usually-?”
“No,” Stiles groans, flushed and still ridiculously turned on as his dick starts rousing for a second time.
He can’t remember ever being this slick with someone else ever and the fact that Derek knows it, almost seems a little smug about the fact, leaves Stiles glad that Derek can’t see his face right now. Except Derek nudges at his hip next, hands sliding under him until he’s successfully turned Stiles over onto his back again, cock still inside, hot and pulsing.
“Want to see your face,” he explains, before resuming his momentum, pounding deep and watching as Stiles scrabbles to hold onto something, face twisting with arousal.
It’s good like this. Derek’s watching his expression intensely, taking in his every reaction and Stiles tosses his head back, exposing his throat even as he shifts so that Derek slips out and loses rhythm.
Stiles twists around and shoves Derek until he’s flat on his back before clambering on top and lowering onto his dick again.
“Much better,” he groans, working his hips down to ride him properly. “Oh God, so good.”
Derek grunts in agreement, breathless and focused as he pushes up into him. Stiles feels it when Derek finally starts to expand. “Yes,” he cries. “Do it. I’m-“
Derek’s cock stiffens up further, swelling as his knot forms and Stiles lets out a wild sound when it presses up against his prostate relentlessly, locking them together.
“Fuck,” he sobs, dropping forward onto Derek’s chest, gripping the edge of his hair and scrambling to tilt Derek’s head so that the line of his neck is visible.
The knot tugs at the stretch and Stiles whimpers against his skin, even as his mouth opens.
“Stiles,” Derek says sharply and abruptly he realises that his teeth are resting against Derek’s throat and he was just about to bite down.
Stiles yanks back with a curse, wide eyed and astonished. Even more so when he sees that Derek’s teeth are extended as well. Except, no they’re not teeth.
“What- what?” he tries, unable to find the words as Derek goes uncommonly still.
“So,” he wonders casually after a beat. “Which organisation do you work for again?”
Derek relaxes a little and seems to realise that Stiles isn’t afraid. Then his fangs recede and he leans up to kiss Stiles softly on the mouth. “We’re a subdivision of the FBI. A unit of elite soldiers.”
Stiles stares at him, cogs slowly turning. “You’re not just an alpha, are you?” he grasps.
He knew Derek’s eyes changed colour the first time they met. And Stiles didn’t miss him with that hot coffee either. There’s no way he’s just an alpha. Derek is something else.
Derek nods and hesitates only a moment. “I’m an alpha werewolf.”
God, Stiles knew that werewolves existed. If there’s such thing as alphas and betas and omegas, there had to be wolves as well. It just makes sense. Working for the FBI, he’s seen some things okay. Werewolves were the only explanation that fit.
“Fuck, that’s hot,” he admits, trying to work himself on Derek’s dick since he’s stopped moving and Stiles was getting close a little while ago.
They gasp and sigh together, slipping back into a perfect rhythm again as if they were never interrupted. The knot feels amazing inside him and Stiles wants to grind down onto it until he comes.
“You were going to bite me,” Derek continues, not sounding at all upset about that. “I wanted- I wanted you to. Shit, Stiles. I think we’re mates.”
Everything clicks together then. No wonder Stiles has been such a freak over Derek since from the very beginning. He’s been sleeping in the dude’s clothes for days after they met and Derek cornered him into a rack of furry coats.
“Oh fuck,” Stiles sighs, rolling his hips onto Derek’s knot with added fervour. “You’re gonna give me all your clothes.”
Derek makes this unexpected soft noise and laughs. “Yeah,” he promises, still attempting to thrust deep. “I’ll give you everything. Everything.”
Stiles leans down for a kiss when he finally comes, arching against Derek with a drawn-out sigh. He rocks down when Derek keeps going, knot still pulsing inside the condom while Stiles is sensitive with his orgasm and tiredly rocking his hips. Derek gasps, shudders and keeps coming with a low noise that’s more like a growl than anything.
Stiles collapses on top of him, still sealed together by Derek’s knot and too exhausted to worry about crushing him. Derek doesn’t seem to mind though because he strokes carefully along Stiles’ spine before settling on his ass, probing around the area where they’re still connected. Stiles moans tiredly at the sensation but presses into the touch.
It turns out that Derek Hale doesn’t just smell insanely good, he’s an amazing cuddler as well. It’s no effort for him to sling his arms around Stiles’ back and hold him close. Stiles isn’t used to being handled so easily and he gets distracted watching Derek’s biceps flex before he buries his nose into Derek’s throat and inhales.
The urge to bite him is so strong, Stiles can’t imagine how long he’ll be able to fight it. Especially when Derek is so encouraging.
“So,” he ventures, after comfortable silence has settled over them. “My heat should be in two weeks. Sooner if you’re sticking around.”
“I’m sticking around,” Derek insists without a hint of uncertainty. “For your heat if you’ll have me. And for the rest.”
Who knew this would come of Stiles stealing a purple Under Armour shirt from a thrift shop after work one day? Stiles certainly didn’t.
But he has no regrets now.
“Trust me, dude. I’m all in.”
Stiles finds the hoodie he gave Derek bundled up beneath his pillow the first time he ends up at Derek’s apartment, days before his heat is scheduled to start and they've already made their way to the bedroom.
“Aha! I told you it wasn’t weird,” he gloats from his spot on the bed, already shirtless and mouth swollen from all the kissing. He'd thrown his arms back a few seconds ago and caught his fingers on the edge of the material but he twists to yank it out from under the pillow with a flourish, excited to see that he’s not the only one hoarding other people’s clothes now.
"You're as scent addicted as me."
Derek turns a startling shade of red at being caught out even as he's kneeling over Stiles and well into the process of divesting him of his clothes.
"We're mates, Stiles," he mutters, with as much dignity as he can, which Stiles can confirm is an endearing expression on him. "You've literally tried to bite me like six times now. And most of those when we were-"
"Okay!" he says, cutting Derek off and starting to flush himself. "We were naked and- doing naked things. You can't judge me for that. And I didn't actually do it. I managed to stop myself each time!"
Derek is smiling more broadly as he helps Stiles wiggle out of his pants. "Barely," he replies, not at all upset. "And I keep telling you that I want you to already."
"And I want to do this right," Stiles defends, kicking his pants off to the side once he's free and starting on Derek's shirt next. "It's not part of my twelve point plan, Derek. I have to romance you first before I put my teeth on it. The ultimate romantic slow bone."
Derek snorts even as he gets at the last few buttons and starts taking his shirt off. Stiles stares at him open mouthed, eyes travelling over his chest with rapt attention.
"Thank you universe, for this blessing I am about to receive," he says, eyes drifting to the ceiling in gratitude for a moment.
Derek rolls his eyes and pushes Stiles back down onto the bed even as his hands are already on Derek's warm skin and roaming. "I feel like I should be embarrassed on your behalf for that."
"Thanks boo," Stiles offers sarcastically, readily throwing his arms around Derek's neck and leaning up to kiss him anyway as Derek's hands trail along his stomach and pointedly reach his waistband.
Stiles is all for that plan. For more kissing. And possibly more nakedness.
Turns out they’re much better without clothes on anyway.