Chapter Text
“Show me.”
“No.”
“Please?” Scott’s brows creased like a freshly set sheet beneath the weight of a pillow.
“Absolutely not.” Stiles crossed his arms, eyes carefully avoiding Scott’s face.
Scott’s eyebrows creased further. “Come on, you’ve seen mine.”
Stiles laughed. “Yeah, so not a compelling argument dude. Allison’s seen yours, too. And the rest of the pack. Hell, even Chris fucking Argent has seen it, dude. You’re not exactly discreet.”
Scott huffed softly. “It can’t be that bad, Stiles.”
Stiles snorted. “It absolutely can, and is. It’s–it’s weird, ok?”
Scott rolled his eyes. “They’re all weird. Just let me see.”
Stiles sputtered. “No. Absolutely not. You’ll laugh.”
He could hear that puppy-dog look in Scott’s voice, dammit, as Scott shot back, “I won’t! What’s so weird about it?”
Stiles waved his hands vaguely.
“It’s all...all hairy, and long and shit. Like yours are all normal but mine’s just gross and dumb-looking and-I mean, just–come on, man, it’s just not normal, ok?”
Scott fell silent. Stiles felt his eyes upon him. “Besides, I don’t get the whole expenses paid, luxury suite, primo super-senses package normally. I mean a little, but it’s more like the discount ‘will get charged out the ass for touching any of the not so complimentary shit in the room’ version where the sheets have bed bugs and continental breakfast costs ten bucks. Shifting feels kinda overwhelming. I tried shifting in front of the bathroom mirror this morning and kinda lost my lunch. I can try it, but it’s–it’s not cool dude.”
Stiles made the mistake of looking over at Scott.
Scott’s deadly rumpled-sheet eyebrow crease of concern did its work.
“Fine, ok?” Stiles grumbled. “Can we not be in my bedroom? You know, with bedroom smells and shit?”
Scott didn’t roll his eyes, and for that, Stiles was thankful. They made their way to the living room. Scott stared at him, expectant and excited. Stiles sighed and slid into his second shape for the third time in his life and hated every moment of it.
Thick hair coated his skin, wiry and tough, even as his sight sharpened, still strangely intense to match the gut-punch of other smells and sensations running through his mind.
Stiles glared at Scott. “Happy?” The word warped around devious teeth tightly fitted in a slightly reformed face, mangling the word into a half-coherent grumble of annoyance.
Scott’s eyebrows crumpled further. “You look like a rat.”
Stiles sputtered, shifting back. “I’m not a rat!”
Unconvinced, Scott pursed his lips. “Your face got, like, narrower. Like a rat.”
Stiles rolled his eyes. “No fur on their tails, asshole.”
“You don’t have a tail.”
“Yeah I do, you just didn’t see it.”
Scott’s face did that thing where he totally trusted that Stiles was telling the truth, but Scott still thought he was wrong. Stiles grumbled. “Fine. Pay attention this time.”
A few seconds later, Stiles held his tail in the most sarcastic stance available. He hoped that fur didn’t ruin the effect, but let’s be real. He knew it would.
He glowered as the gears slowly turned in Scott's brain. The fur was evil. It had to be. Only something truly evil would ruin sarcasm, and that's exactly what this fur did. Stupid fucking sarcasm-ruining bullshit fur.
Scott still seemed concerned.
“Whuh?” Stiles mumbled around his distorted face.
“You’re a weasel.”
“I’m not a weasel.”
“I don’t know, you look like a weasel.”
“I’m not.”
“You totally are, dude.”
“I totally am not, come on, Scott.”
Scott shook his head. “I’m gonna call Allison. I bet she knows all about weasel shifters.”
Stiles sputtered. “I AM NOT A WEASEL. Scott, Scott, come on, please? Dude, why?”
Scott had that dopey look of absolute faith in a girl who came way too close to hunterhood. “I’ll find a way to fix this, Stiles! Allison will know for sure.”
He scoffed. Scott rose; Stiles followed as his best friend moved towards the door. He called after him. “You can’t fix being a were, Scott, that’s not how it works. Wait, Scott, c’mon dude, please don’t go!”
It did nothing to deter Scott as he picked up his backpack and headed out the door. “Stiles, I can’t. I promised Isaac that I would help him. I’ll talk to you later, ok? We fixed Jackson, we can fix you too.”
Stiles stopped, half a step from the front door, as Scott flashed him with that gut-punch pleading smile. Stiles still hadn’t figured out how to resist it.
He sighed, then paused. “Yeah, fine. Go on, Scott. Do your Scotty business. Just. Do me a favor?”
Scott perked up. “Sure.”
Stiles hesitated. He’d seen the way the three of them looked at each other, but none of the three were familiar with, well–non-traditional relationships.
Would Stiles meddle? Of course he would. “Next time you hang out with Allison and Isaac together, ask them what 'Throuple' means. Ok?”
Scott’s creasy concerned brow emerged once again. Like laundry from a freshly finished dryer. Seriously, how did he keep it so pristine with all the running and flailing and the ‘barely escaping from the death’ thing they did?
“You can just tell me, dude.” Scott even tilted his head.
Stiles sighed. Poor Scott. Poor Isaac and Allison, too, really, if his suspicion was correct. Their behavior paired with something about their scents when together convinced him that they desperately needed to hash things out. Just… Not with Stiles in the room.
He sighed. "Scott, that would ruin the whole point of asking. Just trust me on this, ok? Find a time when you're all alone together and ask.”
Scott smiled again, warm and trusting. It almost made Stiles rethink the potential chaos this might unleash. Almost.
"Sure. See you!”
He watched Scott speed off into the heat of the afternoon on his crappy little bike. Stiles chewed his lip, eying Roscoe.
He needed to visit Deaton.
Stiles loitered anxiously in the lobby for a while as his slightly improved senses made a point of informing him of a number of familiar, but previously unnoticed, odors. He tried his best not to do the whole nose flaring, wrinkly look the wolves were not so subtle about and mentally reminded himself to be less of an ass, because shit. He wasn’t even shifted and already this place felt weird.
Strange energy burned faintly beneath his skin until Deaton assessed him, quick and curious, and brought him back past the front desk. “I was wondering how long you would hold out. It looks like your encounter with a strange shifter ended differently than expected?”
Stiles huffed.
"Differently than he expected, yeah.” Deaton raised an eyebrow and Stiles continued, “Fucker tried to assault me two nights ago, so I shanked him. He managed to bite me first.” He shrugged, acutely aware that the set of his shoulders and the scent pouring off of him disagreed with his attempted facade of nonchalance. Thank god Derek wasn’t around to pick up on that shit. “He assumed I was the pack bitch and paid for it. End of story. Now what the fuck am I?”
Deaton smirked, cleaning up after whatever pet-focused procedure he had previously performed. Stiles’ nose wrinkled at the acrid stench of the cleaner. He kicked himself, mentally. Deaton spoke. “You tell me.”
Stiles grimaced. “I’m–it’s weird. I have fur. Fur. And a tail, like–like Jackson.”
Deaton nodded, considering. “Did your assailant have fur?”
“Kidnapper.”
“Hmmm?” Deaton paused.
“He kidnapped me. Like, threw me in a car, dragged me off, and tried to–” Stiles waved his hands vaguely. “To do stuff to me. Dumbass didn’t even bother checking for weapons. He seemed kinda antsy, panicky, but he didn’t even shift,” he explained, moving his weight from one foot to the other as he tried to figure out what the fuck to do with his hands.
Deaton just nodded, the cryptic fucker. “I can tell you what you are.”
Stiles paused, mid-fidget, then deflated at the news.
“You’re a shifter, Stiles. You’re not an aberration like the kanima. You’re just not a wolf.”
Stiles snorted derisively. “But I’ve got fur. Like, everywhere. And when I say everywhere, I mean everywhere.”
Deaton just smirked. "Many shifts include a full coat of fur. Some are functional, like polar bears or mongooses, while some, like weasels and giant sloths, have no discernible function."
"Wait, there are giant sloth shifters?"
"Indeed. It's theorized that any animal sufficiently revered by a culture will eventually manifest as a shifter."
"What about goats?"
"Satyrs."
"Horses?"
"Centaurs."
"Cows."
"Have you heard of the Bull of Minos?"
Stiles paused, contemplating. "Where'd they all go? The bovids."
Deaton considered for a moment. "Many suspect they either lost their abilities or reverted to a full shift form. Rumor has it that most of the best warhorses in history bore centaur blood."
Stiles raised his hand, ready to launch into a lengthy series of detailed questions about the implications of draft animals with literal humanoid blood when Deaton turned and pointed towards the door. “And now that you know, I advise spending some time familiarizing yourself with your shift.”
Stiles’ jaw clacked shut. “Seriously?”
Deaton just shook his head. “I’m limited in how I am allowed to assist. You know this, Stiles. Now if you encounter an actual emergency, please inform me, but in the interim, I’m afraid you’ll have to discover the details of your particular shift on your own.”
He groaned but stalked off, hands in his pockets, as he tried to figure out where to go from here, both literally and figuratively. Scott was busy, Derek and the puppies were doing whatever the fuck Derek and his puppies did.
And yeah, he could probably join the werewolf games nowadays, but he didn’t want to check whether the lack of the full suite of extra fancy senses also translated to lack of the full suite of fancy healing. He saw how they sparred. Last thing he wanted was to decide between excruciating pain and showing off just how fucked up his shift was.
He sighed, deftly avoiding any thoughts about Derek or why he was so afraid of Derek’s derision as he climbed into the jeep. Sure, Jackson and Erica would never let him live it down, while Boyd would just give him a look, but it was the thought of Derek’s face that set his foot to the pedal. The continued attempt to avoid those thoughts sent him driving aimlessly onto wooded backroads, as if distance would silence his thoughts.
Eventually, a glance at his gas gauge brought his thoughts back to the unpleasant present. Stiles let free a string of curses as he debated internally between waiting for a turnoff or attempting a u-turn before he wandered any father from civilization.
Another glance at his gauge sent him turning in the center of the empty road, back towards the nearest gas station. Halfway there he prayed fervently to several different gods that his gas tank would miraculously maintain his momentum until he reached his goal.
Right there, in the jeep, praying to gods unknown and untrusted, he pleaded for some sort of divine mercy that never seemed to strike when they really needed it. But still, maybe?
For all that’s holy be nice, really, because Stiles deserved it didn’t he? He saved everybody’s ass before they even asked! He risked his skin and figured out Gerard’s whole bitey plan-thing in time to warn Allison off, even if they didn’t save Mrs. Argent, but hey, he couldn’t fix everything, all right? His mind traipsed off towards justifications all about how he was worthy of claiming supernatural favors.
He hoped to high hell that gas gods would provide, which got him thinking, could dinosaur deities help? Maybe dinosaurs had some sort of faith in some higher power whose essence was possibly imbued into the refined product that powered his jeep?
He was still internally debating dinosaur deities when something caught his eye. Light reflected off of something coiled in the center line of the road. He moved to steer aside just in case, hands clutching the wheel, prepared to swerve around. He could have avoided it, should have avoided it.
Instead, his hands involuntarily twitched, fingers pulling the wheel the wrong way. The jeep veered directly towards the thing in the road. He willfully ignored the obvious involuntary twitch. He lied to himself, chalking it up to inattention, and cringed through the thunder of tires upon something he hoped to god wasn’t flesh.
He didn’t stop to examine the sad wreckage of some brilliantly green slithery thing strewn across the road to slither no longer. He didn’t look back. If he did, he might have noticed the faint cloud of dust rising, leaving nothing but an ugly stain upon the tarmac.
He told himself it was a vine or a pinata and fervently avoided thinking of it as he finished his trek to refill his jeep, still hoping to any god that might be inclined to hear that the tank would last the rest of the way.
Minutes later, tires rolled to stillness within sight of the gas station. The resounding thunk of forehead against steering wheel stopped as a startled Stiles jumped at the sound of his own horn.
“Great. Fucking great.” He debated buying one of those red plastic jugs for gas or pushing his car before he climbed out and braced himself against the back of the jeep. He decided against it. Stiles wasn’t made of money.
So, he’d have to push. Feet scrambled against the surface of the road as the jeep moved, inch by begrudging inch, towards the gas station. He stopped after a while, catching his breath, reviewing his depressing progress.
Stiles started again, grumbling all the way. “Fucking bullshit shift. What kinda werecreature doesn’t even get the super strength without, you know, shifting? No, I’ve got to be the one kind of were that can’t fucking use their bullshit superpowers without turning into a fucking furry. This isn’t fucking fair–I bet none of the wolves would have to break a sweat pushing a damned car.”
He was still grumbling, eyes pointedly focused on the ground, when the jeep lurched forward. Only the utmost effort prevented an ungraceful face-plant right there. He sputtered, looking up, as he registered a new scent alongside the sudden forward movement of the vehicle.
“Derek?”
Derek gave a grunt by way of greeting. Stiles scrambled to help. It took about four steps of pushing, shoulder to shoulder, before Stiles started rambling.
“So. I’m a were-something but Deaton said fuckall else. Do I smell, like, familiar?” He didn’t hear much, just another vague sound from Derek, but even unshifted, Stiles noticed a change in scent. He made a mental note of it. “Wait, have you ever actually, you know. Seen non-wolf weres before?”
“Shifters.”
Stiles blinked. “What?”
“You’re not a were. You’re a shifter.”
"Why, is were derogatory or something?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
Stiles fell silent, then, for all of about half a second. “Your scent. It went weird just then.”
Derek grunted, more a sign of assent than any actual evidence of exertion. Stiles, in the meantime, was making an actual effort while Derek could probably push it halfway there with one good jeep-denting shove.
Stiles continued in the face of Derek’s silence as his scent shifted again. “Wait, it did it again. So what was that?”
“You tell me, Stiles.”
Stiles huffed. “I don’t know, emotions or some shit? It’s not like this whole were–I mean, shifter-senses thing has a user’s manual. Hey you think the sex scent manual would be like, fifty shades of musk or some shit?”
Derek snorted, scent smoothing out.
“Ok, that’s definitely… a thing. Are you doing that intentionally? Because I swear to god you’re doing something to make it noticeable. Are you like manipulating your scent to fuck with me? Because lemme tell you dude it’s working. Great job! Ten out of ten. I have been well and truly fucked with. Congrats! So you can go ahead and cut it out now. Besides, I humiliate myself enough without help.”
The corner of Derek’s mouth quirked up. It was as close to an actual laugh as Stiles could get from the surly alpha and he would take it, gladly. But he noticed, again, a shift in Derek’s scent.
“That’s–You think I’m funny.” Another note shifted. It was strangely pleasant, even if it was part of Derek’s literal body odor. Stiles ignored that fact. “You do, don’t you? Is that humor I smell? Or am I just, like, wildly misreading this whole thing?”
Derek huffed. “Yes, Stiles. You’re fucking hilarious.” The deadpan delivery contradicted the ‘amused’ scent alongside the steady beat of his heart. Stiles paused half a moment, hands briefly losing contact with metal.
“Wait, does sarcasm count as a lie? For the whole werewolf thing?”
Derek shrugged. “Depends on the sarcasm.”
The pleasant note worked its way back into his scent, mingling with what Stiles suspected was amusement. “Ok. So, that’s a thing then, interesting. Huh. How do you tell whether someone’s being honest if they’re like, saying something meant to be sarcastic but actually it’s the truth?”
"Practice." Derek fell silent again as Stiles valiantly provided unnecessary pushing assistance until they rolled the jeep up to a pump. He half expected the alpha to take off. Instead, he paid for gas.
Stiles would have inquired further because free gas? From Derek? That seemed suspicious as fuck.
But hey. Free gas was still free fucking gas. He sure as shit wasn't gonna turn that down, not even from the dude who seemed to have a hate-boner for the entity of the human race, along with most non-human humanoids too.
They stood in a strangely companionable silence. It was odd. Stiles wasn’t used to companionable anything with Derek. His body language usually said 'I’m deeply unhappy, leave me alone. Or else.' but beneath it his general scent gave a very different impression.
Stiles looked over, then, as the gas gauge ticked up. Derek’s eyes trailed along the line of clouds above, and though face seemed as stern and foreboding as ever, his scent didn’t feel angry. Not if his first impression of ‘angry alpha scent’ the night he was bitten was accurate.
His mind slid back to that night. Stiles called Scott first, then Derek when Scott went straight to voicemail. Derek, of all the fucking people in his life, came to his aid. A week ago he would have said Derek was an uncaring asshole with the emotional range less than or equal to that of half of a raisin, but he was a reliable asshole. And that asshole answered Stiles’ frantic midnight call.
He smelled strange, then. Stiles wanted to call it stormy, but the word stormy evoked thoughts of petrichor and ozone. It wasn’t like that. It was very much a bodily scent, but something about the way it filled the car set his skin on edge. At the time, he thought Derek was angry with him but now, he wondered.
Derek glanced over with the slightest lifting of eyebrows. His scent shifted. Stiles grimaced. He couldn’t really guess the dude’s weird scent shifts in the open air of a gas station so instead, he climbed back into the cabin of the jeep and waited.
The passenger door shut behind Derek after he finished refueling.
“What, not gonna run all the way home?”
Derek huffed softly. “I paid.”
His words sounded harsh but a faint tinge of what he thought was amusement filled the cabin. Stiles grinned, he couldn’t help himself. Who knew Derek had a sense of humor? It was a shame about the lack of facial movement, but he liked Stiles’ jokes.
That was more than enough to endear him to anyone, even Derek.
Stiles grin remained, plastered on like clown makeup as they pulled onto the road. “So what was the scent at the gas station?”
“Which one?” Derek didn’t grin, per se, but the scent of amusement tinted the air once more. Stiles huffed.
“The one when I was looking at you.”
“How would you feel in my place?”
Stiles thought about it, then, wondering if Derek could smell his pensiveness. He probably could. “I’d probably be wondering what the fuck the other person was thinking about.”
Derek nodded. Stiles caught that scent again, the one that came through earlier when he thought he got something right.
“What about this one?” Derek added, scent changing once more into something Stiles couldn’t quite parse.
They spent the rest of the ride like that; Derek focusing on some emotion as Stiles tried to guess. Some required a hint. Others, like fond annoyance, he recognized from Scott or his dad over the past couple days. Derek always avoided questions about the one scent he refused to explain afterward.
Stiles noted, with a twang of sadness, that very few of Derek’s scents were strongly positive. The thought caught him unaware in the silence after his most recent guess at what turned out to be the concentrated scent of humiliation. He wondered, idly, about the memories Derek pulled on to broadcast his emotions so clearly.
The engine cut as they parked in front of the decrepit building containing Derek’s loft.
His fingers tapped the steering wheel as he chewed his lip, confused. “So why can’t Scott, like, read emotions and shit? Or your betas? Beyond the arousal thing. I kinda figured he was fucking with me on that but clearly that’s not the case.”
Derek’s scent soured as his brow furrowed. “Teenagers.”
Stiles raised an eyebrow, trying to broadcast ‘what the fuck’ without actually saying it. He got half a lip quirk and a burst of that 'Derek finds this amusing' scent for his troubles.
Derek sighed and clarified. “Human hangups. Body odor…” he trailed off, nose wrinkling in disdain. “They’re teenagers,” he repeated.
“So you could, theoretically, teach them?”
“Yes.”
“But they refuse to, what. Learn how to read people by scent?”
Derek nodded with a sigh. “They don’t want to learn. They grew up with words, but people's scents…” he huffed in frustration. “I can’t make them understand.”
Stiles drummed his fingers along the steering wheel. “I guess that’s why you don’t like words.”
Derek shrugged.
“I didn’t need them. Now I do, but they’re–” his scent broadcast frustration again with an undercurrent of sadness. Beneath it all, the taint of loneliness seeped in. “Complicated. Hard.” Stiles nodded, Derek continued, “They don’t understand how much you can say, how to listen. They’re grossed out. It’s fucking juvenile,” he practically growled.
Stiles laughed. “You bit teenagers, asshole, what the fuck did you expect?”
Derek glowered. “Not this.”
Stiles made a thoughtful noise as they sat, neither making a move. Fingers drummed along the curve of the steering wheel once more. “You really haven’t seen any other were–I mean shifters before?”
Derek shook his head.
“We keep to our own. My mom met with them sometimes. Rarely. Our pack wouldn’t hurt them, but most shifters avoid wolf packs.” His scent bled nervous regret. “We have a bad reputation.”
Stiles pursed his lips. “Do most shifters have, like, violent times and shit like the full moon crap with you guys?”
Derek shook his head. “Depends on the shifter, but not necessarily, no.” He eyed Stiles cautiously, scent tilting into a curiosity of a slightly different shade than at the gas pump. “What do you look like?”
Stiles’ face contorted into a grimace. “No, dude, it’s gross. You don’t wanna see my shift, trust me. Just, pretend I’m still squishy human Stiles with a slight improvement to the whole sensory experience and we can move on with our day. I can still do the mountain ash thing too. So I’m still Stiles.”
Derek snorted. “Of course you’re still Stiles.”
Stiles scoffed. “And Scott’s the same loyal reliable dude I grew up with, right. Don’t pretend this doesn’t change anything.”
Derek scoffed this time. “Scott’s the same pig-headed stubborn moralist you grew up with. The bite didn’t change him, it amplified the parts of him you don’t like.”
Stiles grumbled at that, because he was right, mostly. “That still doesn’t explain how much of a dick he was on his first full moon.”
Derek shrugged. “The full moon can bring out the worst of us, but it’s still us. “
“Aside from the violence,” Stiles added.
Derek made a noncommittal noise, Stiles glared, incredulous. “Mostly,” Derek admitted.
He left it at that, still pondering over Derek’s words about what the fuck being a shifter meant. He peered over. “You’re not gonna ask me to show you, are you?”
An eyebrow crept up like the undulation of an earthquake along the fault lines of Derek’s face. “Do you want me to?”
Stiles scowled again. “You’d definitely make fun of me.”
Derek’s scent took on a decidedly unhappy tone. Stiles looked over, unsure how to respond as Derek continued. “It’s still you, Stiles. I don’t give a fuck what your shift looks like.” Stiles deflated before Derek tacked on, “But, I would like to see it. If you’re ok with that.”
He sighed. Scott thought he was a fucking weasel. Couldn’t get much worse than that, right? “Just, like. Promise me you won’t make any shitty comments about rats or weasels?”
Derek nodded. Stiles closed his eyes, trying his damndest not to think of how badly he’d regret this, and let himself slide into his shift. For just a moment his eyes met Derek’s. Derek’s scent, warm and appreciative, enveloped him in the comfort of the jeep.
A moment later, his eyes dilated as his clawed hand shot out, ripping the door open in his quest for the source of a scent that accosted his nostrils. The scent screamed at him, a howling quaking thing enveloping his soul, yearning and gnashing in a primal cry for bloody deadly destruction to protect hearth and kin.