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“Stiles, I need you to—Jesus!”
Stiles spins around in his chair just in time to see Derek vault back out the window almost as quickly as he’d come through.
“What is that smell?” Derek says nasally. He’s perched on the ledge of the window, one hand holding onto the sill for balance, the other pinched tightly over his nose.
“What? Oh you mean the candle?” Stiles waves a hand toward an innocuous glass jar sitting on the corner of his desk. Inside the jar, a small flame flickers merrily in an expanding pool of pale blue wax.
“It’s ‘bayberry’.”
“It’s revolting.”
“It’s for my dad. His new doctor suggested aromatherapy to lower his blood pressure.” Stiles shrugs, “I figure, it’s not like I don’t have enough stress in my life too, so why not try it. I mean, the internet said that scientifically, cinnamon-apple is best, which is weird but it made me sneeze so I decided that… ”
Stiles stops talking and tenses instinctively. Usually, more than nine point two seconds of rambling equals Derek being growly and intimidating and throwing Stiles into something to shut him up—walls, tables, once it was actually Stiles’ bed which…is not something Stiles thinks about ever. Especially not when he’s alone, like in the shower. No, sir.
So it’s not Stiles' fault that he freezes, waiting for Snarly McGrabbyhands to get his menace on. After a minute he opens his eyes. Derek is still just crouching in the window, although now he’s looking pained and shit, almost green.
“Dude! If you are going to puke, take it outside! I am not scrubbing were-vom out of my carpet!”
“Find out about merrows,” Derek grits out between his molars and then he’s gone—off into the night, like a badass. Like a very nauseous badass who can’t handle a little Yankee Candle.
And holy crap, is bayberry the werewolf equivalent of citronella? Stiles picks the jar up carefully and reads the label. Nope, nothing about repelling werewolves, vampires, or other creatures of the night. Still, this is the kind of useful information that should be in the bestiary.
Stiles suspicions are confirmed when Scott greets him at school the next day with, “Dude. You reek.”
“Thanks, man.”
“No seriously,” Scott continues, “like, my eyes are watering here. Hey, look do you mind if I swap seats in chemistry today? Allison’s lab partner’s got mono and I mean, you’re kind of making me sick anyway?”
Stiles reminds himself that Scott purposefully caught chicken pox too when he was five just so Stiles wouldn’t be itchy alone.
“Yeah, go ahead.”
Scott beams, “Thanks man, you’re the best! Oh, which reminds me, I’m going over to Allison’s afterschool today…”
Stiles just nods and tunes him out. On the plus side, he’s learned that the bayberry is a werewolf thing. Besides, it’s not like it’s costing him hanging-out time with his best friend anyway, that’s already taken care of.
Stiles isn’t jealous. Much.
Stiles leaves his window open that night. Around 11:30 pm he gets a text instead.
Not merrows. Try selkies. D
Stiles lasts about a week. It’s just, the whole smell thing gives Scott a perfect excuse to beg off their “bros time” to go woo Allison back. And basically everyone else willing to speak to Stiles is a werewolf too, so it’s not like he can just make Boyd be his new BFF.
And it’s not just Scott. He just, he never actually realized how much time he and Derek had actually been spending together. Between the researching, threats, and digging up of things of questionable origin in questionable places, Stiles realizes he’d been spending most of his nights with Derek. Which is not the way he meant to phrase that in his head.
The texts are still coming daily but it’s not the same. Not that Stiles misses the whole Rawr-I’m-the-alpha-fear-me-puny-mortal routine, but maybe it hadn’t been all that bad?
But it’s for his dad. And Stiles will do pretty much anything for his dad. So Stiles puts his man-pants on and deals with it. He stops lighting the candle in his own room, but apparently the rest of the house is enough. It’s not like it was doing anything for Stiles’ stress levels anyway. If anything, they’ve only gotten worse.
“Goddammit!”
Stiles runs into the kitchen to see his dad spitting leftover pizza into the sink.
“Ok, no. This is enough!” Stiles’ dad shouts as he reaches for a paper towel to scrape off his tongue. “I know you want me to be try all these hippy natural approaches to this, Stiles, but no. Enough is enough. I was okay with the guys at station teasing me, and I was okay with that crazy lady at the store telling me how these would balance my chi…”
He waves the partially eaten slice at Stiles, “But a man’s leftovers have no business tasting like potpourri!” He throws the slice violently into the kitchen trash, then blows out the candle that had been sitting next to the toaster and throws it in too.
“Grab a mop and grab some beans. We’re not stopping until this house smells like sweat socks and chili.”
Stiles leaves his window open again that night. He only hears the soft rustling of leather and denim because he was listening for it.
“I think it was a naiad,” he says without looking up from his laptop.
“Mm,” he hears from directly behind him, then a long inhale just behind his ear.
“Better?” Stiles asks, trying to keep from grinning.
“Much better,” agrees Derek. He presses his mouth against the back of Stiles’ neck and breathes in again.
Stiles stops fighting the grin. He’s sure he’ll find another way to relieve stress. Somehow.