Stiles has a nasty habit of breaking razors. He doesn't mean to, he definitely doesn't, but it happens all the same. And now Stiles has to use Derek's razor, which, just no. The thing is filthy. He runs it under the water and tries not to look at it. The last time he paid attention to Derek's razor he was compelled to clean it, which meant picking out skin. With werewolf healing Derek's never learned to be careful, not really, not with himself. No one around to teach him how, not when he really needed it, when his hair was getting thick. Stiles thinks about the picture he saw in that old beaten up yearbook, how young Derek looked. How clean faced and smooth. Didn't need to shave, he bets, not really. Not for real. And then nothing, his sister there but no men. No father.
The damn thing makes Stiles anxious and a little bit afraid. He knows it's stupid. Toiletries shouldn't give him anxiety, not with selkies and witches and werewolves in his life. He should be way beyond bathroom related drama by now.
But he's not. It's Derek. Derek and his lonely soap and his razor full of flesh. It's the hair gel shyly stored in the closet, their closet and sometimes he looks at it all and he can't breathe. He knows it's dumb. It's dumb, dumb, dumb. Their apartment is nice, but their bathroom is sad. The same way the run down ruins of the Hale house are. He jokes, sometimes, to himself, about bathroom ghosts. Toilet poltergeists. And he shouldn't. Not just because it's insensitive and stupid, but because it's something that would really happen to them, and he should know better than to tempt fate.
Stiles never runs a bath. Can't stand to be there that long. Not that he would have the patience for a bath anywhere else. So he stands under the showerhead looking nowhere at all, running away from ghosts.
Derek isn't troubled. Well, no, clearly Derek is completely troubled, but at least not by bathroom ponderings. No omens in the toilet bowl, no cold spots near the sink. Loves to barge in on Stiles actually, despite Stiles' squawks. He just smirks and smirks.
So Stiles keeps it to himself. It's not that big of a deal. And if he makes sure to relieve himself at work before heading home - well, who's to know?
But there are good memories here too. Not enough when he's alone, maybe, but they're there. Making more every day. Derek crowding Stiles while he brushes his teeth, hands low on his hips and his breath enough to knock him flat. The first time Derek squats down on the toilet while Stiles is taking a shower, flailing in outrage. The little smirks. The times they shower together, slipping and sliding together like comfortable snakes. The smell of Derek's shampoo, the little v on Derek's forehead as he gels his hair into place. So yeah.
He's being taken hostage by his own bathroom. But it's getting better.
It's getting better every day.