SKIN ON SKIN

by Rabid1st
TeenWolf – Sterek
Rating: Mature
Beta Babes: MIA for this one.
Spoilers: Set in theoretical S4, some implications through S3a
Summary: When Derek is sprayed by a wereskunk only Stiles can help him. Established Stiles/Lydia relationship. Established Derek/Stiles friendship.
Disclaimer: Teen Wolf and all of the characters belong to someone else, MTV or Jeff Davis or assorted parent companies. I write this for the amusement of myself and other fans of the show and expect no compensation beyond fandom feels.

Stiles nearly jumped out of his skin when the steel door slammed behind him. One of the two buckets he toted splashed V-8 across his sneakers, soaking them through. Great. Just wonderful. He sat the buckets down and glanced around, but couldn't see much in the windowless gloom. As he waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim light, he tried to steady his heartbeat. His pulse felt erratic. A long low growl to his left put an end to his attempts to relax.

"I must be out of my damned mind," Stiles said into his blue tooth ear piece. "Scott, you should have talked me out of this. Why didn't you talk me out of this?"

"Because you were right. You are the only one he trusts, besides me," Scott said.

"And you can't get close to him right now, yeah, yeah, but, for the record, this is the worst Plan B we've ever had."

"Just don't die, okay?"

"Sure, okay."

"He's about a dozen yards to your left. Taser him if he charges."

Taser him? Right. Except Stiles had left the cattle prod with Allison. Because there was no way he would have been coordinated enough to use it on Derek. And, also, there was a reason Derek trusted him, now. Trust had developed when they'd stop hurting one another. He could hear Allison breaking the news to Scott. Stiles muted the blue tooth, before Scott started yelling at him, and tried to take a deep breath. His lungs weren't working well.

The room reeked of musk and urine, mold and rat droppings and something sharply acidic. Stiles wiped at his streaming eyes. The wereskunk spray did have some effect on humans. Though nothing like it had on other weres. He couldn't stop shaking. Something skittered in the dim recesses of the space. Rats abandoning ship, perhaps. A death squeal made Stiles bleat on his inhale, like a sheep, like a lamb staked out for slaughter. Panic closed his throat around a jagged ball of ice. He was going to die, at the hands of a friend, while wearing an old bathrobe over his clothes and standing in tomato-flavored shoes. He saw the beast approaching, belly low to the ground, and pawed frantically behind him for the door knob.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck," he panted.

So many teeth. They were going to slice through him, rip out his throat and devour his liver. Worse, there was nothing he could say or do to stop it. Derek might know him when he tasted blood, but by then it would be far too late. Stiles shivered, focusing on those blue eyes glowing in the dark. They reflected the ambient light as Derek crept closer. But he couldn't see Stiles or hear him or smell him. He'd been robbed of his senses by a Zhigaagwa, a sort of wereskunk. The nasty beast had delivered a direct hit with its neurotoxic spray, coating Derek's skin and clothing. The only cure was time and a tomato juice bath. Stiles edged sideways, hoping to avoid the first blind rush. To his amazement, Derek turned his head slowly, following Stiles' easily. He couldn't see, but he could feel the vibrations, sense his prey. The realization gave Stiles a glimmer of an idea. He stomped his foot three times in quick succession.

Derek snarled and prepared to leap. Stiles stomped again, once, a petulant negative, like an angry toddler.

"No," he said, loud enough to echo. Derek flinched as the sound bounced around the small space. His low growl seemed confused, tentative. "Too bad I don't know Morse code," Stiles said, giving the floor three taps again. "This means good dog."

Recalling a scene from Roger Rabbit, he tapped out a quick run of "Shave and a haircut, two bits." Derek dropped to the floor and Stiles realized he was listening with his skin, like Helen Keller. Did his teeth look less pointed? Stiles bent his knees so he could reach down and knock out the riff with his knuckles. He played the tune one more time, stopping before the "two bits" part. Derek tilted his head and then smacked the floor twice. Stiles tapped back twice. Communication. Hallelujah.

"Oh, you clever wolf, you," Stiles crowed. He rose and shot forward a few steps. Derek yelped and scurried back, snapping at the air. Stiles stopped so suddenly he stood up on his toes. He gave the bad dog stomp. Derek roared at him. "Okay, still not getting the message across. You need to come closer. Closer."

Stiles gave the floor two raps from his heel and then backed up a few steps. He stooped to give the shave and haircut knock again. Derek knocked twice, slinking forward. Slowly they edged toward the buckets. Soon they were only a foot away from one another, tapping the floor lightly with their hands. Their own private rhythm section. Stiles tried not to think about how close those teeth were to his throat and how little running room he had left. If Derek's mood changed again, he would be on top of Stiles in a single spring.

But he seemed content now, waiting for further developments. Content, but hardly complacent. He refused to move close enough to grab. And grabbing, Stiles realized, would probably be deadly. The most dangerous part of this was coming up, Stiles still had to get Derek out of his clothes and bathed. He reached toward him, letting his hand hover over Derek's fingers, warming the air between them. They were both trembling. Every instinct screamed at Stiles to avoid touching. He knew Derek could be brutally fast. He might snap off the hand before Stiles could withdraw it. Stiles simply wasn't quick enough to avoid injury. They were at an impasse.

"Okay, buddy, I know this might be a little weird for you," Stiles said, talking it out even though Derek couldn't hear him. "But, Deaton said you could still taste things, like my blood. Only blood might make you frantic. Or hungry. So, I think...being French...is our best chance for peaceful resolution. Or, you know, quick death. Please don't take this the wrong way."

Heart pounding loud enough for werewolves outside to sense it, Stiles inched forward until he was breathing straight into Derek's face. Derek jerked as if he'd been slapped, but didn't bite or jump away. His tiny pupils tried to widen, focus. He had eyebrows again. And his teeth definitely looked less pointy now. Stiles silently counted to three, as he tipped his head, angling his mouth until he could slot it into Derek's for the perfect first kiss. Nobody, not even the grumpiest werewolf on earth, could mistake a chaste kiss for an attack.

It worked. Like the frog prince kiss had worked. As soon as their lips met, Derek became fully human. He made a whimpering noise that shot through Stiles at his groin. Derek's hands rose with a flutter. They caught Stiles around the head, bracketing his face as Derek plunged into the kiss. They fell back against the door in a tangle of limbs. Stiles sat down hard and nearly swallowed his tongue and Derek's, because that wasn't the reaction he'd been expecting at all. Derek drained him like a man gulping ice water on a hot day. His hands were everywhere, clutching Stiles closer, tugging through his hair, stroking his face. He broke the kiss to rub their cheeks together and nuzzled his way to an ear.

"Stiles?" he said, laughing as he snuggled closer. "Stiles." A rush of words, probably more than he'd ever spoken at one time escaped him. "I knew it. I knew it was you. Shave and a haircut, who does that? You."

Stiles petted him, shushed him. But Derek couldn't seem to stop talking. "It was a Zhigaagwa. I took a hit. Can't see. Can't hear. I can't smell you. I want to smell you. Know you. Your skin. Your mouth. I can feel your heart pounding. I thought every one was gone and I was locked in here. God, I was fucking terrified. And I should stop touching you, right? Sorry. Sorry."

Nodding his head, Stiles enjoyed the sensation of Derek's beard prickling his skin. The rough texture made him instantly hard. What the hell was going on? Stiles got another full body embrace and, God, an earlobe suckle for his trouble. So much for restraint. Derek had as much self-control as a puppy drunk on rum balls. He found one of Stiles' hands and drew it to his mouth. He nuzzled it. Then, licked the palm, before taking in two fingers, running his tongue between them. Stiles hissed. The muscles along his side and back clenched, making him rock forward into Derek. The squirming registered for Derek and it wasn't like he couldn't read the body language. More than that he seemed to like it. His free hand, fingers splayed wide, skated up Stiles' torso. And now Stiles was getting so hard he couldn't breath and there was no way Derek would stop in the face of that. He cuddled between Stiles' spread legs, grabbing one knee and pulling it up along his hip.

"Hokay," Stiles said on a shaky breath, pushing at Derek's shoulder. "This isn't what we should be doing. You are not a well wolf and I'm here to give you a bath...only maybe not. Maybe naked Derek is...too much, because I'm with Lydia now and...oh, my God," Stiles slammed his head into the door as Derek found a nipple and stroked it. "Do not do that again." He delivered a sound smack to the side of Derek's head. "We are on fucking infrared right now." That thought made him toggle on his blue tooth again, just in time to hear Scott panicking.

"Stiles? Stiles? He's right on top of you. Answer me."

"No. Here. Good We're good. He's...he's subdued," Stiles said. Derek was doing his level best to burrow through him. The robe confounded him. "Could you maybe turn off the monitors now?"

"Stiles! Thank god! What? Why?"

"Because...he needs a bath, Scott. Privacy? In fact, everyone can just go home. I'm sure we can manage."

"You're underneath him," Allison said.

"It's a surprisingly dominate position. Trust me."

"We aren't leaving, until you are both safe."

Stiles growled. "Great. I'll talk to you in a few minutes," he said, muting again.

He used a fingertip to draw a large D on Derek's shoulder. "D?" Derek said. Stiles drew a "Y."

"D.Y.? Do it yourself?"

Stiles laughed, jiggling both of them. He brought Derek's hand to his face and let him feel the head shake as he traced the letter N.

"No," Derek said, getting it. He trailed a fingertip down Stiles cheek, making a lazy S. "S is for Stiles. Y is for yes. N is for no. D is for...Derek?"

Stiles nodded and Derek gave him a quick peck on the lips. It morphed into sliding tongues and greedy fingers and Stiles understood that he was Derek's life line now. All he had was touch and taste. The isolation magnified his remaining senses, lending them profound impact. The touching, the kissing, the speaking connected him to something. Sign language had its limits. But Derek obviously wanted more of what he had to work with. So...why not give him what he craved? Stiles curled his fingers under the hem of Derek's shirt and started dragging it up his body. Talk about mixed signals. That had to send a few. Derek reared back, his stomach sensitive to an unfamiliar touch. Then, to Stiles amazement, he stood and began undressing, casting his noxious clothing into the center of the room. Finally. But Stiles knew they were not communicating. He was about to seriously disappoint his friend, but they couldn't carry through on what Derek was planning.

"I'm sorry about this, Derek," Stiles said, shrugging out of the robe and hanging it on the door knob. "But you are not in your right mind."

As soon as Derek was naked, he put his hand out, questing, needing contact. And Stiles, feeling like a complete heel, dumped the full bucket of tomato juice over his head. Derek shrank into himself, snarling as he crouched. But Stiles simply avoided his claws as he moved in and started scrubbing. He didn't think about the body under his sponge, how strongly it reacted to light, uneven strokes. He focused only on cleaning every inch of skin. Derek yelped and shivered and swatted at him, but he didn't turn violent or shove away. Stiles could tell he understood the need for this, even if, to judge by his wriggling, it had the same effect as endless tickling on his psyche. Every few minutes, Derek wrenched back, panting. And Stiles gave him space. They danced around one another, Stiles' fingers sliding everywhere, losing purchase on wet skin. He stumbled when they bumped together, again, and dropped the sponge. Derek, sensing him vulnerable, pounced as he stooped to retrieve it. He wrestled Stiles back to the wall, tore away the collar of his shirt and licked the exposed skin.

"Stop teasing. Let me taste you. Let me suck you off. Come on. Payback, Stiles. You want it. I can tell."

"Holy mother of god! Stop. Just Stop!" Stiles squeaked, even as his treacherous body demanded he give in to the whole idea of sucking. He could almost feel it, the wet heat engulfing him. Derek on his knees, hands and mouth craving more. The image shocked his muscles, made him writhe. Jesus. Jesus. He could just stop fighting it and who would blame him? "No. This isn't about sex. No. No." Derek felt him stiffen. After one more long, slow kiss, he set Stiles free. "Why didn't I know this about you?" Stiles said. "We could have..." He shook the notion out of his head. "No, we really wouldn't have. This isn't you. It's like you're drunk. Or drugged. Lonely."

Empty, he thought. That was it. Desperately empty. Nothing coming in, everything spilling out. Stiles pressed his knuckles against his teeth as he dragged a hand over his mouth, wiping away the taste of something too sweet to contemplate. He thought he might cry, because this was so unfair to both of them. He never should have come into this room. Never should have opened the floodgates with that kiss. He bit down hard on his lip to avoid blubbering. But his hands shook so much he could barely hold the sponge as he returned to his task. Derek responded to the change in his mood, sensing it somehow. He pressed both palms into the door, fingers sampling the rusty surface as he stood relatively still. Stiles gave him a comforting pat, thankful he'd settled. They continued the de-skunking. Once he was satisfied that the juice had permeated every nook and cranny, Stiles tugged Derek's wrist until he responded. He led him to the water bucket and encouraged him to dip in his fingers. With a little guidance, Derek managed to put sponge and water to work cleaning away the sticky mess of juice and toxins on his skin. Stiles created a little breathing room between them.

Derek tracked his movements, found him easily. Stiles saw him take a deep breath. He coughed, pawing at his nose. Stile started to relax. But his sense of relief was premature. Derek lunged sideways and seized him, dragging him close enough to sniff. "I can smell you," he said, sounding delighted. "You and this stinking room. You smell great. Tomatoes and rosemary and ham and swiss cheese. Hawthorn and Cheer laundry detergent and deodorant and pretzels." He paused to inhale deeply again, before adding, "And you're horny."

Stiles drew an F and a U on Derek's bare arm. "Lucky guess," he said.

"We could," Derek said softly. "Why not?"

Stiles dropped his forehead into Derek's shoulder, fingers gripping him tight. That was such a loaded question. If all there was in the world was this room, each other, basic animal instinct he would happily succumb. Of course, he wanted to give in to his desires. But tomorrow or the next day, Derek would be back to his old self and then what? Stolen glances? Awkward silences? Would they be friends with benefits or something more intense? Derek's intensity almost overwhelmed him. Would that change?

"You want to because you can't see my face," Stiles said. "Because you feel lost in there, alone in the dark. So you can't stop saying everything you think. But you are going to be okay. And then, we will see if you really want to, only we won't because I'm with Lydia, now."

Derek pushed Stiles to arm's length. He lifted a hand and gently ran his fingers over Stiles' face, tracing the bow of his lips. "I can't hear you," he said, enunciating for sarcastic effect, as if speaking over a failing phone connection.

Stiles smacked him again. Then, he found his hand. Placing it palm down against his cheek, he shook his head firmly. Derek gave an equally emphatic nod. Speaking into his palm, Stiles said, "No!" and added a stomp. "Bad."

Derek sighed, withdrawing his hand. He looked crestfallen. Rejected. Stiles could see him shutting down, sliding deeper into himself, becoming a more familiar animal. Caged, Stiles realized and he couldn't duck a pang of sympathy. He patted Derek again, then stepped away, moving back to the door. Derek didn't panic this time. Didn't seem to track him. Because he was Derek Hale and he didn't freak or babble or kiss Stiles with complete abandon. Stiles took the robe off the door knob, and guided Derek arms into the sleeves. As Stiles belted it closed, Derek sniffed his new garment.

"It smells like your jeep. And Isaac. You keep a robe in your jeep?"

"4 U" Stiles wrote on his chest.

"Like a gift?" Derek asked. "A stinky, Isaac wore it first, gift? You shouldn't have."

"God," Stiles laughed, writing a series of Ns across his back. "You are driving me crazy, with the talking. And I don't want you to stop. Ever. But try to avoid making out with me on the way home, okay? I don't want to explain this to anyone. Because...because I can't. This...its only for us."

He wrote that on Derek, too. "4 D. S."

"Derek and Stiles," Derek said, nodding once. "Us. A stinky robe in a stinky room. Too much tongue. Our dirty little secret?"

"F U," Stiles wrote again.

Derek, looped an arm around his neck, and whispered, "You are only encouraging me."