"Her hair smells like coconut and like, hotness," Scott says dreamily, and Stiles considers throwing himself off the table. It wouldn't hurt him, but it might demonstrate to Scott how little he cares about the current conversation. "Not like physical hotness," Scott continues, and drags the rake through Stiles' coat. He pulls off the loose tufts of fur from the serrated edge with his fingers, and pats Stiles' chest once. "Like when I go to school and you sleep in the sun on the wood floor."
Stiles wags his tail. He loves the hardwood floor, warmth seeped straight through to his bones. Scott shakes his fingers and Stiles chases a few of his hairs, shining light brown in the dusky evening light. He snaps one last time, raised up on his hind legs, and roos threateningly at them as they float out of reach.
"Good job bud," Scott says cheerfully, and rubs between his ears. "who's going to protect the house? Who?"
Stiles pulls his lip up and feels his growl rumble through his throat. Scott kisses his muzzle, cooing, and Stiles trots beside him as they enter the house, his tail waving.
Melissa is dishing out meat into taco shells at the dining table, and Stiles goes to greet her like he was shot out of a cannon, his nails scrabbling on the floor. "NO," Melissa yelps, turning her body to brace herself against the table as Stiles hits her legs in an exuberant dance of joy upon seeing her again.
"I missed you," Stiles says, "I thought you were never coming back I missed you all day I chased two birds and one squirrel and didn't let any strangers in the house not a single one, not even one close to the house."
"I wish you would leave him outside for dinner," Melissa shouts over Stiles' cacophony of yowls and yips.
"It's cute," Scott says back, throwing a piece of taco shell to the side. Stiles chases it, quieted by the salty crunch between his teeth. "He just talks a lot, that's all."
"There's something wrong with that animal," Melissa says darkly, and shoves Stiles away from where he's leaning his head on her leg dolefully. Stiles goes to lie under Scott's chair, positioned to see if anything falls from the table. He licks Scotts ankle, takes a nap, and gets to lick the meat seasoning from Scott's fingers.
"Sorry boy," Scott says apologetically, the same way he does every night, "it's the rules." He shuts the bedroom door in his face. Stiles whines, his nose pressed to the crack under the door, and circles once in the hallway before walking over to his bed, a big lumpy blue thing made of memory foam Scott hauled home and stuffed into a sack he'd sewn out of old pillowcases. Stiles sniffs it, uninterested, and walks over it to door at the very end of the hallway, open a crack. He noses at it and pads on the soft bedroom carpet.
It's the work of a second to leap onto the bed, and he's so careful it's the bed hardly moves. He curls against the warm body and chuffs softly. "Stupid dog," Melissa mumbles, and falls asleep with her nose pressed into his ruff.
/
Stiles knows something is wrong when Scott is late coming home. He whines at the back door until Melissa comes home and doesn't touch his kibble, lying on the bristly rug in front of the door and listening as hard as he can for the squeak of Scott's bicycle. He looks so miserable Melissa throws him sliced chunks of cheese from where's she's watching Criminal Minds.
She has to pause the show when Scott comes home because Stiles starts making noise when he's still a quarter mile away and doesn't stop until Scott's key is in the lock, dancing on all fours in front of the door and howling so loud he doesn't even smell who's with Scott until the door cracks a bit and he sees a sliver of Scott's face.
"Stiles," he says in a measured voice, and then he smiles, too big and fake. Stiles backs up, uneasy. "I brought you a friend!" He says brightly.
From behind the door comes a deep, rumbling growl, one that makes Stiles go stiff legged, a stripe straight down his back going up. He pins his ears back against his head.
"No," Melissa says in a voice of dawning horror.
/
Stiles hates the new dog. He hates everything about him, from his stupid blue eyes to the way he sheds silky black fur. Stiles has boring brown eyes and coarse brown fur, except for when it becomes soft and velvety on his head and ears. He especially hates how he's maybe three times as big as Stiles is, a hulking black wolflike figure with bleached white fangs. And the new dog hates him back just as much, flattens him with a shove to his side and teeth at his throat.
He knocks over Stiles' water bowl and Scott scolds Stiles for it, until his tail is tucked up under him and he's fighting the urge to just roll over and present Scott with the white strip down his belly. When Stiles tries to lie under Scott's chair Derek takes the fluffy tip off his tail, which scares the beejuzes out of him, but has the positive effect of Melissa ripping into Scott about not doing right by Stiles, and Scott feels so guilty he takes Stiles out in the jeep with the with the windows all cranked. They go down to the river and Stiles splashes in the mud up to his elbows.
"I know it's hard," Scott tells him, rubbing the towel over Stiles' face. He pokes him in the nose playfully and Stiles licks his face. "But he was going to be put down because he was so growly, you know, and Allison said-"
Stiles lifts his leg and pees on Scott's shoes.
/
New Dog gets to stay inside during the day, and Stiles usually dozes in the tiny strip of their back lawn. Sometimes the sheriff leans over the short fence between their yards and feeds him turkey bacon.
Stiles is dreaming of chasing a rabbit under the full moon, running across a pine needle floor, his claws digging into roots, when he hears the man open his back door. He perks his ears up and half rises, crouched low. The man smells like the chemicals, and dirt, and blood. He's holding a baseball bat, but not like the wooden one Melissa keeps under the bed. It's metal, and it clangs when he bangs it against the fence.
"Just leave it, mutt," he says, and edges towards the window that leads to Melissa's window. Stiles hesitates, then sets himself, his back claws digging into the dirt. He gives his best, most dangerous growl, and launches himself at the man's throat.
/
The Sheriff finds him, lying in broken glass. "Scott says your name is Derek," he says, and Stiles tries to roll his head to see New Dog's face.
"Derek?" he asks, confused, and the big black dog licks gently at his muzzle, before showing his teeth to the Sheriff, who's leaning over the man who hit Stiles with the bat. He's lying in a bloody mess where Derek left him, amid the shards of what used to be the sliding back door. "It hurts," Stiles whines, and Derek snuffs at Stiles' ribs, where it hurts the most, and pulls a piece of glass from Stiles' paw with his teeth. "The Sheriff is nice," Stiles whimpers, "I'm named for him."
Derek stays silent, but he lowers his lip, lets his ears rise up. When the Sheriff creeps over, step by step, he helps him left Stiles up, nosing at Stiles' hip, and he climbs in the back of the Sheriff's car to lie down while they drive to the vet.
"We've got to stop meeting like this," the Sheriff says, carefully carrying him from the car inside. Scott runs up to them, shouting, his eyes brimming over. "I knew I did the right thing taking you to Melissa and her boy."
"Good dog," Scott says, crying, and pokes Stiles with something sharp that makes him sleepy. "You're such a good boy."
/
The first day Stiles is allowed back into the yard by himself he limps around, eagerly sniffing all his favourite spots while Melissa hovers aggressively. She finally leaves for work, not before pressing his muzzle and ears with kisses, effusively praising him and feeding him little treats from her pockets.
Derek is lying down on the patio in the shade, where it's cool from the bricks and nice from the slants of sun that come through the leaves. Stiles makes his way over and flops against his flank, poking his sharp nose into Derek's ribs. He grunts and snaps his teeth, but Stiles ignores him to stretch out on the patio, extending his nails all the way and sighing.
"You never rolled over," Derek says, and his voice is different than Stiles thought it would be, low and gravely but also just the littlest bit affectionate. "I could kill you easily and you just wouldn't even roll over."
"I'm annoying like that," Stiles says, and lets his eyes close. Derek curls around him, protectively grumpy, and licks his ear.
/
"Stupid dogs," Melissa mumbles, and falls asleep with her nose pressed into Stiles' ruff and her feet tucked under Derek's bulk.