leather jackets.
/
It starts with a leather jacket.
Stiles isn't stupid. He knows how Derek's recruiting process works. It starts with the afternoon meetings, within which Stiles is sure that Derek's giving whomever it is gymnastics lessons in his loft. Within days, there's another teenager with fangs and a leather jacket and a penchant for smugly back-flipping into arguments walking the halls of Beacon Hills High.
And really, Stiles should've seen it coming. Of course Derek would go for Scott, and of course Scott and his recent come-werewolf-brethren attitude would comply and have armfuls of beta besties in no time. But Stiles had trusted Scott—been completely convinced, in fact, that Scott would be too caught up in school and working at the clinic to even think about joining the band of werewolf misfits. But there he is, standing at the end of the hallway and talking to Isaac. He's wearing the same stupid leather jacket that he'd been wearing when he scaled the side of the Stilinski house last night to cancel his and Stiles's plans through the open window.
Stiles isn't jealous. He's not. He would just maybe like a little attention coming from somewhere other than his father's accusations of hiding all the "good food" in the house. (Which he hadn't, technically. And it's not like little, old Jeanine from next door was going to refuse free ice cream.)
The point is, Stiles is really sick of werewolves, and he thinks he's a little entitled to his self-pity.
Lydia, as it oh-so-surprisingly turns out, doesn't agree.
"Have you mentioned it to him, or are you just going to wallow forever?" she snipes.
Stiles goes to respond, fully prepared to launch into an explanation of just why he can't mention it, when Scott walks toward them, and he feels compelled to close his mouth so fast that his teeth clack.
"Stiles, hey! About Friday…" Scott is trying to smile innocently, but he only ends up looking kind of guilty.
And Stiles…Stiles knows where this is going. Lydia clearly does too if the pointed look she's giving him is any indication.
"I kind of got tied up in something," Scott says, soft and apologetic.
Stiles shifts his jaw, trying really hard not to look upset. He doesn't want to be that guy, even with Lydia giving him a look that tells him he'll hear about it later if he doesn't protest. He stays silent anyway.
"Derek's got this thing, and I guess I sort of have to be there?" Scott rubs the back of his neck. "I mean, you've got every right to be angry or something, but can we maybe do our bro-time on Saturday?"
"Stiles is mine on Saturday," Lydia says. She cocks her head to the side, faux-thoughtful and more than a little patronizing. "Just like he always is, lately. You wouldn't know that, though, would you?"
"What does that mean?"
Lydia pushes Stiles's locker shut, flips her hair over one shoulder. "If you have to ask…" she begins, but leaves it there. "Let's go, Stiles."
Even with the vice-grip of Lydia's spa-softened hand clamped over his wrist, Stiles gives Scott a bro-nod—albeit a weak one—because he may be an asshole, but even he has trouble resisting the lost puppy look on Scott's face.
"See you, Scotty," he calls generously.
"I said we're leaving," Lydia insists. "Which means walk."
/
A year ago, seeing Lydia Martin in his bedroom probably would've made Stiles way more excited that he currently is. Now, he feels nothing more than vaguely fond irritation because he knows what that look on her face means.
"Just out of curiosity," she drawls, tapping the end of a highlighter against her notes, "how long have you been in love with Scott?"
Stiles chokes and then studiously pretends that he didn't hear her.
"Subtlety isn't exactly your strong suit, Stilinski. Spill."
He sighs. "I don't know." That's true, at least. He really doesn't know. He supposes it was either shortly before the bite, or it could've been sometime amid the kanima-hunting and other supernatural destruction. "Doesn't matter now anyway," he continues. "He's got other priorities."
"You're an idiot."
"Thanks."
"Scott hasn't forgotten about you. He just needs to be reminded."
"What're you planning?" Stiles is suspicious, and rightfully so, he thinks. Nobody wants to be on a Martin's bad side.
"Noting you need to worry about."
Stiles thinks about arguing, thinks about trying to use sarcasm until the entire conversation is forgotten. He doesn't, though. Doesn't do it because he doesn't want to—it's that easy.
"Just go easy. Scott's my numero uno bro. I don't want to fuck that up just because he has nice eyes."
"Oh, Stiles," Lydia says, just a touch condescending. And she even has the audacity to laugh.
/
The class is mostly full by the time Stiles stumbles into his first period. He sits down—or spills into his seat, really—and tries not to acknowledge the near-constant buzzing of his phone in his pocket.
He pulls it out in the few spare minutes before class really starts, if only to silence the thing or turn it off altogether. It's only natural to read the latest line of messages from Scott.
6:47—why is lydia on my doorstep?
6:48—stiles?
7:22—what just happened?
7:22—?
7:23—i'm gonna keep texting until you answer me
7:26—why is she mad at me?
7:30—are you mad at me and she's mad because youre mad?
7:32—i don't know what i did but i'm sorry
7:33—are you alive?
7:35—stiles answer me
7:40—…please?
Stiles presses his lips together, puts the phone on silent, and shoves it back into his pocket. He doesn't want to deal with this. He shouldn't have to either. And if Isaac is judging him from across the English classroom, well…Stiles has always been good at ignoring him anyway.
/
Stiles has learned to keep his mouth shut in the past few months, to keep his head down and deal with shit the way he knows best—by ignoring it.
This tactic doesn't work all that well with the boy he's has known since they were the dynamic duo of one part ADHD and one part asthma, running through hospital hallways with sick familiarity.
Stiles is trying—and subsequently failing—to start Roscoe when Scott corners him, the day's avoidance falling to pieces around them.
"Lydia said that I need to open my eyes and take off my jacket."
Stiles startles so badly that he smacks his head on the roof the car, turning away from looking beneath the hood to face a sheepish Scott.
Scott rubs the back of his neck. "Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you."
Stiles huffs, turns back to staring at the aged mess of an engine. "Could've given a guy a little warning."
"I know. No wolf powers. Got it." He's quiet for another moment. "Can I ask you something?"
"Is it appropriate to ask in a crowded parking lot?"
"Are you okay? You've been acting different since the kanima, and I don't know, man. I'm just…I'm worried about you."
"Don't be."
Scott grabs Stiles's shoulder, gently pulls him away from the Jeep, keeps tugging until they're facing each other. "Lydia said you're in love with me."
"She what."
"Or, well, her heartbeat skipped when she denied it. Same thing." Scott fixes the cuffs of his jacket, presses at his neck again. It's hard to tell who's more nervous.
Stiles crosses his arms and focuses on Scott's left shoulder instead of his face.
"Are you in love with me?"
"Do we really need to talk about this here?"
"Just answer the question." Scott pauses, waits, gets nothing. "Please, Stiles."
Stiles throws his hands out, narrowly missing a hit right against Scott's jaw. "Yes, Scott. Yes, I love you. And you shouldn't need wolfy hearing to figure it out."
Scott, rather than answering like a normal, sensible human being, hauls Stiles in by the front of his shirt and kisses him until they're both short of breath.
When they separate, a few onlookers gape momentarily and then duck their heads like they hadn't just been staring. Once Stiles has enough breath to talk, he says, "This doesn't excuse your cancelling of bro-time for Derek-time."
Scott wets his lips, grins because he can still taste Stiles on them. "About that…"
/
There's a leather jacket hanging on the doorknob after Stiles finally gets Roscoe started and has Scott follow him home.
"You're like, the pack glue or something. It's got to do with the spark. Derek just didn't know how to approach you."
"Not sure I can pull off leather," Stiles deadpans. "Or, you know, stand spending time with a punch of invasive wolves."
"You don't have to. Just embrace the unity. Everybody else is getting theirs soon too."
It's mostly a joke, which they both know, but Stiles rolls his eyes hard enough to hurt, and Scott laughs and laughs. Just because he can now, he kisses Scott to silence him. It's more satisfying than he ever imagined.
/
Scott doesn't remember to say "I love you" back until they're eating dinner later. His mouth is full of vegetarian lasagna when he says it, and he looks stunned after. (Later, he'll admit that he was actually about to ask for Stiles to pass the salt.) He spends the rest of the night calling Stiles's dad "Sheriff" in a mix of apology, nerves, and embarrassment.
Two nights later, he insists on plastering himself up against Stiles's side during the entire pack meeting, saying again and again that it's more for Stiles's sake than his own. They both know it's not, and they both choose not to mention it, and they both leave the loft laughing after Derek awkwardly claps Stiles on the shoulder and says that he's a good kid.
Lydia's jacket shows up two days later and Allison's a few hours after.
It's kind of dumb, but everything is kind of dumb, and Stiles finds that he kind of likes it anyway.
Yeah, he really likes it anyway.
He likes it a lot.
/
fin.
notes: this fic can also be found on archive of our own under my username there (scripturient) and under the 'my writing' tag of my tumblr (url: dylanslips). So woo. this was my first time writing for Teen Wolf, so I hope you enjoyed.