Derek could smell it. He'd tried to track that damned Alpha for the last 6 months. He knew the scent better than the ashes in his family's home. And it was on Stiles. It sunk into the clothing that piled into the hamper in the east corner of his room. Derek's hands pulled until he found the shirt that held that scent. He snarled, sneezing when the false floral of Stiles' air freshener stopped him from seeking further. He's sprayed the shirt with it. Contrary to the advertisement Febreeze did not eliminate odor. It did make it harder to smell through the musk. He couldn't get a tell for how old the scent was. The basket went flying, smashing into the bed and splaying its contents over the furniture.

There was another smell! Derek growled at the laundry. The smells were too mixed to pick it out. It was so familiar, like a warm cider in winter. It didn't connect to a memory, more of a feeling. Glaring at the laundry he was found by Stiles. He knew it was Stiles even if his scent was obscured by the ridiculous AXE bath-wash he used. He spun, knowing the blue of his wolf-eyes were glowing by the way Stiles' heart beat sped.

Derek knew the boy was hiding something. He didn't start texting him immediately. Not that he needed it. He could tell Stiles was going to try to distract him. He wasn't sure how, but Stiles was so... expressive. He would almost feel the emotions. He growled, and slammed Stiles into the wall. "Why do your clothes smell like the Alpha! When did you see the Alpha! Where are you hurt?"

Stiles coughed, the wind knocked out of his body by the rough handling. He wasn't responding. He wasn't signing or giving those little eye-moves that meant exasperation or anger or pain. He wasn't curling that cocky little smile. He looked blank like the essence of what was Stile had been drained leaving the hollow shell of a boy. Derek growled, crowding the boy back against the wall until only a breath of space remained. Only then did his expression change. Stiles glanced to Derek's lips and then back at his eyes.

Stiles wasn't giving him anything. Derek hated that hardness in the brown eyes. Derek wished he knew if it had always been there, or if the advent of werewolves and the supernatural had jaded him.

"Why?" His volume lowered, but the anger in his words never wavered.

Stiles shrugged.

"When?"

Another shrug.

"Stiles, you need to tell me. You shouldn't be alive,"

Shrug the third.

Derek dropped Stiles' jacket. He stormed across the room, his fists balling in an effort to not lash out against the difficult teen. Stiles calmly started to gather the mess Derek had made. His actions were calm, and Derek wondered how many werewolf messes he'd silently handled. How much weight were those shoulders holding. Derek reached out, almost touching the back of Stiles' neck. He watched the short hair prick upward right before he touched. Derek doesn't connect. He was bad at this. Bad at emotion. He needed to take action. Derek wanted to pretend he couldn't see Stiles' posture droop.

"Don't go near the Alpha. I don't know how you survived, but don't try that again. It's not safe. I have enough trouble trying to keep Scott alive. I don't need you, too,"

Stiles would not turn face him. A frustrated huff lasted and he was out of Stiles' window and he could smell the tears falling behind him.