It's not that he doesn't feel like he is a part of this.
It's that he's never felt much like a part of anything ever before.
In a blink of an eye it's a sealed deal. Like, what?
Heather freaking beams at him (and, oh, hi elation), presses a soft kiss to his lips and walks away in a bouncy way that makes him want to smile but still, just what? How?
Has he seriously agreed to giving his v-card to that girl? Somewhere in the, uh, foreseeable future?
How comes this is suddenly his life?
It all probably starts when he makes Lydia stop peer pressuring the girl from getting a new haircut that she clearly doesn't want to get. Lydia narrows her eyes at him, all pissed off goddess, but Heather looks at him with such open gratitude that it actually makes her death glares of death bearable.
After that, Heather is simply everywhere. Lunch? There. Lacrosse practice? There, too. She is also suddenly moved to most of his classes, and while it had him freaking out a bit it also serves as a good way to feed his malnourished self-esteem. Also, what's a sixteen year old girl seeking his attention like this compared to a twenty something guy sneeking into his room to slam him against whatever surface happens to be available at the time or just sit on his bed to creep on him while he does whatever he has to do?
(And the second one seemed to be happening more and more since Peter's death.)
She's sweet and quirky, geeky in a way that Stiles can relate to (all classic movies' quotes and witty observations and a myriad of random facts), so whenever they are together they have a honestly good time. She makes him laugh and, let's face it, right now his life can use as many light hearted adolescent moments as he can get.
From 'we get on just fine' it somehow jumps category to 'we could sex it up real nice', and maybe it's his Adderall ridden mind or the fact that every waking minute he spends outside of school is now devoted to lycanthropy-related issues but he clearly missed that memo.
Heather gives him a well-rounded excuse in the form of their partnership for a biology poject. The fluttering of her long long eyelashes tells him the truth, anyway.
His mouth agrees before his brain reacts.
What? Just, what?
"Stop." The voice is a feral growl behind his back, and if he doesn't shriek like a little girl that's both because Derek Hale has already made him immune to these kind of creepy stuff and because he's just naturally awesome.
"What, dude?" He turns around and for the exception of Jackson-the-jerk, who's glaring at him as if he wanted to maim, the locker room is empty and lonely. Man.
"Stop" Jackson repeats, the muscles on nis bare chest rigid and his eyes bearing the color of the wolf, vividly amber. If Stiles weren't getting a little scared, he'd start making comparisons between the wrewolves in his life and their tendency to go ape shit on his ass. "I can smell her all over you. I can smell her arousal, her pheromones. Stop letting her cling to you, Stilinski. It makes you even more annoying."
After that Jackson snarls at him and walks away.
And Stiles is left feeling very very confused and quite creeped out. Which is pretty much becoming his new default state of being.
(He gets a text a few minutes after: you better scrub her smell off you before you come to Derek's, Stilinski.)
On monday Heather said friday at his house at 4. On tuesday and after Jackson's little trip to Madland the day before Lydia sticks to his side like he's suddenly worthy of her undivided attention instead of existing as a less than interesting speck of dust on her peripheral vision.
Well, she hasn't actually been ignoring his existence all that much these last few weeks, but school's still enough of a teenage version of a war zone that she'll keep playing her role of Queen Bee and just paying only the necessary amount of attention to him. He's not that broken hearted, it's more than he's ever had before from her.
Getting back in track, Lydia sticks to him like his ADHD when he doesn't take his meds. At first it's okay, if a bit disconcerting. He does enjoy spending time with her.
And then she almost bites the head off of a girl who'd just meant to ask him something or other about chem and hey, that's not okay. Easy, Lydia, easy.
Heather stays away from him the whole day, observing from what could be considered a safe distance (if Lydia weren't a werewolf and, well, Lydia), and whenever Lydia catches her eyes she shows her teeth at the girl in a smile that's openly nasty and makes Stiles uncomfortable.
By the time school's over she makes a show out of grabbing his arm in a seemingly innocent hold (it's gonna bruise so bad, he knows, fingers peppering his palepalepale skin. And fuck, he doesn't have any clean shirt with long sleeves that he can wear to effectively hide that) and kissing him chastely on the lips. In the middle of a hallway. Full of people.
He should feel great, after wanting Lydia Martin for such an insanely long time.
He just feels like a dog on a very short leash.
Heather is a real trooper. On wednesday she walks up to him, throwing a brief but heated look to Lydia (who's glaring at her, surrounded by some adoring followers and sweet Allison) and kisses him right on the mouth (and with the tiniest insinuation of tongue).
Stiles thinks this might be tug-of-war. He feels thoroughly screwed. And not in the good way. In the 'werewolves will have me for dinner' way.
But still, Heather is a trooper. A corageous, corageous girl. Way much braver than him, at the time.
Generally Stiles loves sharing classes with Scott.
Wednesday is not one of those days that fit easily into the 'general' tag.
Scott seriously whines at him, when he sits next to him. It's more pathetic than listening to him rhapsodize about Allison Argent, the most perfect human being to ever achieve perfect perfection.
"Dude. You sound like a dog. Like you're channeling your Animal Planet vibes. Tone the inner beast down or something. Unless you can't. In which case, please don't try to kill me." A beat. "Again."
Scott ignores his rant and instead says, "You're pack. She's not."
And that's it.
"What's up with all the Heather bashing, dude? She's really nice, you know. I don't know what's gotten into you all, but you should give her a chance."
Scott pouts like the petulant child he not-so-secretly is (and how Allison puts up with him is a mystery).
"You are not allowed to let her take you away. She can't. I won't let her. Derek won't let her."
That makes him feel weird.
"You all do know I'm not a thing you can refuse to share, right?"
Scott seems fazed by that, but he doesn't press the issue any further.
After that Stiles tries to actually and for once pay attention to the class.
That doesn't deter Scott from sending him the biggest and saddest puppy eyes ever.
Thursday starts oddly normal. No Jackson smelling him, no Lydia guarding him, no Scott trying to step all over him.
Until he gets to his locker and is ambushed by Danny boy and Allison, who are all worried stares and such. And of course his life can't be simple. It can be boring, from time to time (and refuse to revolve around him, his own life), but never simple.
"I'm sorry about Scott" Starts Allison, and it's unfair how Stiles just wants to pat her hair and forgive any and all offenses if it'll make her look less distressed. "He got carried away."
"And I'm sorry about Jackson." Danny follows, sincere in the way only he can pull. "He's an ass."
Then they did that thing that creeped him out majorly where they made him feel self-conscious about every mean or selfish thought he'd ever had in his entire life.
"You just." Allison starts, looking torn about something. "You are not a thing. We don't think you are a thing. You know that, right?"
He's not sure he does, but he nods because her doe eyes make him feel like a monster turned to mush. Or something. It's embarrasing.
"Look," That's Danny. And maybe Stiles should worry about how smoothly Danny and Allison have taken to work together, taking turns flawlessly to get to him. "you should maybe talk to Derek. Because there's something that you are really not picking up on."
And he should be scandalized that somebody is calling him anything short of observant, but Danny's got superpowers of some kind and he isn't.
Heather brushes her fingers against his when they walk down the halls towards homeroom. It feels soft but leaves him awkwardly guilt-ridden.
As Heather talks to him animatedly about her preference for Classic-era Avengers over Ultimate-era Avengers, he's too busy thinking about werewolves and packs and whatever it is that he seems to be missing to contribute much to her thoughtful and excitedly delivered analysis.
He's too busy fidgeting around his fifty-thousand doubts (the researcher in him is so thirsty for answers that it is ridiculous) to notice Heather's expression dropping.
On friday morning he wakes up to the sound of his window closing softly. He knows who it is without needing to open his eyes and that's... A scary, scary thing, pobably. It's a sad day when stalking becomes a common ocurrence in your life.
"One of these days you'll use the door and I'll die from the shock. Seriously die. It'll be tragic and the mourning will go on forever, I'm that awesome." He mumbles, mangling half the words while he burrows his face a little more into the pilllow.
The answering groan makes him smile.
"You know," he continues. "Your pack is being weird. Weirder than usual. They keep trying to pull me away from this really cute girl that-"
"Stiles." He doesn't get why, but it sounds like a warning.
That gets him to finally open his eyes and fixate them on Derek, who's ramrod straight, stiff and standing a few feet away from the bed, looking at him with blood-red eyes.
Blood red eyes.
That makes him jump out of the bed.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Man, you can't kill me. Think about the Argents, and about my father and... And..."
"Stiles, shut up."
"You are not a thing." Derek starts, closing in on him (eyes still red) until Stiles' back is against a wall. Which is a normal position in this relationship: Derek looming, Stiles not-cowering. What is new is how Derek keeps talking and talking as if he'd taken a page off Stile's book.
"You are a pack member. An important pack member. You belong here, to us, like we belong to you. And you won't back away from us, not just because you're scared."
"I'm not sc-"
"Shut up. You are. I know you are. I can smell it on you. I can smell it when we are all together and I can smell it now." He seems to take a whiff of his neck, Stiles contains a gasp. "I don't know why you think you are anything less that what you are, but it doesn't matter. You are ours. Not like a toy, not like a subordinate. Ours like we are yours, in a bond deeper than anything else. Your strenght, your loyalty, your bravery. Ours."
Stiles... Doesn't know how he feels.
"This has nothing to do with-"
"Yes, it does." Derek cuts him again. "It does, it has everything to do with this. You want to give yourself to that girl because she makes you feel wanted."
Is that so bad? He wants to ask. Is it that bad to want to be desired and recognised? It doesn't sound at all like him, that green grim feeling clawing its way up his throat, but it's there because he's kinda tired.
Derek growls, a rumbling deep noise that reverberates all over him.
"We want you." He says. And then (so, so unexpectedly), in a lower voice, "I want you."
That actually makes sense if he thinks about it for long enough. The evidence is there, waiting for him to catch up.
And, somehow, it feels even better than Heather wanting him.
It feels real, like belonging.
"It's not just this that makes you pack"
"I know, dude. The fact that I'm overall great helps."
Stiles will have to get used to this brand of unexpected, he thinks, willing a blush down.
Heather is sad but understanding when he turns her down when she tries to kiss him again on school. She asks if it has anything to do with the dirty jealous looks his friends keep throwing at her.
He says it's something like that. And even though there's no way she can get it she smiles a secretive smile as if she absolutely did, absurd insecurities, possessive werewolves and all.