“How did I get out?” Stiles asks faintly. It was bad, is all Derek has said on the subject thus far, but Stiles isn’t letting him off that easy.
“Stronger than I expected, higher pain tolerance. Not sure why. There was something else weird, too: your scent. You smelled… different. I couldn’t place it before.”
“Yeah, I can see how going around sniffing teenage boys might ruin your sense of smell.”
Derek rolls his eyes. “I never noticed because you were always around Scott, but… you don’t smell like testosterone, you don’t smell like a teenage boy.”
He’s sure Derek’s now smelling the anxiety and anger rolling off him in waves. “I’m not a girl. Whatever my… scent… says, whatever my body says – they’re wrong.”
“And you didn’t think that was something I might need to know?” Derek’s calmness seems incongruous; it’s clearly put on. Beneath the surface is shock; beneath that, impatience and irritation – Derek’s default emotions, Stiles suspects.
But Stiles knows impatience and irritation, too. “No,” he says defiantly, all but baring his teeth in frustration, “I didn’t. I start T when I turn sixteen in April, anyway; Dad and my doctor promised. What’ll it matter then?”
“It probably won’t. But it matters now.”
“Of course it does,” Stiles grouses. “My body ruining my life, like always.”
Derek says, “I’m sorry,” and sounds it. “We’ll be better prepared next time.”
Stiles nods. “Anyway, I’m still a freaking werewolf,” he adds, smirking.
Derek grins back, despite himself. “Damn straight.”