AN: This is a prequel to Your Scent.

Hope you enjoy it!

"DAD?!"

"DAD!"

"What, Stiles?!" The Sheriff yells back from the living room, distracted by the baseball game blaring from the living room television.

"Have you seen my jacket?"

It takes the Sheriff a minute to figure out what Stiles is talking about, when he remembers that Stiles has been sporting a faded, black leather jacket for months now. A well-worn, obviously loved, leather jacket. A jacket that sits about two sizes too big on his gangly, barely-getting-some-muscle-definition-on-him son. A leather jacket the Sheriff has never purchased for his son, and is positive Stiles didn't acquire it out of his own pocket because he knows that is some quality leather not easily affordable to a high school senior who's never had a job.

A leather jacket he's seen a specific tall, dark, and (he'll admit) handsome werewolf wear, up until the day he left Beacon Hills and all of a sudden ended up as his son's most prized possession.

"You didn't throw it in the washer, did you?" The Sheriff looks up from his perch on the edge of the couch and sees his son descend the stairs with a panicked look on his face.

"Stiles, everyone knows you don't put leather in the washing machine." He sees Stiles' shoulders relax with relief. "You take it to the cleaners," he jokes.

"DAD!" Stiles' panic returns ten-fold. "No-no-no-no! Please, NO!" Stiles repeatedly utters, unshed tears trying to force themselves down his mole dotted face.

Seeing the devastated look on his son's face, the Sheriff quickly gets up off the couch and rushes to Stiles, still standing at the bottom of the stairs, and pulls him into a hug.

"I'm kidding. I'm kidding, Stiles. I was just messing around," the Sheriff whispers into his ear and tries to sooth the shakes from the trembling body in his arms.

"Hey," The Sheriff pulls away from Stiles, keeping him in his grip. "I'm sorry."

Stiles tries to focus until the pinch in his eyebrow smooths out.

"No, no, I'm sorry. I'm sorry," Stiles replies with an embarrassed look on his face, quickly wiping away the one tear that managed to roll down his cheek. "I didn't mean to freak out. I'm sorry"

"Don't apologize for your feelings, son."

"I worried you. I didn't mean to."

"Well, I'll admit, it's not the reaction I would expect over clothes, but I'm going to assume this isn't just any old jacket, is it?"

"It's Derek's," Stiles says, calmer now, as he pulls away from his dad and heads to the kitchen, still a little flushed with embarrassment.

"He left it behind when he moved away," Stiles says as he pours water into the kettle sitting on the stove. "I found it at his loft. I, uh, thought maybe he'd left a note after we found out he'd left town." Stiles turns on a burner and sets the full kettle atop it.

"Most of his stuff was gone. Personal items, mostly. I saw the sleeve of the jacket peeking out from under his bed." Stiles looks up as he leans on the kitchen counter. "No note, though." A huff leaves his lips.

The Sheriff was leaning against the archway leading into the kitchen. It hits him then, seeing Stiles with a sadness that reminds him of the months after his wife died, that Derek wasn't just a crush, as he'd suspected.

Sure, he'd found it surprising when the name Derek was leaving Stiles' mouth every other minute after the surviving Hale showed up in town, but he chalked it up to Beacon Hills suddenly being thrust into the weird and unexplained.

"Anyway, I took the jacket and brought it home with me."

"And decided to wear it every day since, of course."

"Of course," Stiles replies without missing a beat.

Stiles looks back down towards the floor and nervously picks at his nails when he softly but audibly says, "It still smells of Derek."

As he looks back up, the tears are back, and this time, Stiles isn't holding back. They slowly track their way down baby smooth skin. "Barely, but it's still there, y'know?" His voice trembles at the end there.

The Sheriff nods, wishing he could fly to London and punch a brooding twenty-something in his too-good-looking-for-his-own-damn-good face.

"Oh, God, I can't believe I'm a mess over this thing that isn't even mine," Stiles wipes at his face, trying to laugh it off.

"Sorry." A sniff and a hiccup escape him.

"God, I hate this," he says as he frantically tries to stop the flow of tears, wiping away until his eyes and cheeks are left raw.

"I'm sorr-,"

He's suddenly enveloped in warmth and childhood, and everything that reminds him of cuddles after skinned knees and bedtime stories. Before everything went to shit and his father slowly started pulling away from him with the help of Jack Daniels.

It breaks him.

"He left," Stiles cries into his father's shoulder. His grip around his father tightens as everything he's held back pours out in a deluge of anger, sadness and bitterness.

"He just left. No heads-up, no goodbye. Nothing. Just, poof, gone." He pulls away from the Sheriff, this time calmer, and sees understanding in his father's eyes. He's grateful. The embarrassment from earlier doesn't show its face.

As he's about to apologize for falling apart, the Sheriff stops him. "Like I said, don't apologize for your feelings."

Stiles nods.

"It's pathetic, really. I'm pathetic." His father's about to interrupt him, but Stiles continues.

"I never told him how I felt. We could barely stay civil around each other. It's not like he owed me anything. And I understand why he left. This place has the worst memories for him. I know I was a little shit when we first met, and I might not have been as sympathetic toward him as I could have been, but since the first time I laid eyes on him, he messed with my feelings. What I thought I knew about myself, who I thought I liked, went out the window the moment he stepped into my life.

It freaked me out, dad. But I thought, maybe, we'd come to an understating. Some semblance of comradery. Especially after the Nogit-," Stiles stumbles, but continues, "Nogitsune and Mexico."

A sigh leaves Stiles. "I guess all of that was just in my head.

And then he left, and fuck, I didn't think it would hit me the way it did. I knew if I went to his place I wouldn't find anything left of his. I just needed to make sure. To see with my own eyes he was gone. And then, as I'm walking around his place, I see this black blob peeking from under his bed. It was so outta place. The bed was bare. The drawers and closet empty. Everything was clean. No mess left behind, so this thing stood out. I get on my knees to see what it is, and I recognized it.

Dad, I couldn't have pulled that jacket out from under there faster if I'd been The Flash.

He was gone, so I took it and brought it home."

The kettle whistles, startling Stiles and the Sheriff, offering a moment of relief as the two Stilinskis laugh at the unexpected interruption.

Stiles proceeds to make himself and his dad a cup of tea.

"No coffee?"

"Nope. Sorry, dad. I know the levels of caffeine you consume at work. Your heart doesn't need the adrenaline rush at home, too."

"Fine," the Sheriff states, a pout trying to sneak its way onto his lips.

The Sheriff opens his mouth to ask when Stiles beats him to it, knowing him too well. "The tea's decaf."

"Damn it! What's the point then, huh?" The Sheriff complains, sitting at the kitchen table.

Stiles just smirks. He will never be sorry when it comes to looking after his father's health, no matter how many times the old man complains. He's the only family he has left. Stiles wants him around a very, very long time.

Stiles joins his dad at the kitchen table. Steaming cups of tea ready for reluctant consumption.

The Sheriff looks at his son; at his red eyes and splotchy face, wondering how he'd missed the hurt his son had been living with all these months. Guilt grips him.

He reaches for his son's hand, startling Stiles into focus, the far off look on Stiles' face driving a nail into his heart.

"Have you thought of contacting Derek?"

Stiles shakes his head, and then, hesitates.

"After he'd sent Scott that letter telling him he was in London, I was pissed. I wanted to respond back. Wanted to ask how dare he abandon us; how dare he leave when things were still going to shit here. But I couldn't. I was too hurt.

After I'd found his jacket, that night, I put it on and crawled into bed, finally admitting to myself I wasn't angry he left. I was angry he left me behind. I broke down. Ever since, I've been wearing the jacket. It reminds me of him. His scent is always there when I need to feel centered. When you said you'd sent it to the cleaners, I felt like I'd lost him again."

"I'm so sorry, Stiles."

"Don't be, dad. You didn't know. Like I said, it's a bit pathetic of me to be pining after someone who barely tolerated me." A self-deprecating laugh escapes him, a mall sneer curling a corner of his lips.

"Stop, do you understand," the Sheriff commands, a fierce look overtaking his face. "Don't you ever dismiss yourself in that way again. Got it?"

Stiles looks at his dad, lost wonder in his eyes. Another nail drives itself through the Sheriff's heart.

"I put the jacket in the hall closet. I found it on the couch."

"Thanks, dad."

"I'm heading to bed."

"Okay."

As the Sheriff starts to head upstairs, he stops and looks back at Stiles. "I'm always here if you want to unload. Don't ever think you have to be careful around me. I know things haven't been copacetic between us in years, I'll always be sorry about that. More than you'll ever know. I want it to be better from now on."

Stiles smiles. "Me, too."

The Sheriff nods.

"'Night, Stiles."

"'Night, dad."

As Stiles sees his dad fade up the stairs, exhaustion catches up to him. His limbs feel heavy, all of a sudden.

He heads upstairs, straight for the hallway closet, and wonders if it makes him an emotional masochist when he pulls the jacket out and sniffs at its collar, Derek's fading scent stubbornly lingering to the cool material, as tears prickle on his lashes.

"Definitely a masochist," Stiles tells himself, heading into his bedroom and crawling into bed. Leather jacket wrapped snuggly around him. Secure and warm.

The next morning, the doorbell's incessant ringing startles Stiles awake.

"God, it's too fucking early," Stiles grumbles under his breath, stumbling out of bed, ready to chew out the idiot that decided five o'clock in the morning was an acceptable time to make a house call.

Reaching his front door and rubbing sleep from his eyes, leather jacket a comforting weight on his shoulders, he pulls the door open.

"What the hell, man?! Do you know what time it…," Stiles trails off, eyes widening, heart stopping and speeding up ten-fold when it clicks in his brains who's standing on his doorstep.

"De-Derek?"

Tears fill his eyes.

"Derek!"

Without thinking twice, he throws himself at Derek, leather-clad arms fastening themselves around the Alpha. He buries his face in Derek's shoulder.

He immediately feels strong arms tighten around him, the roughness of Derek's five o'clock shadow burrowing into the dip of his throat. The heat of Derek inhaling sends shivers down Stiles spine.

Derek pulls back, his arms still locked securely around Stiles, and with fear and determination in his eyes, quietly announces, "I'm back."

Stiles stares, not sure if he's still upstairs, secure in his bed, still pining after Derek, but not caring much, because his silent wish is finally standing before him.

With a smile, he reassures, "I'm glad."

Before a silence can get uncomfortable between them, Derek proclaims, "Leather looks good on," a pleased smile forming on his face.

Stiles' cheeks heat up, embarrassment making his body twitch, until Derek finishes, "I like it."

Pleasure sings through Stiles. Maybe their reunion beyond this moment won't be so awkward. He's looking forward to it.

"Come. We have a lot to talk about." He pulls Derek into his house.

The door clicks quietly shut behind them.