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Derek is verbose. Effusive. Loquacious.
Essentially, Derek talks a lot.
Or rather, Derek, under the influence of an incredibly rare form of wolfsbane (Southern Blue Monkshood – fucking misnomer, it was green), talks a lot.
“I’m hungry. Aren’t you guys hungry?” Derek moans plaintively, apparently bored of listening to the conversation Scott, Isaac, and Stiles have been having in the corner of Stiles’ room. The conversation they’ve been having since Scott and Isaac had shown up a half hour before with an obviously stoned Derek Hale sandwiched between the two of them.
An obviously stoned Derek Hale. On the Sheriff’s front porch.
Luckily, Stiles had barely opened the front door before Derek was pushing past with a sanguine smile and a “Hey, Stiles.”
Scott and Isaac had hurried in after the alpha, both looking like they’d come straight from a bar brawl, but which they’d quickly informed him had been more of an Alpha brawl. Apparently the Alpha Pack had struck again.
Scott and Stiles had first formed their tentative truce with Derek’s pack of two (essentially Derek and Isaac, plus Derek’s bonus undead uncle), on the grounds that an Alpha Pack had come to Beacon Hills and sticking together would be their only chance for survival. Stiles had really been expecting more of a “battle to the death” type of summer vacation, instead of the extended prank attack it had ended up being.
First, the Alpha Pack’s symbol had started appearing all over town, in places the “Hale Pack” had been known to frequent.
The dilapidated Hale house had been their first target, quickly followed by the McCall’s garage door.
Then the Stilinki’s cheerful yellow mailbox.
Stiles’ mom had painted that mailbox - lemon chiffon, with a hand-painted bluebird on one side and “The Stilinki’s” on the other. Faded now, but still legible in her most decorative script.
That was the last straw. The temporary truce between the Hale and McCall packs had been settled; with handshakes in the Starbucks on Second Street.
The Alpha’s symbol kept appearing – a tiny triskele seemed to appear in various forms anywhere they went. A sticker in the front window of the library Isaac was working at for the summer. Graffiti on the side of the comic book store Stiles was known to frequent. A six by six foot triskele was burned into the lacrosse pitch at the high school when Scott, Stiles, and Isaac had shown up to practice there one day. The very atmosphere in Beacon Hills had turned sinister.
And then the pranks had begun.
They’d started with Derek’s car. Derek had made the grievous error of leaving it unattended for thirty minutes while he did his bi-weekly grocery shopping at Max’s Market.
He’d returned to find it glitter-bombed, with a trail of miniature silver paw prints stenciled across the hood; like a tiny, drunken wolf pup had walked through silver spray paint and then tracked it across Derek’s car.
Stiles and Scott had laughed when they’d happened to see Derek driving into the car wash that afternoon.
Scott wasn’t laughing when he arrived home from work at the vet clinic to find his entire bedroom recreated, down to the dirty laundry scattered around his floor and his messily rumpled bed, on his front lawn.
Admittedly, Stiles had laughed at that.
Stiles had also laughed when they’d gone to meet Isaac at Derek’s new loft and found him duct-taped to the ceiling. Derek’s new loft has 20 foot high ceilings and Stiles is still trying to work out how they accomplished that. Isaac himself doesn’t know because they’d blindfolded and stripped him before putting him up there.
Which brings us to their current predicament, at which Stiles was decidedly not laughing.
“My diet sucks!” Derek says loudly, throwing himself back onto Stiles’ bed where he’s basically been rolling around for the past ten minutes, while Stiles and Isaac have been engaged in a whispered argument over why exactly their ex-con Alpha shouldn’t be found high as a fucking kite in the home of the Sheriff who’d originally arrested him. For murder.
“I miss pizza.”
“You can’t keep him here, Lahey,” Stiles hisses for the tenth time in as many minutes. Derek is pouting at the trio from his place on Stiles’ bed.
Stiles glances over at Derek to see him rubbing his rock-hard tummy in small circles, seemingly talking to himself, “which I still, also, do cheat on every once in a while. Cause it’s pizza!”
“Where would you like me to take him, Stilinski,” Isaac asks in a violent whisper, ever-mindful of the Sheriff sleeping off a double shift in his bedroom down the hall.
Scott is standing nearby, frowning at the discord this has caused between his two friends.
“You can’t say no to pizza!”
“You can take him for a long walk off a short pier for all I care, Isaac, as long as that pier isn’t located in my freaking bedroom!” Stiles whisper-shouts, looking over at Derek just as he seems to tire of rubbing himself all over Stiles’ sheets.
Derek drifts over to Stiles’ bookcase, looking intently at his extensive Batman comic book collection.
Scott chooses this moment to speak up.
“Isaac is right, Stiles. We don’t have anywhere else to take him. Ethan said it should wear off within a few hours, and he’ll be safe here,” Scott says, unleashing the full power of his puppy eyes.
Luckily Stiles developed near-immunity to Scott’s puppy eyes by the time he was ten, and is thus unmoved.
“Oh my god, dude, I had such a crush on Nightwing, you don’t even know,” Derek says, pulling out Alfred’s Return and throwing himself back on Stiles’ bed to read.
Stiles watches Derek for an interminable moment before looking back at Scott and Isaac.
“He can stay.”