Knock Three Times On The Ceiling If You Want Me
Stiles got an apartment just within driving distance of his dad’s but far enough to have his own space and still keep an eye on his dad’s dietary habits. It’s a nice one bedroom with an office that let’s him take his work home. He’s got enough room for his mom’s collection of teapots. He’s a coffee drinker by habit but it’s nice to have them on display again without feeling guilty when his dad’s eyes shutter.
He’s an early riser thanks to years of morning lacrosse practices that stuck with him despite his aversion to exercise he’s started jogging if only to force his dad to exercise too. He’s in at work by eight and never hits afternoon traffic too badly.
It’s a quiet life.
He’s going to go stir crazy if something doesn’t happen.
Stiles figures it’s time to get a hobby. Maybe the drums.
Until 5B moves in. Then he thinks he jinxed himself.
The complex is full of friendly old folks that love Stiles. He’s set in casseroles thanks to his willingness to help with groceries and replace the odd light bulb. There’s just one thing.
The asshole who lives above him in 5B.
He’s never met him. But Stiles knows two things, he’s an asshole and he drives a Camaro. One that almost ran him over last week.
It’s taken all his willpower not to turn this into a prank war. The only thing holding him back is his dad would know. And despite his home life being boring, his dad’s judgmental eyebrows would be too much.
Stiles figures it’s time to call Scott. At least being an awkward third wheel to him and Allison would be better than an evening home alone contemplating ruining his asshole neighbor’s car’s paint job.
Idle hands and all that.
His neighbor, the aforementioned asshole or 5B, moved in a few months after Stiles. And Stiles can say, he’s never contemplated murder until he moved in. Stiles is pretty laid back. But 5B has been driving Stiles nuts.
Once a month it sounds like a hurricane is ravaging the apartment above him. He plays loud music at all hours. That really awful techno workout music. Stiles has tried to complain to the super but apparently they’re related. Of all things. So all Stiles got for his troubles was a smirk and a toothy smile.
Now Stiles knows he can be nice. He’s friends with all his exes. If that’s not proof enough then he can kill 5B with kindness and pretend it was the fun kind of maiming. Stiles will concede that maybe sleep deprivation is playing a role to the murderous thoughts. But because of 5B, he’s been napping at work. And pretty soon people are going to notice. Lydia has.
So he breaks out the big guns. His mom’s old chocolate chip cookie recipe. Guaranteed to make anyone agreeable. It’s what hooked his dad. Not that Stiles wants to marry 5B. He just wants to get an actual goodnight sleep. He figures that’s on par.
Stiles wasn’t prepared for the reality when he knocked three times on 5B’s door. The one where 5B is ridiculously attractive, angry aggressive eyebrows and all. Like he’s ripped in all the right places. A dangerous attractive. And his glare is boring into Stiles.
"Hey," Stiles says, remembering himself. "I live in 4B, so we’re like indirect neighbors, not that it’s bad, Mrs. Nadir in 5A is awesome too. But see, here’s the thing, if you let me have a music free night so I can actually sleep then you get these."
He holds out the tupperware. 5B’s nose actually twitches.
"Sound like a good deal?" Stiles asks, hopefully. He’s got a meeting at eight tomorrow that he needs to crush.
The guy shoots him a smirk, his eyes appraising him with consideration, his arms crossing in front of his chest. “Cookies?”
"Hey, these are awesome cookies. This is an amazing deal, dude," says Stiles, with a huff. Stiles takes it back. 5B isn’t attractive. He an asshole.
"Deal," 5B says and takes the tupperware. "Next time make ‘em peanut butter."
"Next time?" gawks Stiles as the door is slammed into his face.
Stiles’ night sleep is blissful and he’ll deny having a dream involving 5B and chocolate sauce.
He crushes the meeting. Even Lydia looked impressed.
Stiles wishes he could say the same when at eleven at night the loud bass of techno music starts up.
"You have got to be fucking kidding me," he shouts and uses his broom to hit the ceiling.
He’s putting laxatives into the next batch.
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