I Knew You Were Trouble (The epic tale of Sugar Bottoms)
for leah because she had a tough week:
Stiles notices first. And not to say that he avidly pays attention to Derek. That would be admitting that he was looking in the first place to be able to catalog a variance in his behaviour. And Stiles doesn’t do that. Not with Derek. No siree. Not at all. Because Stiles did that with Lydia. And by the transitive properties of observation that would mean. Well. Something. Something Stiles isn’t ready to delve into about Derek. Not without getting plastered with some misappropriated alcohol.
Derek being odd. If Stiles had to define it, it would be squirrelly. But squirrels and Derek only go together if Stiles is making an awesome dog joke. He should bank that one for later. When and not if he finds himself in yet another inclosed space with Derek. It’s been happening too often. He should stop charting these occurrences. Someone may find them. Someone being Scott. Who has a knack for guessing Stiles’ passwords. And yeah, Batman24 may not be high level password potential. But it trumps Allison. Barely. His has a number at least.
So Derek is acting squirrelly. Stiles spotted him from across the street in the Beacon Hills shopping district exiting a PetSmart with as much nonchalance as Stiles’ managed sneaking into the police station.
It must be supernatural. Because he caught Derek walking out of Deaton’s office with his shoulders hunched inwards and his leather jacket bunched up in his arms when Stiles came around to pick up Scott from work.
So something is up. Stiles won’t say that he’s a bit miffed about being excluded. Not like him and Derek have an arrangement. But really. Going to Deaton? First? And some PetSmart voodoo practitioner?
Well maybe not the last one. But Stiles is sure all animal care specialists are in on the whole werewolves walk among us. It’s the only explanation. And Stiles would rather get ahead of this rather than Derek showing up in his room at the eleventh hour scowling for help.
Not that Stiles wants that.
He’ll say it in Spanish too.
So Stiles has taken the most legitimate course of action. Following Derek. He doesn’t want to get Scott involved yet. No sense getting Scott to worry. It’s probably nothing Stiles can’t handle. So he’s idling in his jeep at an ideal vantage point from Derek’s new loft. He only knows it’s Derek’s because Isaac talks about it with Scott and by virtue of still being Scott’s best friend, Stiles does too. They’ve never gotten an invite. Not that Stiles wants one.
He has a great vantage point for Derek’s loft. His dad is on a weekend fishing trip with Doc Pierce so Stiles can spend all night being vigilant. He brought provisions of Reese’s and Doritos.
Nothing happens in the first hour. Except seeing Erica and Boyd leave. And Isaac saunter off to Scott’s. (A fact that Stiles is fine with. Totally fine. Please stop asking about it.)
By the second hour Stiles realizes that the large Big Gulp from Seven-11 wasn’t a good idea. The urge to pee has never been more strong. And he’d rather not get arrested for public indecency.
He rubs his face in frustration with his hands before sighing. He scrambles out of the car and towards the loft. His ass half numb from sitting so long.
Derek opens the door before he gets to the metal stairs leading up to his loft.
"Stiles." Even in the darkness, Stiles can sense the over dramatic eyebrow arching action.
"Derek," Stiles answers. "You have a bathroom, right?"
It says a lot about their relationship that Derek just walks back into his apartment and leaves the door open.
"Second door on the right," says Derek. "And wash your hands."
Stiles doesn’t feel bad about crudely flipping him off on his way to the bathroom.
It only comes to him that he has no reason to be here after he’s done washing his hands. And Derek probably knows he’s been sitting in his car for two hours. And sadly the bathroom window is too small to escape from.
He’s about to face the music when he cracks open the door only to be attacked by fluff.
"Ack!" he yelps and flails around before falling to the floor on a surprisingly soft rug.
"Sugar!" admonishes Derek from above Stiles’ sprawled state.
"Sugar?" croaks out Stiles from where a tiny puff ball of fur is purring on his chest.
Derek actually smiles, plucking the kitten off Stiles’ chest. “You have to be more careful.”
And Stiles blinks for a moment but realizes Derek is not talking to him. But the cat. The cat that Derek is now beaming at with a wattage that dwarfs the flirty smile he gave that police deputy.
"I think I broke my back," groans Stiles. But Derek is ignoring him for cupping the kitten closer to his large frame.
"You’ll live," Derek says dryly. "Sugar B’s getting better at the sneak attacks."
"Sugar B? Oh my Gawd," crows Stiles. Pain fleeting at this delicious news.
"That’s her name," grumps Derek but the force of it is lost when the kitten mewls and Derek is again lost to petting the fluff ball.
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