The form asks Do you have any distinguishing marks? and Derek chews the pen cap and thinks about it for a second and writes: Yes. Two tattoos.
He figures that will be it.
“You know you sign your name under a little box that says the information you have provided is truthful to the best of your knowledge,” Stiles says, flopping down next to Derek and tossing a sheaf of papers into his lap.
“What?” Derek asks. Dog the Bounty Hunter has just apprehended someone on TV and Derek is still getting used to surround sound. It continues to freak out his hearing.
“Your application,” Stiles says.
“I’m not actually a felon,” Derek says. “It asks if you were ever convicted. I wasn’t.”
“Not that part,” Stiles says. “The thing about your tattoos.”
“Them? Them? What do you mean them?”
Derek sighs. “I have two tattoos. Which one?”
Stiles sputters. “You do not have two tattoos. You have the mystical werewolf back tattoo and that’s it.”
Derek raises an eyebrow. “You’d be the expert on my body then?”
Stiles’ face flushes dully. “Obviously not. But I have seen you half-naked and dying often enough to be pretty certain.”
“There you go,” Derek replies, turning back to the TV.
“What does that mean?” Stiles demands.
“It means you’ve only seen me half-naked. The tattoo is on the other half.”
Stiles’ eyes take on a glazed expression. “Which part of the other half? Are we talking embarrassing butt tattoo? Left cheek? Right cheek—? No, it’s not the right cheek, that harpy shredded your pants last fall.”
Derek lets out a low grumble. He still doesn’t like talking about that.
“Stiles, leave it alone.”
“I am insulted. You have known me long enough to know that I am constitutionally incapable of following that directive. I am wounded, wounded to my very—”
“It’s on my left hip,” Derek snarls. “Now drop it.”
“Oh, I’ll drop it, buddy,” Stiles mutters, subsiding. “I’ll drop it like it’s hot.”
Derek has no idea what that means, but he figures it’s nothing good.
“Really, Stiles?” Derek says, sighing heavily. He stops unbuttoning his jeans and turns to his bedroom window in time to hear, “Oh, shit!” then a series of crashes and yelps.
When he leans out the window, Stiles is sitting in the bushes, rubbing his lower back and scowling.
“I’m calling the cops,” Derek says. “There’s a man outside my house. I feel unsafe.”
“You’re such a dickhead,” Stiles says. “I think I broke my spine.”
“It matches your broken brain,” Derek replies, shutting the window.
He makes his way downstairs and heads outside. Stiles is still sitting in the dirt, and he does look a little banged up.
“What are you doing!” Stiles says when he sees him. “You’re giving the neighborhood a show!”
Derek glances down at his bare torso and half-unbuttoned jeans, shrugging. “So? C’mon, you’ve got a cut on your face.”
He tugs Stiles to his feet and tries to usher him inside. Stiles is moaning the whole time.
“Oh my God, this is not good for my rep,” Stiles says. “You’re leading me into your den of iniquity and the neighbors will talk. You look like you got interrupted, okay, interrupted doing carnal things.”
“Stiles, shut up,” Derek says, almost fondly, and pushes Stiles inside. Then he leans back out his front door and raises his voice. “That’s right, boy, take off your clothes.”
Sure enough, Mrs. Pritchard closes her curtains with a gasp and Derek can make out the electronic sounds of a phone being dialed.
“You suck,” Stiles says. “Emotional distress. You should tell me what your tattoo is to make me feel better.”
“Go get the bandaids,” Derek replies, shutting the door.
“Derek,” says Sheriff Stilinski.
“Your first shift is next Monday. You can come in for your uniform fitting this Wednesday.” The Sheriff twitches a little when he says it.
Derek sighs. “Is Stiles going to try to sneak into the fitting?”
“He’s driving me crazy,” the Sheriff says all in a rush. “Put him out of his misery, why don’t you? He walks around the house talking out loud about what it could be. I don’t need those kinds of images about my new deputy.”
Derek massages his temples. “If we keep giving into him, he’s always going to be this annoying.”
The Sheriff sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “Derek, believe me when I say that there’s no win for either of us here.”
“You really seem to want to see me naked,” Derek says mildly, pulling off his sweaty tank top and tossing it on the bench.
“Eep,” the locker behind him squeaks.
Derek towels his neck dry. “Should I read something into that, Stiles?”
The locker is suspiciously silent.
“I’m going to head home now,” Derek says, pulling out a clean shirt from his gym bag. “The Zumba class lets out in five minutes. You should probably be gone by then. They can break your neck with their thighs.”
Stiles is pretty creative, and Derek can only take about two months of that creativity before he heaves a deeply irritated sigh, hangs up his gun holster, and pulls Stiles out of his hall closet.
“How do you keep getting in,” Derek asks no one in particular, tossing a struggling Stiles over his shoulder and trudging up the stairs.
“Your security is really lax for a newly minted deputy,” Stiles says, the words punched out of him as Derek’s shoulder digs into his gut. “I’m just—oof—alerting you to its flaws.”
“I wish someone would have alerted me to your flaws,” Derek says, pushing his bedroom door open with his foot.
“Please,” Stiles scoffs, “You love my—Derek, why are we in your bedroom?”
“Yes,” Derek says patiently.
“Yes, I love your flaws.”
Stiles is wide-eyed. “It’s finally happened. I’ve crossed into a parallel dimension.”
Derek groans out a laugh, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I’ll make you a deal: You show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.”
“I don’t have a tattoo,” Stiles says. “That’s totally not fair! Fine, I’ll go out and get a tattoo, you asshole, and when I get back—”
“Stiles, get in the fucking bed and get naked,” Derek growls.
Stiles mouth snaps shut. For about three blissful seconds.
“I never want to leave this dimension, holy God.”
“You are such a pain in my ass,” Derek says. “I’m gonna get some stuff from the bathroom. Be in that bed and ready when I get back.”
That’s pretty satisfying.
Derek takes a deep breath and steps into the room. He gives Stiles a second to take it in.
Stiles makes a garbled noise.
“Is that… is that a Care Bear?”
“It was a dare from Laura,” Derek says, folding his arms and leaning against the doorframe. He’s a little insulted that he’s naked and Stiles is too busy staring at his tattoo to appreciate the rest of him.
“It’s… Derek, it’s Grumpy Bear.”
Stiles launches himself out of the bed and wraps his arms around Derek, kissing him full on the mouth. “I love you so much,” he says.
“That’s nice,” Derek replies, his hands going to Stiles’ hips. “If you tell anyone, I’m going to rip your throat out.”
“Are you kidding?” Stiles says. “This knowledge is mine, all mine. Now get in that bed, I need to lick you in a lot of places, including that tattoo.”
“Fair enough,” Derek says, and tumbles them down to the bed.
Of course, because it’s Stiles, things are never that easy.
“Care Bear Alpha Stare!” Stiles shouts, and dissolves into honking laughter.
Derek is in love with an idiot.
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