or how about: scott dares stiles to move everything in derek's loft one inch to the left, except for one thing, and see how long it takes for derek to notice
Derek slides open the door to the loft, steps through, and slides it closed. He lets his eyes fall shut as he takes a deep breath in, ready to be reassured of home, safety; all things his.
Instead, his eyes snap open. “Stiles.” He states flatly to the empty room. Derek listens intently, awakening powerful senses to do so, but his loft is indeed empty. Derek growls in annoyance, his heart rate up, teeth itching for the growth into fang.
He takes a few, cautious steps forward into the loft. Stiles’ scent permeates the air, but does not seem concentrated in one place. Derek detects no notes of distress, fear or pain. Why the hell would Stiles be over in his loft and then leave? He wanders around, trying to get a grasp on Stiles’ movements and purpose through his scent trail, but he comes up with nothing.
It bothers Derek for the rest of the evening. He’s restless. He can’t get comfortable. Everything is wrong. He blames Stiles, oh how he blames Stiles. He can’t breathe, ugh. All he wanted was to come home and read a dusty tomb and relax. But no. Stiles was here. And there’s just…something not right all because of-
It winds up bothering Derek for far longer than the rest of the evening. It bothers him through the night-he can’t freaking sleep for some reason. It bothers him in the morning-having breakfast in his kitchenette, instead of grounding him, leaves him feeling wrong-footed.
He goes out for a run, when he comes back, everything is still wrong somehow. His shower leaves him feeling annoyed instead of clean and calm.
For three days, Derek endures a rising tide of frustration and aggravation. On the third day, Derek is walking by his coffee table when he notices it. A little ring of dust on the floor. It bothers him, so he crouches down to take a closer look. There’s two rings of dust on the floor, what? Derek sniffs cautiously, but the still faintly lingering scent of Stiles throws off anything else.
He glares at the two rings of dust, each about an inch or so away from the legs of the coffee table as if…as if…as if.
“Stiles.” Derek snarls with realization, a little bit of rage, and no small amount of vindication (he knew he wasn’t crazy, he knew things were wrong in here). With mounting fury, he checks the rest of the loft, his steps growing angrier and angrier. Everything. Every piece of furniture and spare bit of housekeeping that Derek owns has been moved 1 inch to the left.
If Derek were to measure it, it would probably be precisely 1 inch to the left because-“Stiles,” Derek finds him self breathing out into the silence of the loft once again. He finds himself sitting down on his couch, letting the shadows grow long as he contemplates…revenge.
First Derek steals the recharge cord for the controller to Stiles’ Xbox.
Then, “Hale.” The Sheriff greets him cautiously as he looks up at Derek’s knock on the doorway into his office.
"I brought donuts," Derek says seriously.
"Well come on in." The Sheriff says.
Then Derek waits until Scott and Stiles are going to have a ‘bro time’ night, and drags Scott out into the preserve with him. 3 separate times in a row. Derek teaches Scott things like what moss is edible and how to do back flips with style. It’s great. They bond. (Derek knows what nights are ‘bro time’ because he listens in on Stiles’ phone conversations.) (No, he is not a creeper, he prefers the term, ‘stalker’.) (Thank you.)
He brings the Sheriff a double greaseburger with extra large fries from the Beacon Drive-in for lunch.
He sneaks in (and no he’s not proud of this, but now he’s maybe having too much fun to stop) when Stiles is asleep and steals his economics homework right out of his school bag.
He spray paints on the back of that kid Liam’s house, ‘Stiles wuz here’.
The night he lifts Stiles’ spare from that ridiculous thing he calls a vehicle and lets the air out of his back right tire, Stiles walks back in the rain straight to Derek’s loft, not his house.
Derek’s waiting for him in the center of his living room (yes it is a living room goddammit, not a rave party’s wet dream), arms crossed over his chest, his best asshole look on his face, and a not inconsiderable amount of glee. Which, considering his age, is maybe a little disturbing.
"You." Stiles accuses, as he storms inside, limbs in all directions, his eyes wild, bringing with him the scent of rain and righteous fury.
"Me?" Derek parrots back with an eyebrow raise.
Stiles stomps straight over to Derek, who smirks in anticipation.
He’s completely ready for Stiles to get all up in his space. He’s even ready for Stiles to grab to fistfuls of his shirt (kid’s grown bold in his old age).
He’s even secure enough in his victory to allow Stiles to jerk him forward.
He’s completely unprepared for Stiles’ lips (soft parted raindrops sweet) to press against his.
Derek’s arms uncross from his chest and drop to his sides in shock.
"You," Stiles pulls back and glares at him, "I hate you.”
Derek nods in agreement, even as he leans forward into the next press of Stiles’ lips against his own (warm now full slightly parted sweet sweet).
They break apart for air.
"You ruined my loft," Derek growls.
"I want my fucking charger cord back," Stiles hisses.
They come together again, and this time Stiles gets a hand around the back of Derek’s neck, and Derek slides both his hands under Stiles’ wet t-shirt.
They break apart once more for air.
"You fed my dad junk food," Stiles accuses, lips swollen and (Derek is pleased to see) tender looking.
"Yeah I did, I think he likes me better than you now," Derek grins.
They kiss again, angry, demanding, life-affirming.
Stiles’ scent is going to be everywhere again, Derek reflects. As Stiles slips an aggressive tongue inside his mouth, Derek supposes that’s not going to bother him much anymore.
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