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Stiles is totally not shocked when, a mile from home, the jeep makes an alarming grinding sound and judders. It’s been a textbook Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day, with a for-sure bombed chem midterm just one of the sparklers strewn through the total swamp that has awaited him since he tripped on his comforter that morning. It figures, really.
After the car trundles to a stop, he rests his forehead against the wheel and moans feebly for a second, trying to get up the courage to leave his relatively dry cocoon. Urgh, this’ll teach him to try to take a shortcut on one of the abandoned back roads. He eventually graduates to leaving the door open and staring morosely out into the rain for a good five minutes, before he realises he’s just letting the meagre heat out and there’s literally no other option going to rear up and save him.
The rain is so cold and strong it feels like tiny shards of glass hammering down on the top of his head, needling the exposed skin of his hands and snatching his breath away.
“Jesus christ,” he gasps, hiking his plaid overshirt over his head to try to deflect the worst of it. He’s debating whether to lift the hood or just start rifling through his pockets for his cell when he hears it – the tiniest, most pathetic little sound. It sort of sounds like – like a baby, which is terrifying. He swallows and jams his cell back in his pocket.
“Hello?” he calls, which is dumb, right, because a baby couldn’t answer him anyway, well done Stiles, you genius – but then he catches sight of the cardboard box. Well, to be totally fair, it’s more of a brown mush, the sides slowly folding under the weight of the water, collapsing out like flower petals.
“Oh my god,” he says, when he sees the tiny black ball huddled in a corner. There’s a flash of green as he gets closer, his shirt still tented over his head, as the kitten turns its head and looks at him. The inside of its mouth is so pink and vulnerable when it lets out another forlorn wail that Stiles physically feels something clamping down on his heart.
“You’re okay, little one,” he says, pitching his voice as soothingly as he can, leaning down slowly, careful to make no sudden movements. It doesn’t seem like the kitten’s about to bolt, but you never know. It doesn’t move, just watches Stiles with a deep weariness. He wonders how long it’s been out here, if maybe it’s got sick. It’s soaked through so thoroughly that its eyes look enormous. He knows there's probably some protocol he should follow here, but he has no idea what it is. This isn't a situation he ever pictured himself in. He knows he should at least be kind of worries that she might scratch him or something, but he just feels an overwhelming need to get her out of the rain.
“Hey there, hi, hi,” he says, soothing nonsense as he reaches out his hands towards it – her, he feels certain, for some reason – and scoops her up gently. For a tiny, irrational second he’s worried his fingertips will go straight through her, she looks so delicate. He’s never felt so enormous, ungainly and clumsy as he fumbles her into the best, most comfortable position.
She makes no move to scratch or bite him, just sags against his hands like she’s saying oh, thank god, I worried you’d never come. Her green eyes slide closed.
So now Stiles is standing in the pouring rain next to a dead jeep with a sodden shirt plastered to the top of his head, and an abandoned, coal-black kitten cupped in his hands.
“We’re in trouble, sweetheart,” he sighs, as he brings her up towards his chest, and tucks her down the front of his sodden undershirt, cupping the bundle as close to his heart as he can manage, trying to warm her. He tries to think fast – she feels too cold to him, and his own body temperature can’t be helping that much, considering he’s absolutely drenched and his hands are shaking. Right, options – well, his dad is deathly allergic, Scott’s at work, Allison’s out of town and he left Lydia at her tutoring gig in the school library.
Great.
The Hale house is about ten minutes from here. As a last hope, it’s not exactly that comforting. Stiles sighs, and starts walking.
|
Stiles has to admit, he kind of expected Derek to be a little impressed at opening his front door to find Stiles dripping on the porch, having completed a daring rescue mission. Instead, Derek just blinks at him, like he can’t physically compute the sight of Stiles standing there.
In fairness, that might just be because he’s fixated on the tiny kitten head that’s popped up over the round neck of Stiles’ t-shirt.
“Hey, what about that,” Stiles says, grinning against the water dripping down from his eyelashes and sliding down his cheek into his mouth. “She must be feeling a little better!”
“Stiles, what the hell,” Derek says, just exactly like that, completely without inflection.
“We need to come in,” Stiles says firmly. The kitten meows imperiously.
|
To Stiles’ surprise, Derek is able to produce a stack of soft, clean, fluffy bathtowels. They’re sky blue, with a border of happy little goldfish.
“Isaac,” Derek grunts, when he notices Stiles looking.
“Wasn’t even going to say anything.” Stiles swears, as he sheds his sodden overshirt and carefully wraps the kitten in the smallest towel. Her little head peeks out of the bundle, and it’s so cute Stiles might actually die.
“Um,” he says, gently trying to scoop her up. He’s a little uncertain about how to rub her dry without hurting her. Maybe a hairdryer would be better, Erica’s sure to have one somewhere…
“Give it to me, you’re making a mess of this,” Derek demands after a second, thrusting one hand at Stiles. Stiles raises an eyebrow.
“Yeah, right,” he says, pulling her protectively in to his chest. “You’ll crush her with your big old wolf hands.”
“I won’t,” Derek says, rolling his eyes like Stiles is the most tiresome thing in the entire universe. “Give her to me, and worry about getting yourself dry. You’re dripping everywhere.”
“Like it makes a difference,” Stiles grumbles, but he hands her over. The next part of his plan kind of relies on Derek getting attached to her, after all. He watches very closely and threateningly for a few seconds, but the kitten makes no sign of distress under Derek’s careful ministrations. In fact, she seems to be purring with pleasure. Derek’s hands completely dwarf her, it’s ridiculous.
“Why do I have to wear your clothes?” Stiles complains, as he averts his gaze to inspect the bundle that Derek brought down with the towels, under extreme duress. “Why couldn’t I have some of Isaac’s?”
Those would still be too big, but at least they’d just be too long - Derek’s clothes are just going to be plain baggy on him all over. Humiliatingly.
Derek just looks appalled. “What, and go through Isaac’s stuff while he’s not even here?”
“You have some weird-assedly specific moral boundaries,” Stiles mutters, as he picks up the dry clothes in one hand and sheds his sopping overshirt with the other.
“I’ll – I’ll just,” Derek says, very quickly, as if he’s afraid that Stiles is literally about to drop his pants in front of him, and indicates the door before shuffling out of it. Stiles blinks after him. God, Derek is so weird.
|
Derek’s sweatpants still hang low on his hips despite Stiles attempting to truss himself up like a turkey with the drawstrings, but he has to admit that he’s a damn sight more comfortable in dry clothes. The ones Derek’s given him are well-loved, washed to a thin softness. He only has to push the sleeves up a little, too. He has the sudden thought that Derek may have essentially given Stiles what he uses for pyjamas.
When he catches up to Derek and the kitten, Derek is half-asleep with his head tilted back against the couch cushions, the kitten in his lap and occasionally biting the cuff of his sweater contentedly. She looks up and meows at the sight of Stiles, like she’s pleased.
Derek’s hands are forming a barrier across his thighs, so she can’t run and fall off – it turns out to have been a good call, because she bounces a little and tries to start towards him. The corner of Derek’s mouth turns up as he stops her, and Stiles’ heart feels like it’s being squeezed. He feels… really peculiar, actually.
“See? Nobody’s been squashed,” Derek says, tone almost teasing, as Stiles collapses down on the sofa beside them and lifts the kitten onto his lap. God, he’s turning into one of those nauseating parents who can’t be away from their kid for ten seconds without getting all grabby. It’s breaking his heart that he can’t take her home.
Which, actually, um. Probably time to fill Derek in on his plan.
“So,” Stiles starts, as casually as possible. Derek turns his head to look at him, and it seems like he’s trying to narrow his eyes, but his pupils are weirdly blown so it isn’t really working. He looks kind of… fuzzy in general. Probably the last cobwebby remnants of half-sleep.
Stiles licks his lips. “Um, my dad’s allergic? To cats? And there’s no point trying to find her owners, because she was for real definitely abandoned, and if I ever did find her owners I’d punch them in the face anyway, not give her back. So…”
Derek’s still fuzzy around the eyes, and lying languidly against the couch, but he’s very definite when he says, “no.”
“No? No to what? I didn’t even say anything yet!” Stiles protests. The kitten mrrowrs her agreement.
“I know where this is going, Stiles, and the answer is no. I already have three full-time betas, one part-time beta, and the part-timer’s hangers-on to deal with, the last thing we need is a pet running round.”
The tone is relatively stern, but Derek still has that hazy look. What is that about? While he’s thinking about it, the kitten starts trying to climb her way up his arm, and when Stiles lifts his other arm to stop her, the look on Derek’s face suddenly gets even funnier.
Ohhhh, it must be a scent thing. That actually makes perfect sense. Derek’s clothes on Stiles are probably making Stiles smell more like pack than he already does anyway. This is perfect, actually -if he smells like pack, holding the kitten will make her smell like pack. He resists the sudden urge to stuff her in his armpit for maximum transference, and then nearly pulls something smothering a laugh at the image.
“It’ll teach the pack about responsibility!” Stiles says brightly, settling back into a comfortable position with the kitten on his chest, unruffled. He just needs to eke this conversation out. Either the scent will work or it’ll get late enough that the betas will get home, catch sight of her, and completely steamroller Derek anyway.
“No,” Derek says, but it already seems less forceful. Stiles shifts minutely towards him, hoping to waft the scent at him more strongly. …well, this is already getting weird, look at that.
“She has nowhere else to go?” Stiles tries, and he seems to have hit a bingo - Derek pauses for the first time. Stiles can practically see his ears prick up. Stiles can taste victory – the key is not to overdo it. For a few seconds, Derek just watches as the kitten continually tries to start climbing Stiles again, and is gently dissuaded. Stiles is so sure he’s about to relent, but then Derek’s eyebrows draw back together, like clouds scudding across the sun.
“Yeah, alright – a cute little kitten has nowhere to go?“ he snorts, crossing his arms across his chest. Goddammit. “I’m not stupid, Stiles. Take her to Deaton’s, she’ll be adopted out in about ten minutes. Five if you keep giving her pouting lessons.”
Stiles opens his mouth to unleash a torrent of righteous indignation at that, because he doesn’t pout, it’s called natural charm, Derek - but he’s just thought of something Scott told him after a shift at the animal clinic.
“Black cats are way less likely to get adopted out, actually,” he says, widening his eyes as much as possible, but definitely not pouting. The kitten chooses that moment to let out the sweetest little mewl, and Stiles brushes his thumb against her chest in encouragement, trying not to grin. He subtly tries to move her so she’ll be flashing her big green eyes at Derek with full force.
That really does make Derek pause. They’ve somehow got super close on the couch. Stiles coughs because he suddenly feels strangely tense.
“Not that I don’t think you’re completely capable of bullshitting your way to what you want,” Derek murmurs, squinting suspiciously, “but, say I believe you. Why would the color make a difference?”
“People think they’re bad luck,” Stiles says, tone casual as possible, shrugging one shoulder.
“But that’s ridiculous,” Derek says.
“People are ridiculous,” Stiles says. It sort of rolled over him when Scott first said it, but now that he thinks about it, it really makes him kind of mad. “I guess they figure, there are always plenty of cats, why take a chance on a black one?”
Derek shifts uncomfortably. The kitten continues to stare at him, and Stiles does his best to mirror her pitiful, hopeful look. Finally, Derek groans, long and heartfelt.
“The two of you have way more eye than normal people,” he sighs, rubbing his temple with his index finger. “Turn those things off. She can stay.”
“You hear that?” Stiles says delightedly, rubbing his cheek against the top of her head. He can’t help himself, she’s so soft. “You can stay!”
She seems to understand the significance of this, as she purrs deep in her chest like a train. Stiles can feel the vibration against his fingers.
Derek Hale in unable-to-turn-away-outcast shocker. Stiles does know, really, that Derek’s secretly a marshmallow, but it’s nice to have the reminder.
“You’re about to be knee-deep in betas squabbling over her,” Derek warns him, as there’s the sound of tires approaching and stopping outside the Hale house.
“Bring it on,” Stiles says, beaming. The kitten butts her head against the point of his chin.
Of course, when the betas come into the den to see a surprise kitten, it’s utter pandemonium. Stiles watches from the couch as she’s passed from hand to hand, squealed over by the girls, and deluged in impressively incomprehensible babytalk by both Isaac and Scott. Stiles has to tell the story of her rescue like three times over.
She’s not quite enough, however, to distract Erica completely from the fact that Stiles is wearing Derek’s clothes – to her lascivious raised eyebrow, he furiously mouths it was raining!, and sneaks a nervous glance at Derek out of the corner of his eye. Thankfully, he’s buried in serious shoptalk with Boyd, who’s making a list of all the things they need to buy or do in order to embark on the journey of responsible kitten ownership.
“This little one needs a name,” Isaac says, as he rubs her against his cheek, obviously a million percent besotted. The kitten puts up with all this fawning like a true queen.
“Oh no,” Derek whispers, so quietly that Stiles is pretty sure it was an involuntary reaction that nobody else was supposed to hear.
Stiles is sure that’s a total overreaction, though. They’re all adults, how bad could it be?
|
Turns out the answer is, pretty fucking bad. It’s been a long, long hour and twenty so far. Isaac skyped Peter in after about ten minutes, and he’s still around because Isaac just makes wounded bushbaby eyes and says but – but he’s still pack whenever anyone objects. All he’s done so far is troll proceedings by suggesting, alternately, the names of Disney princesses and unpronounceable things taken from the Old Lore, a great percentage of which feature sounds that are no longer part of the English language.
“Ariel!” he says, in the lull after Lydia suggests ‘Lady’, and Stiles can feel a twitch starting under his left eye.
“What about Pumpkin,” he says, loudly, hoping that if he ignores Peter as strenuously as possible then he’ll eventually give up. Erica makes a pouty little face.
“I don’t really think she looks like a Pumpkin,” she says, lifting the kitten up in front of her face, and then giggling as she tries to bat one of her curls.
“Esmeralda,” Peter suggests, even more loudly. Stiles is just turning round to stab the mute button on the laptop when Isaac actually makes a considering face.
“She’d make a pretty good Esmeralda,” he says. “Black fur, green eyes.”
“Could call her Ezzie for short,” Boyd agrees. Though honestly, Stiles gets the feeling he just wants this to be over. Stiles can’t believe his life. He’s going to put this bout of insanity down to the fact that pretty much anything would sound good after Peter’s last suggestion of what sounded like Hrashzy’zkltyliqarrya.
“I object to anything Peter suggests on principle,” he yelps. Lydia makes a face of supreme distaste.
“I agree,” she sniffs. Stiles resists the urge to high-five her.
Scott speaks up for the first time in twenty minutes.
“I think we should call her Batman,” he says, and there’s a silence so epic and prolonged that Stiles is pretty sure he can everyone’s individual breathing. Including Peter’s.
“Why the hell would we call her that?” Lydia asks eventually, and Stiles has to privately agree that it seems… Left-field at best.
“No, no wait, hear me out,” Scott says, slipping out of his seat and scooping the kitten out of Erica’s hands. “See how her ears are a little too big for her?”
He points at them, finger just grazing the baby-fine fluff she has covering them. She twitches them and purrs like it’s a game.
“Like, don’t bite me or whatever, Stiles, she’s still really cute and all, she’s the most cute, I’m not like, badmouthing her. But she kind of looks a little bit like a bat, right?”
Stiles squints at her. …oh great, now he can’t unsee it.
“Could call her Battie for short,” Boyd says sagely. Lydia nods with great gravity, like he hadn’t already basically just suggested this about thirty seconds ago. Stiles can hardly dare to hope they may have reached an accord, after having discarded what feels like five hundred names.
“Okay, is anyone going to be able to look at her and think anything but Battie from now on, even if we name her something else?” Derek asks, the first sound he’s made since the whole debate began.
There’s a slow chorus of hesitant but honest ’no’s. Democracy at its finest. Scott beams proudly.
“Now we’ve obviously made today’s most important decision,” Derek says, voice heavy with a suppressed eyeroll, “she needs to go to Deaton’s to be checked over. We still don’t know how healthy she is.”
“I’ll drive!” Erica offers immediately, producing the camaro keys from somewhere. Stiles wouldn’t be able to swear in a court of law that she didn’t pull them from her bra.
There’s an immediate chiming of 'I’ll come!', but Derek shakes his head.
“You can’t all go,” he says. “You need to make sure Stiles can go, too.”
Stiles just looks at him. That’s – really surprisingly thoughtful.
“She might get distressed,” Derek says, raising his voice over the clamor of disappointment. “Stiles found her, and he’s her favorite.”
Now Stiles is blushing, this is ridiculous. Erica smirks at him, and he determinedly turns his face away.
“The rest of you can help start dinner,” he says, sighing at the thought.
“Wait, you’re not coming?” Stiles blurts, before his brain really catches up with his mouth. It’s dumb, and he can’t explain it, but he really kind of wants Derek there. Stiles found Battie, sure, but like. Derek didn’t even have to open his door to them, never mind agree to take her in. It feels a little bit like they’re in this together.
Derek looks taken aback, and maybe even sort of pleased.
“Well, no,” he says. “She doesn’t really need me, does she?”
Stiles shrugs. That’s true, he guesses. And probably Deaton would rather not have a bazillion people hovering round him while he tries to check her over. That doesn’t actually make him feel any better, though.
|
Well, he was totally right to be feeling so uneasy, because Deaton’s turns out to be a horrible, awful ordeal.
“What happened?” Lydia asks, when the returning vet party trudges through the hallway of Derek’s house, tight-mouthed. “You all look traumatized.”
“She had to get a shot,” Scott explains darkly. Stiles trails after him with Battie wrapped in the littlest goldfish towel.
Lydia’s lip quirks up a little like she’s trying not to laugh.
“Oh dear,” she says. Derek appears behind her from the kitchen, and Stiles could wilt with relief.
“Here, you take her,” he says, bundling her into Derek’s arms. “I need to sit down, and she needs to feel a calm heartbeat.”
“A shot?” Derek demands, as he cradles Battie to his chest without missing a beat. She makes a sound like she’s crying, and he gently cups her head to soothe her. “What’s wrong with her? Why did she get a shot?”
“There’s nothing wrong,” Erica says wearily, as she collapses down beside Stiles, stretching her legs out. The vet trip was totally exhausting, Stiles can’t even believe it. After that, and walking a mile in a typhoon earlier, he’s so bone-tired he could fall right asleep on the couch.
“It was just in case, is all. He says she’s about nine weeks, though it’s hard to be too sure because she’s a little underweight. She seems healthy though – he listened to her chest and everything. Says she must not have been out there very long before Stiles found her, at least,” Scott recites. He looks pained. “She really didn’t like that shot, though.”
“Didn’t like it, huh?” Derek asks Battie, voice pitched low, and she rubs her head back and forth against his chest, her eyes closing. Stiles has the sudden irrational desire to be rocked to sleep against Derek’s chest, too. God, he really is exhausted.
“I think you had the right idea, avoiding the whole thing,” Stiles says to Derek, with a sigh. He’s going to hear her betrayed squealing in his nightmares tonight.
“It’s tough being a dad,” Erica grins, and shoves Stiles in the shoulder.
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Battie sleeps the whole way through dinner, and then after she’s roused herself enough to eat some of the food they picked up at Deaton’s (from the broadest cereal bowl they can find, in lieu of an actual cat bowl. It’s Peter’s, which brings Stiles a particularly vicious stab of pleasure) she’s back to her sunny self, running around the den, attacking people’s feet and amusing everyone. Just the right mood for a trip to the pet store, armed with Boyd’s extensive list.
The pet store is beyond huge. It’s like – it’s sickeningly huge. It’s more like an out-of-town warehouse than a store, in fact. It’s late, so it’s not too busy, which is a blessing, at least. There are a few pet owners walking around, some dogs on leashes, one particularly brave man toting a giant houserabbit.
Stiles feels winded by all the brightly-colored packaging, the tanks of shimmering fish, and the endless displays of stuff he’s never heard of. Thankfully, the rest of the pack is in their element, rushing off and grabbing endless plastic trinkets and reading the backs of enormous boxes. Stiles is free to hang back with Derek, Battie and the cart.
“She likes this,” Isaac says firmly, as he brandishes a pink, feathered thing in Stiles’ face and then drops it in the cart.
“I’m pretty sure Battie didn’t actually express a preference one way or the other,” Stiles snits, because Battie is mostly staring, amazed, at the petstore’s enormous fluorescent lights overhead and flicking her tail contentedly.
“Ooh, she needs a pink flea collar! Be right back,” Lydia says, and she and Erica dart hand-in-hand off into another aisle, just a blur of red and blonde hair.
“I’d like some stuff for her that isn’t pink,” Stiles gripes in their wake. “Her name’s Batman, for god’s sake.”
Derek smiles with half his mouth.
“I’ll try to put my foot down about her bed. What do you think, green?” he says. He’s pushing the cart, and Battie is riding in the little basket that’s stuck to the handlebar, in the position where normal carts have a baby seat. She’s wrapped against the cold in the goldfish towel. Women all over are quietly swooning when Derek passes them, and it’s unreasonably making Stiles sour.
“Yeah,” he says, kicking a loose ripple of linoleum with the toe of his sneaker. He still feels dumb being out in clothes that clearly don’t fit him, but he’s a little viciously glad when one of the swooners seems to twig that they might be Derek’s, and gives him the stinkeye. Just – just because it’s funny. No other reason.
“Green for the blankets, and wicker for the bed,” he says. Not that he’s thought about it. His mom used to have a cat when she was a kid, and there’s a photograph of the two of them above Stiles’ desk in his room. Buster had a wicker bed. It looked comfortable.
Stiles’ contemplation is interrupted when Scott suddenly lunges out of a nearby aisle, brandishing a bowl.
“This is perfect for her!” he gabbles, shoving it at Stiles.
“Oh my God,” Stiles laughs, his earlier mood thoroughly banished as he realizes what he’s been handed. “I can’t believe you found that!”
It’s – seriously – a white ceramic catbowl with little cartoon bats all over it. It’s perfect. When he shows it to Battie, she obediently sniffs it for a second.
“Look, she likes it,” Stiles grins. “What do you know - Scott McCall, secret cat whisperer.”
Scott grins, bashful. Isaac then comes running up from behind them like someone trying to get away from an explosion in a disaster movie. Stiles needs less insane friends.
“We – we can all go home now,” he pants, winded, as he sags by the side of the cart, using it to hold himself up. “I’ve found – found the best thing in this whole store.”
He’s waving an enormous, fifty dollar, purple velvet cat display cushion with gold tassels. Stiles can’t help it – he laughs. He totally expects Derek to whap Isaac over the head with it and say like hell is he paying for that thing, but instead, he laughs too. He lifts Battie up gently and puts it on the bottom of the cart basket, settling her back on top. She immediately starts kneading it to her liking. Stiles catches Derek’s eye over her little head, then looks away.
|
Stiles isn’t sure how this happened, but it’s entirely possible they have a cart filled with several hundred dollars’ worth of mechanical wind-up mice, feathered things on wires, balls, soft things that squeak, a self-assembly scratching post/cat hotel monstrosity, a Liberace-esque pink diamante-studded collar, and stuff that is definitely not even for cats. Thankfully Boyd’s also put cat litter and flea stuff in there, as he’s apparently the only sensible person around for miles.
“Go get some more food,” Derek says, handing the cart over to Boyd, but not before scooping Battie out of the basket. “Deaton’s stuff won’t last long. Oh, and a leash. Just in case.”
“On it!” Erica says, grinning most likely at the thought of picking out an equally garish leash to go with Battie’s ludicrous new collar. Stiles has a moment where he wants to ask what he’s supposed to be doing next before they’ve raced off towards the leashes, which are at the other end of the store.
“Um,” he says to Derek, who just points towards the pet tag station near the cashiers.
“I thought we could go get her tag engraved,” he says mildly. Battie is definitely the calmest, mildest-mannered kitten in the entire world, because she just rests in Derek’s arms, flicking her tail and staring at Stiles. He keeps expecting her to go crazy and start running around like those insane cat videos on youtube.
“Oh,” Stiles says. “Um, sure.”
The engraver is a wizened little old man straight out of a Pixar movie, his glasses held on to his tufty head with elastic. Derek puts Battie up on the counter so she can walk around a little bit as they talk. With all three of them watching her like a hawk, she’s safe, and she can’t get stood on up here, or bullied by anything bigger.
“And who’s this little angel?” the engraver asks, beaming as Battie skitters along the counter between Stiles and Derek’s arms, chasing an imaginary butterfly.
“Batman,” Derek answers, poker-faced.
The engraver makes a bewildered face.
“That’s a strange name for a –“
“It’s a perfect name for a kitten,” Derek says immediately, not angrily, just firmly. The engraver smiles, and flicks a little glance at Stiles.
“Of course,” he says mildly. “Now, what can I do for you?”
“We need a tag that has her name – Battie, it’s B-A-T-T-I-E – and her address,” Derek says. The engraver nods, fumbling for a pen.
“Better to give it all to me at once,” he says. “Her address?”
Stiles rattles off Derek’s address automatically, without thinking. It’s only after he’s done it and the engraver shoots him this sly glance that he realizes what he just made this look like. Oh, god. He very determinedly averts his gaze from both Derek and the engraver, and focuses on Battie.
“And which tag would you like it on, sir?” the engraver asks Derek. Derek coughs into his fist.
“Give her, um, the silver heart-shaped one. With the little, ah, diamond,” he says, very quickly.
At Stiles’ incredulous look, he says defensively and somewhat shiftily, “what, like Lydia wouldn’t kill me if we didn’t get something that matched her collar.”
“It’ll be ready in ten minutes if you’d like to come back,” the engraver says, handing Derek a receipt. His tone is completely professional, but the way he’s looking between the two of them definitely is not. He looks almost criminally amused. Well, at least someone’s benefitting from Stiles’ pain.
“Thanks,” Derek says. He folds the receipt neatly and says to Stiles, “there was something else I wanted to look at, come on.”
‘Something else’ turns out to be the aisle of plushies. Stiles turns his head to look at the frankly disturbing range of ‘dead’ animals for sale, from rabbits to collapsed pheasants for Labs to practice on, and then Derek’s shoving something under his nose.
It’s a stuffed giraffe that’s totally bigger than Battie.
“It’s hard for them without their mothers,” Derek grunts by way of explanation, refusing to meet Stiles’ eye. “This thing simulates a heartbeat if you put a battery in it. We can put it in her bed so she won’t be lonely.”
And oh god, Stiles is having an emotional Moment in the middle of a pet store. He hates Derek so, so much.
“Okay,” he says, even though everything is absolutely, completely, and one hundred percent not okay. He was totally FINE managing this foolish crush on Derek through a carefully planned regime of utter denial, but now it’s ruined. In fact, he’s standing around in Derek’s clothes in the middle of joint adopting a cat – it’s BEYOND ruined, it’s a smoking crater in the ground. Stiles’ life is so unfortunate.
|
The cashier laughs for like a week. There actually may be tears in her eyes.
“What, did we run out of cat chandeliers?” she asks, as she rings up a metric tonne of ridiculous cat nonsense. Stiles is honestly not sure what some of this stuff even is. He’s certain they have at least one of every cat thing ever invented.
Isaac is beaming like this is an accomplishment.
By the time they drive back to the Hale house and get all the junk into the den, it’s almost eleven. Stiles’ dad is on nightshift, so he hasn’t had to do much more than text a couple times saying he’s eaten and he’s okay.
“You should stay here tonight,” Erica says to him when they’re all collapsed on the couch, watching while Battie chases a little ball that Isaac and Boyd are passing along the floor between them. Erica keeps her eye on Derek while she asks – it isn’t really her place to offer, Stiles supposes.
“There’s a spare bed,” Derek says, from Lydia’s other side. Stiles considers it – he’s done it before, once or twice, but that’s only been when everybody’s been around. Maybe this would be weird.
“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” Isaac points out from the floor. “And the jeep might start in the morning. Or, at least, we’d have some daylight to look at it.”
Erica, Lydia and Boyd managed to tow the jeep back to the house before dinner – very slowly. It’s still completely dead. He’d actually forgotten about it.
“Or I can give you a ride,” Erica says.
“I can do it,” Lydia says, patting Erica on the arm and yawning widely. “If you want, Stiles.”
He doesn’t really want, is the thing. He doesn’t want to leave Battie.
“Um,” he hesitates, looking at Derek.
“She might wake up in the night looking for you,” Boyd says from the floor, saving Stiles. Stiles could kiss him.
“She might,” he says. He totally feels like everyone can see through him, but nobody says anything at all.
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He really does feel kind of funny about leaving her in the kitchen that night, though. There’s no point putting her in the spare room with him, because he doesn’t want her to get used to having him around at night. He also doesn’t want to witness the epic argument between Erica and Isaac over who gets her bed in their room – besides, he knows she’d be in the catbed for five minutes and then she’d be sleeping up in the sheets, and he’s still irrationally worried about her getting crushed.
“It’s gonna be okay, baby,” Stiles says, as he pops her in her freshly made bed. The green blankets make her eyes absolutely piercing, but she doesn’t look worried at all by imminent separation. In fact, she yawns widely.
“Oh god, what if this scars her for life?” Stiles frets. “She’s already been completely abandoned once today.”
Derek shrugs. “She’s a tough girl, Stiles. You’re worrying about it more than she is. You can always have her in the room with you instead if you want.”
Nah, there are reasons they decided on the kitchen – hard, solid floor for if she has an accident; several cosy hidey places if she wants them; and she has a scratching post and all of her toys around if she wakes up and wants to play. Plus, no big human snorers to wake her.
Still.
“Take off your shirt,” Derek says suddenly, and Stiles wheels around to stare at him. What? Right here, right now? What is even going on?? This feels like a very, very strange version of a fantasy he nursed for like a week until it felt too pathetic to keep up, even in his own head.
“The shirt will smell of you,” Derek says to Stiles’ horrified expression. “We always had dogs when I was a kid, but I figure it’s close enough to the same thing. If she has your shirt, and the heartbeat giraffe thing, and the kitchen radio on low, she’s going to be a million percent fine.”
And, actually, it’s still Derek’s shirt, so it’ll smell of both of them. Stiles is not going to survive any of this, especially when Derek skins off his thin sweater and hands it to Stiles, presumably to protect his dignity. Or maybe he just really doesn’t want to see what Stiles has going on up there. Stiles can’t say he blames him.
Derek turns away to tune the radio, and Stiles sheds the shirt. He wraps it up into a loose sausage shape and props it around the back of the bed, so it surrounds her. Then he puts the giraffe – Mr Yellow, according to Isaac – a little closer to her. She yawns again, and her big green eyes slide closed. Stiles knows from his frantic googling that she’ll probably wake up the second they leave and not sleep again for a while, but so far, this isn’t too bad.
Derek’s finally convinced the radio to play some late-night fifties/sixties doowop jukebox show. Right now, it’s crooning goodnight sweetheart, which is so perfect Stiles would suspect somebody was looking out for them.
They creep out of the kitchen as quietly as possible, closing the door softly.
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Stiles wakes with a start at three. For a second he can’t remember where the hell he is, the mild yellow walls of the Hale house’s spare room are completely foreign.
Then he hears a high, thin wail – utterly distraught – and remembers everything. He climbs out of bed so fast he trips on the comforter, just like yesterday, and then runs out of the room as fast as he can without waking everyone else.
Battie is sitting by the kitchen door crying, but she stops as soon as she catches sight of him and sprints away back into her bed.
“Hi, honey,” he says softly, rubbing his eyes. Coffee, he needs coffee. Or maybe tea would be better, on second thought. “Were you scared?”
He’s just about to settle down on the floor beside her bed when Derek appears in the doorway, his hair sticking straight up over his left ear. Stiles can’t laugh, though, not when he probably looks way worse.
“She okay?” Derek asks.
Stiles figures that probably, with werewolf senses, she was making an unbearable din, but Derek doesn’t look crabby. Just tired.
At Stiles’ nod, he goes to open a cupboard, looking for mugs. The radio is playing something almost unbearably sweet and restful as Battie tries to chew on Stiles’ fingers, and Stiles thinks he could probably stop time, just like this. Derek settles down on the floor beside him and hands him a mug of something steaming – it’s probably nigh-undrinkable, given Derek’s particular lack of talent in that area, but it’s still pleasingly warm against Stiles’ palm.
Stiles wants so badly to lay his head against Derek’s shoulder that his mouth goes dry. He wishes, not for the first time ever, that he knew even a little of what Derek was thinking.
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Stiles wakes up with a crick in his neck in the den, Derek snoring on the other couch. Ugh, god, his mouth tastes dreadful. Battie is sleeping in the dark space under the sofa, just the tips of her black paws peeking out.
It’s only then that Stiles smells the pancakes properly – Erica appears in the doorway to the kitchen, grinning and wielding a spatula.
“God, you three were dead to the world,” she says. “These are just about ready. I’ll wake up Daddy Hale.”
She says it with a particular kind of joy, and Stiles has the sudden fear she’s just going to hit him with the spatula.
“No need,” Derek says fuzzily, watching them with one open eye. He must be in a good mood, because he doesn’t even object to the ‘daddy’ crack.
Later, Battie amuses herself by chasing a wind-up mouse across the garage floor while Erica and Boyd attempt to revive the jeep, and Isaac occasionally pretends to wield a wrench. It’s a restful, peaceful Saturday morning, and he’s disappointed when the jeep comes back from the dead and he has no excuse not to go home.
The rest of Stiles’ day sucks, honestly. He doesn’t really feel like talking about Battie to his dad, in case he feels guilty about being allergic or whatever, but that basically means he spends the whole day just glued to his phone. Thankfully, Erica is dedicated to keeping him up to date, with texts like Battie just sneezed! and Battie watching Buffy from Boyd’s shoulder, best seat in house!, accompanied frequently by pictures.
It’s stupid to miss her so much, he knows. It’s not like she’s a kid, or anything, after all.
Eventually his dad remarks on how often his phone is vibrating. They’re sitting eating a way more elaborate dinner than usual, because Stiles had to do something to distract himself, and his dad isn’t dumb.
“If there’s something you need to do, or somewhere you need to be, kiddo, you know. I’ll have other Saturday nights off,” he says gently. Stiles fiddles guiltily with his fork.
“No, it’s fine, we haven’t been able to eat together like this in like two weeks,” he says. He shoves his phone in his pocket and hitches up a smile. “It’s fine, it can wait.”
Stiles does his best to ignore his phone buzzing against his thigh and tries to listen to his dad’s story about the newest rookies on the force. He thinks he’s doing okay, but then they only get five minutes into their post-meal movie before the sheriff hits the pause button.
“Stiles, kid, if you don’t get the hell out of this house right now, I’m going to throw you out,” he says wearily. “Just – go do whatever it is. I’ll finish the movie by myself, I’ll be fine.”
Stiles hesitates. “Won’t you be lonely?”
His dad snorts.
“Right now I’m going to have to go back to the start anyway, because I don’t even know what happened, I was so distracted by you fidgeting. You’ll be happier, and I’ll be happier,” he reassures Stiles. “Believe me. Just don’t be back too late.”
Stiles jumps up from his seat and presses a smacking kiss to his dad’s forehead on his way past. The Sheriff swats him playfully on the arm, making a now get motion.
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He doesn’t want to risk taking the jeep, in case he gets stuck halfway. His dad’s taking it in to the shop on Monday, and he doesn’t want to drive before then. He could always call Lydia for a ride, but it feels pretty ridiculous to bother her just so he can see his cat.
Finstock’s always going on at him about his general fitness, so he figures a jog to the Hale house might not be a bad idea. The night is calm, cool, clear – absolutely beautiful. He starts off whistling a little, even.
…it starts to absolutely pour with rain when he’s almost exactly halfway there, naturally.
It’s too late to turn back now, so he sprints the last little way, the rain lashing off him, running down his ears, down below the collar of his t-shirt. He’s going to have to stop leaving the house without bringing a spare change of clothes. Every single inch of him is soaked, he could wring out his clothes and fill a bucket.
When he finally gets to the Hale house, Derek already has the door open. He doesn’t even look surprised. Battie is yowling from the floor, being expertly held back from running out to join Stiles by Derek’s left leg.
“Making a habit of this, Stiles,” is all he says. He’s even smiling, a little.
“Yeah yeah,” Stiles says, and does his best to shake himself off in the front porch. The rain is absolutely ferocious now, battering the house like a gale.
“Clothes in the den,” Derek says, pointing through the open door. “Isaac, Erica and Boyd are out.”
Stiles is horribly charmed by the fact that he actually seems to have interrupted Battie and Derek’s cosy night in. The kitchen radio is still playing oldies, and the den is littered with cat toys. When he goes in, Battie follows at his heels.
Derek reappears while Stiles is drying his hair with a towel, and quirks his mouth, says, “come here, you’re making a mess of it.”
Stiles isn’t sure quite what’s going on, but he obediently bends his head in front of Derek, who pulls the towel back over his hair and starts to rub – firmly, but not roughly. He really is super good at that. It feels weirdly intimate to have Derek’s hands against his scalp, and bizarrely inappropriate to be doing this in front of Battie.
It’s all probably just in Stiles’ feverish brain, though - maybe Derek does this for Erica when she’s tired, or something. It’s probably not meant to be kind of – sexy. It’s just that they’re alone, and the lights are low, and the radio’s playing a love song, so soft. A boy could get ideas, is all.
“Really should have put you in Isaac’s clothes this time,” Derek says wryly, so low that Stiles isn’t sure he’s even supposed to hear.
“Why?” he asks, genuinely confused. Derek pulls the towel away so Stiles can see.
“Come on, Stiles,” he says, chiding. He’s clutching the towel in an incredibly firm grip, like this is painful, though his tone is light, playing it off. “You’re not a dumb kid. You have to – you have to know why.”
And – wait, he can’t mean… Oh. Suddenly everything that’s happened makes a lot more sense. Stiles walking around in Derek’s clothes, the weirdly fuzzy way he agreed to take in Battie… Shit, was bringing Battie to him like, like asking Derek to adopt Stiles’ cub in crazy werewolf language?
…by the look on Derek’s face, Stiles is suddenly quite concerned it really was. Seems like Stiles couldn’t do anything about this if he wanted to.
Good thing he definitely, definitely doesn’t want to.
“You’re killing me here, Stiles, smelling like that,” Derek sighs, and although he doesn’t look embarrassed, Stiles immediately flushes hard enough for the both of them – he feels it come on so suddenly he’s shocked it doesn’t make an audible whooshing noise. It seems like an unbearably intimate thing to admit.
“Um – y-you, you can smell me, or whatever. I don’t care. I’m, uh, I’m amenable to all –“ Stiles babbles, but he trails off abruptly when Derek pulls him into his arms and makes a pleased sound.
“Oh god, I’ve been walking around smelling like mate, haven’t I?” Stiles says. All Erica’s mocking looks are slotting into place, too. His entire universe is shifting on its axis.
“’Fraid so,” Derek exhales. He doesn’t sound too horrified, though. The exact opposite, in fact.
“I suddenly have a very, very different perspective on all that clothes-swapping Lydia and Erica do,” Stiles mutters, with dawning horror, because together they could probably take down a small country. Derek huffs a laugh near Stiles’ ear, and then his mouth presses to the thin skin there. Stiles feels all his faculties surge immediately offline. He isn’t built to deal with this – god, he’s pretty sure nobody is.
Then there’s a loud noise from outside, probably just something blowing over in the storm, but Stiles is off-balance enough that he actually falls backwards in shock. Derek, despite his werewolf reflexes, doesn’t react quick enough, and they wind up lying sprawled on the den floor. Battie meows in concern, her little black face bobbing in Stiles’ vision for a second, before she decides that they’re fine, just stupid, and she prances off back to her pile of toys.
“Hi,” Stiles says to Derek, feeling slightly hysterical. Maybe Derek’s cutting off the oxygen flow to his brain.
“Hi,” Derek agrees from above him. Stiles feels a laugh coming on, because his life has gone seriously haywire in the space of less than forty-eight hours.
“Derek, you know, we’re in sole charge of a minor, here,” he says, his breathless tone kind of counteracting his attempt at concern. Although Derek rolls his eyes, Stiles totally sees the little smile tilt his mouth before he leans down, and Stiles - tingling with anticipation - closes his eyes.