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It's not the best neighborhood. By far not. But he likes it. Although it's kinda shady and possible dangerous. Good thing he's the proud owner of a gun. He could have a nicer apartment in a nicer neighborhood. Even with his poor excuse of a salary. The real estate prices fell a lot since the frequent murder sprees in the last couple of years. His realtor said it was because of the bad economy. Sure, let's go with that.
There is no way he could have continued to live cramped up in the last one. That little house near the school whose walls were closing in on him at night. He needs the open space.
He's not going to admit it out loud – people would declare him insane – but he loves Beacon Hills. It's not exactly what his therapist suggested, but she can't blame him. It's not his fault Beacon Hills is the haven for all that is crazy. It was highly suggested that he takes a desk job in a small town. That's exactly what he did. It was supposed to be good for him. After all that happened. As expected it started kind of boring. Like he imagined and dreaded. Thankfully it turned around.
He likes the Sheriff, he really does, but he is not surprised the FBI was around. Not after he actually bothered to look into why Beacon Hills had all the job openings in the department. Every other person would have been freaked out. Serial killers, mysterious animal attacks and way too many open cases. Any other town and Stilinski wouldn't be around anymore. Hell, last year more than half of his department was murdered by a serial killer and a couple of months later the sheriff was abducted by another killer who later was found dead in the wood under mysterious circumstances. It's funny that there are still people left in Beacon Hills. Still, it should be statistically impossible for it to continue this way.
He was supposed to have some quiet time. A little desk work, handing out a couple of parking tickets. Normal, small town police work. What he's not supposed to do, is handle disappearing and reappearing teenagers, Yakuza bosses being murdered, bombs and all that other mysterious shit that keeps happening.
Until he actually crossed paths with them, the sword-swinging ninjas that apparently stabbed Agent McCall were his favorite. The guy is a douche. Maybe he was just doing his work, but his coworkers are convinced there's a part of him that was messing with the Sheriff because he has the hots for McCall's ex-wife. That doesn't explain why he put in a good word for the Sheriff once the review came up, but let them speculate. He's not here to get involved in his superior's love life.
“Shit!” Why did he think he could handle the renovations on his own? He can dismantle a rifle and diffuse who knows how many types of exploding devices, but he's going to drown in his kitchen, because he can't fix a broken sink.
He empties the buckets of water down the toilet puts the biggest one back under the steady drip and decides that it's probably time to pay a visit to his sketchy neighbors. Maybe the drug dealer down the hall owns a tool box.
Are people in small towns not supposed to be nice to their neighbors? He wasn't waiting for cupcake baskets but they could open the door when someone knocks asking for help. He wouldn't even mention the distinct smell of weed that comes out of some of the apartments.
The last stop is the neighbor upstairs, before he has to check if he can go for a swim in his kitchen yet. If nothing helps, Dorian gets his own room. He deserves a better aquarium for not dying on him yet. That fish is tougher than some people he knows.
Mentally he's already thinking if he can afford to call a plumber if he manages to tile the bathroom on his own. There has to be a YouTube tutorial for that kind of thing, right? When the unexpected happens. The door opens.
“Oh, hello.”
He should be more surprised that he moved into the same building as Beacon Hills' resident murder suspect.
“Are you here to arrest me?”
How sad is it that that's his first conclusion to seeing a police officer at his door? At least he thinks that Hale really meant the question. Who knows with him. Everything the guy says sounds sarcastic.
“I wanted to ask if I can borrow a screwdriver or something.”
The furrow of his brows probably means he wants him to elaborate. “I just moved in and kinda broke my sink.”
“And a screwdriver is gonna fix it?”
Hopefully. “Yeah?”
Without another word, but a raised eyebrow Hale turns around. He's just going to take the open door as a sign that he's supposed to wait. He's not as presumptuous as to take it as an invitation to go inside. But he does lean a little forward to look inside. The loft looks normal enough. As normal as any of the apartments in this building can look.
“Here.”
It's weird to think that someone with a hole in the wall actually owns a toolbox. Maybe he likes having a hole in the wall. Who is he to judge? The only thing in his apartment that is not a mess is his closet.
“Thank you.” Not that he actually knows what to do with them, now that he has the tools.
He didn't realize that he stood there long enough staring at the box in his hand for Hale to start questioning his presence. “Is that all?”
“I have no idea how to use this stuff.”
“So you came asking for it, because...?”
“Yeah, I don't know. Sorry. I'll just call a plumber. It's what I should've done in the first place. Sorry again.” He pushes the box towards Hale and hurries back down the hallway and downstairs.
Half an hour of watching Dorian swim around and he has his breathing and erratic heartbeat back under control. He was kinda fine until the bomb in the station. After that they came back. They don't come as often as in the beginning but the littlest things still set them off. Luckily this time it wasn't as bad for him to call the doc.
Still trying to maneuver the overflowing bucket without spilling all of the water, he startles when he hears a knocking.
“It's Sunday,” Hale says without a greeting and like it explains why he's standing at his door.
“Okay...” His answer earns him an eye-roll.
“You won't get a plumber today. I can have a look at it.” The lack of eye-contact doesn't bother him to much. He would go as far as to say that Hale looks nervous.
“Sure. If it isn't too much trouble.” He steps aside to let him in.
This is not how he imagined to have his first guest over. Once his bed doesn't consist of a mattress in the middle of the room anymore. And he put up some pictures so it looks less like a serial killers lair and more like a home. Maybe some flowers. Some that don't need much care.
Self-conscious he starts kicking some blankets over the unpacked boxes. “Sorry for the mess.”
“I lived worse,” he mutters loud enough to be heard and disappears in direction of the kitchen.