Chapter Text
The thing is, Stiles knew Derek was an overprotective Alpha stalker who never slept.
He knew this because the werewolf spent most his time standing outside of the pack's houses instead of going to bed at night like a normal person. Or at least, Stiles assumed Derek did that to all the others. Because the Alpha did it to him all the time and Stiles couldn’t be the only one.
True, he did try to bring it up with the others once, only to have them all stare in confusion. But that’s not the point. The point is, Stiles knew Derek was an overprotective Alpha stalker, and he was determined to do everything possible to make him start taking care of himself. For once, at least.
It started with a nerf gun.
Stiles had a system. Deaton was training him to set up wards, so Stiles had surrounded his house with them the other day, making sure that if anyone other than him or his dad tried to cross the property boundary line, Stiles would know.
This was convenient for many reasons.
One, Stiles knew when the betas were coming to annoy him so he would not be jerking off or watching porn (thank you very much, Erica). Two, he knew when Scott was coming with a video game or food so Stiles could be appropriately dressed (sweatpants, duh). And three, Stiles knew when Derek was being a creeper and standing outside of his window, all decked out in leather and looking like a serial killer, so he could make the Alpha go away. Or something.
Tonight, Derek was being a creeper. Stiles really wasn’t surprised.
Except tonight, Stiles was prepared.
Okay, so maybe it was juvenile. Scott had looked at Stiles like he was an idiot when Stiles loaded his nerf gun full of modified bullets. Which might really just be nerf shells filled with wolfsbane that werewolves were essentially allergic to. Scott thought it was a bad idea. Stiles thought it would finally make Derek go home .
Scott vowed to say some nice things at his funeral.
Stiles peeked out his window to see, yes, Derek was there. Standing with his back to Stiles’s window like he was some sort of guard dog. Stiles rolled his eyes and lifted the nerf gun up, closing one eye and biting down on his lip like he was a secret agent with a mission rather than a seventeen-year-old shooting at a grumpy Alpha werewolf from the safety of his own home.
Allison always said Stiles had terrible aim. And he usually did, when it came to things that were actually dangerous. His dad thought it was part of Stiles’s spastic genes. He couldn’t shoot a gun to save his life but he was very well-aimed with a nerf gun. Stiles closed one eye, let out a deep breath, and pulled the trigger. Mission Impossible might have been playing in his head the entire time.
He ducked down the second the bullet hit the back of Derek's head.
Stiles heard a surprised grunt, grinned to himself, and peeked over to see Derek leaning down to pick the bullet up. The werewolf brought it to his face and just stared at it for a second. Then, Derek finally tilted his head, sniffed the bullet (Stiles nearly snorted out loud at that), and reeled back, dropping it into the grass with an alarmed expression
Grey-green eyes snapped up to his window. Stiles squeaked, startled back, and then hesitated. Changing his mind, he moved forward instead and brought the gun up again, pulling the trigger and nailing Derek in the forehead. Derek jerked back and his eyes turned red.
“Stiles!”
“Go home, Sourwolf!” Stiles shouted, firing again. Derek cursed as he tried to dodge the bullet. “Get some sleep!”
“Stiles, stop it!”
Stiles cackled and unloaded the bullets as fast as he could, watching Derek growl as he tried to avoid being hit. For the first few minutes, Stiles was on fire. But then suddenly, his trigger finger was pulling at nothing and Stiles looked down, realizing the gun was empty. His stomach dropped and he glanced back up.
Derek's gaze was murderous. Eyes still red, the werewolf started toward the house and Stiles yelped, leaping forward to slam the window shut. He turned the lock and lined the sill with mountain ash, right as Derek pulled himself up.
The werewolf crouched in front of his window, rubbing at his hands and cheeks that were turning an itchy shade of red, and tried to lift the window up. Only to growl and yank back. Stiles grinned at him, wiggling his fingers in a sarcastic hello.
“Why good evening, oh Alpha mine!”
“Stiles,” Derek growled, voice muffled by the window. He scratched at his hands again. “What the hell was in those bullets?”
“Wolfsbane,” Stiles said. Derek’s eyes instantly flashed, fangs slotting down, and Stiles yelped, stumbling back. “Woah, relax, Sourwolf, it’s not deadly! Just… an allergen?”
“Stiles, I’m going to kill you.”
“Good luck with that,” Stiles said, winking at him. “I am safe and sound in my own house, you Grump, and all the exits are lined with mountain ash. So go stalk Scott! Or better yet, Sourwolf, get some sleep. None of us need a sleep-deprived Alpha on our hands.”
“I’m not stalking you, Stiles,” Derek growled. “I’m keeping watch.”
Stiles gave him a flat look. “Go. Sleep.”
Derek glowered and pointed toward the window lock instead, mouthing the word 'now'. Rolling his eyes, Stiles shook his head and turned pointedly around. He heard Derek snarl his name again but only waved a hand over his shoulder, going to deposit the nerf gun back on his desk.
Scott had been wrong. This was a great idea.
Because when he turned back around, Derek was gone. Stiles snorted and gazed out his window, seeing an empty lawn beyond it. Humming to himself, Stiles turned away.
“And that’s how you do it,” he said. “Stiles and his privacy: achieved. Derek and finally getting a good night’s sleep: he freaking better.”
Cause, yeah, Derek freaking better. The idiot deserved a good night of sleep for once, even though it seemed like he was literally trying to deprive himself of one on purpose. He probably was, if Stiles was being honest. But he was determined— Stiles was going to change that. He was going to make Derek freaking Hale take care of himself for once.
Stiles had many more plans.