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Derek Hale has a strict morning routine. He wakes up, lays in bed for thirty minutes wondering if getting up and facing the world’s bullshit is really worth it (for some ungodly reason he always decides that it is), and eventually rolls out of bed to take a shower. He goes through the same motions every morning and the process gives him a sense of normalcy and stability, both things that are hard to come by when you’re a werewolf living in Beacon Hills. He cherishes his routine. So, as expected, this is how Derek’s morning begins.
So far, everything seems normal. He’s managed to convince himself to roll his way out of bed, realizing that he’s more terrified of Stiles’ wrath than whatever the hell life is planning to throw at him today, and he’s just finished taking a shower. Derek can hear Stiles banging around in the kitchen downstairs as he lets his towel crumple to the tile floor in a heap and starts getting dressed. Once he’s finished, he moves on, walking over to the sink so he can brush his teeth and continue with his day.
Derek begins to reach for his toothbrush, believing wholeheartedly that all is right with the world, when he freezes, his hand suspended in the air as his brain short circuits. He stares, blinking owlishly at the toothbrush holder on the counter. Derek stifles a groan, realizing quickly that the world - and apparently Stiles - are very much on their bullshit already, despite the fact that it is only 8:00 in the morning. Or, as Derek likes to call it, way to fucking early for any rational person to appropriately process confusion without extreme levels of violence.
Sitting in the slot where his toothbrush should be is a long, silver dagger with a thin, triangular blade. It belongs to Stiles, Derek knows that much. In fact, he vaguely remembers Stiles bringing it home about three months ago.
He stands there for another moment, idly considering the merits of saying “screw it” and falling back into bed so he can pretend that the universe hasn’t gone completely batshit crazy… Again. After a few more seconds of internal deliberation, he makes the unfortunate decision that if he doesn’t deal with this now, then the situation is going to spiral out of control, if it hasn’t already. Not that he’s entirely sure what exactly “the situation” is. But, it’s Stiles. There’s always a situation.
Taking a deep breath, Derek lowers his hand and exits the bathroom, walking slowly and deliberately down the stairs and into the kitchen, where Stiles is dashing around erratically as he attempts to make… Something. Pancakes, maybe? Derek doesn’t really want to assume. He knows what happens when people assume that Stiles’ activities are harmless and/or normal, and frankly, he’s spent the last three years trying to forget. And before you ask, yes, it really was that bad .
The young man doesn’t seem to notice Derek’s presence as he slides across the tile floor on his socked feet, waving a wooden spatula above his head and humming something under his breath that sounds suspiciously similar to the theme from Pirates of the Caribbean. Derek stands by his earlier conclusion: It is way too early for this.
“Why is there a knife in our bathroom?” Stiles’ actions are interrupted by Derek’s question and the young man abruptly stops what he’s doing, his arms suspended, mid-flail, above his head. He slowly pivots, his arms still frozen above him, so he’s facing Derek. He meets the wolf’s unamused glare with wide, innocent doe-eyes that would, under normal circumstances, make Derek swoon. This, however, doesn’t even begin to resemble his idea of “normal circumstances”, so he valiantly ignores the incessant fluttering in his chest and stands his ground, waiting for an explanation.
“Um…” Stiles responds intelligently, his mouth opening and closing comically.
“Stiles!” Derek growls. “Knife?! Bathroom?! Why?!” Suddenly, Stiles’ expression shifts drastically. He gasps, slapping the spatula, which is still gripped in his right hand, to his chest dramatically.
“How dare you!” Stiles exclaims, outraged. “What are you, a heathen?! That is not a knife! It’s an Italian Stiletto dagger, and you have gravely insulted its existence by addressing it in such a crude and uneducated manner!” Stiles crosses his arms over his chest once he’s finished speaking, huffing modlily and quietly muttering, “Uncultured swine. Why do I even associate with you?”
Derek lets out an aggravated groan, and he is unable to resist the urge to flail his arms in annoyance. “Okay, fine! Why is there an Italian Stiletto dagger in our bathroom?!” Derek pauses. “And where is my toothbrush?!”
Stiles scoffs. “Wow, I married an idiot.” He says in disbelief. However, the insult is significantly less scathing due to the fact that Stiles is blatantly addressing the spatula, which is now being held up to his face so he can stare intently into its “eyes”. “It never hurts to be prepared, Derek. I mean, do you know how many creative ways we could be murdered in the bathroom? There are millions, Der. Millions .” Stiles stretches his arms out, spatula and all, to emphasize his point.
Stiles thinks he’s onto something.
Derek isn’t so sure.
When Stiles receives no indication that Derek understands his point, he drops his arms heavily, his shoulders shrugging and his head falling back as he lets out a laboured groan. “Well, if you’re not impressed yet, just wait ‘til you find the one I hid in the laundry room.” Stiles juts out his chin, conveying an air of superiority that practically screams “I’m right and you’re an idiot for disagreeing with me.” Derek, however, is too caught up in the implications of Stiles’ declaration to notice. His expression morphs from mildly annoyed to acutely horrified in a matter of seconds. Stiles misreads Derek’s expression and continues speaking, supplying Derek with an answer to his second question. “Oh, and as for your toothbrush, we had a bit of a disagreement, so I took it outside and set it on fire to assert my dominance. Remind me to buy one that doesn’t mouth off next time, Der. My heart can’t take that kind of strain.”
There is a moment of intense silence, during which Derek realizes that it is far too late to run any kind of interference. The train to hell has already left the station, been derailed, and gone up in flames.
“I- You- My toothbrush!”
“It was for the best, Derek.” Stiles says solemnly, stepping forward to place his left hand on Derek’s shoulder in a comforting gesture. “Don’t worry, I gave it a proper burial. If you’d like to pay your respects, the grave is in the backyard. Just look for the busted lighter and melted wax. You can’t miss it.”
With that said, Stiles gives Derek’s shoulder a reassuring pat before walking away and resuming his earlier activities, leaving Derek standing there, stunned, as the hummed melody of the Pirates of the Caribbean theme once again reaches his ears. Derek slowly turns his head to look out the kitchen window, his eyes instantly honing in on the “proper burial” Stiles had mentioned. He looks at Stiles, then looks outside, and after repeating the process a few times, he groans tiredly, turning on his heels and stalking back upstairs.
“I’m going back to bed. Wake me up when you figure out where your sanity went.”