Work Text:
Derek’s bed is bigger than it should be when he wakes up. It’s a veritable field of crumpled sheets and he has the urge to pounce on the puffed up pile near the edge of the bed. It’s only when he’s lined up and wriggling his ass that he realises that this is not right. This is so not right. Derek looks down at his…paws. Then he falls off the edge of the bed.
Landing on his feet is just a myth.
Standing in front of the mirror, there are a number of things that are still the same. He still has claws and his hair is still black and his eyes are a mix of brown and green. That’s where the similarities sort of end. He’s not normally a cat, after all.
Derek takes a moment to admit that he’s glad he wasn’t transformed into some teeny tiny kitten. He’s a bad ass cat, evil looking almost, with bristling whiskers and a little grey patch on his chest. He’s not cute. He’s ferocious. He’s also hungry.
The doors are ajar enough to not be an obstacle but the refrigerator is definitely a problem. As are all the cupboards. Damn his sudden lack of opposable thumbs. Even when he’s wolfed out, he doesn’t need to deal with that. Admittedly when he’s wolfed out, he’s perfectly capable of taking down a deer or a couple of rabbits. He’s not entirely sure he can do that as a cat.
He’s a cat. Fuck.
Luckily his new apartment is in the middle of the town and his need for fresh air means he’s left the window looking out over the fire escape open. It doesn’t take long to work out how to jump. He’s a werewolf. He has animal instincts. He’s not thinking about how long it took him and how he spent a good five minutes chasing a sunbeam. That’s just the worst part of this. He’s got a suspicion about how he became a cat too, but he needs a computer and, for that, he needs Stiles. He hates needing Stiles.
The street is loud with traffic but he ignores it as he slinks along back alleys and occasionally hisses at dogs and stalks paper bags. It’s harder to keep himself under control but no one gives a cat a second glance – no one except for the kid who wants to make him her “Mr Snuggles” – unlike the glares he attracts even in his human form. Some of those weren’t exactly glares of animosity but most were. Mud sticks, especially in as small a town as Beacon Hills. Luckily it’s home and Derek knows every part of it like the back of his hand. The back of his human hand. He’s still having some trouble using his paws and they’re starting to hurt a little from the unforgiving pavement and the long distance he has to cover. It’d take him five minutes in his car.
Stiles has left his usual window open but there’s one on the first floor (security is obviously something Sheriff Stilinski has given up caring about. Or maybe he thinks there’s nothing worth stealing inside) and Derek cannot bear the thought of trying to get up to Stiles’ roof. He can’t tell if there’s anyone inside, not like he can as a werewolf, but it all sounds quiet and there aren’t any cars in the driveway. Derek slips up onto the garbage can and into the house, quick as a flash and a whole lot more silent than he normally would.
He tries to forget the fact he lands in the sink full of dirty dishes. Or the really, really embarrassing noise he let out. It was a yowl. It made Scott’s attempt at a howl sound manly and strong. Derek had yowled. He shakes himself as dry as he can and sits on the kitchen floor to lick himself clean. It’s only when he has three legs in the air and is licking the oddly pleasant rough tongue across his ass that he thinks enough is enough.
There’s half a piece of bacon on the plate that’s beside the sink and Derek has no compunction in eating it to get the taste of ass out of his mouth. None, whatsoever. He wished it was tuna though.
Stiles’ bed is unmade and as full of intriguing crumples as his own bed was. Derek’s aware that after he’s pounced a few times that it’s becoming harder to stay himself. The cat is taking over. Luckily Stiles’ laptop is still open and, after the screensaver hypnotises him for a moment, Derek paws at the touchpad. And his luck is still operating because the work processor is up, with a half-finished paper on The Grapes of Wrath blinking.
Derek draws his paw back from batting at the (oh so tempting) flickering cursor, and carefully types his name. It doesn’t quite work but he reckons Stiles will be able to translate “Ct is Deeeeeeeeerkgfs.”
Then, exhausted, he curls up in a nice patch of sunshine and falls asleep.
Stiles’ shriek wakes him. Derek contemplates using his extended claws to knead Stiles’ duvet for a moment but that’s probably not that nice. He settles for only digging them in once. And then he says hello but, of course, it sounds bizarre and cat like. Stiles eyes him for a long moment, looking between the window and the bed and Derek. Who meows again.
Then he pads past the frozen idiot and pats at the laptop touchpad until the screen comes up. Stiles leans over him and, well, that’s a new experience. Derek scurries off the desk, down to the chair and back to his nice warm spot on the bed.
“You’re a cat. No. Wait. You’re Derek. And a cat.” Derek flicks his tail. He thought the message was clear enough. “Not a werewolf. A cat.” It’s sad that Stiles really is the smart one. Boyd is smart, too, Derek grudgingly thinks. But Boyd would have probably chased him. Stiles… Derek likes Stiles. Even as cat. He’s calming. Stiles slides into his chair and taps his fingers on the touchpad before brushing off a few loose hairs. “And I’m guessing it had something to do with what we were doing at the museum last night.” The room quietens and Derek dozes while Stiles mutters away to himself at the machine.
Eventually he shoots upright with a triumphant “ah ha!” and comes to sit on the bed beside Derek. Derek isn’t cuddling but Stiles is warm and lying there and smells good. Stiles always smells good. And Derek is a good size and bad ass but Stiles’ lap is comfortable. Damn cat instincts.
And - oh god, that’s good - when Stiles starts rubbing his fingers – there, oh there, yes – down the fur on Derek’s back, it just gets – oh, yes, yes, yes – perfect. Stiles has these long fingers that seem to find every itchy spot, every ache. It’s just perfect.
“Trust you to be a cat before you climb all over me. Whoops. Probably shouldn’t say things like that. You’re still Derek even though you’re purring. In my lap.” Stiles stops moving and Derek butts his hand and wriggles and maybe places some unsheathed claws on a delicate part of Stiles’ anatomy (which his other, human self also has quite a fascination with. Just not in the clawing way). Stiles starts rubbing his back again. “The website said it should wear off in the morning. Twenty four hours. If it lasts any longer, I think we have to call the others.”
Derek doesn’t really care at this point. He’d like food at some point, sure, but as long as Stiles continues being warm and soft and doesn’t stop stroking, he’s good.
“It’s nice that you’re relaxed about this. I’ve got homework, you know.” Stiles tenses like he’s about to sit up and move. Then he leans back against his pillows again. “I can do it later.” Derek dozes, again.
Sometime in the middle of the night, Derek wakes up. He’s naked and he’s sprawled on top of a fully dressed and snoring Stiles. But on the plus side, he’s no longer a cat. Carefully, almost catlike in his sneakiness, he peels Stiles out of his pants and re-arranges them on the bed, under the duvet.
He hopes Stiles doesn’t freak out again when he finds him in his bed. Again. Derek really doesn't want to be anywhere else.