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“Derek, Derek are you there? Hellooooo? DEREK ARE YOU THERE?” Derek sighs and rolls his eyes at the banging coming from his door before levering himself off the newly added sofa in front of the TV, being sure to turn it all off before he heads over and slides it open, nearly getting punched in the face for the trouble.
“Jeez man, I was knocking for like five minutes, what the hell took so long?” Stiles flailed a little as he shoved past Derek and glanced around the loft, seeing nothing that would indicate what had been going on.
“I was busy Stiles. Why are you here?”
“Busy doing what? It doesn’t look like you were busy.” He flings an arm out to indicate the still very clean and neat loft.
“Stuff…things.” Derek brushed past Stiles as he headed towards the staircase – he’d finally moved his bed upstairs and claimed the room there.
“Was that a Walking Dead reference? DO YOU WATCH TV?” He could hear Stiles yelling after him but he ignored him, slamming the bedroom door behind him. He could still hear the man mumbling downstairs to himself. “It was a reference, it has to be.” He smirked to himself and got in the shower. Whatever crises had brought Stiles to the loft couldn’t be that urgent since he was busy worrying about whether or not Derek was referencing something. By the time he got out and changed, Stiles had stopped talking to himself and was sitting quietly on the sofa, which was kind of a new look for him, but since he appreciated the quiet he wasn’t about to comment on it. Stiles startled when Derek flicked his ear on his way out the door, but he leapt to his feet and followed after him.
****
“OH MY GOD THERE ARE ZOMBIES?!?”
“Not zombies Stiles.” Derek’s words are a grunt as he grapples with the creature currently trying to gnaw his arm off.
“THEY ARE DEAD AND THEY EAT THE LIVING, THAT’S A ZOMBIE OH MY GOD.”
“Ghoul, Stiles, ungh, they normally – god damn it – they usually don’t eat the living.”
“SAME DIFFERENCE! I NEED A GUN! I WANT A GUN!”
“And people in hell want Slurpees.” The last word trailed off in a hiss as Derek finally dislodged the ghoul (only losing a little bit of his arm in the process). The thwack of its head hitting a gravestone and splattering was loud in the sudden quiet.
“What did you just say to me?” Stiles’ voice was low and sharp, eyes narrowed at Derek, gaze searching his face.
“What? I don’t know, I was a little busy.” He turned on his heel, steps quick as he left the cemetery and glanced at the Camaro then down at his mud covered clothes, sighing before stripping out of them.
“Fine. Why didn’t you tell me there were zombies Derek?” The name came out slightly strangled sounding as Stiles made it into the clearing with the Camaro. Derek smirked to himself when he heard the sharp intake of breath as he bent over to retrieve the dirty clothing from around his feet before dropping it in the trunk of the car.
“You watch too much TV Stiles. There. Are. No. Such. Thing. As. Zombies.” He rolled his eyes before sliding into the driver’s seat; hand halfway up in an aborted wave before he remembered he didn’t wave at Stiles. The tires spun a little before catching, shooting mud out, and then he was gone – but not before he heard Stiles’ muttered “asshole” and caught a glimpse of the man now generously speckled with the mud the tires had spit out.
****
By the time Derek gets into the clinic, the rest of the pack has gathered. One ghoul turned out to be a hoard, and they needed the vet’s help to take care of the rest of them. He glanced at the nearest table, a bevy of weapons laid out next a bowl of water. Before he could ask, Deaton walked in, bible in hand, and started reciting a blessing over the bowl. Huh. Holy water then.
“Oh my god, I just figured it out!” Stiles was loud in the otherwise quiet exam room. When all he got for his trouble was raised eyebrows from the rest of the group he gestured at Deaton and the bowl. “Nobody? Nobody else sees it? You all suck. Deaton looks exactly like Stokes from The Walking Dead! The priest? SERIOUSLY NOBODY?” Derek watches him twitch in irritation, doing his best not to laugh at the apparent outrage in Stiles’ voice. Eventually he winds down in time for Deaton to explain that the blades he dipped should give them a better advantage against the ghouls; one hit kills as long as they go into the head or heart. Derek nods his thanks, gathering the weapons and heading for the loft, ordering the pack to follow.
Scott starts arguing the minute that they all arrive back there, because of course he does. He still hasn’t adjusted to pack hierarchy and he fights Derek every step of the way, usually backed by Stiles but not always anymore. In fact, Scott’s the only one complaining for once.
“You can do better Scott? Let’s see how far you get. No? No takers on that one with you? Fine. But get one thing straight, if you’re staying, this isn’t a democracy,” the words come out half snarled; he’s had about enough of this kid today. There’s a group of at least five more ghouls and they really need to take care of them tonight. He can hear Stiles start up on the other side of the loft, muttering to himself again.
“Seriously this cannot be coincidence. I don’t buy it man. Once is an incidence, two’s a coincidence, but this is three fucking times. Three times is a goddamned pattern.” He accompanies the rambling with a dedicated search through the small stack of DVDs lined up near the TV but still comes up empty handed. In the meantime, Scott seems to be temporarily cowed, which Derek takes for the win it is and begins to pass out the blessed blades before leading the pack to the cemetery. The sun has just finished setting when the pack heads through the gates. They make it through about half their search area before the hair on Derek’s arms stands on end. He growls at the pack to be quiet and starts to scan the area, a search that’s cut off when eerie howls start up in a circle around the pack. The ghouls emerge from the shadows, and there are a lot more than five of them…at least twelve by his count.
“Plan just got dicked!” He charges the nearest ghoul before the last word is out of his mouth, expecting the others to fall back on instinct and do the same. He can hear angry snarls coming from the rest of the pack but he trusts them to be able to take care of themselves as he launches himself at another ghoul who was coming up from his left. By the time he’s taken out four of his own, the sounds in the cemetery have died down mostly to heavy breathing from the pack. The area in front of him seems clear so he turns to take stock. Everyone has at least two dead ghouls at their feet, save for Stiles, who it appears was shoved into the middle of their rough circle and only has one of the dead monsters in front of him. He nods at everyone and gathers the weapons to return to Deaton, leaving the ghouls where they fell – they’re already decomposing. “Thank god we don’t have to clean them up; I don’t want to smell any more like those walking dead things than I already do.”
“Nope. Just nope.” Stiles shakes his head and is the first out the gates, the rest of the pack looking curiously between him and Derek, who only shakes his head and smirks in answer.
****
It’s been three days and no more ghouls have made an appearance. Derek’s reasonably sure that they wouldn’t. He sends off a text and heads into his kitchen to start cooking. By the time Stiles arrives, he’s got most of the ingredients for dinner ready to go.
“What’s all this?” There’s curiosity clear in his voice as he inspects the chopped vegetables and pans lying around.
“It’s dinner. Figured we could have spaghetti Tuesday.”
“Derek, its Wednesday.”
“So…spaghetti Tuesday, on Wednesdays….we just need to find some spaghetti.” He’s diligently looking through his cabinets for the package of pasta he knows he bought.
“Oh no, you can go fuck yourself right now. There’s no way you don’t watch the show!” Derek turns around, artfully crafted annoyance on his face and a package of spaghetti noodles in his hand.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about Stiles.”
“How is this even my life anymore? Fuck me.”
“Is that an offer?”
“Wha–?” Stiles is so startled that he slips as he turns towards Derek. Thankfully the wolf has good reflexes, one hand snaking behind his back and pulling him flush into Derek’s body. He can see it when Stiles’ eyes widen, pupils beginning to eat away at the color, can smell the arousal being to pour from him before Stiles visibly tamps down on it.
“Ha ha, funny Derek. Where’s the rest of the pack anyhow?” He starts to move away, but is stopped short when Derek refuses to remove his arm.
“Just you and me, Stiles. I thought we could have dinner, watch some TV – go turn it on while I drop the pasta in, I’ll be right there.” The confusion pouring off of Stiles is so thick he can practically taste it, but it’s mingling quickly with a renewal in the arousal. He waits by the archway to the living room, watching as Stiles flicks on the TV and sees the start menu waiting for him.
“OH FUCK YOU DEREK I KNEW IT!” Derek chuckles before walking out towards Stiles, the first half of The Walking Dead Season 6 waiting for him to start it – he was much more grateful for the Amazon Firestick than he’d let on, since he finished season 5 and had missed the start of 6.
“Spoil this for me Stiles, and I will rip your throat out. With my teeth.”
“Weak dude. Weak threat. Overused, 0 out of 10 on the scare factor.” And if Stiles lets out a startled squawk when Derek leans over the back of the couch, teeth slightly sharper than human, and nips at his throat – well that’s between them, the sofa, and the walkers.