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“But what if it was actually Stiles this time?” Scott asked, looking down at the tiny figure.
Derek rolled his eyes. “Seriously, Scott? It’s never actually Stiles. He’s done this a million times already. It’s a homunculus.”
“But how do you know?” Scott persisted. Scott was so persistent. Stiles loved him for it. Except when he was persistent about stalking Alison or letting bloodthirsty monsters go. Then, not so much.
“Do you really think Stiles would be stupid enough to get him shrunk?” Peter chimed in from the couch, where he was reading a magazine. The asshole. Stiles was definitely going to get him back for this. When he was taller than six inches.
“But Stiles does stupid things all the time!” Scott protested.
Thanks, Scotty, Stiles thought, sardonically. He walked the length of the table wishing there was a pen or pencil or something he could write with.
“And wasn’t there that witch Stiles thought might be abducting people and shrinking?”
“He only said that to trick you into believing he got shrunk,” Derek said, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Ah ha! Derek’s phone. Stiles slipped his fingers under the edge of it and tried to flip it over.
“Stop that,” Derek said, irritated, grabbing his phone. He pinched the back of Stiles’s shirt and dropped him in an empty coffee mug.
“You have a point, Scott” Peter drawled from his place on the couch.
“And I’m not entirely sure Stiles was making it up when he told us about that witch. Perhaps you should be a little more careful with the homunculus, Derek?”
There was a rustling noise. Stiles wished he could see what it was, but he couldn’t see out of the top of the mug and his efforts to knock it over had so far been futile. Curse his weak muscles!
“You think it’s really him!” Scott accused. “You wouldn’t have said that otherwise!”
“You have no way of knowing that,” Peter said, calmly.
“You squished the last homunculus!” Scott continued. “Laughing manically the whole time! I’d thought you’d gone crazy again!”
“‘Crazy’ is an ableist term,” Peter commented. “Don’t you care about political correctness?”
Scott sighed, dramatically. “Whatever the proper term for it is.”
Peter sniffed. “Psychotic episode.”
“Fine. That. Uh— what were we talking about?”
Stiles considered screaming, but he knew it would do no good— even werewolves wouldn’t have good enough hearing. Instead he threw himself at the side of the mug. It thumped.
“Right,” Scott said. “Even Peter thinks it’s Stiles, Derek— take him out of the mug.”
Derek sighed a grumpy little sigh and grabbed the back of Stiles’ shirt again, between two fingers and picked him up, dropping him on the table.
Scott put his phone down in front of Stiles hopefully. He didn’t unlock it, Stiles noticed, which wasn’t a problem— Scotty’s pin code was, of course, Allison’s birthday.
He quickly navigated over to Scott’s notes app, ignored a list of ideas for wooing Allison, and started a new note.
This is really Stiles, he carefully typed. Not a homunculous.
“See!” Scott exclaimed. “I was right! It was actually Stiles!”
“He could have just programmed the homunculous to say that,” Derek muttered, clearly unconvinced.
At least I wasn’t programmed to be a grumpy asshole, Stiles typed.
“Huh,” Scott said, “Stiles would definitely have programmed it to say that. How can we tell if it’s a humonculous or not?”
“Ask it something Stiles couldn’t have anticipated,” Peter said, in a bored voice, from the couch.
“Oh, that’s a good idea,” Scott said. “What wouldn’t Stiles have anticipated?”
Stiles heard a rustling sound and then Peter’s face appeared over the edge of the table. He took a moment to appreciate Peter’s thick neck and large biceps.
He carefully prevented himself from licking his lips.
“Ask him what he was doing last Thursday evening,” Peter said.
Stiles felt himself turning red. You know what I was doing last Thursday evening, you bag of dicks, he typed.
“I don’t,” Scott said.
Stiles gave Peter the stink eye. It was much less effective when he was six inches tall. Not that it was ever really effective.
I was at Peter’s, Stiles typed. Doing… research.
Peter smirked. “It’s really him.”
“How do you know?” Scott asked. “That answer’s so vague.”
“He’d never have programmed the humonculous to blush like that.”
Peter scooped Stiles up into his arm and dropped him into his breast pocket. “I guess we’ve got to go do some more research,” he said.
“Eww,” Derek exclaimed. “He’s like half a foot tall! How would you even…?’
“You have no imagination, nephew,” Peter said, turning for the door. Peter’s breast pocket gave Stiles an excellent view. And being pressed against his pecs didn’t hurt.
“What?” Scott asked. “What did he mean?”
Stiles felt Peter’s low rumbling laughter against his back as they exited the loft.