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“Ugh.” Stiles dragged his slime-covered shirt over his head and let it drop to the bathroom floor with a splat. “And that was my favorite Firefly shirt, too.”
He shimmied out of his jeans and kicked them over to the shirt. Bluish green ooze seeped out of them, and Stiles gagged. “That’s disgusting. Do you think Lysol will clean the floor?”
“I sure hope so,” Derek muttered. “You know, you didn’t have to get that close to the monster.”
Stiles picked at the elastic band of his boxers, trying to determine if they were worth saving. The monster’s–blood? Ichor? whatever–had gotten everywhere. “Considering I was the one with the magic to save the day, yeah, I did.”
Better safe than sorry, he decided, and tossed his boxers into the sad, soggy pile with his other clothes.
Derek snorted. “I always thought magic was a ranged attack.”
“Okay.” Stiles spun around and cupped Derek’s face. “The fact that you even said that makes me so unbelievably happy, you have no idea. The downside is, RPGs lied, and sometimes you have to get up close and personal with the monster that wants to eat you.”
Derek’s eyebrows dipped into a frown. “I don’t like you getting up close and personal with any monsters that aren’t me.”
Stiles bristled. “You’re a werewolf, not a monster. Haven’t we been over this?”
Derek shook his head, but it was with the soft, fond smile that always melted Stiles’s heart. “Go, get in the shower so we can get some sleep.”
“But it’s so lonely in the shower,” Stiles complained. “Don’t you want to keep me company?”
Derek stepped out of the bathroom with a smirk on his face. “I do, but only after you smell a little less like rotting monster.”
“Rude!” Stiles shouted after him. “The vows were ‘in sickness and in health,’ asshole!”
“They didn’t say anything about moss troll ichor!”