I Swear to Dog I'm Not Drunk
Title: I Swear to Dog I'm Not Drunk
Pairing: Sterek
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Laura drags Derek out for a Halloween party, and when Derek gets drunk and decides to leave, he ends up running into a cop in really short, really tight shorts
Word Count: 2859
A/N: This is my Halloween fic, inspired by an convo with homo_pink and this picture:
Also on AO3
Laura has dragged Derek out to bar in downtown where they always have their big annual Halloween party and costume contest, because she claims he doesn’t get out enough. He thinks he gets out plenty, but she adamantly disagrees.
This year, she’s dressed as Tinkerbell. Derek flat out refused to go as Peter Pan. She knew it would be a long shot, but she asked him anyway. In the end, he decides to go as a rodeo clown. “You are such a cheap bastard,” Laura says when she sees his costume. He’s wearing some old baggy jeans and an old baggy flannel shirt from when he went through his baggy clothes and flannel phase, some suspenders that were probably old enough to be their grandfather’s (and quite possibly were his), some bandanas tucked into his pockets and the most beat up pair of shoes he owns.
“What’s wrong with that?” he asks, adjusting the cowboy hat atop his head. Because, yes, he’s got a cowboy hat.
She rolls her eyes at him.
They’ve already started drinking by the time the costume contest begins. Derek never enters, but he enjoys watching the people that do. Simply because Halloween is the one time the real freaks and crazies come out and no one bats an eye. Also, can a person show that much skin without getting arrested for public indecency?
“Hey, Der,” Laura leans over to him, sipping on her margarita, “wouldn’t it be fun if we actually signed up for the costume contest one of these days?”
He side eyes her. “What exactly are you saying?”
Her smirk is fucking evil. “Oh, nothing.” He swears that is sister is pure fucking evil. “Just that maybe I signed us up for the costume contest.”
“I knew it.”
Her smirk grows into a full blown, eye wrinkling smile as she drags him up to the stage where they each get their time in front of the audience. Laura is rather pleased by the amounts of catcalls she receives. It’s really the only night she’ll allow catcalls and not slap a guy in his face.
When it’s Derek’s turn, the emcee goes to town. “Now what do we have here?” he asks, lifting up the bandanas and flicking at his cowboy hat. “Brokeback Mountain?”
“I’m a rodeo clown,” Derek tells him.
“Of course you are.” He turns to the crowd, “So, ladies, what do you think?”
Derek finds Laura and she’s smiling, pointing to her mouth as if telling him to smile. Oh, she is trying to tell him to smile. So he does. And the ladies go nuts. His face lights up when he smiles.
“My, my, maybe we do have a contender here.”
Once he’s finally done being shown off like a stock animal (probably a bad thought considering how he’s dressed), he’s back at the bar with Laura. “I hope you know how much I hate you.”
“Oh, please, it was not that bad. You’ve got admirers now,” she tells him with that ever present smirk.
“I don’t want admirers,” he retorts.
“Come on, man. Just admit that you love the attention.”
“Will you leave me alone if I do?” When Laura doesn’t answer, he knows that the answer is really no. So he admits to nothing. He just drinks some more. He’s already had quite a few, probably more drinks than he’s had collectively over the last year. If not more than definitely stronger. When he does drink at home, it’s a beer. A singular beer. Tonight he’s already had four Jack and Cokes and done a few too many tequila shots at Laura’s insistence. She really is the worst. Especially since she hasn’t done a single shot and has been sipping the same margarita since they got to the bar.
And then the emcee comes back on the stage, talking once again about the costume contest, saying he’s about the announce the winners. Neither Derek nor Laura win. First place, anyway. Derek has apparently won second place. The emcee says it’s due to his charming smile. But, hey, he’s walking away with fifty bucks in his pocket and he hadn’t spent a dime on his costume. Ok, so Laura wheedles her way into getting half, but that’s still twenty five bucks he didn’t have before.
At least until all Derek's half is blown on more alcohol. So that’s just less money out of his own pocket spent on booze; it’s still a win in his mind.
~~~
When Laura’s friends miraculously and totally coincidentally (or so she says) show up at the very same bar as them, Derek finds himself alone. Laura has abandoned him. She’s really just dancing with her friends and other drunk patrons, but it’s as good as abandoning him.
He pays his portion of the tab and decides to take off. He kind of looks like a poor drunken hobo as he walks out of the bar and onto Main Street. He thinks it’s probably what a drunken hobo would feel like, too.
His walking in a straight line ability is all but gone. Did he really have that much to drink? He must have. Apparently, he still can’t hold his liquor.
On his next step, he walks into a jack-o-lantern. Of course he can’t simply bump into the pumpkin, he has to actually step into the damn pumpkin. He lifts his foot, kicking off the remnants of the pumpkin’s shell. He mutters an apology to no one in particular, thanking his lucky starts it wasn’t lit because with his luck, even with a little tea light, his pant leg would have gone up in flames, and continues to walk, trying to ignore the sound of pumpkin guts squishing under his foot every other step.
Suddenly, he stops dead in his tracks. Up ahead of him is a goddamn cop. Oh, shit, why? Of course there would be cops out on Halloween. Because it’s fucking Halloween and people are drunk and like to cause trouble. Plus, there are teenagers out in droves and no on can really trust a teenager.
The cop, in his tan uniform and shiny badge, looks over and makes eye contact with him. He is so damn fucked. He can’t move. He knows he’s intoxicated and he’s out in public and that’s a thing that could get him arrested.
The closer the cop gets to him, the more Derek wonders when cops started wearing shorts… and thinks that the cop has really nice legs. Wow, he must be really drunk.
“Any trouble here tonight?” Stiles asks as he meets the hobo man on the sidewalk.
“None at all Officer…” Derek leans closer to see if the badge he’s wearing has a name, but it looks like it says Dangle.
“That’s Deputy Stilinski to you,” Stiles replies. And, oh god, if his father knew that he was here impersonating a cop he would be so dead. So it’s a good thing his dad’s dealing with the trick-or-treaters back home in Beacon Hills. But he really couldn’t pass up the chance to talk to this guy, because underneath that flannel shirt and suspenders he can see that this man is a looker.
“Yes, Deputy Ssstil… Ssstilinnnn-ski,” he slurs. He’s really not helping his own cause.
“Could you tell me your name before we begin?”
“Derek,” he answers.
Ok, Derek, would you be willing to partake in a sobriety test?” Stiles asks.
Derek hesitates. He really doesn’t think he could pass any kind of sobriety test at the moment. And would probably still fail if he were to take it in another three hours. But he knows he can get in even more trouble if he refuses, so he nods. “Yeah.”
Stiles thinks back to watching his father give the tests and decides to embellish them just a little. “Alright, arms out. I’ll tell you to touch your nose with either your left hand or your right hand. Once you touch your nose, your arm goes back out, ok?”
Derek nods again and sticks his arms out.
“Right. Left. Right. Right. Right. Right. Left. You touched with your right!” Stiles exclaims, then schools himself because a cop wouldn’t act like that.
“Anyone would have,” Derek mutters without thinking.
“Ok, next test. I want you to recite the alphabet, starting with F and ending in U. Backwards.”
“Wait, what?” Derek is more than a little confused. “The alphabet doesn’t start at F. And am I starting with F, or U and going back- ohhh, FU, I get it. Hey, wait, what?” he repeats.
Stiles has to turn away and try and muffle his laughter in his hand. He’s so going to hell for this. “Please, sir, if you could do as I asked.”
So, Derek begins to think of how the alphabet goes just so he can begin reciting it backwards. From U. “U… T… S…” he pauses, once again going through the entire alphabet just so he can figure out what comes before S. “I don’t think anyone could do this sober,” he mutters. He really meant to say R, but that’s not what came out.
“That’s enough of that,” Stiles says. “I am really questioning your sobriety, sir. Would you be willing to take a breathalyzer?” he asks.
Derek nods.
Stiles only has one on him because he may or may not have borrowed one years ago from his father’s work and had simply failed to return it. “Ok, I’m going to ask you to suck in a big lungful of air.” He pauses while Derek does it. “Now put your mouth right here and blow nice and hard.” He holds it up to Derek’s mouth and Stiles doesn’t want to admit that he bites his own lower lip at the sight of those lips wrapping around that little piece of plastic. “Come on, you can blow harder than that, mouth like that” he says, voice low.
Derek actually has a coughing fit, expelling the rest of the air from his lungs before the test can get an accurate read. He’s either really drunk and imagining things, or this cop is flirting with him. Or maybe just fucking with him. Wants to fuck him? God, he needs to stop before any awkward boners… and that’s the beginnings of an awkward boner.
“Looks like you’ll have to try that again,” Stiles says. When Derek goes to blow again, Stiles cracks another joke that leaves Derek sputtering. “I’m sorry, sir. One more time?” This time he lets Derek actually blow until it beeps. Stiles pulls the test away and looks at the screen. “Holy shit,” he says when he sees that Derek is definitely over the limit. “Do you see this?”
Derek looks at the screen, which is pretty blurred, and nods. “Yeah.”
“Do you know what this means?”
“I’m drunk?”
“Yes, you are drunk in public. I think I’m going to have to write you up a warning.” Stiles whips out an official looking pad of paper and a pen. Then he jots down the note, tears off the paper and sticks it into Derek’s jean pockets. “Read that when you sober up, ok?”
Derek sucks in a breath at the touch, because holy hell, the cop’s hand is in his pocket. Very close to that awkward boner.
Stiles is really close to Derek now, wishing the man was sober because he really wants some of that, but he’s not about to go sleep with some drunk guy who thinks he’s an actual cop. It already seems like it would get really messy, really awkward, really fast. “What, uh, what exactly are you supposed to be?”
“A rodeo clown,” Derek answers.
“That’s a new one,” Stiles says. “Now, I’m going to let you off this time with just the warning, ok? But I don’t want to see you-”
In trying to stand still, Derek manages to trip over himself when he stepped onto the hem of his extra baggy pants. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, there buddy, not so fast. That action could be considered threatening,” Stiles says, and Derek looks confused. “I need you to turn around and put your hands against the wall, legs spread.”
Derek’s boner is getting a whole lot more awkward. Is he seriously about to get pat down? Yes, he soon finds out. And Officer Stilinski’s fingers are so long and strong and… nimble. He can feel them as they move up his pant legs and over his ass, then up his back. His shirt is pretty thin and, seriously, this shouldn’t be legal how good this feels. He blames the little moan he lets out on the alcohol. The hands move up one arm, then the other. Derek sucks in a breath when the officer’s hands touch the front of his body and Stilinski’s body is pressed right up against his own as he reaches around Derek’s front. He can feel his dick getting harder in his pants as the touching continues getting lower and lower. And then the hands are on his hips, patting his pockets and getting closer to his crotch.
It only takes one hand grazing over his crotch before he’s coming in his pants, body convulsing and arching with the completely unexpected orgasm. He bites his lower lip to stop from howling out with pleasure.
“Holy fucking shit,” Stiles whispers more to himself than anyone. Because he just made Derek come in his pants. While fake frisking him. In public. He steps back, then says, “Just had to make sure you weren’t hiding any… nightsticks in there.”
All Derek can do is laugh. He’s drunk and he just came in his pants like he hasn’t done since he was in middle school and he’s pretty sure the cop in too short shorts just made a dick joke.
This is why he doesn’t go out.
“Well, um… I’m going to let you go now. Just, uh… be more careful next time. And remember don’t get behind the wheel,” Stiles throws in, because this isn’t already awkward enough for him. He didn’t think the dude would jizz his pants! “I can call you a cab,” he offers.
“Thanks, I’m good,” Derek says, grabbing one of the bandanas that’s hanging off of him and moving it to cover himself.
“I can wait here if-”
“No, go and stop some teenage delinquent,” Derek says, leaning against the wall. Where he just came in his pants.
Stiles feels slightly guilty as he leaves, because this guy still thinks he’s a cop, and he definitely just made a drunk dude jizz himself. He’s more guilty about the faking a cop thing, though.
Derek, with his now very strategically placed bandana, begins walking down the sidewalk and is planning on walking all the way back home when a familiar car pulls up next to him.
“Jesus Christ, Derek, way to leave me!” Laura says through the open window. She only had two drinks that night and her mind is much clearer than Derek’s at the moment.
“You left me first,” he retorts.
“I was still a the bar, dumbass. You’re the one that up and left. Now, get in the car.” She unlocks the car and Derek crosses the front and gets in the passenger seat. “You stink. Like lots of booze and like sex.” She wrinkles her nose at that. She can smell the other person on him, though, and he doesn’t smell bad.
“That… I didn’t… it was all an accident,” he mutters, leaning the seat back as far as it will go. “There was this cop-”
“I probably don’t want to know?” Laura takes a wild guess. She really doesn’t need to learn that her little brother got a citation for drunkenly masturbating in public or something of that nature.
Derek shakes his head side to side.
She drops him off at his apartment, telling him that he should really take a shower. He doesn’t. He doesn’t even bother covering up with a blanket before he crashes for the night.
When he wakes up, he does regret the not showering or changing thing. His pants are crusty and kind of sticking to him and he reeks of booze. Yeah, he’s not putting off the shower any longer. Getting out of bed properly, he begins pulling the bandanas out of his pockets, and with one came a piece of folded up paper.
The warning from the officer last night. Right.
He unfolds the paper and reads it over a couple times. It’s not at all what he thought it would be.
Call me sometime? Stiles
There’s a number scribbled below the name... on the piece of paper that says To Do List up at the top and has the time listed in one hour intervals. It’s not an official police ticket. Because… because he wasn’t actually a police officer, was he?
“I am such a fucking idiot,” he mutters, but he’s smiling. Because that means that Stiles, according to the note, really was flirting with him last night. So when he comes in the shower, to his slightly hazy memories of Stiles in too tight khaki shorts, it’s totally intentional.
Pairing: Sterek
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Laura drags Derek out for a Halloween party, and when Derek gets drunk and decides to leave, he ends up running into a cop in really short, really tight shorts
Word Count: 2859
A/N: This is my Halloween fic, inspired by an convo with homo_pink and this picture:
Also on AO3
Laura has dragged Derek out to bar in downtown where they always have their big annual Halloween party and costume contest, because she claims he doesn’t get out enough. He thinks he gets out plenty, but she adamantly disagrees.
This year, she’s dressed as Tinkerbell. Derek flat out refused to go as Peter Pan. She knew it would be a long shot, but she asked him anyway. In the end, he decides to go as a rodeo clown. “You are such a cheap bastard,” Laura says when she sees his costume. He’s wearing some old baggy jeans and an old baggy flannel shirt from when he went through his baggy clothes and flannel phase, some suspenders that were probably old enough to be their grandfather’s (and quite possibly were his), some bandanas tucked into his pockets and the most beat up pair of shoes he owns.
“What’s wrong with that?” he asks, adjusting the cowboy hat atop his head. Because, yes, he’s got a cowboy hat.
She rolls her eyes at him.
They’ve already started drinking by the time the costume contest begins. Derek never enters, but he enjoys watching the people that do. Simply because Halloween is the one time the real freaks and crazies come out and no one bats an eye. Also, can a person show that much skin without getting arrested for public indecency?
“Hey, Der,” Laura leans over to him, sipping on her margarita, “wouldn’t it be fun if we actually signed up for the costume contest one of these days?”
He side eyes her. “What exactly are you saying?”
Her smirk is fucking evil. “Oh, nothing.” He swears that is sister is pure fucking evil. “Just that maybe I signed us up for the costume contest.”
“I knew it.”
Her smirk grows into a full blown, eye wrinkling smile as she drags him up to the stage where they each get their time in front of the audience. Laura is rather pleased by the amounts of catcalls she receives. It’s really the only night she’ll allow catcalls and not slap a guy in his face.
When it’s Derek’s turn, the emcee goes to town. “Now what do we have here?” he asks, lifting up the bandanas and flicking at his cowboy hat. “Brokeback Mountain?”
“I’m a rodeo clown,” Derek tells him.
“Of course you are.” He turns to the crowd, “So, ladies, what do you think?”
Derek finds Laura and she’s smiling, pointing to her mouth as if telling him to smile. Oh, she is trying to tell him to smile. So he does. And the ladies go nuts. His face lights up when he smiles.
“My, my, maybe we do have a contender here.”
Once he’s finally done being shown off like a stock animal (probably a bad thought considering how he’s dressed), he’s back at the bar with Laura. “I hope you know how much I hate you.”
“Oh, please, it was not that bad. You’ve got admirers now,” she tells him with that ever present smirk.
“I don’t want admirers,” he retorts.
“Come on, man. Just admit that you love the attention.”
“Will you leave me alone if I do?” When Laura doesn’t answer, he knows that the answer is really no. So he admits to nothing. He just drinks some more. He’s already had quite a few, probably more drinks than he’s had collectively over the last year. If not more than definitely stronger. When he does drink at home, it’s a beer. A singular beer. Tonight he’s already had four Jack and Cokes and done a few too many tequila shots at Laura’s insistence. She really is the worst. Especially since she hasn’t done a single shot and has been sipping the same margarita since they got to the bar.
And then the emcee comes back on the stage, talking once again about the costume contest, saying he’s about the announce the winners. Neither Derek nor Laura win. First place, anyway. Derek has apparently won second place. The emcee says it’s due to his charming smile. But, hey, he’s walking away with fifty bucks in his pocket and he hadn’t spent a dime on his costume. Ok, so Laura wheedles her way into getting half, but that’s still twenty five bucks he didn’t have before.
At least until all Derek's half is blown on more alcohol. So that’s just less money out of his own pocket spent on booze; it’s still a win in his mind.
~~~
When Laura’s friends miraculously and totally coincidentally (or so she says) show up at the very same bar as them, Derek finds himself alone. Laura has abandoned him. She’s really just dancing with her friends and other drunk patrons, but it’s as good as abandoning him.
He pays his portion of the tab and decides to take off. He kind of looks like a poor drunken hobo as he walks out of the bar and onto Main Street. He thinks it’s probably what a drunken hobo would feel like, too.
His walking in a straight line ability is all but gone. Did he really have that much to drink? He must have. Apparently, he still can’t hold his liquor.
On his next step, he walks into a jack-o-lantern. Of course he can’t simply bump into the pumpkin, he has to actually step into the damn pumpkin. He lifts his foot, kicking off the remnants of the pumpkin’s shell. He mutters an apology to no one in particular, thanking his lucky starts it wasn’t lit because with his luck, even with a little tea light, his pant leg would have gone up in flames, and continues to walk, trying to ignore the sound of pumpkin guts squishing under his foot every other step.
Suddenly, he stops dead in his tracks. Up ahead of him is a goddamn cop. Oh, shit, why? Of course there would be cops out on Halloween. Because it’s fucking Halloween and people are drunk and like to cause trouble. Plus, there are teenagers out in droves and no on can really trust a teenager.
The cop, in his tan uniform and shiny badge, looks over and makes eye contact with him. He is so damn fucked. He can’t move. He knows he’s intoxicated and he’s out in public and that’s a thing that could get him arrested.
The closer the cop gets to him, the more Derek wonders when cops started wearing shorts… and thinks that the cop has really nice legs. Wow, he must be really drunk.
“Any trouble here tonight?” Stiles asks as he meets the hobo man on the sidewalk.
“None at all Officer…” Derek leans closer to see if the badge he’s wearing has a name, but it looks like it says Dangle.
“That’s Deputy Stilinski to you,” Stiles replies. And, oh god, if his father knew that he was here impersonating a cop he would be so dead. So it’s a good thing his dad’s dealing with the trick-or-treaters back home in Beacon Hills. But he really couldn’t pass up the chance to talk to this guy, because underneath that flannel shirt and suspenders he can see that this man is a looker.
“Yes, Deputy Ssstil… Ssstilinnnn-ski,” he slurs. He’s really not helping his own cause.
“Could you tell me your name before we begin?”
“Derek,” he answers.
Ok, Derek, would you be willing to partake in a sobriety test?” Stiles asks.
Derek hesitates. He really doesn’t think he could pass any kind of sobriety test at the moment. And would probably still fail if he were to take it in another three hours. But he knows he can get in even more trouble if he refuses, so he nods. “Yeah.”
Stiles thinks back to watching his father give the tests and decides to embellish them just a little. “Alright, arms out. I’ll tell you to touch your nose with either your left hand or your right hand. Once you touch your nose, your arm goes back out, ok?”
Derek nods again and sticks his arms out.
“Right. Left. Right. Right. Right. Right. Left. You touched with your right!” Stiles exclaims, then schools himself because a cop wouldn’t act like that.
“Anyone would have,” Derek mutters without thinking.
“Ok, next test. I want you to recite the alphabet, starting with F and ending in U. Backwards.”
“Wait, what?” Derek is more than a little confused. “The alphabet doesn’t start at F. And am I starting with F, or U and going back- ohhh, FU, I get it. Hey, wait, what?” he repeats.
Stiles has to turn away and try and muffle his laughter in his hand. He’s so going to hell for this. “Please, sir, if you could do as I asked.”
So, Derek begins to think of how the alphabet goes just so he can begin reciting it backwards. From U. “U… T… S…” he pauses, once again going through the entire alphabet just so he can figure out what comes before S. “I don’t think anyone could do this sober,” he mutters. He really meant to say R, but that’s not what came out.
“That’s enough of that,” Stiles says. “I am really questioning your sobriety, sir. Would you be willing to take a breathalyzer?” he asks.
Derek nods.
Stiles only has one on him because he may or may not have borrowed one years ago from his father’s work and had simply failed to return it. “Ok, I’m going to ask you to suck in a big lungful of air.” He pauses while Derek does it. “Now put your mouth right here and blow nice and hard.” He holds it up to Derek’s mouth and Stiles doesn’t want to admit that he bites his own lower lip at the sight of those lips wrapping around that little piece of plastic. “Come on, you can blow harder than that, mouth like that” he says, voice low.
Derek actually has a coughing fit, expelling the rest of the air from his lungs before the test can get an accurate read. He’s either really drunk and imagining things, or this cop is flirting with him. Or maybe just fucking with him. Wants to fuck him? God, he needs to stop before any awkward boners… and that’s the beginnings of an awkward boner.
“Looks like you’ll have to try that again,” Stiles says. When Derek goes to blow again, Stiles cracks another joke that leaves Derek sputtering. “I’m sorry, sir. One more time?” This time he lets Derek actually blow until it beeps. Stiles pulls the test away and looks at the screen. “Holy shit,” he says when he sees that Derek is definitely over the limit. “Do you see this?”
Derek looks at the screen, which is pretty blurred, and nods. “Yeah.”
“Do you know what this means?”
“I’m drunk?”
“Yes, you are drunk in public. I think I’m going to have to write you up a warning.” Stiles whips out an official looking pad of paper and a pen. Then he jots down the note, tears off the paper and sticks it into Derek’s jean pockets. “Read that when you sober up, ok?”
Derek sucks in a breath at the touch, because holy hell, the cop’s hand is in his pocket. Very close to that awkward boner.
Stiles is really close to Derek now, wishing the man was sober because he really wants some of that, but he’s not about to go sleep with some drunk guy who thinks he’s an actual cop. It already seems like it would get really messy, really awkward, really fast. “What, uh, what exactly are you supposed to be?”
“A rodeo clown,” Derek answers.
“That’s a new one,” Stiles says. “Now, I’m going to let you off this time with just the warning, ok? But I don’t want to see you-”
In trying to stand still, Derek manages to trip over himself when he stepped onto the hem of his extra baggy pants. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, there buddy, not so fast. That action could be considered threatening,” Stiles says, and Derek looks confused. “I need you to turn around and put your hands against the wall, legs spread.”
Derek’s boner is getting a whole lot more awkward. Is he seriously about to get pat down? Yes, he soon finds out. And Officer Stilinski’s fingers are so long and strong and… nimble. He can feel them as they move up his pant legs and over his ass, then up his back. His shirt is pretty thin and, seriously, this shouldn’t be legal how good this feels. He blames the little moan he lets out on the alcohol. The hands move up one arm, then the other. Derek sucks in a breath when the officer’s hands touch the front of his body and Stilinski’s body is pressed right up against his own as he reaches around Derek’s front. He can feel his dick getting harder in his pants as the touching continues getting lower and lower. And then the hands are on his hips, patting his pockets and getting closer to his crotch.
It only takes one hand grazing over his crotch before he’s coming in his pants, body convulsing and arching with the completely unexpected orgasm. He bites his lower lip to stop from howling out with pleasure.
“Holy fucking shit,” Stiles whispers more to himself than anyone. Because he just made Derek come in his pants. While fake frisking him. In public. He steps back, then says, “Just had to make sure you weren’t hiding any… nightsticks in there.”
All Derek can do is laugh. He’s drunk and he just came in his pants like he hasn’t done since he was in middle school and he’s pretty sure the cop in too short shorts just made a dick joke.
This is why he doesn’t go out.
“Well, um… I’m going to let you go now. Just, uh… be more careful next time. And remember don’t get behind the wheel,” Stiles throws in, because this isn’t already awkward enough for him. He didn’t think the dude would jizz his pants! “I can call you a cab,” he offers.
“Thanks, I’m good,” Derek says, grabbing one of the bandanas that’s hanging off of him and moving it to cover himself.
“I can wait here if-”
“No, go and stop some teenage delinquent,” Derek says, leaning against the wall. Where he just came in his pants.
Stiles feels slightly guilty as he leaves, because this guy still thinks he’s a cop, and he definitely just made a drunk dude jizz himself. He’s more guilty about the faking a cop thing, though.
Derek, with his now very strategically placed bandana, begins walking down the sidewalk and is planning on walking all the way back home when a familiar car pulls up next to him.
“Jesus Christ, Derek, way to leave me!” Laura says through the open window. She only had two drinks that night and her mind is much clearer than Derek’s at the moment.
“You left me first,” he retorts.
“I was still a the bar, dumbass. You’re the one that up and left. Now, get in the car.” She unlocks the car and Derek crosses the front and gets in the passenger seat. “You stink. Like lots of booze and like sex.” She wrinkles her nose at that. She can smell the other person on him, though, and he doesn’t smell bad.
“That… I didn’t… it was all an accident,” he mutters, leaning the seat back as far as it will go. “There was this cop-”
“I probably don’t want to know?” Laura takes a wild guess. She really doesn’t need to learn that her little brother got a citation for drunkenly masturbating in public or something of that nature.
Derek shakes his head side to side.
She drops him off at his apartment, telling him that he should really take a shower. He doesn’t. He doesn’t even bother covering up with a blanket before he crashes for the night.
When he wakes up, he does regret the not showering or changing thing. His pants are crusty and kind of sticking to him and he reeks of booze. Yeah, he’s not putting off the shower any longer. Getting out of bed properly, he begins pulling the bandanas out of his pockets, and with one came a piece of folded up paper.
The warning from the officer last night. Right.
He unfolds the paper and reads it over a couple times. It’s not at all what he thought it would be.
Call me sometime? Stiles
There’s a number scribbled below the name... on the piece of paper that says To Do List up at the top and has the time listed in one hour intervals. It’s not an official police ticket. Because… because he wasn’t actually a police officer, was he?
“I am such a fucking idiot,” he mutters, but he’s smiling. Because that means that Stiles, according to the note, really was flirting with him last night. So when he comes in the shower, to his slightly hazy memories of Stiles in too tight khaki shorts, it’s totally intentional.