Ficlet: Death of the Flower Crown || Sterek Crack
Author: write_light
Title: Death of the Flower Crown
Rating: PG
Pairing/s: Stiles/Derek (implied)
Character/s: Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale
Summary: The things that matter never seem important at the time.
Warnings: Some of the story is in phone text message images.
Submission Type: Ficlet
Word Count:~840
Prompt: #110 "Thirst"
Author's Notes: I cannot even begin to explain how this story arose. Crack beyond the limits of what is accepted; head canon about Derek that doesn't bear scrutiny but totally makes sense.
The things that matter never seem important at the time. We recognize them only later, when the time to water the goddamn plants has passed.
In retrospect, those texts from Derek made no sense, but Stiles was busy trying to get into college and not let people in Beacon Hills die. Still, 'three green thumbs' was overstating by three. Derek never responded.
Stiles still had the key on his keychain. The loft door slid open with a groan, and the darkness struck him anew.
"What plants could you possibly grow here? Mushrooms?"
He finally found a couple of pots in an upstairs window, wedged against the brick on the narrowest of ledges as they waited for the sun to move round the building.
"Watering can?" he asked himself as he searched high and low. He tried to recall Derek EVER having plants, or mentioning plants.
"You guys come with me," he finally said to the plants on the ledge and grabbed them both. "You need to be in front of the big window."
Stiles was immensely pleased with himself, arranging them on the corner of Derek's desk where they fit perfectly and were certain to get the most light. They looked happier already, he told himself, turning the smaller one so its leaves looked just right.
He tipped the cool water gently from the glass onto the larger one and it trickled down, out the bottom, across the desk, and splashed on the floor while Stiles was still gazing at the plant.
He sprang into action, wiping up the water, hoping the desk wasn't going to stain. He picked up the larger plant to slide a saucer under it and his eyes locked onto the price tag.
"'Fëjkå.' God dammit, Derek. You want me to water your fake IKEA plants, really funny."
He slammed the loft door behind him and locked it while he worked the phone with one hand.
"Sprinkler system, uh huh," he laughed. "Asshole." Stiles gave up texting at that point and left the plants to fend for themselves.
***
A week later, it began. During lacrosse practice.
It continued ominously into dinnertime.
Stiles slid open the door. It was utterly quiet and only the smallest wedge of afternoon sun was still lighting the room.
He went upstairs and looked around. No third floor.
"Derek?" he called. No reply. He pulled out his phone.
"WHERE ARE YOU?" Stiles roared at the room. And then, "Oh."
The stairs weren’t hard to see at all, but he'd managed to miss them about twenty times before now. He ran up the narrow steps, bursting out onto the roof.
Stiles' phone buzzed again, and the words 'BEHIND YOU' appeared. He spun around but there was only a larged raised skylight. He went toward it, realizing it was whitewashed glass and stretched a good twenty feet or more. Around the side was a door, and when he turned the handle, everything changed.
The air was thick and heavy with moisture, the smell of soil, moss and bark, and something vaguely decaying. Over that was a cloying sweet smell, reminding him of the family trip to Hawaii all those years ago. In the far distance, in the dim shade, were two glowing eyes.
He gulped.
The lights blinded him when they surged on, row after row of pink fluorescent grow lights and LEDs so bright he winced and covered his eyes. When he could see again, it was with disbelief.
Derek Hale. Surrounded by orchids. Draped with them, it seemed, thick sprays of riotous pink and yellow, soft flesh and peach tones along dappled petals that looked like a crown around his head. Wilting orchids.
Stiles' mouth fell open, his jaw twitching as he took in this King of Orchids, a misting wand in his hand raised as if to curse Stiles with his righteous anger.
"I asked you. To water. My plants."
***
Title: Death of the Flower Crown
Rating: PG
Pairing/s: Stiles/Derek (implied)
Character/s: Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale
Summary: The things that matter never seem important at the time.
Warnings: Some of the story is in phone text message images.
Submission Type: Ficlet
Word Count:~840
Prompt: #110 "Thirst"
Author's Notes: I cannot even begin to explain how this story arose. Crack beyond the limits of what is accepted; head canon about Derek that doesn't bear scrutiny but totally makes sense.
The things that matter never seem important at the time. We recognize them only later, when the time to water the goddamn plants has passed.
In retrospect, those texts from Derek made no sense, but Stiles was busy trying to get into college and not let people in Beacon Hills die. Still, 'three green thumbs' was overstating by three. Derek never responded.
Stiles still had the key on his keychain. The loft door slid open with a groan, and the darkness struck him anew.
"What plants could you possibly grow here? Mushrooms?"
He finally found a couple of pots in an upstairs window, wedged against the brick on the narrowest of ledges as they waited for the sun to move round the building.
"Watering can?" he asked himself as he searched high and low. He tried to recall Derek EVER having plants, or mentioning plants.
"You guys come with me," he finally said to the plants on the ledge and grabbed them both. "You need to be in front of the big window."
Stiles was immensely pleased with himself, arranging them on the corner of Derek's desk where they fit perfectly and were certain to get the most light. They looked happier already, he told himself, turning the smaller one so its leaves looked just right.
He tipped the cool water gently from the glass onto the larger one and it trickled down, out the bottom, across the desk, and splashed on the floor while Stiles was still gazing at the plant.
He sprang into action, wiping up the water, hoping the desk wasn't going to stain. He picked up the larger plant to slide a saucer under it and his eyes locked onto the price tag.
"'Fëjkå.' God dammit, Derek. You want me to water your fake IKEA plants, really funny."
He slammed the loft door behind him and locked it while he worked the phone with one hand.
"Sprinkler system, uh huh," he laughed. "Asshole." Stiles gave up texting at that point and left the plants to fend for themselves.
***
A week later, it began. During lacrosse practice.
It continued ominously into dinnertime.
Stiles slid open the door. It was utterly quiet and only the smallest wedge of afternoon sun was still lighting the room.
He went upstairs and looked around. No third floor.
"Derek?" he called. No reply. He pulled out his phone.
"WHERE ARE YOU?" Stiles roared at the room. And then, "Oh."
The stairs weren’t hard to see at all, but he'd managed to miss them about twenty times before now. He ran up the narrow steps, bursting out onto the roof.
Stiles' phone buzzed again, and the words 'BEHIND YOU' appeared. He spun around but there was only a larged raised skylight. He went toward it, realizing it was whitewashed glass and stretched a good twenty feet or more. Around the side was a door, and when he turned the handle, everything changed.
The air was thick and heavy with moisture, the smell of soil, moss and bark, and something vaguely decaying. Over that was a cloying sweet smell, reminding him of the family trip to Hawaii all those years ago. In the far distance, in the dim shade, were two glowing eyes.
He gulped.
The lights blinded him when they surged on, row after row of pink fluorescent grow lights and LEDs so bright he winced and covered his eyes. When he could see again, it was with disbelief.
Derek Hale. Surrounded by orchids. Draped with them, it seemed, thick sprays of riotous pink and yellow, soft flesh and peach tones along dappled petals that looked like a crown around his head. Wilting orchids.
Stiles' mouth fell open, his jaw twitching as he took in this King of Orchids, a misting wand in his hand raised as if to curse Stiles with his righteous anger.
"I asked you. To water. My plants."
***