Sterek One Shots (boyxboy)

Distinguishing Marks

Distinguishing Marks by aggybird
👾👾👾👾👾👾👾👾👾👾👾

The form asks "Do you have any
distinguishing marks?" and Derek chews the pen cap and thinks about it for a second and writes: Yes. Two tattoos.

He figures that will be it.

----

"You know you sign your name under a little box that says the information you have provided is truthful to the best of your knowledge," Stiles says, flopping down next to Derek and tossing a sheaf of papers into his lap.

"What?" Derek asks. Dog the Bounty Hunter has just apprehended someone on TV and Derek is still getting used to surround sound. It continues to freak out his hearing.

"Your application," Stiles says.

"I'm not actually a felon," Derek says. "It asks if you were ever convicted. I wasn't."

"Not that part," Stiles says. "The thing about your tattoos."

"What about them?"

"Them? Them? What do you mean them?"

Derek sighs. "I have two tattoos. Which one?"

Stiles sputters. "You do not have two tattoos. You have the mystical werewolf back tattoo and that's it."

Derek raises an eyebrow. "You'd be the expert on my body then?"

Stiles' face flushes dully. "Obviously not. But I have seen you half-naked and dying often enough to be pretty certain."

"There you go," Derek replies, turning back to the TV.

"What does that mean?" Stiles demands.

"It means you've only seen me half-naked. The tattoo is on the other half."

Stiles' eyes take on a glazed expression. "Which part of the other half? Are we talking embarrassing butt tattoo? Left cheek? Right cheek--? No, it's not the right cheek, that harpy shredded your pants last fall."

Derek lets out a low grumble. He still doesn't like talking about that.

"Stiles, leave it alone."

"I am insulted. You have known me long enough to know that I am constitutionally incapable of following that directive. I am wounded, wounded to my very--"

"It's on my left hip," Derek snarls. "Now drop it."

"Oh, I'll drop it, buddy," Stiles mutters, subsiding. "I'll drop it like it's hot."

Derek has no idea what that means, but he figures it's nothing good.

----

"Really, Stiles?" Derek says, sighing heavily. He stops unbuttoning his jeans and turns to his bedroom window in time to hear, "Oh, shit!" then a series of crashes and yelps.

When he leans out the window, Stiles is sitting in the bushes, rubbing his lower back and scowling.

"I'm calling the cops," Derek says. "There's a man outside my house. I feel unsafe."

"You're such a dickhead," Stiles says. "I think I broke my spine."

"It matches your broken brain," Derek replies, shutting the window.

He makes his way downstairs and heads outside. Stiles is still sitting in the dirt, and he does look a little banged up.

"What are you doing!" Stiles says when he sees him. "You're giving the neighborhood a show!"