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What Does the...Sox?! Say?

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What Does the…Sox?! Say?


The drawer had turned to total chaos since the ridiculously rainbow-bright, argyle had appeared.  Things used to be so organized.  Colors didn’t mix with whites, sweats didn’t mix with dress, and everyone stayed in their section of the drawer in neat rows. 

And then Stiles came.

Stiles the loud—figuratively and literally—and annoying sock.

And what the shit kind of name was Stiles anyway?!

Stiles came and threw Derek’s perfect order out of whack.

He said such ridiculous things like, “Come here often?” and, “Let’s be mates.”

Derek had ruled the sock drawer with an iron…fist?  Figurative fist?  Whatever!  He was in charge and kept all the socks in line.  But now he had ankle socks pairing with tube socks, orange socks with navy blue ones and more often than not he woke with Stiles wrapped around him.

How a black dress sock got paired with an argyle and actually worn in public he’d never know.  Stiles had some magic about him.  He made all the socks happy, the singles that had no hopes of ever finding mates, the gifts from elderly relatives that never got worn, even the threadbare, holey socks that should have been thrown out ages ago.  There was always a silly game to be played or a joke to tell, or some cheesy line coming from his side of the drawer.  Only, there weren’t really sides anymore.

“C’mon Derek, it’s not so bad.” Stiles coaxed.

“Stiles this place is in chaos—I got worn with a sweat sock inside a pair of smelly old sneakers the other day!”

“But you had fun, didn’t you?”

As much as it pained Derek to admit it—and he didn’t, not out loud—he had fun.  They had gone biking and had somehow ended up rolling through the grass.  The scenery and smells, the carefree joy of it all had been invigorating.  Normally he spent his time outside the drawer in a pair of stuffy loafers at boring meetings.  It was really quite tedious.

He’d never tell the sock, but Stiles had grown on him.  He didn’t mind that his beautiful rows were no more.  He didn’t care that different style socks were mingling.  Derek looked forward to wash day because apparently there was no separating bright colors and darks anymore.  There was Stiles slip-sliding against him in a whirlpool of Arm & Hammer and Snuggle.  The way he rubbed against Derek made the dark cotton want to curl around him, tie them in knots so tight that they’d never get free.

And in the dryer?!  The dryer was a nightmare and the best dream ever.  There was static when they touched and Derek was forever covered in rainbow colored fuzz balls.  But there was also Stiles stuck to him as though it was how they had been made, rolling and writhing in the heat.

He found himself secretly anticipating the “singles-mingles” as Stiles had dubbed them.  He no longer cared about his rows—who needs rows?   And then one morning, Derek was on Stiles’ side of the drawer, curled around him, covering the argyle in black fuzzies.

“Derek?” Stiles croaked, confused by this sudden turn of events.


“Yes Derek?” he asked anxiously.

“Let’s be mates.”


The End