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Summary
Stiles is wondering what this "marking" business is all about.
Series
- Part 1 of The Red Hoodie Series
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Stiles walks along the forest floor, a book of Robert Frost’s poetry in one hand, flashlight in the other. It was homework, after all, and even if Scott wants him to track raccoons or bogey monsters at midnight, Stiles knows that this shit is still be due tomorrow. The fact that the poem he’s been assigned is oddly fitting doesn’t escape his notice.
“I’d prefer if I didn’t have miles to go before I sleep, dude,” he shouts into the night, air puffing in front of him.
“You have? Dude! Details! Where were you? Oh my god, you didn’t do it, did you? How could you kill a hippo! They’re like big, fat, wet, hairless puppies! You killed a fat puppy!”
He looks up as a hand presses hard against his chest and screams like a girl when he sees it’s Peter.
Stiles decided several hours ago that sniffing the collar of the jacket every few minutes does not make him a creep, it merely just proves that he has very good taste in cologne. Whatever type Derek uses must be very expensive and laced with magical baby fairy dust because damn, it smells amazing.
“You’re weird today.”
“I’m always weird.”
“Not this weird.”
“Well, thanks dude. It’s your undying love that really keeps me going.”
“Stop it.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“Yes, you are. Stop stealing my oxygen. I need that shit.”
Derek is looking at him as if he were a special child. Not special as in cherished, but special as in takes the short bus to school.
“I’m serious! This shit is never simple.” He spins around in a circle, anticipating more attacks. “How do we know Grandpa Vader here doesn’t have ninjas on call?”
“Okay, that might have sounded a little gay.”
“My god, you’re possessive.”