“You know, camping outside someone's window just to watch them sleep used to be considered romantic - but today it's called stalking and generally considered trespassing - though the term stalking has a certain Byronic flavour to it,” drawls Stiles from where he's leaning against one of the larger tree near the mansion and in Derek's way.
“Get out of my way, Stiles,” growls Derek, his mouth opening for a snarl, his sharp teeth glinting in the moonlight. His claws jutting from his right hand.
“Or what, Wolfy?” Stiles eggs on, his smirk hidden beneath his hooded mask, his white eye lenses gleaming in the darkness.
“Or I’ll rip out your throat with my teeth, Deadpool,” hisses Derek.
“Kinky. But you wouldn’t want to eat me. I irritate the bowel,” says Stiles, his dominant hand’s adamantium sword unsheathing from his arm.
Derek lungs forward and there is a sharp clang between his claws and Stiles’ sword.
“You know something? I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” quips Stiles before his left leg comes up and connects with Derek’s solar plexus. “Shoulda listened to Scotty, his spidey senses are rarely wrong.”
Derek’s quick recovery from the hit has Stiles ducking under his clawed fist.
“Hey! Watch the merchandise!” says Stiles. “Not all of us get our spandex from Professor Deaton. I had to sew this myself.”
Derek tackles him in a body slam and they grapple on the ground. Neither getting the right amount of leverage.
“Yeah. That is a gun in my pants. But that doesn’t mean I’m not happy to see you,” mouths off Stiles before he forces a roll to avoid Derek’s claws from taking off his head.
“Let go of me, Stiles,” Derek spits out with a snarl.
“And let go of these abs?” Stiles says with a hushed reverence. “Hey, still have that unbreakable skull?”
Derek barrel rolls to avoid the gunfire. “How many guns are on you?” he growls.
“A mercenary never reveals all his secrets, Derbear,” declares Stiles. “And for the folks at home brownie points for guessing right on how many.”
“What?” says Derek with a growl, shaking the blood from his claws with a flick of his hand.
Stiles sighs from looking at his ripped red body armor. “Uncool, man. And to think, I’m trying to be the good guy.”
“You were never the good guy, Stiles.”
“Pot calling kettle there, Derek. Except you’ve got amnesia and I’ve got a brain tumor. Quite a couple we make,” Stiles says, sheathing his swords.
Derek exhales through his nose loudly. “Let me go, Stiles.”
“Either I go with you or we’ll do this all night,” says Stiles, soberly.
“It’s my respon-“
“Blah-blah, with great power comes great responsibility, yeah. You sound just like Scott,” says Stiles blithely. “Except without the sticky fingers. Unless you’ve been hiding mutations. Have you?”
Derek just sighs and sheaths his claws and turns to walk away. “Just shut up.”
Stiles gives a yelp of joy before following Derek’s wake. “Have you met me, Derek? Huh?”