Prompt: "you are in fact the worst burglar i have ever seen"
"how many burglars have you seen?"
"exactly." (found online, just too funny to pass on)
Notes: So, I didn't add the prompt in (I did want to originally, so this prompt is just based off it). This is from Derek's POV, but still a third person pov. And yes it's very rambly, but he is drunk. Rated M for medium to heavy swearing. Sexual innuendos here and there. And both of them lusting over each other.
Derek is a bit drunk and extremely tired when someone breaks into his apartment. He's been working like a dog these past two weeks (his thesis is driving him fucking crazy), his sisters are badgering him to get a job while he's still studying (which doesn't make sense, because he's already in the line-up for a paid internship at the museum), while his best friends are hounding him to go out and get laid (well, Erica is, Boyd silently hands him the keys and an excuse to get out whenever Erica starts talking about it – which is why Boyd's his favourite). So yes, he's drunk, tired, and now pissed off because just as he's about to fall asleep, he hears a crash in the kitchen.
Now he doesn't have animals, and he knows he doesn't have bowls stacked at unstable heights (he never does that, actually, as he hates the sound of glass breaking), so what else could it be other than an intruder? He's up and moaning, because if he has to get up just as he's fucking about to fall asleep, you better bet he's going to moan about it. He does take a large candlestick that's on his nightstand (the power in his building's been pretty rickety the past week so Derek's been saving his work at intervals (Laura says it's bordering on unsafe intervals); as well as cloud backups, external hard drive backups, and even writing out his work as he goes along as well as stocking up on batteries and candles.
He creeps towards the kitchen but fails as he catches his toe on the one couch and falls forward. The candlestick bangs off the coffee table and he hopes nothing chipped. He catches his chin on the carpet and groans as he lies there. The person (thief, burglar, trespasser, whatever) shoots up from where they were on the couch.
"What the fuck, dude?" the person on the sofa says, long fingers flailing around. He rubs his eyes and sees Derek with the candlestick, both still on the floor. "Why the fuck would you have a candlestick? Do you want to kill me?"
Derek shakes his head in confusion, getting up and tightening his grip on the candlestick. He moves backwards and blindly moves his hand on the wall until he finds the light switch.
"What the hell are you doing in my apartment?"
The guy on the sofa sits up and blearily looks around, shielding his eyes with his hands.
"What you talking about? This is my apartment. I'm sitting on my sofa. That's my coffee table. That is my…" he stares at the candlestick, light whiskey coloured eyes widening at the sight, "well, that's not my candlestick. All my candles are in old bottles. I would never have such a stupid looking candlestick like that. No wonder the key wouldn't work in the door."
Derek looks at the guy, and then back at the candlestick. Then at the guy, and back at the candlestick. The candlestick is bedazzled. With a lot of glitter. "My sister gave it to me," he admits gruffly.
"A," gestures the guy, "that is a horrible gift and I hope you gave her an equally horrible gift back. B, because that is not my candlestick, does that mean I'm not in my apartment?" He twirls his long hands around and Derek tries to keep his eyes on the intruder's face.
Derek rolls his eyes. "Yes, you're not in yours. You're in mine. So, what the fuck are you doing here?"
The guy scratches his head and stands up, pulling his shirt down when it rises up, revealing a sliver of hipbone that Derek definitely does not look at. "Uhm…I'm burglarising. I'm a burglar?"
"A burglar doesn't lie on the couch," Derek says flatly.
"Maybe I was test driving the couch to see if I want to steal it. How would you know how burglaring works?"
Derek just stares at the guy. He's still too drunk and tired to have this conversation, but he'll allow it. Just. Mostly because the guy has a line of moles on the one side of his face, leading from the mouth to the ear. And also because he's wearing a low-necked shirt, which expose his collarbones in a way that Derek is glad he's too tired to think straight.
The guy clears his throat. "Okay, so I wasn't in here to steal your shit. I'm a stripper. Your sister paid me to strip for you."
"You really think I need to pay people to strip for me?" Derek asks drolly.
The guy slowly eyes Derek from top to bottom. "Yeah," he says slowly, "I'd probably pay you to strip. Fuck, the whole town would. All right, so I'm not a stripper. I'm part of your security company and we like to make random checks."
Derek crosses his arms and notes how the guy flicks his gaze from Derek's eyes to his arms. He could probably stand there and listen to the guy make excuses for being in the wrong apartment. So long as clothes are flying off. And the guy makes or orders breakfast the morning after. Because Derek hates to do anything while hungover.
"All right, what's the name of the security company I use?"
The guy scoffs. "Easy. Argent Arms. The entire building uses it."
Derek turns the candlestick down, candle first, like they would in gladiator times. "Wrong. I use Finstock Security."
The guy wrinkles his nose. "Why? Argent Arms is the best. Plus, Finstock used to be an Economics teacher as well as a Lacrosse coach. He wasn't really good at either, so why would he be good at security?"
"Are we going to stand here and talk about security companies or are you going to give me a reason as to why you're here?"
"Fine. So, I'm obviously not stealing shit," the guy ticks off a finger, "nor am I from a security company," there goes the second finger, "damn, what was the last one?" he presses a third finger down, feigning obliviousness.
"Stripper," Derek murmurs. The other guy snaps his fingers.
"That's the one. So, if I'm not in my apartment, which is 67, which one am I in?"
"57," Derek answers.
"Oh, then I'm the floor above you."
"That's generally how floors work. So, can you leave? I need to sleep and I have work to do tomorrow."
The guy groans but starts to leave for the window, picking his phone off the coffee table.
"What the fuck you doing? Through the door, you dinosaur."
The guy whirls around. "Dinosaur?" His face breaks out into a grin.
Derek grimaces. "I have nieces and nephews." He moves closer to the other guy, trying to make him catch the hint.
"That is super cute. And, ow, okay? Please don't do that," the other guy groans as Derek pulls his arm to the door.
"You know, you could teach me other phrases you picked up from your nieces and nephews. Or maybe even phrases you picked up from places where little kids would never be allowed. Or you could just show me your bedroom." The guy spins around, winking at Derek at the end of the sentence.
Derek rests his arm on the doorframe, noting how the guy's eyes again flick up to his arms. Damn, he's glad he gyms a lot. "Or you could just leave now, go back to your apartment and leave me to sleep."
"Well, to do that you'll have to unlock the door. Which, by the looks of your absolute gorgeous face and your extremely huge biceps which could easily pick me up and hold me against a wall, you don't really want me to leave, now do you?"
Derek reaches forward, too close to the other guy's face and now he can see the moles on the side of the face and lips almost pout-like by nature. Derek stares into his eyes as he turns the key in the lock, pulling the door open. He realises too late that this will force the other guy closer to Derek. Now their chests are pushed up against each other and all Derek wants to do is pull the guy into a deep kiss and lock the door. But even though Derek is drunk, he still knows his morals and limits, which means he steps away.
"As much as I would like to, and I can't believe I just said that; I'm still forcing you out my door. Come by tomorrow so I can get your number. For insurance purposes, of course."
The other guy steps outside, grinning cheekily. "You got it, big guy. One number for Mr. Hottie with the Biceps coming up! See you tomorrow."
Derek shuts and locks the door after him, groaning as he walks back to the lounge. He stares at the glass on the floor. "Nope. Doing that shit tomorrow. Right now I'm going back to bed and hopefully I'll get lucky in a dream," he says as he shuffles back to bed.
The other, Stiles, he learns, which fits him as he's so peculiar, pitches up at a reasonable time the next morning. He holds up takeaway coffee and French toast from the good diner around the corner. Derek decides to keep him, broken glass and all (they keep meaning to fix the glass but it never actually gets fixed anyway. It's a fun story to tell how they met).