A/N: I live in a world set sometime after Season 2 (no S3 in UK so no spoilers after S2 because I've only got fanfic & YouTube to go by, sob) with no Alpha Pack, where Derek is an alpha, Scott is a beta and Erica and Boyd never left / came home unharmed / whatever, idek. I just like a big happy pack with Derek in charge. Can you blame me?
Also, I'm English so expect spelling to be, er, traditional, although I do make an effort to follow US idiom. :-) As always, I appreciate any comments etc.
The Cat
The cat looked at him.
He looked at the cat.
"Hello, puss. What's your name?"
The cat pushed its head into the air. Stiles took that as an invitation to pet it, so he couched down to stroke its head and scratch behind its ears.
"Aren't you a friendly puss-puss. And beautiful too, with your orange tabby markings and white tips to your paws and muzzle. So pretty! And such soft fur."
The cat accepted the human's fealty magnanimously and lowered its head, pushing its back up to encourage the questing fingertips to move towards the top of its spine.
"You like that do you, huh? You do, don't you. You like it when Stiles rubs between your shoulder blades."
The cat dipped away briefly to thrust its jaw up into the outstretched palm before presenting its shoulders again.
"I've not seen you around before. Are you new? I didn't know we had new neighbours. But then the roaming range of domestic cats in an urban setting can be more than a mile square so it's possible you live a few streets away. Are you lost? You don't have a collar so I don't know where you live. You look well-fed and groomed so I don't think you're a stray. Then again, cats are good hunters and they pretty much groom themselves so … Well, you don't look like a stray, anyway."
The cat made a mewing sound and balanced on its hind legs while it stretched up to place its front paws on Stiles knees.
"Want me to pick you up, huh?" He put one hand under the cat's front legs, his other hand running down its back to scoop up its rear legs as he stood up. The cat head-butted Stiles' chin the moment he drew the cat close to his chest.
"Aw, you're a real friendly little critter. I know your game: you're scenting me. You're not the first to try that – although you are the cutest! And this beats having to wear Scott's lacrosse shirt to throw those trolls off my scent. That was gross. But this is the sort of scenting I could get used to."
The cat began wiping the sides of its jaw on every part of Stiles' face and neck it could reach while Stiles cooed and engaged in the sort of inane chatter that small animals and babies have to endure the world over.
After a few minutes, Stiles asked, "What's your name little one? I wish you had a collar. Although they say it's not a good idea to put a pet's name on their collar because unscrupulous people can gain the pet's trust by calling them by name and then steal them. Really, some people just let the human species down! Anyway, you should have a name. I mean, I know you probably have a name already, but I don't know what it is so I can't call you it so… Yeah, so, anyway, I'm going to call you Antonio, you being a marmalade cat and all."
The cat gave a brief squeak of a meow that made Stiles giggle.
"Antonio it is! Well, hello Antonio. My name is Stiles and I live in that house just there. He pointed to the opening in the fence a few yards behind him that led to the Stilinski front yard.
"I've got to go now. Pack meeting. I'm surprised you can't smell them on me. Anyway, if you're still around when I get back, I promise you more head scratching and some full body strokes. Sounds good, huh? See you later, Antonio. Be good."
He put the cat down onto the sidewalk close to the start of his neighbour's yard, before clambering into his jeep and driving off, waving out of the window at the bundle of ginger and white fur that was watching him with round green eyes.
The Hale house, whilst still mostly a charred ruin, was now watertight and had running water (in pipes now, not down the walls) and electricity to the first floor. Lydia had donated one of her family's old TV sets, so the large main room was now the venue for pack meetings and movie nights.
Arriving at the front of the building, Stiles braced himself for the inevitable. The moment he set foot inside the door there was a chorus of moans and complaints from the werewolf contingent about his 'smell'.
"What the hell, Stilinski? You been hanging out in alleys?"
"Why? Jealous are you, Jackson?" Stiles replied, blowing the werewolf a kiss.
"Of you? In your dreams, loser!"
"Jackson shut up! Quiet everyone," Derek strode up to invade Stiles' personal space like the creepy creeper with no social skills creep that he is, nose wrinkling.
"Cat. Explain."
Stiles crossed his arms. "Cat. Stray. Petted." Two could play at conversing like they were reading from a Scrabble board.
"And you didn't think to shower before you came here?" Derek sounded like a school principle belittling a first-grader for forgetting to tie his shoelaces.
"I did. Think about it. And, you know, actually shower. Then I picked up the cat."
"Disrespectful to the pack. We'll talk later."
And that was that. Derek had closed the issue as far as the gathered pack were concerned but he was not dropping it altogether.
Stiles let his mind drift off during the 'official business' part of the meeting, as he catalogued a series of punishments that Derek may mete out for his transgression of disrespecting their werewolf pack; none of them appropriate, PG or, frankly, very likely. But Stiles had an active imagination, a secret soft spot for said alpha, and Scott's update on Deaton's research had been boring the first time he had heard it.
By the time that the 'Transformers: Dark of the Moon' credits were rolling and even the pizza crusts had been devoured, the pack were already dispersing to their relevant homes. Stiles had forgotten about his promised punishment and was already thinking about which movie's to bring for the informal portion of next week's meeting, when Derek suddenly commanded, "Stiles. Stay behind." Well, who died and made him Mr Harris?!
Scott, the last of the others to leave, made puppy-dog eyes at Stiles in a gesture of impotent solidarity, before jogging to catch up with Isaac, throwing a lazy arm over the blonde's shoulders as they loped off together into the darkness. Stiles sighed and pulled the charred door closed, wondering whether he was still even a footnote on Scott's list of 'Awesome Best Friends'.
"Sit!" Derek said, as Stiles trailed behind him back into the main room, stifling a dog joke before he made his situation worse.
He threw himself down onto the over-large couch, leaning against an armrest at one end.
"Um, guess I should say 'sorry'," he said, although his upward inflection at the end hinted at a question rather than a genuine statement of apology.
"I don't want to do this, Stiles," Derek said, as he sat down next to the teen, his body turned towards him, "but you leave me no option. I cannot allow you to go home smelling of …cat."
The last word was forced out as if it physically pained Derek to say it.
Stiles shuddered. "I said I was sorry," he tried.
"No, actually you didn't. I don't think you are sorry. You either don't understand how important scent is to werewolves, or you don't care about this pack. I choose to believe the former, although I didn't take you for stupid."
"Okay, well, I'm sorry if people thought I was being disrespectful. That wasn't my intention. I just picked up a cat that wandered up to me outside Mrs Shelby's and made a bit of a fuss of it. No big deal."
"I know you're not lying to me, but actually, it is a big deal. For the pack. You need to be reminded of the consequences of your actions. You do realise that I can't let you leave," — Stiles flinched — "smelling like you do."
Stiles nodded slowly, wondering if he'd just made a monumental mistake; it wouldn't be the first time.
Suddenly, Derek threw himself onto Stiles and was rubbing his face all over Stiles' neck. He barely had time to register the thought 'stubble', before Derek was running a hand over Stiles head, fingers combing through the short hair, while his other hand was roughly caressing — that really was the only word for it — caressing his cheek.
Derek had twisted in his seat so that his torso was flush with Stiles, as the hand on his face moved down to stroke his jaw before sliding around to his back to pull him closer. Derek was hugging him! An aggressive, squirmy kind of hug, but a hug nonetheless. And now Derek was nuzzling the underside of Stiles' chin in much the same way as Antonio had done, only with a little stubble-burn this time.
Stiles felt his skin tingle as nerve endings fired and adrenalin surged through him.
Then, just as Stiles became aware that this attempt at marking him as werewolf property was beginning to have an unexpected (possibly) and very embarrassing (definitely) side-effect, Derek suddenly withdrew to the other end of the couch.
"You can go now," Derek said in a voice devoid of any emotion, lacking even his usual grumpiness, "but be warned: if you come to another pack meeting reeking of cat, I will need to do this again. Do you understand?"
Stiles nodded furiously as he stood, picking up his backpack and holding it in front of himself like a shield, as he backed away from Derek, making for the door, his Jeep, and safety.
As Stiles drove up to his house, he looked around for Antonio. He wasn't that surprised when he didn't see the ginger cat, or even the reflection of its eyes in his headlights.
But his father's cruiser was outside and that bought a smile to his lips. He parked up alongside and hurried into the house.
"Dad," he called out, "we need to get a cat!"
~FIN~
A/N: Dunno why this popped into my head. But my neighbour's ginger cat went missing and I couldn't stop thinking about him. Therapy for my muse, I guess.