The phone ringing felt like a hammer beating against Derek's eardrums.
It wasn't often that the Beacon Hills alpha scrambled for anything. He generally stalked, strode, charged or leapt for something. Scrambling was a new one. But it was two AM, and though he had patrolled at times like this before, he'd spent yesterday trying to research what exactly it was that a pack of alphas could do to him and dealing with Peter being… Peter.
Derek glowered at the phone, squinting against the light of its screen. It took a moment for the letters on the screen to resolve themselves in his brain. It was a call. From Stiles. At two in the morning.
Derek scowled. He thought about hanging up, or maybe crushing the phone. Instead he answered it.
"What, Stiles?" He snapped.
"ssssSDerek! Oh my god Derek. Hi. Youushave no idea how glad I am you answered. No idea." Stiles was slurring. And stuttering. And repeating himself. And Derek was having a hard time thinking of a reason that he shouldn't hang up.
"Call Scott if you're going to drunk dial someone," He growled.
"Wh—I am not drunk," Stiles said, sounding offended. "An'… an' stinkin', captain of the lacrosse team, wolfy, stupid, wolf face Scott won't pick up th' phone! I do everything, everything, for that guy, and he just—" There was a thud and a scuffle and Stiles gave a little tinny yelp. Derek pinches the bridge of his nose and growls. A moment later, there's the sound of fabric sweeping across the phone speaker, and Stiles is back on the line. "…I fell."
"You are literally fall down drunk. Walk home, and sleep it off," Derek said, wishing for not the first time that alpha dominance would work on Stiles. It would be amazing to get that kid to do something not stupid the first time around.
"But I'm not drunk!" It was the most clear sentence that Stiles had said so far.
Derek stayed on the line for a moment longer, wishing that he could glare Stilinski into submission. Wishing, unsurprisingly, didn't work. The next thing that Stiles said had the low, conspiratorial tone to it that made Derek want to bash his head into the nearest wall.
"I've been roofied."
"Why do you think you've been roofied?" Derek asked, glowering at the ceiling. He didn't ask who would roofie you, but he kind of wanted to.
"'Causeeeee I've been drunk before, duh! An' this, this is all… woobly." Stiles said. "And, and and, I counted, I counted, I had…three drinks! Three. Twooo rum and cokes and this thing, it's, it was like, a shitty margarita butanyways I should not be this fuckeded up."
Derek continued to glower at the ceiling. That was concerning. Even being a human and being more sensitive to alcohol, Stiles did drink, and Stiles didn't get drunk that easy. Also, Stiles had just said fuckeded, and that was borderlining on pathetic.
Derek got out of bed. He didn't groan, even though he wanted to. He couldn't believe he was going to do this. "Where are you?"
"Out at—okay there'ssh this place, it's like, out—" Stiles stumbled over his own words. Derek rolled his eyes as he tugged on pants.
"Where, Stiles?"
"Th' slaughterhouse," Stiles said, finally. "There was a party. It's back in the woods—"
"I know where it is," Derek said, cutting Stiles off. The slaughterhouse was exactly what it sounded like; an old slaughterhouse where kids sometimes went to party. Of course he knew. It had existed when he'd lived here too. "Go sit in your jeep. I'll come get you."
"Oh my god thank you—" Stiles started. Derek hung up.
This was the sort of thing, he reflected, that he was supposed to do for pack. Not for the human friends of people who were pack, or who should have been pack.
Stiles was really going to owe him for this.