Derek’s in the shower when the doorbell rings. He’s always in the shower when the doorbell rings. He sighs and grabs his towel off the rack near the door. At least this time they waited until he was finished jerking off.
He wouldn’t even bother if he wasn’t pretty sure it was his package from Chicago. He’d sent his jacket to be put back together where some asshole had cut a slice through the sleeve with his claws and OW.
"MOTHER FUCKER," Derek says when his slippery feet miss the top step. He’s pretty sure his toe is broken. Then, "I’M COMING," when whoever’s down there rings the bell again.
It’s a slippery, careful walk down the stairs, but his toe heals by the time he gets the door open. It’s the the Fed Ex guy. It’s— Derek coughs, and wipes his wet hand on his towel. “Hello Sheriff.”
The Sheriff looks anywhere but Derek’s wet, naked chest. Or Derek’s eyes. He’s definitely not looking at Derek’s eyes. “Hello, Derek. May I come in?”
Derek looks at the sheriff skeptically. He tries to take his scent in, to see if he can gather any more information. Unfortunately, it’s not exactly like he can actually ‘suspicious politeness’ with a base note of ‘suspects you’re up to something’.
"Mr Hale?" Sheriff Stilinski says.
Derek opens the door for him, and smiles—the fake, polite one. “Of course.” This isn’t going to be good if the the sheriff doesn’t want witnesses and hasn’t dragged Derek out to the squad car yet.
The Sheriff stands awkwardly by the door for a minute, because Derek is dumbstruck, and doesn’t offer him a seat. That doesn’t stop him, though. “This might take awhile,” he says pointedly.
Derek looks down, which is when he remembers he’s still wearing just a towel. “Have a seat. I’ll just.”
The sheriff sits on the battered futon and Derek pops into the laundry room and yanks on a pair of too long (Boyd’s) sweat pants and a ridiculous bright orange (Isaac) T-shirt before he joins him.
Sheriff Stilinski clears his throat. “I had a question I wanted to ask you, about the seventeeth.”
"That’s the full moon."
"Yeah, I know„" the sheriff says, casually. He turns his gaze on Derek, calm, assured. "Listen, Derek, the precinct would really appreciate if you would come in and—
All of a sudden, Derek can’t breathe. He stands. “You can’t do this. You can’t take us in and lock us up. Your cells don’t hold us, anyway. We’re werewolves, not criminals.”
The sheriff gets the same exact look Stiles gets right before he tells Derek that he’s said something really stupid, and rubs his hand down over his face. “I know. I was—I don’t know. I was reaching out. I was going to ask if you might like to be a part of our charity bachelor auction. Stiles said this would be a bad idea.”
"I have met Melissa McCall."