Chapter Text
He’s not really sure what compels him to do it, other than the fates lining up a sequence of events making it possible to do so.
First, Mrs McCall and his dad are attending a couples fancy dress party together and for some inexplicable reason think his idea of going as Homer and Marge Simpson is totally hilarious and worth doing. Second, his father gets him to buy the necessary equipment to dye hair blue - semi-permanent dye and a bleaching kit. Third, Scott’s mum manages to find the perfect wig on eBay and so no longer requires the dye and bleach. Fourth, as he’s on his way to return the stuff, Deaton rings him and tells him it’s an emergency and he can’t contact anyone else. He drives straight to the clinic and is greeted by a shirtless Derek Hale flat out unconscious on the table, with Deaton looking harried and nervous.
“The pack has vanished,” he says by way of an introduction, “and Derek is under some kind of sleeping curse and won’t wake up. I’m going to have to go find them myself, but I can’t risk leaving him alone. Can you stay with him?”
“Good afternoon to you too,” he replies with a smile. “Of course I will.” He ‘s quite disappointed to discover he isn’t being summoned to save the day, but since even he couldn’t conjure up a plan straight away to deal with the issue, maybe it would be better left to the professional just this once.
“Thank you Stiles,” Deaton exhales with relief, “I should hopefully only be a few hours, if he starts to wake then contact me.”
An hour goes by. Two. Three. Four, and he’s desperately bored and he can’t play any more games on his phone because the battery is getting low and Deaton might ring any second. He paces the room, getting antsy, and knocks over the bag he was supposed to be returning. He looks down at the bleach, the dye, and then at Derek’s sleeping form. A grin spreads across his face, and he just can’t help himself, despite knowing he’s almost certainly going to be violently murdered by Derek, because it will be worth it.
***
It’s easier than he thought it would be, especially since he’s able to roll Derek’s head around into suitable positions to facilitate good coverage. It’s almost therapeutic, watching the gentle rise and fall of Derek’s chest as he runs his gloved fingers through his hair. He really hopes the bleach will work on such dark hair, and there’s a horrible moment where he realises just quite what the fuck he’s doing and that there’s no way of quitting, and he needs a few minutes sitting on the floor breathing deeply to bring himself back, but he recovers and leaves the bleach on rather longer than suggested because hey, werewolf healing will sort out any burns, before filling a bucket with water and rinsing off the bleach into another empty bucket.
He’s not terribly careful with it and splashes water everywhere, but soon Derek’s hair is clean and dry and ridiculously blond. Pure white blond in fact, and Stiles is thinking about a future career in hairdressing when Derek makes a tiny noise. Stiles bowls backwards and slips on some water and crashes to the floor, legs flailing in the air like a dying fly and he of course chooses to get the giggles as well.
He spends several minutes cowering on the floor, his face scrunched up to avoid the inevitable lethal lunge Derek will make, but it never comes and his ass is going numb, so he gets back up and Derek is still fast asleep. For some reason the white blond look is ridiculously good on Derek (which just isn’t fair, because how can bleached hair and dark eyebrows and stubble look so hot?) and, Stiles realises, something that no one else will see. It’s a private thing, just for him, even if he made it that way and it’s good to know he can have knowing smirks about it forever and infuriate everyone by not telling them why.
The blue dye seems kind of complicated and Stiles wonders if maybe he should just leave it as is before realising that would spoil said private moment, so he slaps it all on thick, using the entire pot to make sure it doesn’t look horrendous. I mean, he wants Derek to look silly but he doesn’t want him to look bad. That would spoil every stolen glance he makes for the next few weeks, or however long the dye lasts.
In fact, he’s amazed at himself for keeping himself so collected around the object of his longtime frustrated affections. If he was more of an amoral kind of person, he’d have totally unzipped those jeans and seen what Derek was packing, but he still holds out hope that one day he’ll find out through honest means, and doesn’t want to spoil that now. Even if he is getting immeasurably turned on by washing out the dye from Derek’s hair and discovering that, holy shit, blue is definitely Derek’s colour. It hasn’t taken perfectly, with hints of green showing through where the bleach hasn’t taken properly either, but it just serves to complement his eyes and Stiles has his hand rubbing his dick through his pocket in a trance when his phone rings in the other and startles him. Deaton was calling.
“I’ve found them,” he says when Stiles answered. “Someone had trapped them inside one of Derek’s old haunts that I forgot about, and sealed them in.” Mountain ash, Stiles presumes. Not much else could keep a werewolf trapped for so long. “I’ve dealt with it, but they’re totally exhausted and I’m taking them back to the apartment before I head back, is that okay?”
“Yeah, that’s fine,” he says in a daze, the reality of the situation starting to sink in. He’s dyed an alpha werewolf’s hair bright blue while he was under a spell, and with Deaton on his way back it wouldn’t be long until he was awake again. He needs to get the hell out of there, and fast, but can’t go until Deaton is back. Even that would be a nightmare. He can’t imagine Deaton being compliant with his request of not mentioning Stiles being there. He’ll have to try though.
***
“Stiles,” Deaton says as he walks in the door, noting his slightly manic tapping on the doorframe, a poor attempt at acting composed. “Has something happened? Is he awake?”
“Oh no, thank god,” he replies, “I mean, thank god because I didn’t have to deal with keeping him here until you got back because I know you’d hate him to go running off after his pack so soon, obviously.”
“Of course,” Deaton says calmly, with only the slightest inclination of his left brow. “No other reason?”
“None at all,” he smiles wildly, “but could you, like, not tell Derek I’ve been here on my own all this time? As a small favour. I’ll transcribe some dusty old bestiary for you in return.” Bribery. Wonderful. That will go down really well.
“You do that all the time anyway, Stiles,” Deaton says and it is true, he does, he finds it fascinating and is now cursing himself for doing it so freely because it’s a terrible bargaining chip. It’s pretty much the only one he has though.
“I’m going to go,” he says, slinging his backpack over his shoulder hurriedly and heading for the door, “just, please, don’t say anything!”
“What have you-” Deaton starts to say as he heads into the clinic, and Stiles bolts for the door. Half way through it, he hears Deaton burst into laughter and stops for a second, out of shock more than anything. It gives Deaton time to come back through, look him square in the eye and say “I’ll try my best not to say a word,” before cracking up once more. “I don’t know what possesses you, Stiles, but it is a wonder.”