Chapter Text
“Sourwolf,” Derek says in warning, seeing his dog wander off. He’s already on edge since it’s Stiles and Peter’s new condo, and the last thing he needs is to have Stiles come charging out of the air vent, accusing him of getting dog drool on the wallpaper or whatever. “Sourwolf. Sourwolf. Come back and—and do not touch that. God, do not touch that.”
He lunges and scoops up his dog just as Stiles appears around the corner, carrying a plastic bag, a bottle of carpet shampoo and a bristle brush. Stiles looks at him, then at the thing on the carpet. The oblong, furry, disgusting mush pile that is leaking clear fluid out of its guts, and thank God for selective scent wards because if Derek was smelling that as well as seeing it, he just might never come back here.
“You can ratchet down the gag-me face a couple notches,” Stiles snorts, bending over and spitzing the mush. “Seriously, it’s a natural process. Stuff goes down, stuff must come out, and better this way than via surgical means. And if you don’t believe me, I’ve got a couple Extreme Hairballs episodes you should watch.”
“I’d rather dig out my eyes and stuff the sockets with wolfsbane,” Derek mutters. He starts to turn around, but then Sourwolf, who for some reason is fascinated with that thing, tries to climb over his shoulder. So he grabs Sourwolf by the scruff and that ends up turning him back just as Stiles stands up, bagged hand holding the majority of the hairball, and. And. Why doesn’t Derek’s brain just stop. “Why is it that color?”
“Color?” Stiles says. Then he frowns and tilts the hairball for a closer look. “Looks normal to me.”
“It’s black,” Derek says. “How is that normal, you’re orange. Please tell me you don’t have some bizarre intestinal disease that Peter’s going to—”
Peter comes in. He happens to cross a sunbeam that floats over his shoulders and most of his head, and specifically, his hair. Which is. Which is.
“If you’re going to puke, do it on the tile,” Stiles says irritably. “I had an excuse, I stupidly ate too much of Scott’s mom’s world’s greatest bean casserole and forgot how much farther the bathroom is here, but you’re just being precious for a guy who does, in fact, bury deer guts for later.”
“Really, Derek,” Peter says. “This can’t be that surprising. You should use logic, not let it use you.”
“Why am I here?” Derek manages to groan, right before taking Sourwolf and retreating to the kitchen.
“Bio-shaming isn’t cool, Derek!” Stiles yells after him.
Derek sits down with Sourwolf in his lap, and his dog licks at his hand. It helps. And then Derek thinks about it, and it kind of stops helping, and Derek just…tries to think of something else. Something. Anything.
* * *
“Listen, if you ever start throwing up orange fur, we’re gonna have a problem,” Derek says, holding Sourwolf so that they’re eye to eye. “You got that?”
The dog looks at him. Sourwolf’s face and fur have filled out since Derek adopted him, so that the damaged ear is no longer that noticeable, but Sourwolf’s eyebrow tufts are still really prominent for the size of his face. They always look like they’re raised a little higher than they need to be.
“I’m just,” Derek starts, and then he sighs. He puts Sourwolf down and the dog sits and continues to look up at him. “Okay, fine. Fine. You want a bone, right?”
Sourwolf pricks his ears.
“Goddamn it,” Derek says, and goes to get him his chewbone.