Original posts for both: (1 & 2)
I’m sorry lol. AU where Derek Hale is only a couple years older than Stiles and also lives next door.
I don’t specify ages but Stiles is probably more like 10 rather than 7. :)
Derek has a loud family. Cora and Laura are pair of wrecking balls between them, bursting through obstacles in long eruptions of sound and fury. Talia makes her opinions known on every small point which never fails to start a riot. His father has the most boisterous laugh he’s ever heard. It shakes the rafters, engulfs the entire house, and makes sure the listener feels it in their bones.
They fuel each other’s fire, the only reprieve coming when the world is shrouded in darkness and everyone is blissfully asleep. Even then, most of them talk. Derek’s dad snores.
In short, Derek is used to noise. He’s used to presences that fill whatever room they’re in, all crowed and overlapping in a single space. He’s used to fiery, elephants of personalities. The Hales are not a tranquil people.
Stiles Stilinski puts them all to shame.
After the first week of their residency next door to the Hales, Derek takes to leaving his window open during the two hour period in which the Sheriff lets Stiles out to play in the yard, sometimes with his friends. (Well…friend. Singular. It’s the McCall kid.) Derek thinks it’s probably in an effort to drain him of all his spastic energy. He can’t imagine what kind of havoc the kid can wreak inside the confines of his home.
Also, he’s sort of hilarious. Derek lives for Stiles’ little quips in response to his father’s cliché attempts to get him to obey.
(“There are starving children in Africa, Stiles.”
“Well maybe we should FedEx the beats to them then.”)
(“Stiles, your face is going to stick like that.”
“Do you think they’ll let me join the circus?! That’d be kick ass.”
Today beats all days. Because the Sheriff and Stiles’ discussion had gotten a bit heated when Stiles refused to come in for dinner, and the older man’s, “You are under my roof! You live by my rules!” had been met with:
“I’m not under your roof! I’m under the sky! And the sky is nature’s roof and nature wants me to play outside!”
Which had somehow escalated into an all-out chase sequence straight out of an eighties television show about growing up. Derek can’t exactly explain how it happened. He doesn’t actually spy. He’s not like…weird or something. He usually just lets Stiles’ less than dulcet quips wash over him, some flowing by unnoticed while others simmer and soak for a moment before taking.
So all he knows is that, somehow, Stiles went from yelling prickly barbs to hopping on his bike and skittering down the street with a gleeful, “You’ll never catch me coppers!”
Derek finds himself standing on the front porch with the rest of his family (along with the entire housing community to be honest) watching as little Stiles Stilinski bikes in furious weaves up and down the tight blocks of their neighborhood, belting “We Didn’t Start the Fire” with surprising accuracy.
Derek is reluctantly impressed.
He guesses that the Sheriff is attempting to let Stiles get the whole thing out of his system because when he gets well and truly fed up (which coincides closely with the accidental destruction of Mr. Goodman’s tulips) he catches his son with practiced ease, dragging him back into the house by the scruff of his neck.
The words of Billy Joel lilt through the hot summer air all the way until door slams shuts behind them.
Stiles doesn’t get to leave the house for a week, and when he finally does, it’s to help Mr. Goodman replant his curbside garden.
“Cool song,” someone says from just outside Derek’s room. Not just “someone”, actually. He recognizes that voice, probably lured up to the window by the notes he’d sung to the entire neighborhood just a few weeks prior.
He’s never seen Stiles up close. Or standing still. Well…mostly still. He’s still fidgeting long fingers and looking around curiously. He’s leaned casually against the sill, only his buzzed head inside Derek’s room. His eyes are wide and brown and sharp. There’s a splattering of moles on every visible part of his pale, rosy complexion. Like flecks of paint.
He’s also standing on the roof of the Hale home’s first story so he can poke into Derek’s second story window.
“How did you get up here?” Derek asks, trying not to let his surprise filter into his voice. He’s not sure how well he succeeds.
“You have a…terrace thingie, man,” Stiles replies with a nonchalant wave of his arm.
Derek’s brows raise incredulously, “’A terrace thingie’?”
“Yeah.” He’s still laissez-faire about the whole thing. Like this is something he does every day. Plus he’s apparently distracted. “What are you doing?”
The older boy looks from Stilinski to his project on the desk and back again. “…painting?”
“You paint? Dude that’s so cool. Are these all yours?” He points to the wall of artwork littering the far wall.
Derek shrugs, and Stiles must understand that it’s in agreement.
“Woah. You’re really good.”
“I’m Stiles by the way.”
He tells him, “Derek,” because saying ‘I know’ would probably be weird.
“Hey, you wanna come play in the yard with me?”
Stiles’ gaze is on him, steady for the first time since he’d made himself known. His eyes are probing and bright. Derek feels much like Mr. Goodman’s tulips must have just before meeting their untimely end beneath the ribbed wheels of Stiles’ bicycle.
“Sure,” he says anyway.