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Stiles is pretty sure he’s got everything under control when he moves into his new apartment. He remains this way for the first week or so. After all, if he managed to survive high school, he can definitely survive this whole moving away for college thing, right?
Well, so far so good, and he’s feeling pretty optimistic. In fact, he just got off the phone with his dad, telling him the same thing. The apartment’s awesome. His room is awesome (and even awesome-er now that he’s finished decorating it). His flatmate’s awesome—when he’s around anyway, which is practically never; so he basically has the entire apartment to himself, which is awesome.
He’s pretty sure he’s got everything under control until the scream.
It’s coming from next door and it’s a woman’s high-pitched scream followed by a particularly loud crash.
And then silence.
Being the naturally curious creature he is, Stiles immediately presses his ear against the thin wall and listens to the muffled voices, because who knows? It might turn out to be an emergency and he might have to call the cops.
“Shit. What a mess.”
“Was that really necessary?”
“Yes. We both know how necessary that was.”
“But killing—”
“Oh, what, don’t tell me you have a problem with killing now? Remember two weeks ago?”
Stiles wonders what happened two weeks ago. It must’ve happened before he moved in.
“Whatever. C’mon, we have to clean this up.”
“Ugh, I hate how fast it spreads. These stains are going to take forever to get out. Red’s the worst.”
“You’re always going on about how much you like red though.”
“Not when it’s all over the counter and the floor like this.”
Stiles takes a step back and frowns. His mind is flipping through all the possible situations in which a conversation like that wouldn’t raise red flags.
It could’ve been a spider, he tries.
But that doesn’t explain the vast amount of red that was apparently all over the counter and the floor.
Then he remembered his roommate’s words, before his most recent disappearance: “Don’t ask the guy next door for weed, man. He’ll just stare you down and it’s like, so intense, man. Like, he’s eating up your soul with his eyes. Oh my god, dude, I think he might be a killer or an undercover agent.”
Yeah, so his flatmate might not be the most…sober of people, but what Stiles wouldn’t give to have him there beside him right now—terror loves company, after all.
Filled with morbid curiosity, he pressed his ear against the wall again.
“Crap, it’s leaking through the bag.”
“Double bag it, genius.”
“Relax, no one’s going to know.”
“We do have neighbours, you know?”
“What about them? I doubt they heard it. Unless you’re suggesting that they’re listening in on us now…that might be a problem.”
Stiles pulls away again, his heart racing.
Just because they talk like killers, it doesn’t mean they’re actually killers, he tells himself; it only very strongly implies it.
After a few minutes, he decides to do the most rational thing and calls Scott, his childhood best friend and unofficial brother from Beacon Hills who had stayed behind to attend a local community college. Adorable, asthmatic Scott.
“Hey Stiles, what’s up?” Scott asks, picking up on the third ring.
“Oh my god, dude,” he whispers, “you have no idea how good it is to hear your voice.”
“Thanks, you too, I guess. Stiles, why are you whispering?”
“In case my neighbours can hear me through the walls. Speaking of which, any idea on how to confront a possibly homicidal next door neighbour?” Stiles asks.
There’s a pause.
“Wait. What? Homicide? Stiles, what’s going on? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Just, earlier, there was this lady screaming next door and then it stopped, right? And I thought it’d be a good idea to try and see if I could hear anything through the walls. So I did and I heard these people talking about cleaning up this mess and red and people not knowing. Scott, they sounded like actual killers,” he hisses.
Scott lets out a soft huff. “I think you’re overreacting.”
“Yeah, probably,” Stiles admits. Then he hears a door closing the hallway. “Just wait a sec.”
He quickly tiptoes to the door and presses his ear up against it.
“…heavy.”
“C’mon, put your back into it. And don’t rip the bag or there’ll be hell to pay. Garbage day’s tomorrow, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Wouldn’t want this around any longer than necessary.”
“Keep it down. Neighbours.”
Stiles makes his way to his room and plops onto his bed. “I take that back, I’m not overreacting. Or am I? I’m not sure anymore.”
“Why? What happened?” Scott asks. He loves it when Scott’s being so attentive. It’s like being followed by a puppy, all full of love and devotion. That’s what Scott is, he decides, a crooked jawed puppy. “Stiles? You still there?”
“They’re dragging a bag to the dumpster, I think.”
“Was it a body bag?” Scott asks.
He frowns. “I don’t know. I don’t have a peephole and I wasn’t about to open the door and expose myself. Like, what were you expecting me to do? Go out and introduce myself and offer neighbourly cookies while I’m at it?”
“Dude, what if one of the killers was Miguel?” Scott says.
There’s a teasing smile in his voice that Stiles both loves and hates in equal measure.
“Oh my god, Scott, you are the worst—don’t even joke about that.”
(While Stiles hasn’t actually met any of the neighbours yet, one of the tenants has caught his eye. It’s a man with dark hair, strong cheek bones, prominent eyebrows, a five o’clock shadow, an assortment of leather jackets, and a permanent look of annoyance etched onto his face. They’ve never spoken or so much as made eye contact with each other, but he’s managed to catch glimpses of this stranger leaving the building in the morning several times now, and he’s pretty sure it’s love (which is one rung lower than the eternal, undying love he has for Lydia Martin because no one will ever compare to Lydia).
He even came up with a name for the beautiful, leather-clad stranger—‘Miguel’.
All of this, he told Scott via text messages, video chats, and phone calls, of course. And being the wonderful friend that he is, Scott merely asked, “So are you strictly into guys now because Lydia was the only girl for you or something?”
To which he answered, “That might be a good way of looking at it. Yeah, let’s go with that for now.”
“Oh, okay. Cool. Just wanted to check.”)
“Definitely not Miguel,” Stiles insists. “Miguel’s perfect and not a killer.”
“Fine, not Miguel,” Scott agrees easily enough. “But if they’re actual killers, shouldn’t you, I don’t know, call the cops or something?”
He considers it for a moment. “Probably, but what if they’re not and this is some horrible misunderstanding? I’ll wait it out and see. I don’t want to freak my dad out, you know? Once I’m sure then I’ll report it to the police. But if I go missing, tell them to check the dumpster and tell my dad I love him and still no bacon.”
“Don’t worry, my mom’s all over that.”
“Good.”
“And like, all over your dad.”
“Oh my god, gross, dude. So did not need that mental image. Like, why would you even?”
--
The next day, he runs into a young woman at the mailboxes. She’s tall with long brown hair and bright red lipstick that kind of reminds him of Lydia (oh, how he misses her). The woman’s definitely attractive and she’s standing in front of his mailbox and sifting through her letters. He awkwardly clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck. “Uhh, sorry. Excuse me, I just need to get to my mailbox there…”
She looks up with a start and steps back. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t see you there.”
“Don’t worry about it. Thanks,” he says, opening his mailbox. There’s a ridiculous amount of junk mail and he wonders if this is normal or if his missing roommate signed up for these things while high. He glances over at the woman’s equally large stack of colourful, generic flyers and assumes that his roommate’s not at fault for this.
As though reading his mind, the woman says, “I’m pretty sure one of the tenants bribed the postman into doing this. Apparently, unsubscribing doesn’t work.”
“Well, that’s definitely one way of doing things,” he mutters. “I’m Stiles, by the way.”
“Laura,” she returns, shaking his hand. “Are you new? I don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”
“Yeah, I just moved in like a week ago,” he replies. “So far so good.”
Laura smiles. “That’s good to hear. Anyway, I’ll see you around, Stiles. It was nice meeting you.”
Stiles bobs his head in an exaggerated nod and waves. “You too. I’ll see you around.”
He’s still going through the flyers when the door opens and Miguel walks in. His hands stop moving and he has to double check himself to make sure his mouth isn’t hanging open like a cartoonish caricature of amazement and intense fascination.
Miguel looks up and glances over at him and nods a curt greeting before making his way over to the elevator and disappearing from sight.
Hit with the sudden urge to follow if only to see what floor Miguel lives on, Stiles scrambles to stuff the letters into his messenger bag and turns to leave only to be violently yanked back. He lets out a surprised yelp and turns his head to see his bag strap caught in his mailbox.
“How does something like this even happen?” he asks himself, digging through his pockets for the key to free himself.
By the time he reaches the elevator, Miguel’s long gone.
--
“I almost had his floor number, Scott!” he complains into the phone later that evening. “There was eye contact!”
“And what would you’ve done with the information?” Scott asks. “Some people might call that creepy.”
“Curious, not creepy,” Stiles corrects him. “What if we live on the same floor?”
“You mean, what if he’s one of the killers?”
Stiles huffs. “No. Not that. Never that. How dare you tarnish his good name!”
Scott lets out a laugh. “His name, which you made up.”
“A good name nonetheless!”
He misses Scott. He really does.
Just then, there’s a knock on the door.
“Hold on, bro, someone’s at the door. I’ll call you back later,” he tells Scott and ends the call. Hopping off his bed, he jogs over to the door and throws it open, fully expecting his roommate only to find Laura standing there. “Hey—wha? Hey Laura, what’s up? Wait, how’d you know where I live?”
She grins. “I was there when you opened your mailbox, remember? I know it’s kinda creepy to suddenly show up at someone’s door unannounced, but I actually live right next door with my stupid little brother, Derek. You might’ve seen him around. He’s always running around for one reason or another. We also have a little sister, but she’s studying in South America. But yeah, Derek’s a huge dork.”
“Truly the detailed description of an older sister,” he says with a snort. Then something clicks in his mind. “Wait, next door, like that door next door?” he asks, pointing to the apartment next of his.
Laura arches a brow. “Yep, that’s the one.” Then some sort of realization seems to strike her as well. “Did you hear us last night?”
Stiles panics. “Nope. Didn’t hear a thing. Why? Was there a thing to be heard that I wasn’t supposed to hear but possibly overheard but didn’t? ‘cause I totally didn’t hear anything. There were absolutely no aural stimuli here!”
She shoots him a funny look at that. “Yeah, okay. It’s just that yesterday, there was a bit of a problem, but it’s been taken care of now. But never mind that. I was just going to ask if you might want to come over for dinner some time. Not tonight, because the brother’s napping right now. It’s been a long day, and we still have things to clean up from yesterday’s…mess. But let’s have dinner soon!”
He blinks, alarms going off in his head. “Sure, I mean, maybe.”
“Please? We’d kill to have you over for dinner,” Laura says.
Not alarming at all.
Stiles lets out a weak laugh. “Yeah, please don’t. Kill, I mean—I mean, yes, dinner sounds good.”
Laura narrows her eyes slightly in either concern or confusion, or even suspicion—possibly a mixture of all three. “Alright then,” she says, nodding slowly. “Let’s have dinner soon then. Feel free to come knock on our door if you have any questions or anything. See you around, Stiles.”
He raises a hand. “Bye. Thanks for the invite.”
Once he locks the door, he all but dashes back to his room and scoops his phone up and hits redial.
“What? Was it Miguel? Without a leather jacket?” Scott asks excitedly.
The thought sends his mind off to distant places and he has to reel himself back to reality. “I wish. Remember that lady I was telling you about earlier? Laura?”
“Yeah, she sounded nice. It was her? What’d she want?” There’s a pause and then Scott asks in a hushed voice, “She’s not a cougar or anything, is she? ‘cause, dude, your dad would flip.”
Stiles can’t help laughing at how serious Scott sounds about it. “No, man, it wasn’t like that. Actually, it might be worse. She’s from next door.”
Scott gasps. “Like,” he sings the theme from Psycho (probably while making stabbing gestures), “next door?”
“That’s the one. She aggressively invited me over to join her and her brother for dinner sometime,” he tells his friend.
“Whoa, that’s kinda scary, dude. So she works with her brother? Maybe it’s a family thing.”
“Or maybe they’re undercover and those are their assigned roles.” He thinks of his roommate again and wonders if he had had the right idea all along.
“Did she have some kind of European accent?” asks Scott.
He rolls his eyes affectionately at the suggestion, not that Scott can see it. “That’s Hollywood, not real life. No, she didn’t have an accent. Sorry to disappoint, but I’m pretty sure spies are smart enough to not walk around talking like Bond villains.”
There’s a pause. “So should I still take those two weeks off to visit you later this year? I mean, there’d be no point if you’re gonna be dead, right?”
“Scott, you’re a terrible person, and I hope all the toppings slide off your pizza when you try to eat it.”
Stiles can practically see his best friend pouting as he asks, “Why would you wish that on anyone?”
--
As it turns out, Miguel is not only a walking, (probably) talking Greek statue, but he’s also a wonderful person.
Stiles is standing in the elevator and waiting for the doors to close when Miguel enters the building with his ridiculously toned arms—not that Stiles can see them under the leather jacket, but he can imagine—lined with grocery bags and a little lady beside him, endlessly complimenting him on what a nice young man he was, and how helpful he was.
Miguel looks up and sees him in the elevator just as the doors start closing. Stiles immediately starts jabbing at the button to keep the door open, but the elevator refuses to listen and all he can do is tilt his head and watch Miguel with an apologetic frown as the doors close.
“You,” he tells the elevator panel, “are a terrible piece of metal and you’re most definitely gonna take a ride down to elevator hell when you’re through. That’s probably Level H in elevator-speak.”
That evening, he’s sitting in the living room when he hears muffled voices next door again. He wonders if it’s Laura talking to her ‘brother’ and presses his ear against the wall because he’s nosy like that.
“…coming next week.”
“What? He’s coming? Why’s he coming?”
“I guess it’s because they want someone to check in on us.”
“But out of all people, why him?”
“Maybe they found out about…you know.”
“They couldn’t have found out about it though, unless someone talked.”
“Or maybe he just wanted to visit us.”
“Really?”
“No, I take that back. It sounded stupid the second it left my mouth. He’s probably coming here to wreak havoc on our lives or something. You know, just for funsies.”
There’s a muffled reply Stiles can’t quite make out. So apparently there’s going to be a third person joining the fray. Maybe it’ll turn into a Mr. & Mrs. Smith scenario—his thoughts are interrupted by his growling stomach and he abandons his train of thoughts in favour of sating his hunger, and then he gets further distracted when his dad decides to call.
--
The next day, he runs into Laura at the mailboxes and decides to test the severity of the situation by saying, “So…about dinner…”
Laura shakes her head apologetically. “Sorry, Stiles, no can do for this week. We’ve got someone coming over and we wouldn’t want to subject you to his presence.”
“Oh, is he one of those people who tells lame dad jokes?” he asks, batting his eyelashes in a way he hopes exudes innocent curiosity.
“Sort of like that only worse,” Laura answers. “You’ll know what I mean if you’re unlucky enough to meet him. I say this with all the love in my heart, of course. For all I know, if you do end up meeting him, maybe you’ll absolutely love him, or maybe not. It’s hard to tell how people will react when it comes to him.”
He arches a brow. “He sounds like quite the character.”
Laura lets out a huff of laughter. “That’s one way to put it.”
--
“Anything new on the killer neighbour front?” Scott asks over Skype that night. Oh, how he’s missed that crooked jaw and those big, earnest puppy eyes.
Stiles shakes his head. “I found out there’s a third guy coming. Apparently the higher ups are sending him to check on them. Oh, and I found out that Miguel’s actually perfect.”
Scott scoffs. “You said that the first time you saw him.”
“That was visual perfection. Dude, if I could walk around this building without getting disconnected from my wi-fi, I’d hunt him down and show him to you,” he says, gesturing at the door. “But I can’t. Because my wi-fi’s terrible. And because someone might call security on me.”
“Dude, your flailing’s lagging my computer,” Scott tells him, laughing.
He shuffles and sits on his hands. “Right. So, anyway, Miguel’s absolutely perfect. The other day, he was helping this old lady carry her groceries, and today, I saw him holding the ladder for the caretaker while he changed a light bulb in the lobby.” By the time he finishes, his hands are in the air again. He glares at them and tries to will them to stay still.
“Wow, he sounds like a really nice guy. Maybe he’s being this nice to make up for killing people,” Scott says.
“I’m pretty sure killers usually repent by flogging themselves like in the movies,” he retorts. “And there’s no way Miguel would ever flog himself. It’d ruin his perfectness—and his leather jackets.”
“Yeah, he sounds more like a boy scout. How old did you say he was again?”
“I don’t know. Twenties. Mid-twenties? It’s hard to tell with the beard. And the fact that my brain actually stops working whenever I see him. Which is like, every time I have class at like eight because he goes jogging in the morning. Did I mention he’s also ridiculously fit?” Stiles asks.
Scott perks up. “Why don’t you go join him in the morning and run or something?”
The thought’s crossed his mind, but it’s also been crossed out. “Because that would require me to wake up earlier than absolutely necessary. It’s bad enough I have lectures at eight o’clock, Scott. Remember how I only agreed to join lacrosse with you because practice was after school?”
“Yeah, but what about that time you made me go running in the woods with you in the middle of the night?” Scott points out.
Stiles frowns. “That was in the middle of the night, not early morning. There’s a very distinct difference here, Scott.”
“Whatever you say, dude. Oh, by the way, did your dad mention anything about the new deputy?” Scott asks, not even bothering to be discreet about his sudden topic change.
“No, what new deputy?”
Scott ducks down and begins fidgeting with his phone. “Hold on, I’ll send you a picture. I took it while he was writing me a speeding ticket. I was kinda mad at him at the time, but I thought you’d appreciate the picture.”
His heart melts a little at his friend’s words. “Aww, Scott, you thought of me? I’m touched.”
And then he sees the picture.
“I think his name’s Deputy Parrish or something,” Scott says. “If things don’t work out with Miguel, and, like, your apartment gets sealed off for murder investigations, you can always come home and you’ll have this waiting for you.”
“Don’t tempt me, Scott. I feel like I need to call my dad and have strong words with him for not telling me about this new deputy with the beautiful eyes,” Stiles mutters.
“He’s downstairs with my mom right now. If you want, I can bring my laptop down so you can talk to him,” Scott offers.
Stiles smiles. “Could you? You’re the best, Scott. And while you’re at it, turn up the volume, would you? I want the volume to reflect my intense agitation.”
He watches as Scott jogs downstairs and switches over to a view of his dad and Melissa sitting around in the living room. John waves. “Hey son, everything okay?”
“No, not okay. Deputy Parrish?” he asks.
John arches his eyebrows and leans forward to lower the volume. “A little loud there, champ. And what about Parrish? He’s a good cop.”
“And kind of beautiful! How come you never mentioned him to me?” Stiles complains. “You know I like to know who’s on the team at all times!—especially if they have ridiculously amazing eyes!”
“I figured you’d meet him when you come back for a visit. Besides, aren’t you busy with that supposedly perfect guy in your building whose name you made up? What was it again? Michael?” his father asks, because Stiles tells his dad (almost) everything.
“Miguel,” both Stiles and Scott correct him.
Melissa snorts in amusement. “Why Miguel?”
Stiles shrugs. “He just looks like a Miguel. You’d agree if you ever saw him.”
“I’m sure I would,” Melissa deadpans.
“And no, I’m not any kind of busy with him, because I haven’t actually talked to him yet,” he continues.
“Just a thought, but I feel like a good first step would be to get his name,” Melissa tells him, “because I’m pretty sure your father will want to run a background check.”
“Yeah, he totally would,” Stiles agrees.
“Not ‘totally would’, just ‘most likely would’,” John corrects them. “Hey, sorry to cut this short but we were actually about to go catch a movie. How about I give you a call tomorrow and I’ll give you an update on all the new officers around here?—and yes, I’ll tell you all about Deputy Parrish.”
He grins. “Sounds good, dad. Love you.”
“Love you too, son.”
--
He meets Peter on a Tuesday and begins to understand what Laura was getting at. They’re standing at the mailboxes when the attractive yet somehow unsettling man says, “So you’re the kid next door, hmm?” He takes a sniff of the air. “And not the stoner.”
Stiles looks over, eyes wide with shock, and just mildly creeped out. “Not the stoner,” he affirms. The last time he saw his roommate was two days ago when he found the guy was stuffing his face with crackers and peanut butter in the kitchen in the middle of the night. “I take it you’re the guest of the week.”
The man grins. “Oh, how flattering. You know of me then. My name’s Peter. I’m Laura and Derek’s uncle,” he introduces himself with a small, theatrical bow. Something about him just screams ‘villain’, but Stiles can’t quite put his finger on exactly why yet.
“Stiles,” he returns, wondering what made this man so terrible that Laura felt the need to postpone their dinner date for an entire week.
Peter lets out an annoyed grunt as he goes through the mail. “The amount of junk mail they get here is outrageous.”
He nods in agreement. “Laura thinks someone’s bribing the mailman. Or maybe someone’s just breaking into our mailboxes.”
“Is that so…” Peter mutters. “Looks like I’ll have to get this sorted out before I leave.”
Stiles pauses and looks over. For a moment, he could’ve sworn he saw a psychotic gleam in those sharp blue eyes.
Later that evening, he’s pretty sure he can hear maniacal laughter coming from next door. He grabs his phone and does the first thing that comes to mind: text Scott.
There’s going to be a psycho living next door for a week.
To which Scott helpfully replies,
Omg for real? That’s crazy dude! Make sure you lock the doors when you shower LOL!
--
After his run-in with Peter, Stiles decides to talk to Miguel once and for all. Because for all he knows, Peter will come knocking at his door, asking to borrow a cup of sugar as a pretense to blow his figurative house down, and then his bloody corpse will get dragged downstairs and thrown into the dumpster by Laura and/or her brother where it’ll then get buried in a landfill somewhere, never to be found again.
Of course, there’s also the chance that none of that will happen and he’ll make it through school and graduate perfectly safe and alive, but he’s not about to risk it.
So with that decided, all he needs to do now is to devise a plan as to how he’ll initiate verbal contact. Fortunately, it turns out he didn’t need a plan because on his way home from class, he sees Miguel in the lobby trying to turn down offers of tea and biscuits from a little old lady.
Nodding to himself and taking a deep breath, Stiles walks right up to them and barges into the conversation with a grin. “Dude, that sounds like a pretty good offer, I think you should take it.”
Miguel looks startled by his sudden appearance, but the little old woman smiles. “Yes, exactly. You should come up as well, dear. I have plenty of tea and biscuits for everyone.”
And that’s how he ends up sitting in her living room with Miguel…and a dozen cats.
Stiles has cats rubbing their noses against his arms and legs, and he’s trying his best not to twitch at the ticklish sensation. “Wow,” he says instead. “Cats.”
Miguel glances over at him. His arms are crossed, but there’s a cat draped over his shoulder and another in his lap. He had tried to offer to help out with the tea earlier but was immediately shot down by the little old woman, who insisted he sit and wait in the living room like a proper guest. “Yes, that’s what these are,” he remarks dryly.
For a moment, he feels completely detached from the situation because he’s engaging in conversation with Miguel. He’s going to have to spam Scott’s phone about this afterwards. “So I think my neighbours are murderers,” he blurts, because he’s smooth like sandpaper.
That gets him an arched brow in response.
“I mean…neighbours, right? There’s always that one crazy neighbour in every building.” Stiles laughs nervously and immediately changes the subject. “So have you lived around here for very long?” he asks, hoping he hasn’t completely scared the other man off already.
Luckily for him, Miguel dismisses his first remark and shrugs. “A couple of years now. I’m working on my master’s and I TA at the college.”
Good looking, nice, and smart. Apparently it’s true what they say about some people getting everything in life. There’s a loud voice in his head telling him to grab this epitome of perfection and run.
To his side, he can see Miguel staring at him and he really hopes he didn’t think those thoughts out loud. And then he realizes that he hasn’t responded yet and says, “Cool. I’m at college too, working on my bachelor’s though. Not quite at a master’s yet. So what field are you in?”
“Social work,” is the gruff answer he gets. Clearly, Miguel’s a man of few words, but that’s alright, because more often than not, Stiles has enough words for a family of four.
“Like non-profits and stuff? Wow. Very impressive. I am impressed. I’m in history, hoping to become a researcher or something, not really sure yet. Might try out some computer science or graphic design too while I’m here, actually. Basically, I have no idea what I’m doing with my life,” he admits.
Miguel shrugs again. “You’ll figure it out.”
“So how’d you get started in social work?” Stiles asks.
“I used to volunteer at an animal shelter.”
A saint, that’s what this man is, he decides. A ridiculously attractive and well-built saint who helps little old women with their groceries and nurses puppies back to health.
Just then, the little old lady returns with a tray. “Sorry for the wait. Tea and biscuits for everybody!” Miguel immediately gets up to help her with it despite her protests and Stiles just keeps falling deeper and deeper.
It isn’t until they part ways (Stiles to the mailbox as he had originally planned and Miguel to work) that Stiles realizes that they never properly introduced themselves or exchanged names. It was probably because he’s already attached a name to Miguel (i.e.: Miguel) so he didn’t feel the need to ask for one. And it’s not like Miguel asked, so in all technicality, it’s both their faults.
Pleased with that conclusion, he opens his mailbox only to find it empty save for a care package from his dad and looks up only to see Peter walking by.
Peter catches his gaze and grins and winks in return. He looks immensely smug, like a cat that just took down its unsuspecting prey and laid its carcass on the doormat for all to see. And just like that, his previous anxiety regarding social protocols disappear and is replaced by abject fear and wariness.
This, he figures, is why Laura postponed dinner.
--
Two days later, Scott gets another ticket by the handsome deputy and calls him as he’s heading back to his apartment from class.
“Dude, I even tried pulling the ‘The Sheriff’s probably gonna be my stepdad soon’ card!” Scott complains. “And you know what he said?”
“What’d he say?” Stiles asks. He has to bite back his urge to lecture Scott about using that card (or any card on the police in general) because he wants to know if Deputy Parrish’s words are as awe-inspiring as his appearance and as impressive as his résumé.
“He said, ‘Yes, I know. That’s why I’m pulling you over. I would hate for the Sheriff’s future stepson to miss the wedding because of a perfectly preventable motor vehicle accident.’ And, like, how do you even respond to that?”
Stiles can’t help but mentally applaud the deputy for that line because wow, that’s smooth.
He can hear Scott sulking over the phone. “Oh my god, dude, don’t cheer for him! And yeah, I know he’s only doing his job, and I probably shouldn’t have tried to pull that card in the first place, but still!”
One of the perks of being Scott’s best friend is that Scott can read him like a book—telepathically. It saves him a lot of time and allows him to use that time towards more important things like how mad he should be at Deputy Parrish (because he’s obligated to take Scott’s side no matter how wrong he is in most situations).
“No, no, I feel you, dude,” Stiles reassures his friend. “In fact, I’m going to get my dad to send me all the pictures he has of this Deputy Parrish so I can study his face more closely. That way, I’ll be able to recognize him and glare at him and send him bad vibes when I come back for a visit.”
Scott laughs. “You’re the worst.”
“I thought Deputy Parrish was the worst,” he retorts.
“He is,” Scott concedes. “You’re close second.”
Stiles huffs. “Close second? For what? I’ve never ticketed you.”
“Yes, you have! You gave me a ticket for riding my bike without a helmet in fifth grade and made me pay you in gummy bears, remember?”
He grins. “That’s so sweet of you to remember, Scotty.”
“You’re the worst,” Scott repeats.
Coming up to the building, Stiles looks around and spots Miguel in the front yard helping the gardener out. “Yeah, guess there’s no way around it. And because I’m the worst, I’m going to have to call you back because I see Miguel raking leaves and I don’t know how, but he’s making it look like the most interesting thing in the world to watch. I’ll tell you about it later.”
He walks over to where Miguel is and asks, “So is the building paying you or are you actually a saint?”
“Neither. I needed an excuse to get out of my apartment,” Miguel mutters.
“Crazy roommates?” he asks sympathetically.
Miguel pulls his lips taut for a moment. “Something like that. Probably not as bad as homicidal neighbours…though that’s debatable.”
Stiles can’t help but grin, immensely pleased that Miguel remembered. “I don’t know, it’s pretty terrible having to hide for your life all the time.”
“At least you have the option to hide from them,” Miguel grumbles.
He shrugs. “True. But on the other hand, my roommate just goes missing from time to time, so hiding from him isn't really an issue. If anything, it's finding him that makes things tricky. I haven’t seen him in about four days now, so I suspect I’ll find him passed out on the couch or raiding the fridge in the next few days before he goes back to wherever he goes.”
“That doesn’t sound too bad,” Miguel says. “My sister barged into my room this morning asking me if I wanted to build a snowman. That’s the last time I let her drag me to the movies.”
How cute, Stiles thinks, he even has a little sister. Imagining Miguel sitting in a theatre and watching a Disney movie with a little girl—maybe seven years old—is enough to make his insides melt. Not wanting to just stand around and talk while Miguel rakes, he goes and grabs a garbage bag for the leaves. “Sister, hmm? Big family?”
“Huge family,” Miguel replies.
“Must be nice. It’s just me and my dad back at home. It’s never been lonely or anything, but he’s going out with my best friend’s mom who’s like a second mom to me already, so my family might be doubling in size soon,” Stiles tells him with an excited grin, “and I’ve always thought of Scott as my brother, so to be able to make it official is pretty awesome.”
Miguel spares him a soft smile and for the first time in years, Stiles finds himself at a loss for words.
--
Eventually, Peter leaves and returns to whatever evil lair he came from and things go back to normal with the exception that he and Miguel continue talking (without ever once referring to each other by names (which they still haven’t exchanged yet)). Stiles even learns that Miguel and his sister are thinking about adopting a dog because they grew up with a pack of dogs.
(“The most we ever had was thirteen and the least was probably six.”
“Wow, so does that make you like, a dog whisperer or something?” he asks.
“Not just dogs. I’ve been secretly conditioning you too,” Miguel tells him, a perfectly nonchalant expression on his face.
Stiles gapes. “You’re kidding, right? What’d you train me to do?”
Miguel shrugs. “It’s more effective on people when they’re not aware of it.”
“Oh my god, dude, you can’t just secretly train people without telling them! What’d you teach me to do? I’m not drooling or anything right now, am I?” He wipes his mouth to find it dry, much to his relief. “Have you been hypnotizing me? Have I been spilling all my deepest, darkest secrets to you? There’s gotta be a law or something against this.”
There’s a chuff.
He looks over to see a perfectly smug look on Miguel’s face and frowns. “You’re the worst, man. That was so not cool it was lukewarm.”
“The conditioning seems to have worked, at least.”)
Stiles still feels that the freak out that ensued was totally justified.
--
All is well until Laura comes knocking on his door again. He answers it and blinks. “Hey, Laura, what’s up? Need a cup of sugar or something?”
She smiles. “Or something. You up to anything tonight?”
“Nope, nothing at all,” he answers without thinking.
“Great! Dinner at our place in an hour then! No need to bring anything, we have more than enough food. Just come over, okay?” she says.
“But—” Stiles starts, scrambling for an excuse to not go.
Laura arches a brow pointedly at him though the smile on her lips never falters. “Show up in an hour or we’ll bring the party to you, okay? Okay! See you soon, Stiles!”
He wishes she would at least make an effort to be a little subtle with her threats.
“Yeah, okay, see you in a bit,” he says weakly, waving goodbye.
After closing the door, he trudges back to his room and dials his friend.
“Hey, what’s happening?” Scott asks, voice slightly muffled by whatever he’s eating.
“Laura sprung a surprise attack on me, so now I have to go for dinner in an hour,” Stiles tells him.
Scott swallows his food audibly. “Seriously? Maybe it won’t be so bad. Maybe it’ll actually just be dinner and no murder.”
“Or maybe it’ll be all murder and no dinner. And then there’ll be no Stiles after that. And you know who doesn’t want to die, Scott? Stiles doesn’t want to die. Stiles wants to live and talk to Miguel some more and then go home to properly admire Deputy Parrish up close and personal,” he complains.
“Stay home and don’t go?” Scott suggests.
He sighs. “I don’t want to risk them ‘bringing the party to me’. It sounds fun and festive, but I’m pretty sure she meant it as a threat.”
“Should I send help?”
“No, but if I die, tell your mom to take care of my dad, and tell my dad I love him, and tell Deputy Parrish he has beautiful eyes. And when you’re over here going through all my stuff, find Miguel and tell him he’s amazing and perfect,” Stiles says.
Scott makes a thoughtful noise. “Okay, but how’ll I find Miguel? That’s not even his real name.”
Stiles shakes his head. “You’ll know when you see him. He’s perfect, and he just looks like a Miguel.”
“I’ll try. I hope you don’t die, Stiles. I’d miss you,” Scott tells him.
“Aww, I’d miss you too, buddy.”
“Not to mention your dad would actually kill me if you die.”
“Possibly,” he concedes.
“So do you think Deputy Parrish would let me off the hook next time if I compliment his eyes?” Scott continues, completely oblivious to the now ruined atmosphere.
Stiles frowns. “Wow, Scott, way to ruin the moment. See that moment? It’s gone now. Crushed. Destroyed. Lost forever. You, my asthmatic friend, are officially a moment ruiner. Congrats.”
“But I don’t want to be remembered as a moment ruiner,” Scott whines.
“Then maybe you should’ve thought of that before ruining the moment.”
--
An hour later, Stiles finds himself standing in front of his neighbour’s door. He gulps and raises a hand to knock on the door. Much to his surprise, it’s not Laura who opens the door but a very confused looking Miguel. Smart, handsome, kind, and for once, non-leather-clad Miguel.
He blinks. “Miguel?”
“Bambi?—what? Who’s Miguel?”
“Bambi? Who’s Bambi?”
From inside, Laura grins. “Hey Stiles!”
Miguel turns back to him. “You’re the Stiles?”
“What do you mean the Stiles? Wait, you’re the dorky brother?” he retorts.
“Dorky? Wait, are we the killer neighbours? You thought we were killers?” Miguel—no, Derek asks, his brows furrowed.
“Yes, maybe, not you specifically, but in general, your apartment, maybe, just a little, yes—who’s Bambi?”
“Whoa, you two,” Laura says, stepping in between them. “Simmer down. Clearly, you already know each other since you seem to have given each other nicknames, which is adorable, by the way, but let’s take it inside.”
“Nickname? Bambi?” Stiles asks incredulously, stepping into the apartment.
“Miguel?” Derek shoots back, closing the door behind him.
Once the three of them are inside, Laura quickly introduces the two of them. “Stiles, this is my dork of a brother, Derek. Derek, this is our neighbour, Stiles. Now what’s this about us being killers?—which we’re not, just FYI. If we were, we’d be able to afford a nicer apartment than this.”
Stiles nods in agreement with that last statement. “Yeah, I guess that’s true. It’s just… I heard you guys like a month ago, just before I met you. There was a lady screaming and a crash and I heard you guys talking about a red mess and uhh…it sounded very murder-y.”
The two exchange confused looks for a moment before Derek shakes his head and face-palms. “Erica.”
Laura nods slowly in realization. “Oh. That.”
He furrows his brows. “That? What is this ‘that’ that you speak of? You’re going to have to elaborate on exactly what ‘that’ is.”
“We went on this trip a few weeks ago and came back and found this place a mess, so we called our friends for backup. They were helping us tidy the apartment up and ended up staying for dinner,” Laura explains, “and then there was this massive spider.”
“It wasn’t that big,” Derek mutters in disagreement.
“It was big enough,” Laura retorts with a glare. “Anyway, big spider, Erica screamed, I panicked and may have overreacted a little by throwing a full jar of tomato sauce at it; hence, the big red mess all over our kitchen.”
“Laura was being so loud about the whole thing, we were afraid we’d get complaints from the neighbours,” Derek says, rolling his eyes.
“Oh, like you should be talking. You made just as much noise killing that cockroach in the hotel, remember?” she complains.
Stiles blinks. “That doesn’t explain why you needed to drag your trash down to the dumpster right away.”
Laura arches a brow. “Wow, you really overheard everything, didn’t you? We had just cleaned up the apartment and the fridge earlier that day so we had this huge garbage bag full of random things and some really moldy food we’d forgotten about. If you’d smelt it, you’d understand.”
He nods slowly and turns to Derek and says, “Okay, so let me get this straight: you two are actually siblings and not undercover agents.”
The both of them shake their heads. “Unfortunately.”
“And the person serenading you with songs from Frozen wasn’t your little seven year old sister?” Stiles continues.
Derek chuffs in amusement and Laura makes a noise of protest. “That was Laura. Our little sister’s down in South America.”
“Alright, and what about ‘Bambi’?” he asks.
At this, Laura grins the shit-eating grin of an older sister. “My dorky baby bro here thinks you have ‘big Bambi eyes’. I had this feeling it was you he was talking about, but I wasn’t entirely sure. Man, you should’ve heard the way he talked about you. It was the most adorable thing.”
Flustered and embarrassed, Derek shoves his laughing sister away. “And what about ‘Miguel’? Where did that even come from?” he retorts, ears red.
Stiles shrugs, trying to keep his voice casual even though he can feel his cheeks heating up. “I needed a name for you ‘cause I kept seeing you around and I wanted to tell Scott about it, and I just thought you looked like a Miguel,” he confesses. “Laura’s never gonna let this go, is she?”
Glancing over at his sister, Derek shakes his head. “Never.”
There’s a pause and Stiles quickly claps his hands together and changes the subject, “Well, I’m glad we got all of that cleared up. I think we’ve all learnt a lot today and shared more than enough embarrassing secrets, don’t you? So how about that dinner? I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”
Derek immediately voices his agreement and goes to set the table while Laura’s still laughing too hard to form words.
--
“Dude, you’re alive,” is the first thing Scott says to him when he calls later that night.
He grins. “Yes, I’m very much alive and awesome. Thank you.”
“I was afraid I was gonna have to call your dad,” Scott tells him. “How did it go?”
“I have to say, I was very pleased with the lack of murder—the mashed potatoes could’ve used a little more butter though,” Stiles tells him.
Scott lets out a sigh of relief. “That’s good. You sound strangely happy. Like, not just ‘I got home alive’ happy. What happened?”
“Long story short, not killers, just people who’re terrible at dealing with bugs. Turns out Miguel’s actually Laura’s brother—like, actual brother—and his name’s Derek, and we’ve got a lunch date tomorrow,” Stiles says. “Also, Laura now has enough material to blackmail the both of us for at least a couple of years so we have to be extra nice to her.”
“Wow. So all in all, it sounds like you had a good time.”
He nods in agreement. “Yep, I’m basking in unbridled joy right now.”
“Imagine how much time you could’ve saved if you’d just asked Miguel for his name like, on the first day,” Scott says.
Stiles huffs in annoyance. “Scott ‘Moment Ruiner’ McCall. That’s what your tombstone’s gonna say. ‘Beloved father, son, friend, etc. He is forever lost to us—just like all those moments he ruined. May his rest be disturbed.’”
“Hey!”
--
The next day, they’re sitting at a nice little café near campus when a sudden thought strikes him. “Hey, Derek, just to clarify one more thing—your uncle’s not a psychopath, right?”
Glancing up from his food, Derek shakes his head. “No, but it’s a common misconception.”
He lets out a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank god—”
“If anything, Uncle Peter’s probably a sociopath.”
Stiles pauses, then after a moment of thought, he shrugs and returns to his meal. “At least he got the junk mail thing sorted.”