Stiles/Derek, T, 2500 words, Meet Cute AU
Written for the following prompt:
“i picked up your bag at the airport but i can’t find your number so i’m about to embark on the largest scavenger hunt of all time by using your strange belongings to track you down” au
“Honey, I’m home!” Stiles calls out as he wrestles his roll bag over their entry mat.
“That’s still not funny,” Scott says, without looking up from his textbook.
“Once again, we disagree.”
Scott snorts. “How was the trip?”
“Fine,” he says, plopping down right in the middle of the living room to start unpacking. “Typical conference. Some sessions were actually interesting, most were boring as shit.”
Scott hums, already absorbed again in his reading. Stiles reaches for the zipper on his suitcase but then freezes—this is definitely the same brand as his suitcase, but he doesn’t remember this extra zippered pocket on the top.
Stiles grimaces. “I’m pretty sure this isn’t my suitcase. Goddamn it.”
Scott finally looks up, frowning. “Shit, really? How’d you manage that?”
“It was a redeye,” Stiles says, running a hand through his hair. “I was exhausted, in fucking LaGuardia, and I was just trying to get out of there as fast as humanly possible.”
“Is there a name on it? Are you sure it’s not yours?”
“Pretty sure,” Stiles says, feeling around the sides for the pocket. He sighs when he pulls out the little card and sees that it’s blank. “Motherfucker. This is definitely not my suitcase because I’m actually smart enough to put my name on it.”
“Sorry, man,” Scott says sympathetically as Stiles falls back on the rug with an anguished groan.
“What the hell am I supposed to do now?”
“Open it,” Scott suggests. “Maybe there’s something with their name on it.”
Stiles fiddles with the zipper. He’s nosy as hell, in general, and normally he’d be jumping at the chance to rifle through someone else’s personal belongings. But…
“What if there’s like, dead bodies in there or something?” he asks, and Scott just stares at him for a second. Stiles rolls his eyes—that’s a perfectly valid concern. Or maybe he watches too many police procedurals, whatever. “Okay, fine.”
Stiles holds his breath as he slowly unzips the suitcase, but nothing happens when he lets the top part flop back onto their crappy, threadbare rug. There’s a Dodgers hat on top, and Stiles grimaces. “Well, they have shitty taste in baseball teams.”
He sets the hat carefully aside and keeps digging. The person is neat, whoever they are, because everything is folded, and all the dirty clothes are even all contained in their own zippered bag. At first glance, there’s nothing too out of the ordinary—phone charger, American Gods, Calvin Klein briefs. Fancy, he thinks. There’s a monogrammed leather toiletry bag (DSH, he commits those initials to memory), and he pokes through it.
“I’m gonna make an educated guess that it’s a guy.”
“Why’s that?” Scott says, finally looking somewhat interested in this mystery.
Stiles holds up an electric razor. “And that he’s maybe not totally straight,” he says, brandishing a little bottle of lube that’s about three-quarters full.
Scott rolls his eyes. “Lots of people use lube.”
“Yeah, but do you travel with it?” Stiles counters, and Scott sighs.
“No,” he admits. “Did you find anything with his actual name on it?”
“Not yet,” Stiles says absently. He continues to rifle through the bag until he’s pretty sure he has his plan of attack. “Okay. I’m gonna find out who it is,” he says with a determined nod, and Scott frowns.
“How? This is New York City! There are literally millions of dudes here.”
“It’ll be like a real-life scavenger hunt,” Stiles says dreamily, ignoring Scott as he carefully lays his three chosen items out on the coffee table. “This is awesome.”