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tamingthemuseTitle: Stiles Stilinski, PI
Fandom: Teen Wolf, Marvel fusion (Jessica Jones)
Prompt: 489 - velvety
Warnings: None. Yet.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~740
Summary: Basically a Stiles as Jessica Jones fic. Because I wanted to, and I can.
Disclaimer: It’s all lies and I own nothing.
-- = --
Jesus Christ, the sun is bright. Stiles is about ninety-nine percent sure the curtains were closed when he went to bed. At least, he's ninety-nine percent sure he hasn't opened the curtains in his room since he moved into the apartment. So, the curtains are probably closed. Which begs the question, Why the hell is sunlight attempting to burn through his eyelids to scorch his retinas?
It turns out to be not that great of a mystery. Stiles manages to shift his face into a narrow shadow and slowly cracks one eye open to see the legs of his desk and an empty glass bottle that he's pretty sure was the Johnnie Walker Blue that Scott gifted him when he got his PI license. He was saving it for a special occasion. And, while he can't be a hundred percent certain, it's highly unlikely that last night was one such affair considering that he has just woken up face-down on the new rug he bought for his office to cover up that unsightly bloodstain left behind by his last unhappy client. It's a dark blue and burgundy faux-Persian thing he picked up for cheap at IKEA, but it's super plush and velvety and surprisingly comfortable. Not comfortable enough to sleep on every night, but passed out after whatever the hell went down, it made a decent place to crash. And judging by the rug burn on his cheek, it may have been literally.
There's probably something he should be doing right now but he can't remember for the life of him what it might be. The persistent knocking on his door is possibly a hint. Stiles levers himself up off the floor on unexpectedly noodly arms and pauses to gather his bearings. What the hell did he get up to last night? The pounding on his door isn't helping anything; it just makes the hollow thudding in his temples feel like it's echoing around his office.
It takes a minute or two, but Stiles finally manages to get up and open the door--a good thing, too, as Greenburg upstairs is likely to come down here and complain if the knocking continues any longer. And, okay, yeah, wow. This guy can knock on his door any time, for as long as he wants. Better yet, he can knock Stiles' headboard against his bedroom wall until Greenburg starts knocking back or the headboard breaks. Too bad he currently probably reeks like a distillery and looks like that homeless dude that hangs out around the corner of 9th and Henriksen.
Stiles just raises his eyebrows and leans against the doorjamb. "Can I help you?"
Tall, dark, and bang-me-like-a-screen door-in-a-hurricane looks from the decaled letters on the opaque privacy glass in the door to Stiles. "Are you Stilinski? The private investigator?"
"Yup. You got an appointment?" Stiles continues to lean. Or, maybe, the hallway is starting to slant.
"I called you Wednesday. About Laura--my sister."
Stiles tries to think past his pickled brain but he can't even remember what happened last night. There's something in his subconscious that's making him think he ran into an officer that worked the same beat as his dad. That surely would've sent him into the bottom of a tall bottle.
But, Laura. The name sounds vaguely familiar, but... Stiles turns and heads back into his apartment, assuming the Adonis at his door is going to follow, and goes to his desk. If he'd been here when he took the call--which is very likely, as he hasn't exactly had a client since Haigh tried to all Hulk on him--then Stiles probably has notes on his desk. Hypothetically.
Sure enough, on the first page of an open, ancient spiral-bound notebook Stiles has written DEREK HALE MISSING SISTER--LAURA TWO WEEKS FRIDAY 12PM. Yeah, Stiles is blanking on their conversation. Things might shake out once he's had a gallon on industrial-grade coffee. "Uh, Hale, right?"
"Yeah." Derek Hale is lingering in the doorway to Stiles' office as though the room offends him. It might--it may also smell like a distillery. "Look, if you're not going to take this seriously--"
"Hey! I take my job very seriously. It's just been a rough couple of days. Which is no excuse. So," he says, dropping into his wheeled office chair. "Laura. She's been missing a little over two weeks..."
Fandom: Teen Wolf, Marvel fusion (Jessica Jones)
Prompt: 489 - velvety
Warnings: None. Yet.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~740
Summary: Basically a Stiles as Jessica Jones fic. Because I wanted to, and I can.
Disclaimer: It’s all lies and I own nothing.
Jesus Christ, the sun is bright. Stiles is about ninety-nine percent sure the curtains were closed when he went to bed. At least, he's ninety-nine percent sure he hasn't opened the curtains in his room since he moved into the apartment. So, the curtains are probably closed. Which begs the question, Why the hell is sunlight attempting to burn through his eyelids to scorch his retinas?
It turns out to be not that great of a mystery. Stiles manages to shift his face into a narrow shadow and slowly cracks one eye open to see the legs of his desk and an empty glass bottle that he's pretty sure was the Johnnie Walker Blue that Scott gifted him when he got his PI license. He was saving it for a special occasion. And, while he can't be a hundred percent certain, it's highly unlikely that last night was one such affair considering that he has just woken up face-down on the new rug he bought for his office to cover up that unsightly bloodstain left behind by his last unhappy client. It's a dark blue and burgundy faux-Persian thing he picked up for cheap at IKEA, but it's super plush and velvety and surprisingly comfortable. Not comfortable enough to sleep on every night, but passed out after whatever the hell went down, it made a decent place to crash. And judging by the rug burn on his cheek, it may have been literally.
There's probably something he should be doing right now but he can't remember for the life of him what it might be. The persistent knocking on his door is possibly a hint. Stiles levers himself up off the floor on unexpectedly noodly arms and pauses to gather his bearings. What the hell did he get up to last night? The pounding on his door isn't helping anything; it just makes the hollow thudding in his temples feel like it's echoing around his office.
It takes a minute or two, but Stiles finally manages to get up and open the door--a good thing, too, as Greenburg upstairs is likely to come down here and complain if the knocking continues any longer. And, okay, yeah, wow. This guy can knock on his door any time, for as long as he wants. Better yet, he can knock Stiles' headboard against his bedroom wall until Greenburg starts knocking back or the headboard breaks. Too bad he currently probably reeks like a distillery and looks like that homeless dude that hangs out around the corner of 9th and Henriksen.
Stiles just raises his eyebrows and leans against the doorjamb. "Can I help you?"
Tall, dark, and bang-me-like-a-screen door-in-a-hurricane looks from the decaled letters on the opaque privacy glass in the door to Stiles. "Are you Stilinski? The private investigator?"
"Yup. You got an appointment?" Stiles continues to lean. Or, maybe, the hallway is starting to slant.
"I called you Wednesday. About Laura--my sister."
Stiles tries to think past his pickled brain but he can't even remember what happened last night. There's something in his subconscious that's making him think he ran into an officer that worked the same beat as his dad. That surely would've sent him into the bottom of a tall bottle.
But, Laura. The name sounds vaguely familiar, but... Stiles turns and heads back into his apartment, assuming the Adonis at his door is going to follow, and goes to his desk. If he'd been here when he took the call--which is very likely, as he hasn't exactly had a client since Haigh tried to all Hulk on him--then Stiles probably has notes on his desk. Hypothetically.
Sure enough, on the first page of an open, ancient spiral-bound notebook Stiles has written DEREK HALE MISSING SISTER--LAURA TWO WEEKS FRIDAY 12PM. Yeah, Stiles is blanking on their conversation. Things might shake out once he's had a gallon on industrial-grade coffee. "Uh, Hale, right?"
"Yeah." Derek Hale is lingering in the doorway to Stiles' office as though the room offends him. It might--it may also smell like a distillery. "Look, if you're not going to take this seriously--"
"Hey! I take my job very seriously. It's just been a rough couple of days. Which is no excuse. So," he says, dropping into his wheeled office chair. "Laura. She's been missing a little over two weeks..."
