Even the goggles cannot diminish this.
I am aroused by this futuristic alternate world where Stiles is a teen space detective and Derek works in an unobtainium mine but has a many secrets.
Goggle-wearing unobtainium miner is the Hot Mechanic of shitty sci-fi, plus Stiles would make an EXCELLENT wisecracking detective in his minimalist cyberpunk jacket, BYE.
gav i h8 u
werewolves in space, fuuuuuuck.
“Wolves are fuckin’ dangerous man, crazy, don’t even think about it,” the guy in the next bunk on the transport ship said, twenty seconds before they knocked them out for the twelve light-year journey. Stiles only had to shave once a week when he signed up, and woke up with a full beard, years worth of dreams about glowing-eyed monsters.
There were a lot of them at the station—their body chemistry was suited to low grav atmospheres, they could live for an extra seven minute in the vacuum of space, and they were cranky as fuck about it when you blew out their shitty pulse-engine repair within four days.
“You,” Derek says, appearing from behind one of the little transport ships that break down every time there’s an electrical storm, shoving his goggles down around his neck, glaring. It isn’t as effective as it could be, because the goggles leave a deep depression around his eyes, make him look owlish, tired, strange.
“It wasn’t my fault,” Stiles says, although what he meant to say was that if a pulse-engine couldn’t take a couple shifts from 8.2 to 3.6 and back to avoid some aggressive space worms, it wasn’t much of a repair in the first place.
“Stiles,” Stiles says, trying a smile he knows is charming. “Stilinski—”
“I know who you are,” Derek says, taking down the engine panel with one extended claw, gentle, and glowering at the fizzing innards.
“You do?” Stiles says, straightening, sinking his hands into the pockets of his sweater, trying to look available, which he is, and not desperate, which he isn’t, after three years in space and six months in the mine, and exactly no play at all.
“McCall’s roommate,” Derek says.
“Oh. Right,” Stiles says, disappointed. Derek is grouchy, but the way he spreads his hands across the engines he works on is—promising. He let Stiles jump ahead of him in line at the canteen once, two weeks in, and Stiles has been trying to figure out how to ask him if he wants to share some rations sometime or—
“Yeah, that’s right,” Derek says tightly. “We all know each other.”
“What? I don’t—”
“Wolves,” Derek snaps out, and turns back to the engine. There hasn’t ever been a wolf rated to fly—too angry, mindless, pack instinct in place of intellect. That’s what the manuals said in training, anyhow. Stiles watches Derek pick apart a fraying e-line, splice in a new transmitter, his hands sure, deft.
“Should last you another week,” Derek says. “You’re overloading the circuits.”
“I’m a good pilot,” Stiles says.
“Yeah, and these ships are twenty years old, and they can’t take the hotshot shit you’re doing,” Derek says. “I don’t know who you killed to get sent here, but lay off my boats or I’ll ground you.”
“Only Argent can ground me,” Stiles says. Derek glares at him balefully. Stiles licks his lips.
“Okay,” he says. “Got it. Good talk.”
I HATE ALL OF YOU RIGHT NOW, I THOUGHT YOU SHOULD KNOW THAT.