Count your fingers

6. Still there

Trigger warnings: none, unless you consider dog kisses bestiality...

Stiles puts his right hand on the copier, closes the lid with his other and presses the green button. The machine groans to life with a shudder and a light passes from left to right and back again underneath the half closed lid. There's more mechanical sounds and then papers start to come out of the side, neatly stacking in the tray. Stiles pulls his hand back and puts both of them on top of the copier, idly noticing how his ten fingers are splayed out on the grey plastic.

Realisation dawns on him at the same time that Derek appears in the door opening behind him. "Thank God, at least this part is easy this time." He moves in for the hug automatically.

"You okay?" Derek asks, his mouth moving against the side of Stiles' head. His hands surreptitiously feel around Stiles' back, looking for injuries perhaps.

"I'm fine," Stiles nods, lifting his face from Derek's shoulder. They step out of the hug, but stay close. "Where are we this time?"

"An office," Derek answers, sounding a bit puzzled. "I was sitting at a desk earlier, stapling the same paper over and over again. I think it had at least fifty staples in it already."

Stiles snorts a laugh and grabs the papers from the copier. They're still a bit warm from the machine. When he holds them up they show a photocopy of his hand balled to a fist with the middle finger out. "I guess we both get an A+ for productivity."

A quick check of their surroundings doesn't really give them much information. The small room they're in houses a copy machine, several stacked boxes with paper and a metal cabinet that holds various office supplies, including the staples Derek likes so much.

They're both wearing slacks and a button down shirt, Derek a light blue shirt on dark grey slacks and Stiles has navy slacks paired with a white shirt. Their pockets are empty except for a pack of gum in Derek's pants and a keyring with three keys on it for Stiles. Just like in some of their former realities, Derek is a regular human instead of a werewolf. Stiles scowls. "I hope that doesn't mean this is another one of those realities without magic. It'd be really helpful if we could actually research what's happening to us."

"There's a computer on my desk," Derek offers, "we could start there." He puts a comforting hand on Stiles' shoulder as they turn to leave the room.

They almost bump into someone on their way out. "What are you two doing here? No fucking around in the copy room!" The man cackles maniacally. "No fucking either. Were you two fucking? Hale, are you fucking Bilinski?" He looks from one to the other and then he suddenly punches both of them on the arm simultaneously. "Nah, just messing with ya! You know how I mess with people. I'm a fun boss like that!" The man - their boss - looks at some point over their shoulders with a meaningful grin and then he's suddenly gone again, power walking down the hall.

"What the hell was that?" Stiles rubs the spot on his arm where he was hit. "Was that Coach Finstock?"

Derek looks just as dazed as he feels. "I think it was."

A couple of hours later they've learned a lot of things. Derek and Stiles are desk buddies: their desks are pushed against each other and they seem to work in sales. It's still a bit unclear what they sell, their best guess is office supplies. Scott works at the office too, though he spends most of his time leaned up against the reception desk, where Allison sits. They're making moon eyes at each other when they think the other isn't looking, it's hilarious and pathetic at the same time. Coach Finstock is indeed their boss, he sits in a glass walled office and talks a lot, even when nobody is in there with him.

In the break room they met Lydia, who sat there doing her nails, surrounded by at least ten different shades of nail polish. The room smelled of chemicals so badly that Stiles and Derek chose to eat their lunch at their desks. There's various other pack members at the office, like Jordan and Kira, but they're all occupied with their own stuff. None of it seems to be work related or even productive, yet somehow they all manage to look sufficiently busy. Talking to them wasn't a success, everyone in here seems to be Finstock's level of nuts. Any research into magic was a bust too. The computer only really seems to allow them access to generic websites like Google Maps and work related stuff; anything else is hidden behind some kind of firewall.