Derek overhears a phone conversation between Stiles and Scott.
Stiles: Yeah, right, dumbass. Like I could just go t- Scott: You might wanna shut up. Stiles: -here and tell him, “Oh by the way sourwolf, I think I’m in love with you, please do- Scott: Stiles, you should really shut up. Stiles: -n’t rip my throat out. Scott: Well, I don’t think that’s necessary anymore. Stiles: And why’s that? Scott: You do know that werewolf hearing is, like, a thousand times better than yours, right? Stiles: Of course I d- ohcrap.
“So…” The man was at the door to a shed now. “The previous owners left everything, so I think there should be everything you need. But let me know if you need me to pick up anything, or if you prefer, you can buy it and I’ll reimburse you…”
“Everything I need?” Stiles repeated. He had obviously missed something.
“You know.” The man smiled again, a little more cautiously. He was looking at Stiles as if he were a bit mentally-challenged. “To clean the pool.”
“To clean the pool,” Stiles repeated. He looked around. Then he looked down at himself, taking in his stained shirt, cargo shorts, and raggedy Converse.
“Oh!” he said. “Because I’m the pool guy.” And that’s not what he meant to say at all. He meant to say, “You think I’m the pool guy.”
theproblemwithstardust 