Fic: Fragile Human Parts
Author: calrissian18
Title: Fragile Human Parts
Rating: PG
Pairing/s: Stiles/Derek, pre-slash
Character/s: Sheriff Stilinski, Scott McCall
Summary: Stiles has a bruise on his leg. No, really, it's a lot more dire than it sounds. Or the one in which Derek is protective - over all the wrong things.
Warnings: This is my first Teen Wolf fic, you've been warned. Language.
Word Count: Too many. But close-ish! 1,222
Prompt: #03 - Bruises
Author's Notes: *finger-paints on ALL the walls* NEW FANDOM, NEW FANDOM, NEW FANDOM!!!1!!1 *snatches up paper bag, hyperventilates, wheezes, coughs* New... fandom? *weak fist pump*
Stiles is sitting on Derek's craptastic sofa, innocently tying his shoe when a too-strong hand grabs his ankle and impatient fingers yank up his pant leg. He's about to jump up and spout something about at least getting dinner first when Derek growls, "Who did this to you?"
Stiles moves his gaze away from the red filtering into Derek's and looks down at his leg. There's a truly unattractive-looking yellow/green bruise covering most of his calf. Stiles flushes and shrugs. Derek does not look impressed. He puts on his best scowl. He has no doubt it looks utterly wimpy in comparison to Derek's. "What?"
Derek's eyebrows do an impressive and bushy Dance of Doom and Stiles is painfully aware that everyone is watching them. He clears his throat and says seriously, "Ah, that would be the very evil, most likely soulless coffee table in my living room. Jumped right out at me when I was on my way downstairs for a glass of water. Pulled some karate moves on it, à la Crouching Tiger." He then, of course, demonstrates by holding up karate chop-ready hands at lightning quick speed. "And I don't mean to brag or shame your Alpha badassery but I more than took care of myself, my friend. Reduced it to tinder." Stiles frowns. "Or, well, I could have, if I wanted to. I decided to exercise some clemency and let it live but the lesson has been learned. The lesson. Has been learned." He brings his palms together and bows his head. "Stilinski, merciful warrior. It knows its place now. And so do I." He nods and then adds, "You know, right in front of the TV. Next time I'll probably just walk around the back of the couch and, then, you know, I won't run into it. Avoid the awkward tension, what with how I totally dominated it and... What?"
Because Derek has not stopped staring at him. Or altered said stare any. It's beginning to become just the slightest bit uncomfortable.
Stiles rolls his eyes. "What, Derek, come on. I'm a squishy encasing full of fragile human parts that bruise if you look at me too hard. Easily breakable am I," he clarifies, Yoda-like. Derek still looks lost. "You know, we all think it's going to be this bananas werewolf stuff that kills me but I bet the universe looks at me and says, 'Why Mr. Stilinski, we have something much more mundane in mind for you.' I mean, I could get salmonella from my eggs in the morning. Do you know one in every 10,000 eggs has salmonella? I mean, say you eat two for breakfast every day, that's one in 5,000. Or I could just as easily slip in the shower or get run over by a car in the middle of the night. You know, the list goes on." Derek now looks as if someone's struck him - hard - and, really, how can you be this dense and still be the Alpha? Stiles enunciates slowly, "Fragile. Human. Parts."
Derek frowns but lets go of his ankle and Stiles high tails it out of there, not caring if Scott follows or not.
♕
The next morning Stiles pulls his head out of the fridge with a frown that wrinkles his nose and calls loudly up the stairs, "Okay, eating every egg in the house? So not good for your cholesterol. I am docking you bacon for a month."
An indignant, "Stiles, I didn't-" is what he gets from his lying liar of a father who lies.
"Stiles has spoken." Stiles tries to use his most omnipotent voice. "There's no use trying to worm your way out of it now. No bacon for you!" He grins to himself, totally pulled off that Soup Nazi impression like wa-BOW. Batman sounds. He ignores his dad's sputtered protests as he Batman-sounds himself out of the house in his head with accompanying karate moves - Kapow, Zok, Crash, Whamm!
♕
Lacrosse practice is that special time of day when he gets to be one with nature. Or, you know, mud. Really more mud than anything. He has to get Scott to work because, you know, bro time. And yes, they're making time for it and, no, that is not sad. So he waits until he's home to shower.
He pulls back the curtain and finds a surprise. Not the good kind of surprise either - like a naked 5'3" strawberry-blonde nut job. "Dad," he shouts, "did you get me a shower mat?" Stiles glares at it. It has suction cups, for fuck's sake. "You know I'm not a hundred and seven, right?" He doesn't get a response. He suspects it's either from a) guilt or b) his dad having not perfected the art of somniloquy yet because Stiles is 97% sure he's asleep in the study. He grumbles to himself as he climbs in, "At least it's not an effing safety bar."
♕
It's not until the thing with the backpack. And his shoes. Till the thing with the backpack and his shoes that he figures out why his dad has no freaking clue what he's been talking about. He supposes he'll have to reinstate those bacon privileges.
Because there are reflectors on the straps of his backpack and the heels of his shoes. Reflectors. Like he's seven. He's either a geriatric or a seven-year-old and Derek has, of course, taken him far too literally. He's definitely glad he didn't say he could have died from tainted meat. He really likes being an omnivore.
♕
Stiles tags along to the pack meeting and finds Derek outside on the porch waiting for them with his regular super happy I-look-like-someone's-yanked-out-my-insides-with-a-hot-fire-poker expression. Scott offers him a grin - he's seen Allison that afternoon - and a pat on the shoulder as he heads inside. Stiles pauses as he's going past and shoves his hands in his jeans' pockets. He hunches up his shoulders and says, "You put reflectors, on my shoes." He holds up his left foot as evidence. It's damning really. "Reflectors. And there's a shower mat in my shower. And no eggs in my fridge."
And it's been a while since Stiles has been at all intimidated by Derek but his eyebrows have drawn low in a Meet Thy Fate sort of way and a low growl rumbles up out of him as he challenges, "Your point, Stiles?"
Stiles yanks his hands out of his pockets and holds them up at his sides in a universal Don't-Kill-Me-I-Surrender placation. "Point?" Stiles tries a little madly. "No point! Who says I had a point? I like reflectors! Right-you're holding up the thing. Meeting. Pack. The pack meeting thing. Shouldn't we be learning how to kill things with our teeth? Unless you want to stand about and chat all day, Hale."
Stiles races inside and completely misses the shit-eating, I'm-so-pleased-with-myself-I-could-rip-a-deer-in-half grin Derek directs at his back.
Title: Fragile Human Parts
Rating: PG
Pairing/s: Stiles/Derek, pre-slash
Character/s: Sheriff Stilinski, Scott McCall
Summary: Stiles has a bruise on his leg. No, really, it's a lot more dire than it sounds. Or the one in which Derek is protective - over all the wrong things.
Warnings: This is my first Teen Wolf fic, you've been warned. Language.
Word Count: Too many. But close-ish! 1,222
Prompt: #03 - Bruises
Author's Notes: *finger-paints on ALL the walls* NEW FANDOM, NEW FANDOM, NEW FANDOM!!!1!!1 *snatches up paper bag, hyperventilates, wheezes, coughs* New... fandom? *weak fist pump*
Stiles is sitting on Derek's craptastic sofa, innocently tying his shoe when a too-strong hand grabs his ankle and impatient fingers yank up his pant leg. He's about to jump up and spout something about at least getting dinner first when Derek growls, "Who did this to you?"
Stiles moves his gaze away from the red filtering into Derek's and looks down at his leg. There's a truly unattractive-looking yellow/green bruise covering most of his calf. Stiles flushes and shrugs. Derek does not look impressed. He puts on his best scowl. He has no doubt it looks utterly wimpy in comparison to Derek's. "What?"
Derek's eyebrows do an impressive and bushy Dance of Doom and Stiles is painfully aware that everyone is watching them. He clears his throat and says seriously, "Ah, that would be the very evil, most likely soulless coffee table in my living room. Jumped right out at me when I was on my way downstairs for a glass of water. Pulled some karate moves on it, à la Crouching Tiger." He then, of course, demonstrates by holding up karate chop-ready hands at lightning quick speed. "And I don't mean to brag or shame your Alpha badassery but I more than took care of myself, my friend. Reduced it to tinder." Stiles frowns. "Or, well, I could have, if I wanted to. I decided to exercise some clemency and let it live but the lesson has been learned. The lesson. Has been learned." He brings his palms together and bows his head. "Stilinski, merciful warrior. It knows its place now. And so do I." He nods and then adds, "You know, right in front of the TV. Next time I'll probably just walk around the back of the couch and, then, you know, I won't run into it. Avoid the awkward tension, what with how I totally dominated it and... What?"
Because Derek has not stopped staring at him. Or altered said stare any. It's beginning to become just the slightest bit uncomfortable.
Stiles rolls his eyes. "What, Derek, come on. I'm a squishy encasing full of fragile human parts that bruise if you look at me too hard. Easily breakable am I," he clarifies, Yoda-like. Derek still looks lost. "You know, we all think it's going to be this bananas werewolf stuff that kills me but I bet the universe looks at me and says, 'Why Mr. Stilinski, we have something much more mundane in mind for you.' I mean, I could get salmonella from my eggs in the morning. Do you know one in every 10,000 eggs has salmonella? I mean, say you eat two for breakfast every day, that's one in 5,000. Or I could just as easily slip in the shower or get run over by a car in the middle of the night. You know, the list goes on." Derek now looks as if someone's struck him - hard - and, really, how can you be this dense and still be the Alpha? Stiles enunciates slowly, "Fragile. Human. Parts."
Derek frowns but lets go of his ankle and Stiles high tails it out of there, not caring if Scott follows or not.
♕
The next morning Stiles pulls his head out of the fridge with a frown that wrinkles his nose and calls loudly up the stairs, "Okay, eating every egg in the house? So not good for your cholesterol. I am docking you bacon for a month."
An indignant, "Stiles, I didn't-" is what he gets from his lying liar of a father who lies.
"Stiles has spoken." Stiles tries to use his most omnipotent voice. "There's no use trying to worm your way out of it now. No bacon for you!" He grins to himself, totally pulled off that Soup Nazi impression like wa-BOW. Batman sounds. He ignores his dad's sputtered protests as he Batman-sounds himself out of the house in his head with accompanying karate moves - Kapow, Zok, Crash, Whamm!
♕
Lacrosse practice is that special time of day when he gets to be one with nature. Or, you know, mud. Really more mud than anything. He has to get Scott to work because, you know, bro time. And yes, they're making time for it and, no, that is not sad. So he waits until he's home to shower.
He pulls back the curtain and finds a surprise. Not the good kind of surprise either - like a naked 5'3" strawberry-blonde nut job. "Dad," he shouts, "did you get me a shower mat?" Stiles glares at it. It has suction cups, for fuck's sake. "You know I'm not a hundred and seven, right?" He doesn't get a response. He suspects it's either from a) guilt or b) his dad having not perfected the art of somniloquy yet because Stiles is 97% sure he's asleep in the study. He grumbles to himself as he climbs in, "At least it's not an effing safety bar."
♕
It's not until the thing with the backpack. And his shoes. Till the thing with the backpack and his shoes that he figures out why his dad has no freaking clue what he's been talking about. He supposes he'll have to reinstate those bacon privileges.
Because there are reflectors on the straps of his backpack and the heels of his shoes. Reflectors. Like he's seven. He's either a geriatric or a seven-year-old and Derek has, of course, taken him far too literally. He's definitely glad he didn't say he could have died from tainted meat. He really likes being an omnivore.
♕
Stiles tags along to the pack meeting and finds Derek outside on the porch waiting for them with his regular super happy I-look-like-someone's-yanked-out-my-insides-with-a-hot-fire-poker expression. Scott offers him a grin - he's seen Allison that afternoon - and a pat on the shoulder as he heads inside. Stiles pauses as he's going past and shoves his hands in his jeans' pockets. He hunches up his shoulders and says, "You put reflectors, on my shoes." He holds up his left foot as evidence. It's damning really. "Reflectors. And there's a shower mat in my shower. And no eggs in my fridge."
And it's been a while since Stiles has been at all intimidated by Derek but his eyebrows have drawn low in a Meet Thy Fate sort of way and a low growl rumbles up out of him as he challenges, "Your point, Stiles?"
Stiles yanks his hands out of his pockets and holds them up at his sides in a universal Don't-Kill-Me-I-Surrender placation. "Point?" Stiles tries a little madly. "No point! Who says I had a point? I like reflectors! Right-you're holding up the thing. Meeting. Pack. The pack meeting thing. Shouldn't we be learning how to kill things with our teeth? Unless you want to stand about and chat all day, Hale."
Stiles races inside and completely misses the shit-eating, I'm-so-pleased-with-myself-I-could-rip-a-deer-in-half grin Derek directs at his back.