Fic: Who's going to try to run away (Whoever got that brave) || Pre-Stiles/Derek || PG-13
Who's going to try to run away (Whoever got that brave)
Pre-Stiles/derek, PG-13, 1600-ish words
Written for a challenge at the gameofcards comm card_writing. We had to use a word randomizer to give us 3-8 words and write a fic using them. My words were thunder, carpenter, knife.
I have to say I have no idea what a radiator sounds like when it overheats so just roll with it, if it's not right, mmmkay?
Stiles winced as the thunder boomed overhead, the storm pounding down on the already rattle-y roof of the Jeep and making it sound like the storm was going to tear a hole right through his poor vehicle. He just needed to make it to his dad's house and he could relax for his spring break.
The rain sheeted down in front of him, forcing him to basically crawl over the roads he usually took at a comfortable clip. But these were the back roads into his home town and it'd been months since he last visited. That, coupled with the weather, were causing him to doubt his knowledge of every twist and turn.
As he crested the Beacon Hill (just one, despite the town name) he heard the tell-tale ping of his radiator overheating. Just as he started to moan out a begging plea to every deity he had in his repertoire the car sputtered and stalled out. He pushed the clutch in, trying to get it as far as possible before he pulled it off to the side and she died on him.
He knew it would be at least an hour before he could even try to get the damn thing to turn over again, not that the storm was going to be much help, and he didn't have a single tool to even try to patch the beast to get it home. He fished his phone out of his pocket to call his dad to pick him up but streaming Spotify during the drive killed his battery and he tipped his head back, swearing a blue streak.
He looked around, trying to get his bearings on where he was and noticed a light in the distance, probably half a mile or more away. He thought about where he was, trying to plot the landmarks he remembered seeing as he drove into town.
"Huh. Guess someone finally did something with the Hale land," Stiles muttered and steeled himself as he threw his door open. He grabbed his bag because it was the only thing he brought with him and, not that he thought any would-be thieves would happen by his Jeep in the middle of the storm, he didn't want to take the risk.
He pulled his hood up and started walking at a brisk pace but the rain soon soaked him to the bone, weighing him down and making his shoes slosh with every step. He could feel his jeans already chaffing and sighed, slowing down because he wasn't going to get any drier.
It took him almost fifteen minutes to make his way to the property where he saw the light from. The driveway dirty and had potholes filled with rainwater that he tried to avoid as much as possible but could barely make them out in the dark. Last thing he wanted to do was trip and drown in one, or be stuck outside for the rest of the night.
The Hale house that once stood on the property used to be a classic, beautiful house with charm and a huge lot. From what Stiles could make out the one that replaced it was more modest, with that new-house generic siding and windows. He was sure that in the light of day the house would look out of place and dwarfed by the size of the actual property. But he didn't give two licks about that now.
He approached the house and ran up the porch steps and knocked on the door once, waited, then tried harder. He could see the lights on inside but there was no sign of anyone there.
Stiles' teeth were starting to chatter and he hurried off the porch to look around if there was better shelter. As he rounded the side of the house he noticed a small garage and he rushed toward it. Hopefully whoever lived here now wasn't worried about keeping the lawnmower and hedge clippers locked up.
He walked around a couple sides, feeling for a way in, before he found the door. When he did he tried the handle and found it unlocked and whooped as he threw it open.
Light spilled out at him, making him blink and wince at the sudden brightness. Then a tall, hulking figure filled the doorway, holding a blade and looking murderous.
Stiles let out a shriek that later he would later own up to 100%, and stumbled backwards. He lost his footing and fell on his ass, half in a puddle. He could barely feel any parts of his body by that point so he hardly acknowledged the new added wetness.
"Sorry, dude! Just trying to find shelter from the storm, I'll go!" Stiles yelled as he struggled to get up. His legs didn't want to cooperate, though, and his fingers were too stiff to properly hang on to his bag.
The hulking figure stared down at him for a couple seconds before stepping out of the garage and advancing on Stiles, who panicked and was kicking into ‘flight' mode of fight-or-flight.
Instead the guy bent down and picked up his bag for him, holding it in one hand while he reached out and grabbed Stiles under the arm and hauled him to his feet. He practically dragged Stiles into the garage and shut the door behind them.
Stiles blinked and automatically wrapped his arms around himself, unsure if he was shivering now from the cold or shock.
"How the hell did you get here?" the guy asked. In the light he wasn't as menacing as Stiles first thought. He was still a hulking mass, all tall, dark and bulging muscles, but his scruff was well maintained and he was in a tank top and dusty jeans with holes in the knees.
"Walked from the road," Stiles managed, between chattering teeth. "Car broke down." The guy frowned and started rummaging through a pile of things on a table by the door. He came up with a ratty towel and a Henley that looked as dirty as the jeans he was currently wearing. He tossed them to Stiles who would never look at a Henley the same way again.
Stiles stripped out of his plaid and t-shirt quickly, wiped his chest and arms with the towel, then pulled the Henley on with a sigh. He wrapped the towel around his head, turban-style, and drew a snort from his murderer-turned-savior.
"Thanks all the same," Stiles said, with only a hint of snark.
"What are you doing all the way out here? Most people take the highway getting through this town," the guy asked, sitting on a stool. It was then Stiles looked around and noticed the garage was full of various tools and pieces of equipment and there were furniture projects in various stages of completion in all corners. The floor was covered in sawdust and he could smell the slightly burnt scent of freshly cut wood.
"Most people aren't from here," Stiles replied. The guy arched his eyebrow. "I'm visiting my dad. The sheriff? Yup, that's my dad. So if you had any plans on, oh, I don't know, maybe killing me and cutting up my bo-"
The guy snorted again. "You tried to break into my garage, remember? Maybe I should call him."
"Can you?" Stiles asked hopefully. He fished his cell out of his pants pocket, grateful he sprang for the waterproof case, and waved it. "This is dead."
"And who should I tell him is here for him?"
Stiles frowned. "His son?"
The guy rolled his eyes. "Your name, doofus."
"Doofus?" Stiles laughed. "Who says that anymore?"
"The guy you thought was going to kill you," the guy deadpanned.
Stiles cocked his head. "Touché. I'm Stiles. And before you say anything, no that's not my real name, but it's better than the real thing. And what do I call you instead of Mr. Murderer?"
"Derek," the guy replied, then added, "Not a murderer."
Stiles nodded to the blade, still held loosely in Derek's hand. "You can understand how I'd be confused."
"It's a carpenter knife," Derek explained, setting it aside on a work bench. "You interrupted me in the middle of something."
"Sorry," Stiles said with a shrug. "But at night in the dark and with you being all... you," Stiles continued with a gesture to Derek's all over self. "It was a little overwhelming."
Derek seemed to blush but it was hard to tell under the scruff that he ran his hand over ruefully. "Sorry. My sister Cora's always telling me I can be a bit, uh, gruff."
Stiles snorted. "That's one way of putting it."
They lapsed into a silence, staring at each other, before Derek cleared his throat and stood up. "Guess I should put a call into the Sheriff."
"I guess," Stiles echoed, then hesitated. "Or, y'know. It's still coming down out there and he's on shift, probably helping with actual emergencies. If it's not too much trouble..."
"You wanna hang out here for a bit?" Derek asked, sounding surprised.
"If you need me gone it's cool, he'll come-"
"No, that's okay. Wouldn't want to pull anyone away from a real emergency," Derek murmured in agreement. "We could go to the house? I have a pair of sweat pants that have to be more comfortable than your wet jeans."
"Already trying to get me out of my pants?" Stiles said with a grin that only got wider when Derek flushed again. "Sorry, can't help myself. That sounds like a great idea."
Derek nodded and held the door open for him. Stiles grabbed his bag and ran back out into the rain.
Pre-Stiles/derek, PG-13, 1600-ish words
Written for a challenge at the gameofcards comm card_writing. We had to use a word randomizer to give us 3-8 words and write a fic using them. My words were thunder, carpenter, knife.
I have to say I have no idea what a radiator sounds like when it overheats so just roll with it, if it's not right, mmmkay?
Stiles winced as the thunder boomed overhead, the storm pounding down on the already rattle-y roof of the Jeep and making it sound like the storm was going to tear a hole right through his poor vehicle. He just needed to make it to his dad's house and he could relax for his spring break.
The rain sheeted down in front of him, forcing him to basically crawl over the roads he usually took at a comfortable clip. But these were the back roads into his home town and it'd been months since he last visited. That, coupled with the weather, were causing him to doubt his knowledge of every twist and turn.
As he crested the Beacon Hill (just one, despite the town name) he heard the tell-tale ping of his radiator overheating. Just as he started to moan out a begging plea to every deity he had in his repertoire the car sputtered and stalled out. He pushed the clutch in, trying to get it as far as possible before he pulled it off to the side and she died on him.
He knew it would be at least an hour before he could even try to get the damn thing to turn over again, not that the storm was going to be much help, and he didn't have a single tool to even try to patch the beast to get it home. He fished his phone out of his pocket to call his dad to pick him up but streaming Spotify during the drive killed his battery and he tipped his head back, swearing a blue streak.
He looked around, trying to get his bearings on where he was and noticed a light in the distance, probably half a mile or more away. He thought about where he was, trying to plot the landmarks he remembered seeing as he drove into town.
"Huh. Guess someone finally did something with the Hale land," Stiles muttered and steeled himself as he threw his door open. He grabbed his bag because it was the only thing he brought with him and, not that he thought any would-be thieves would happen by his Jeep in the middle of the storm, he didn't want to take the risk.
He pulled his hood up and started walking at a brisk pace but the rain soon soaked him to the bone, weighing him down and making his shoes slosh with every step. He could feel his jeans already chaffing and sighed, slowing down because he wasn't going to get any drier.
It took him almost fifteen minutes to make his way to the property where he saw the light from. The driveway dirty and had potholes filled with rainwater that he tried to avoid as much as possible but could barely make them out in the dark. Last thing he wanted to do was trip and drown in one, or be stuck outside for the rest of the night.
The Hale house that once stood on the property used to be a classic, beautiful house with charm and a huge lot. From what Stiles could make out the one that replaced it was more modest, with that new-house generic siding and windows. He was sure that in the light of day the house would look out of place and dwarfed by the size of the actual property. But he didn't give two licks about that now.
He approached the house and ran up the porch steps and knocked on the door once, waited, then tried harder. He could see the lights on inside but there was no sign of anyone there.
Stiles' teeth were starting to chatter and he hurried off the porch to look around if there was better shelter. As he rounded the side of the house he noticed a small garage and he rushed toward it. Hopefully whoever lived here now wasn't worried about keeping the lawnmower and hedge clippers locked up.
He walked around a couple sides, feeling for a way in, before he found the door. When he did he tried the handle and found it unlocked and whooped as he threw it open.
Light spilled out at him, making him blink and wince at the sudden brightness. Then a tall, hulking figure filled the doorway, holding a blade and looking murderous.
Stiles let out a shriek that later he would later own up to 100%, and stumbled backwards. He lost his footing and fell on his ass, half in a puddle. He could barely feel any parts of his body by that point so he hardly acknowledged the new added wetness.
"Sorry, dude! Just trying to find shelter from the storm, I'll go!" Stiles yelled as he struggled to get up. His legs didn't want to cooperate, though, and his fingers were too stiff to properly hang on to his bag.
The hulking figure stared down at him for a couple seconds before stepping out of the garage and advancing on Stiles, who panicked and was kicking into ‘flight' mode of fight-or-flight.
Instead the guy bent down and picked up his bag for him, holding it in one hand while he reached out and grabbed Stiles under the arm and hauled him to his feet. He practically dragged Stiles into the garage and shut the door behind them.
Stiles blinked and automatically wrapped his arms around himself, unsure if he was shivering now from the cold or shock.
"How the hell did you get here?" the guy asked. In the light he wasn't as menacing as Stiles first thought. He was still a hulking mass, all tall, dark and bulging muscles, but his scruff was well maintained and he was in a tank top and dusty jeans with holes in the knees.
"Walked from the road," Stiles managed, between chattering teeth. "Car broke down." The guy frowned and started rummaging through a pile of things on a table by the door. He came up with a ratty towel and a Henley that looked as dirty as the jeans he was currently wearing. He tossed them to Stiles who would never look at a Henley the same way again.
Stiles stripped out of his plaid and t-shirt quickly, wiped his chest and arms with the towel, then pulled the Henley on with a sigh. He wrapped the towel around his head, turban-style, and drew a snort from his murderer-turned-savior.
"Thanks all the same," Stiles said, with only a hint of snark.
"What are you doing all the way out here? Most people take the highway getting through this town," the guy asked, sitting on a stool. It was then Stiles looked around and noticed the garage was full of various tools and pieces of equipment and there were furniture projects in various stages of completion in all corners. The floor was covered in sawdust and he could smell the slightly burnt scent of freshly cut wood.
"Most people aren't from here," Stiles replied. The guy arched his eyebrow. "I'm visiting my dad. The sheriff? Yup, that's my dad. So if you had any plans on, oh, I don't know, maybe killing me and cutting up my bo-"
The guy snorted again. "You tried to break into my garage, remember? Maybe I should call him."
"Can you?" Stiles asked hopefully. He fished his cell out of his pants pocket, grateful he sprang for the waterproof case, and waved it. "This is dead."
"And who should I tell him is here for him?"
Stiles frowned. "His son?"
The guy rolled his eyes. "Your name, doofus."
"Doofus?" Stiles laughed. "Who says that anymore?"
"The guy you thought was going to kill you," the guy deadpanned.
Stiles cocked his head. "Touché. I'm Stiles. And before you say anything, no that's not my real name, but it's better than the real thing. And what do I call you instead of Mr. Murderer?"
"Derek," the guy replied, then added, "Not a murderer."
Stiles nodded to the blade, still held loosely in Derek's hand. "You can understand how I'd be confused."
"It's a carpenter knife," Derek explained, setting it aside on a work bench. "You interrupted me in the middle of something."
"Sorry," Stiles said with a shrug. "But at night in the dark and with you being all... you," Stiles continued with a gesture to Derek's all over self. "It was a little overwhelming."
Derek seemed to blush but it was hard to tell under the scruff that he ran his hand over ruefully. "Sorry. My sister Cora's always telling me I can be a bit, uh, gruff."
Stiles snorted. "That's one way of putting it."
They lapsed into a silence, staring at each other, before Derek cleared his throat and stood up. "Guess I should put a call into the Sheriff."
"I guess," Stiles echoed, then hesitated. "Or, y'know. It's still coming down out there and he's on shift, probably helping with actual emergencies. If it's not too much trouble..."
"You wanna hang out here for a bit?" Derek asked, sounding surprised.
"If you need me gone it's cool, he'll come-"
"No, that's okay. Wouldn't want to pull anyone away from a real emergency," Derek murmured in agreement. "We could go to the house? I have a pair of sweat pants that have to be more comfortable than your wet jeans."
"Already trying to get me out of my pants?" Stiles said with a grin that only got wider when Derek flushed again. "Sorry, can't help myself. That sounds like a great idea."
Derek nodded and held the door open for him. Stiles grabbed his bag and ran back out into the rain.