miscellaneous gen fic
CLOSED SIGN
RATING: PG
LENGTH: 2000 words
ORIGINAL POST DATE: 08-12-12
DISCLAIMER: don't own anything related to TW.
SUMMARY: Peter goes to see Deaton after his resurrection.
NOTES: I ship them, so apologies to any gen readers--there may be an allusion or two of a vague past relationship.
Alan could feel the shift in the air before he even heard a knock at the door. It crawled up the back of his neck and drove him slowly into the foyer, where he stood stock-still for what seemed like hours, until Peter had gathered the courage or audacity or whatever it was he needed so badly to put his knuckles to the wood, just one short rap - an accident, even, to the untrained ear, except that Alan knew not much more could be tolerated against Mountain Ash, from one of Peter's particular genus.
Alan took a deep breath and steeled himself as he went to open the door. Peter would find his way in eventually, anyway (he already had). It was more an act of pity to let him in without a fight, especially considering he was probably quite weak at the moment. On an ordinary full moon, Alan would have spared a second to worry; not tonight.
People didn't tend to come back from the dead healthy and ready to overcome the world, least of all a veterinarian.
Alan's life had afforded him a great deal of both strange and scary sights, and having known the Hales for years - even going to school and playing on the basketball team with Peter - he'd been no stranger to them in the most vulnerable of circumstances, whether that be getting shot full of arrows, cut through the middle or even just Peter in the locker room after a loss. But no amount of life experience could have prepared him for seeing Peter standing stark naked on his porch, covered in the dirt of his grave, but smiling, if only to shield what little dignity he had left.
His hands were hung at his sides, not even making the smallest effort to cover himself - a peace offering as much as it was a challenge to get under Alan's skin.
"Hello, Alan."
"Peter," Alan nodded, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Mountain Ash?" Peter's eyes went to the doorframe. He pouted a little. "I'm hurt."
"Most people don't seem to mind it."
Peter cocked his head, "I thought you learned a long time ago that I'm not most people."
"I learned a lot of things a long time ago. Seems I've started to selectively forget the less important ones."
"That could get you into trouble," Peter said serenely, turning his next smile toward the porch floorboards.
He was slow to look back up at Alan, but when he did, Alan had to steel himself all over again. It was too much like being back six years ago, ten years ago, seventeen years ago even, having to look at him like this. Except they stood on opposite sides, now.
The line did seem to blur from time to time.
"What if something you don't think is important turns out to be the most important one of them all?"
Alan considered his answer a minute. "Then I'll have my hands full, won't I?"
Peter pursed his lips, staving back a laugh that probably wouldn’t have been real, anyway. “Aren't you going to let an old friend in?"
"I see you're using the term 'friend' loosely."
Peter’s brow rose, as though their understanding of the facts somehow differed. Highly likely. "Who else but a friend would visit you in the hospital for six years? Surely the limits of your obligation to my family only extend so far. You could've left me to rot, like they did. But you came and helped me. Even more than the doctors. I especially enjoyed how gentle you were with that ointment. You know, you really ought to give the medical world some of your family’s secrets. Think of how many lives could be spared." He paused, lingering over something that made him smile a smile that had Alan's chest clenching up, despite that he tried not to let it show. "Speaking of... I guess in a way I owe all my recent successes to you."
Alan didn't appreciate the implication. More because it was true than anything else. He'd scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed, but there was blood on his hands, too, however distantly. An effect of the job, he’d have said, if it weren’t a lie in this case. "Had I known-"
"Alan, Alan, Alan. Don't sell yourself short. You knew. I’m sure you got one of your “feelings.” I enjoyed your attempts at impromptu therapy, though. Tell me, do you talk to the dogs in your kennel like that, too?" Peter put a hand over his face, huffing a laugh into it, "'It's okay, you're going to be all right, you'll get through this, find the silver lining.' Meanwhile, they're dying, and they can't just tell you to shut up."
There were a lot of things that Alan could have bit back at that, and he almost did. But with Peter, it always served best in the end to surprise him, no matter what sacrifice or assassination of pride was required to do it.
So Alan just reached up to jimmy out the small rectangle of doorframe he kept loose for situations like this, when he needed to break the barrier. Fisting the piece tight in his hand, he stepped back and wordlessly made room for Peter to come in.
It was a long, tense moment before Peter could overcome himself enough to take advantage. But it wasn't a surprise that he did, especially so when he mustered up a calm smile over it, as though he'd expected it all along.
^
It was hard for Alan not to see the boy he remembered from high school, when Peter came into the kitchen after his shower. It was like the years had been washed off with all of the dirt and death. Maybe a bit of the defensiveness, too, if Alan could hope.
Peter was dressed down in the old, gray polo and jeans Alan had set in the bathroom sink for him, his hair still a little damp, his goatee managed (the razor and cream Alan hadn’t set out). He'd brought the smell of the shower with him, too, and an energy that seemed fit to shake the house down. It all took Alan back, to their petty rivalries, to after the basketball games and the buzzing in the locker rooms and other things he'd failed to completely block out, and he felt the need to steel himself again.
Somewhere in the last six years, he'd almost forgotten how demanding of attention Peter's presence could be, most of all when he'd smile genuinely.
There was no genuine smile now, though, just one that made Alan feel both disappointed and ashamed of himself.
"Did you call the cops while I was away?" Peter leaned back against the stove, bracing his hands along the edge, claws clicking at the metal dials. "After all I am a felon. Or…I would be, if I weren’t already dead."
Alan turned back to his tea; he’d never been much for the drink, but some nights just called for it. "That would make me an accomplice."
"You know, I never told you, but I always appreciated how sharp you are. Even if I don't always like it."
The slyness in his voice wasn't anything new, but Alan could remember a time when Peter had been better at concealing it or at least tempering it with false innocence and naivety. It had been one of his more interesting (and unnerving) attributes. It even used to make Alan jealous, the way Peter had of charming almost anything out of anyone and making them believe they’d wanted to do it all along.
Now it just made Alan’s blood cold.
"Intelligence only goes so far." He reached over to pull out the chair beside him at the table. He didn't expect Peter to sit down, but it wasn't an empty gesture. At least Peter knew he could, if he really wanted to.
Maybe one day he would really want to.
"Why don't you tell this old friend what you're planning to do?"
Peter remained unmoved, at least that Alan could see. But he was still smiling, not that it was a good sign. "Another therapy session? Don't tell me you don't already know."
"I know that your thirst for revenge brought Gerard Argent back to town," Alan stood to dump his tea down the drain, not nearly ignorant enough to turn his back on Peter as he did. "I know that your nephew's currently drowning, likely more so now because you've, shall we say, risen from the dead? I know that Scott hasn't had the easiest life and certainly doesn't deserve the pain and hardship he's been saddled with because of you. Not to mention the unnecessary casualties…including yourself.
“But tell me, Peter, what does all that mean to you?"
"You know what's coming, Alan. Derek can't handle it. He's too-compromised, right now. So is his pack. He just needs to be guided in the right direction. That’s it."
"Ah, I see. Like you guided Laura in the right direction?"
"She would've eventually come back from what I did. You know that. I had no other option. It was the Argents who ended up cutting her in half."
"Well," Alan turned a false smile on him. "I'm reassured. After all you’d been through, I was starting to hope-"
"You have no idea what I've been through," Peter’s words were more the sharp, disgusted curl of his lip than voice, all of a sudden; Alan’s heart would likely have startled at it, if he hadn’t been aiming for it.
After all these years, he hadn’t realized his opinion meant so much to Peter, but it was nice to finally be reassured of that power.
"On the contrary, I have quite a good idea what you’ve been through,” he said after a moment’s pause. “Sometimes I think it’s you who truly has no idea."
There had always been something so satisfying and invigoratingly childish about getting on Peter’s nerves, more now than ever before - even if Alan was also more frightened of him now than ever before. It had started on the basketball courts and escalated, and it was comforting, at least, that it was something familiar in all the new unfamiliarity with him.
And if Peter's face was anything to go by, he'd struck a nerve. "I had six years to get very well-acquainted with the idea, Alan." The stove whined under his fingers.
"And yet," Alan pushed away from the sink, ringing his hands around the back of the chair, "you still perpetuate the cycle..."
"Well, we can't all be self-righteous pacifists, can we?" Peter separated from the stove, too.
In a karmic way, it seemed fitting that just then, for the briefest second, Alan imagined a scenario where he was heaving the chair at Peter, this time. "You owe all your recent successes to me, didn't you say?"
Much like earlier, Peter was quiet for a while after that, though not in surprise this time. It felt more to Alan like he was just a little undone and tired, a little unprepared in having let himself stay too long already…with someone who’s opinion meant too much.
"I've worn out my welcome," and once again his voice was deceitfully gentle, schooled back and unassuming, his shoulders hunching inward to tiny himself. When Alan had first learned about the Hales, he’d always equated mannerisms like that to Peter being part wolf, but he’d learned, especially after dealing with dogs at the clinic for so long, that the divide between canine and human hadn’t ever been that clear to begin with.
It certainly had its overlaps.
Alan tilted his head, "It seems to be a trend with you, these days."
"What can I say, I’m a whole new person.” There was that smile again.
“So it would also seem…”
“Be a good doctor and walk your patient out?"
"I'm a veterinarian," Alan said, even as he felt himself start to drift around the table toward him.
"Only on your off-days."
COACH CUPCAKE
RATING: G
LENGTH: 1100 words
ORIGINAL POST DATE: 09-16-11
SUMMARY: Mr. Harris finds out that Coach Finstock likes to be called 'Cupcake.'
"I heard something interesting from Sheriff Stilinski last night, at the parent-teacher conferences," Harris monotones, sipping his coffee over the morning paper.
"Stilinski?" Bobby grunts. "Why the hell is that name familiar?"
"Because it's Stiles Stilinski's last name. Also known as a bench-warmer on your lacrosse team. And a student in your econ class. …Permanently fused to Scott McCall's side." Harris rolls his eyes up to watch Bobby over the frame of his glasses, "How do you function, Bobby?"
"Stiles Stilinski?" Bobby takes a vicious bite of his jelly donut, swiping his mouth on the back of his hand like a napkin. He could do without the third degree. "Oh right, that smartass pipsqueak who can't shut his big yap."
Mr. Harris flips the page, humming dispassionately. "I'm surprised you don't have more of a soft spot for him. To be honest, sometimes I think he's what you must've been like at sixteen."
"No, no," Bobby scowls, "I was much better looking. And funnier, too. I was the most popular kid at my school. Everyone wanted a piece of me."
Harris cocks a brow. "I find that hard to imagine, if the current example is anything to go by."
If Bobby were sitting across the lounge table from Pamela Anderson, he might understand that comment, but as it stands, it's the pot calling the kettle black. Except that at least Bobby has the sports coach gig going for him, beyond economics. Harris is a geek through and through. He looks like one, he talks like one, he’s frail and pissy like one. He even teaches kids chemistry- in other words, training the next generation to be geeks just like him. "You're no prize yourself, Adrian."
Harris's eyebrows raise in full, but he doesn't look up from the paper.
"All right, what is it? You've got me on your line. Are you gonna tell me or what? What'd the sheriff have to say?"
Harris smirks, tilting his head in thought. He catches Bobby’s eyes, "He said he was somewhat concerned about you being Stiles's teacher and coach, and then he asked me if I knew anything about you liking to be called 'Cupcake.'"
Snide little dweeb.
"I said I didn't keep up with your personal proclivities, but I'd try to find out. For the concern of a parent." He calmly turns another page, moving his coffee cup around with no real intent. "Well…do you?"
For the record, Bobby doesn't like to be called 'Cupcake.' He loves it. The few times his ex-girlfriends would actually humor him were pretty phenomenal, all told. But he'll lie to Hell and back before he admits that shiny gold nugget of truth to anybody. Especially to someone he doesn't even like. Imagine all the things Harris could do with that. Bobby’d rather go down with his ship. "It's called sarcasm, Harris. Do you know what that is? What kind of sane grown man would enjoy being called 'Cupcake'?"
"Seems like I'm looking at one."
"No, I like to be called things like 'Sexy' and 'Buff' and 'Rambo.' Normal manly things, things which you have no knowledge of. 'Cupcake' couldn't contain my sheer animal magnetism." He combs a hand through his hair, flashing off a smile at all the imaginary babes in the lounge.
"I think it fits you, actually. Your hair is quite reminiscent of chocolate icing. Or is that where all of your animal magnetism concentrates?"
What's Beaker trying to get at, here? "You know what, Harris? Maybe it's you who likes to be called baked goods, huh? Cream Puff? Baguette? Maybe that's the ball we're playing with here. I gotta tell you, so far I don't like this game."
"You seem a little defensive."
Bobby scoffs, shaking his head, "To be defensive, I'd have to actually care. And in case you haven’t already notice - a little slow on the uptake? - I don't. So let’s go back to you just drinking your coffee and reading your little paper and me eating my breakfast, and the both of us shutting up. Sound good? Sure sounds good to me." He grabs his donut and takes another savage bite.
"Ah. ...Well then." Harris does go back to his coffee and paper like a good boy, tips his mug up in a half-assed cheers or something, a surrender. But he only takes one measly sip and flips over one loud page, before he cocks his head to the side again and opens his annoying trap, "I don't suppose..."
Bobby throws the last of his donut back on the plate. "Oh what is it now!"
"Let's perform an experiment."
"A what?"
"An experiment. Do you understand English, Bobby?"
"Yes, I understand Eng- the point is that that's not my bag, Harris. I enjoy things I already know the outcome of, and things that don’t involve making me into any more of an ass than I already am on a regular basis. Less mess that way. No surprises."
"It's my bag, though. From now on…instead of 'Bobby' or 'Coach Finstock,' how about I just call you 'Cupcake'?" He’s enjoying this; it’s all over his face, plain as a naked ass. Sick freak.
"How about you don’t call me anything, and we be happy with that? Do you know how ridiculous it'll sound if other people hear you calling me 'Cupcake'? My students, they’ll never let me live it down. They’ll start to think things."
"That sounds like a bonus."
"I have a reputation to upho- is this some sort of fetish?" Bobby leans forward over the table to mumble, "Are you getting off on this?"
It’s just sheer damn luck by now that no one else has come into the teacher’s lounge to hear this screwy conversation.
"No." Harris readjusts his glasses, folding his paper shut and getting up to walk it over to the recycle bins. It’s flabbergasting, how normal that seems, considering the Twilight Zone Bobby’s experiencing right now.
Though Harris keeps his back to him as he next says, "But I think you will."
Bobby’s jaw drops. "Now wait just a-"
"And," Harris turns around, a lazy grin on his face, "I like knowing I'm right. Call that…a fetish." There's something about his expression that is so calmly scrutinizing, dominant for such a scrawny guy, intent and predatory; it makes Bobby's skin prickle. So maybe he underestimated him. Not so nerdy now.
He doesn't know how to respond to that for a second, which is strange, downright foreign. He doesn't like the feeling at all. It gives him the creeps. "You know what, Harris?" he starts after a minute, sitting back in his chair like he can't be bothered by a damn thing. If you don’t feel it, at least try to fake it! his old football coach always used to say, and it’s gotten him through a lot. "I never liked you."
"The feeling is mutual," Harris concedes. "But…I think this'll be interesting, Cupcake."
YOU DON'T DESERVE THAT
RATING: G
LENGTH: 2400 words
ORIGINAL POST DATE: 09-16-11
SUMMARY: Teenage Derek finds a young Stiles in the library with a black eye. (Fill for this prompt.)
WARNINGS: mentions of bullying
"What're you looking at?"
Stiles spooks so bad that the DVD case goes flinging out of his hands and he has to scramble around in a game of Hot Potato to keep it from falling on the floor. It's a close save, and he feels pretty proud about that, but he can hear Billy Burbidge mocking him in his head about it, better watch where you’re swinging those things, clumsy! You’re like a chimpanzee! Gonna take someone’s eye out!
He puts it back on the shelf with jittery fingers, tries to push it deep between the other DVDs to hide it, so that no one else will take it before he can, and looks over at the kid who'd just talked to him.
And he immediately feels like an even bigger loser.
There's a dark-haired, teenage boy standing a few feet away, at the edge of the shelf, with his hands in the pockets of a really cool black jacket that Stiles suddenly wants to put on his birthday list. He has a little stubble on his upper lip, and his hair is gelled up, both of which Stiles envies a whole lot. He's started to shave himself, but ever since he figured out that his father only puts blunt blades in the razors he gives him, it just reminds him of how much of a dork he actually is. And he can’t do anything cool with his hair because his dad buzzes it every few weeks anyway; he says it's easier to manage that way and makes him look sharp.
No one else thinks that.
The guy's watching him out of boredom, it has to be, because no one that cool and that old would have any interest in a baby nerd like him. He must want to pick on him or beat him up. Awe man, what’d Stiles do this time! He looks back at the DVDs and pretends to start reading through the titles. "Nothing. I didn’t touch anything."
The teenager walks over to him and easily pulls the DVD out from its hiding spot, making a funny noise. Here comes the first joke-
He just smiles, big and happy, like he wants to laugh but is sparing Stiles's feelings. "The Wolf Man, huh? Aren't you a little young for this?"
"No," Stiles swipes the case away from him, but when he looks at it, he only feels disappointed. He tries to find what's wrong with it, what makes it a joke. If a cool guy doesn't like it, then it must not be good. But it's one of his favorites, and he thinks werewolves are awesome.
That's why he keeps getting beat up. He likes all these uncool things.
"I'm kidding," the teenager says, patting his shoulder a little hard.
Ow.
"Have you ever seen a real werewolf?"
"No way, they don't exist. They're just made up. That's baby stuff." Stiles doesn't believe a word he just said. But there's no way he's going to start running his mouth about werewolves in front of such a cool guy- who actually doesn’t want to beat him up. Stuff like that gets you beat up. But werewolves are really awesome. Stiles loves all the creepy woods around Beacon Hills, only because it's easier to pretend they're out there and might come and eat Billy and all his friends. Sometimes Stiles stays up hours after he’s supposed to on the full moons, just in case one shows up. He sleeps with the window unlocked, hoping.
The teenager taps the DVD case with his thumb, "They don't really look like that."
"What?! You've seen o- I mean, ha," Stiles deflates. He almost gave himself away. "Ha ha, nice try. I’m too old to fall for that baby stuff."
The teenager shrugs. "I'm Derek."
Derek. What a cool name. That would be his name. It's nothing like Stiles's first name. If Stiles had been named Derek, maybe he would've turned out a lot cooler. People named Derek are awesome since birth. People with Stiles's first name are-
Whatever Stiles is. Not that he doesn't like his Grandpa or anything and think he’s cool in an old, bengay-smelling kind of way, but Grandpa’s way too old to worry about being cool anymore, and no one would him up over his name, unless they wanted to get smacked with a cane.
Stiles should get a cane. One for each hand.
He gets a whiff of Derek's aftershave when Derek moves in a step closer, the kind his father wears and won't let Stiles wear because he's not old enough, and he frowns, jealous. He wishes he was older. Things would be different. Older and a werewolf, and he’d smell really good, too.
"Stiles. That's my name, I mean. What I go by. …Yeah."
Derek just nods - no asking him why or where it comes from or what it means, probably because he's too cool to care - and pulls a DVD off the top shelf, where Stiles can't reach yet. Stiles watches him in awe.
"These are good, too. The original Star Wars- seen them?" He lays Episode IV on top of The Wolf Man in Stiles’s hands.
"Of course I have. I'm not a loser." He saw them on his sixth birthday, before any of his other friends, and he and Scott have watched them every year since for his birthday. They're some of the only movies he can sit through all the way, without getting bored. He always lies and tells Scott his favorite character is Hans Solo, but he really likes Yoda the best, and how he's little, but he's one of the most important Jedi in the whole universe. Stiles wouldn't mind that. Everyone comes to Yoda for help. Everyone respects Yoda. No one ever beats him up.
"And this?" Derek fishes another DVD off the top shelf. Stiles reads Scarface in big, red letters across the front. "Don't let your parents catch you watching it, though."
Stiles feels grown-up, all of a sudden. A real, adult movie that he has to hide from his parents. "What's it about?"
"A tough guy."
"Cool." Stiles smiles, grabbing it front Derek's hands and flipping it over to look at the pictures. The librarian would never let him check it out, but even holding it makes him feel dangerous.
"Can I ask you a question?"
"You just did, stupid." Stiles makes a face. Oh way to go, calling a high school kid ‘stupid’! He looks over at Derek slowly, expecting a raised fist.
Derek actually smirks, though, and Stiles fights himself not to go to the moon about it, but he can't help it. Making such a cool guy smirk is really cool. Is he cool now by default? He feels cooler, so he'll go with yes. If only Billy and them could see him talking to a boy like Derek. They'd stop thinking he was a nerd for sure. They might even be afraid of him for a change.
"Another question, then." Derek pulls a third DVD out, but Stiles can't see what it is, even when he stretches to peer around Derek’s shoulder, and Derek doesn't really seem interested in it, anyway. "Did you get that black eye from those guys out front?"
"Black eye, what- black...yeah." Stiles puts a hand to his face, tries to cover it up, even though Derek's already seen it. Derek doesn't seem like the tattle-tale type, though. He probably knows a lot of cool secrets. "Um, cool, isn’t it?"
"You're too young to get black eyes."
"I am not!" Stiles forgets his inside voice for a second. He cringes and says it over, in a whisper. He's afraid a librarian will pop around the corner of the shelves and shush him hard or ban him for life, but no one comes.
"Fine, you're probably not. But that doesn’t change the fact that they shouldn't do that to you."
"What're you, my dad? He says the same kind of stuff." Stiles puts Star Wars: Episode IV back in the wrong place and begins side-walking down the aisle, "I can handle everything."
"What do they tease you about?"
"Nothing, it’s-stuff."
Derek snickers, and somehow that reassures Stiles enough to actually answer him again, a little more honestly this time.
"They...uh, they say I'm a spazz and I like all this nerdy, baby stuff."
"Like what?"
Stiles avoids the question for a minute, fidgeting his fingers on an empty space in the shelves. "...Werewolves. And old monster movies. And I like mysteries and looking things up. And history. I know a lot about things that no one cares about. Just…geeky stuff."
"None of that sounds like it's geeky or worth a black eye."
Stiles gets frustrated. Why do people always say that to him? If there's nothing wrong with that stuff, then why do Billy and all them still tease him about it? No matter how many times people say everything's okay, it's not okay, and he's tired of hearing it. Saying it doesn’t make it better. Something’s wrong with the stuff he likes, something’s wrong with him, and they need to just stop faking it. If he's really a loser, he wants to know now.
"What do you know?" he mumbles. "You probably never get beat up. I bet no one messes with you."
"Okay." Derek lets it go just like that. He really is too cool to care. "Are they waiting for you to come back out? Are they going to jump you again?"
Stiles cringes. For a while, he'd forgotten about that. Being in the library is always awesome that way, because he can come in and pick up a book or a comic and just go to another place for a while. And it isn't so bad when he has to leave to get home for dinner, because even if Billy and them haven't gotten tired of waiting and left already, at least when he’s getting beat on or chased, he can go back to that other place; it doesn't hurt so bad, then, if it’s just a part of a story in his head. He can pretend that he’s a spy being tortured for information that he’ll never give up or that he’s sacrificing himself for the good of mankind, like all the best superheroes do every day.
"Yeah. But I can take care of it."
Derek doesn't say anything after that. He just has this look on his face that makes him seem like he's thinking really hard about something. Stiles isn’t sure what there is to think about - maybe which Star Wars episode is the best? - and he doesn’t know what to say.
He’s just turned to start digging through the other side of the aisle, when Derek jolts him with a clap on the shoulder and says he has to go.
"Hey, maybe they won't be waiting today," he adds, turning and walking backward a few feet, a loose grin on his face.
He's so cool and confident that for a second, Stiles actually believes without a doubt that he’s right. It’s kind of like he just met a superhero for real.
^
When he leaves the library that day, The Wolf Man and a new book on the DC Universe in his hands, there's no sign of Billy or any of the other guys outside. Not even a smashed Coke can or gum wrapper where they usually hang out on the fountain. Stiles stops and looks around for a while, a lot relieved but still a little scared. What if they're waiting somewhere on the walk home? What if they've decided to change things up to make it more fun? What if they get him right on his own street?
All the way home, he jumps at every noise, and he almost chucks his book after a stray dog, when it comes running around him from behind and scares him. But he makes it home without any more scratches and no sign of Billy, wiped from all the fear and ready for a big dinner and bed. His dad gives him a pitiful look as he passes her in the kitchen. He just soldiers through a lie about Scott and him practicing wrestling moves at recess, and pretends to be a tough guy like Derek and that Scarface dude.
^
At school the next day, Billy and his friends wimp away from Stiles, like he's twenty times bigger than he really is, like he's a monster out to get them. They whine about him keeping his creepy friend away from them, but Stiles has no idea what they're talking about, and they don’t make any sense when he asks. Of both him and Scott, he's probably the creepier one, so he doesn't get it.
He takes advantage of it, though, plays it like this creepy friend is always lurking around the corner, just waiting for them to mess up so he can sic him on them. They keep their distance for the rest of the school year, and Stiles can finally stop worrying so much.
He looks for Derek around town, but doesn’t see much of him, except maybe a time or two that’s too far away to even tell if it’s really him. He figures it’s just because Derek’s older than him and hangs out in all the cool places that Stiles isn’t invited to. Derek probably wouldn’t want to be seen with a little kid, anyway.
^
It's not until a year after that day in the library that Stiles thinks about Derek again and puts two and two together, when the tragedy of a house fire makes front page news and a Derek Hale (16) is listed as one of the sole survivors. The story, which at first was a very distant thing, suddenly confuses Stiles so much with loss and unfairness and anger at whoever would do that to someone he knows. He can't explain why he feels guilt, too, but it's mixed in there with everything else, and he lies awake at night, wondering if something he'd done had set Derek down this path, if he could've done something to stop it but didn't.
He tries to bug his dad into driving out to see Derek and his older sister, Laura, at the hotel listed in the police report, just to know if it’s the same Derek from the library and to say he’s sorry, even if it’s not; but they've already left town by the time his dad gives in.
He’s only eleven, but he follows the story in the papers until they stop writing about it.
RATING: PG
LENGTH: 2000 words
ORIGINAL POST DATE: 08-12-12
DISCLAIMER: don't own anything related to TW.
SUMMARY: Peter goes to see Deaton after his resurrection.
NOTES: I ship them, so apologies to any gen readers--there may be an allusion or two of a vague past relationship.
Alan could feel the shift in the air before he even heard a knock at the door. It crawled up the back of his neck and drove him slowly into the foyer, where he stood stock-still for what seemed like hours, until Peter had gathered the courage or audacity or whatever it was he needed so badly to put his knuckles to the wood, just one short rap - an accident, even, to the untrained ear, except that Alan knew not much more could be tolerated against Mountain Ash, from one of Peter's particular genus.
Alan took a deep breath and steeled himself as he went to open the door. Peter would find his way in eventually, anyway (he already had). It was more an act of pity to let him in without a fight, especially considering he was probably quite weak at the moment. On an ordinary full moon, Alan would have spared a second to worry; not tonight.
People didn't tend to come back from the dead healthy and ready to overcome the world, least of all a veterinarian.
Alan's life had afforded him a great deal of both strange and scary sights, and having known the Hales for years - even going to school and playing on the basketball team with Peter - he'd been no stranger to them in the most vulnerable of circumstances, whether that be getting shot full of arrows, cut through the middle or even just Peter in the locker room after a loss. But no amount of life experience could have prepared him for seeing Peter standing stark naked on his porch, covered in the dirt of his grave, but smiling, if only to shield what little dignity he had left.
His hands were hung at his sides, not even making the smallest effort to cover himself - a peace offering as much as it was a challenge to get under Alan's skin.
"Hello, Alan."
"Peter," Alan nodded, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Mountain Ash?" Peter's eyes went to the doorframe. He pouted a little. "I'm hurt."
"Most people don't seem to mind it."
Peter cocked his head, "I thought you learned a long time ago that I'm not most people."
"I learned a lot of things a long time ago. Seems I've started to selectively forget the less important ones."
"That could get you into trouble," Peter said serenely, turning his next smile toward the porch floorboards.
He was slow to look back up at Alan, but when he did, Alan had to steel himself all over again. It was too much like being back six years ago, ten years ago, seventeen years ago even, having to look at him like this. Except they stood on opposite sides, now.
The line did seem to blur from time to time.
"What if something you don't think is important turns out to be the most important one of them all?"
Alan considered his answer a minute. "Then I'll have my hands full, won't I?"
Peter pursed his lips, staving back a laugh that probably wouldn’t have been real, anyway. “Aren't you going to let an old friend in?"
"I see you're using the term 'friend' loosely."
Peter’s brow rose, as though their understanding of the facts somehow differed. Highly likely. "Who else but a friend would visit you in the hospital for six years? Surely the limits of your obligation to my family only extend so far. You could've left me to rot, like they did. But you came and helped me. Even more than the doctors. I especially enjoyed how gentle you were with that ointment. You know, you really ought to give the medical world some of your family’s secrets. Think of how many lives could be spared." He paused, lingering over something that made him smile a smile that had Alan's chest clenching up, despite that he tried not to let it show. "Speaking of... I guess in a way I owe all my recent successes to you."
Alan didn't appreciate the implication. More because it was true than anything else. He'd scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed, but there was blood on his hands, too, however distantly. An effect of the job, he’d have said, if it weren’t a lie in this case. "Had I known-"
"Alan, Alan, Alan. Don't sell yourself short. You knew. I’m sure you got one of your “feelings.” I enjoyed your attempts at impromptu therapy, though. Tell me, do you talk to the dogs in your kennel like that, too?" Peter put a hand over his face, huffing a laugh into it, "'It's okay, you're going to be all right, you'll get through this, find the silver lining.' Meanwhile, they're dying, and they can't just tell you to shut up."
There were a lot of things that Alan could have bit back at that, and he almost did. But with Peter, it always served best in the end to surprise him, no matter what sacrifice or assassination of pride was required to do it.
So Alan just reached up to jimmy out the small rectangle of doorframe he kept loose for situations like this, when he needed to break the barrier. Fisting the piece tight in his hand, he stepped back and wordlessly made room for Peter to come in.
It was a long, tense moment before Peter could overcome himself enough to take advantage. But it wasn't a surprise that he did, especially so when he mustered up a calm smile over it, as though he'd expected it all along.
^
It was hard for Alan not to see the boy he remembered from high school, when Peter came into the kitchen after his shower. It was like the years had been washed off with all of the dirt and death. Maybe a bit of the defensiveness, too, if Alan could hope.
Peter was dressed down in the old, gray polo and jeans Alan had set in the bathroom sink for him, his hair still a little damp, his goatee managed (the razor and cream Alan hadn’t set out). He'd brought the smell of the shower with him, too, and an energy that seemed fit to shake the house down. It all took Alan back, to their petty rivalries, to after the basketball games and the buzzing in the locker rooms and other things he'd failed to completely block out, and he felt the need to steel himself again.
Somewhere in the last six years, he'd almost forgotten how demanding of attention Peter's presence could be, most of all when he'd smile genuinely.
There was no genuine smile now, though, just one that made Alan feel both disappointed and ashamed of himself.
"Did you call the cops while I was away?" Peter leaned back against the stove, bracing his hands along the edge, claws clicking at the metal dials. "After all I am a felon. Or…I would be, if I weren’t already dead."
Alan turned back to his tea; he’d never been much for the drink, but some nights just called for it. "That would make me an accomplice."
"You know, I never told you, but I always appreciated how sharp you are. Even if I don't always like it."
The slyness in his voice wasn't anything new, but Alan could remember a time when Peter had been better at concealing it or at least tempering it with false innocence and naivety. It had been one of his more interesting (and unnerving) attributes. It even used to make Alan jealous, the way Peter had of charming almost anything out of anyone and making them believe they’d wanted to do it all along.
Now it just made Alan’s blood cold.
"Intelligence only goes so far." He reached over to pull out the chair beside him at the table. He didn't expect Peter to sit down, but it wasn't an empty gesture. At least Peter knew he could, if he really wanted to.
Maybe one day he would really want to.
"Why don't you tell this old friend what you're planning to do?"
Peter remained unmoved, at least that Alan could see. But he was still smiling, not that it was a good sign. "Another therapy session? Don't tell me you don't already know."
"I know that your thirst for revenge brought Gerard Argent back to town," Alan stood to dump his tea down the drain, not nearly ignorant enough to turn his back on Peter as he did. "I know that your nephew's currently drowning, likely more so now because you've, shall we say, risen from the dead? I know that Scott hasn't had the easiest life and certainly doesn't deserve the pain and hardship he's been saddled with because of you. Not to mention the unnecessary casualties…including yourself.
“But tell me, Peter, what does all that mean to you?"
"You know what's coming, Alan. Derek can't handle it. He's too-compromised, right now. So is his pack. He just needs to be guided in the right direction. That’s it."
"Ah, I see. Like you guided Laura in the right direction?"
"She would've eventually come back from what I did. You know that. I had no other option. It was the Argents who ended up cutting her in half."
"Well," Alan turned a false smile on him. "I'm reassured. After all you’d been through, I was starting to hope-"
"You have no idea what I've been through," Peter’s words were more the sharp, disgusted curl of his lip than voice, all of a sudden; Alan’s heart would likely have startled at it, if he hadn’t been aiming for it.
After all these years, he hadn’t realized his opinion meant so much to Peter, but it was nice to finally be reassured of that power.
"On the contrary, I have quite a good idea what you’ve been through,” he said after a moment’s pause. “Sometimes I think it’s you who truly has no idea."
There had always been something so satisfying and invigoratingly childish about getting on Peter’s nerves, more now than ever before - even if Alan was also more frightened of him now than ever before. It had started on the basketball courts and escalated, and it was comforting, at least, that it was something familiar in all the new unfamiliarity with him.
And if Peter's face was anything to go by, he'd struck a nerve. "I had six years to get very well-acquainted with the idea, Alan." The stove whined under his fingers.
"And yet," Alan pushed away from the sink, ringing his hands around the back of the chair, "you still perpetuate the cycle..."
"Well, we can't all be self-righteous pacifists, can we?" Peter separated from the stove, too.
In a karmic way, it seemed fitting that just then, for the briefest second, Alan imagined a scenario where he was heaving the chair at Peter, this time. "You owe all your recent successes to me, didn't you say?"
Much like earlier, Peter was quiet for a while after that, though not in surprise this time. It felt more to Alan like he was just a little undone and tired, a little unprepared in having let himself stay too long already…with someone who’s opinion meant too much.
"I've worn out my welcome," and once again his voice was deceitfully gentle, schooled back and unassuming, his shoulders hunching inward to tiny himself. When Alan had first learned about the Hales, he’d always equated mannerisms like that to Peter being part wolf, but he’d learned, especially after dealing with dogs at the clinic for so long, that the divide between canine and human hadn’t ever been that clear to begin with.
It certainly had its overlaps.
Alan tilted his head, "It seems to be a trend with you, these days."
"What can I say, I’m a whole new person.” There was that smile again.
“So it would also seem…”
“Be a good doctor and walk your patient out?"
"I'm a veterinarian," Alan said, even as he felt himself start to drift around the table toward him.
"Only on your off-days."
COACH CUPCAKE
RATING: G
LENGTH: 1100 words
ORIGINAL POST DATE: 09-16-11
SUMMARY: Mr. Harris finds out that Coach Finstock likes to be called 'Cupcake.'
"I heard something interesting from Sheriff Stilinski last night, at the parent-teacher conferences," Harris monotones, sipping his coffee over the morning paper.
"Stilinski?" Bobby grunts. "Why the hell is that name familiar?"
"Because it's Stiles Stilinski's last name. Also known as a bench-warmer on your lacrosse team. And a student in your econ class. …Permanently fused to Scott McCall's side." Harris rolls his eyes up to watch Bobby over the frame of his glasses, "How do you function, Bobby?"
"Stiles Stilinski?" Bobby takes a vicious bite of his jelly donut, swiping his mouth on the back of his hand like a napkin. He could do without the third degree. "Oh right, that smartass pipsqueak who can't shut his big yap."
Mr. Harris flips the page, humming dispassionately. "I'm surprised you don't have more of a soft spot for him. To be honest, sometimes I think he's what you must've been like at sixteen."
"No, no," Bobby scowls, "I was much better looking. And funnier, too. I was the most popular kid at my school. Everyone wanted a piece of me."
Harris cocks a brow. "I find that hard to imagine, if the current example is anything to go by."
If Bobby were sitting across the lounge table from Pamela Anderson, he might understand that comment, but as it stands, it's the pot calling the kettle black. Except that at least Bobby has the sports coach gig going for him, beyond economics. Harris is a geek through and through. He looks like one, he talks like one, he’s frail and pissy like one. He even teaches kids chemistry- in other words, training the next generation to be geeks just like him. "You're no prize yourself, Adrian."
Harris's eyebrows raise in full, but he doesn't look up from the paper.
"All right, what is it? You've got me on your line. Are you gonna tell me or what? What'd the sheriff have to say?"
Harris smirks, tilting his head in thought. He catches Bobby’s eyes, "He said he was somewhat concerned about you being Stiles's teacher and coach, and then he asked me if I knew anything about you liking to be called 'Cupcake.'"
Snide little dweeb.
"I said I didn't keep up with your personal proclivities, but I'd try to find out. For the concern of a parent." He calmly turns another page, moving his coffee cup around with no real intent. "Well…do you?"
For the record, Bobby doesn't like to be called 'Cupcake.' He loves it. The few times his ex-girlfriends would actually humor him were pretty phenomenal, all told. But he'll lie to Hell and back before he admits that shiny gold nugget of truth to anybody. Especially to someone he doesn't even like. Imagine all the things Harris could do with that. Bobby’d rather go down with his ship. "It's called sarcasm, Harris. Do you know what that is? What kind of sane grown man would enjoy being called 'Cupcake'?"
"Seems like I'm looking at one."
"No, I like to be called things like 'Sexy' and 'Buff' and 'Rambo.' Normal manly things, things which you have no knowledge of. 'Cupcake' couldn't contain my sheer animal magnetism." He combs a hand through his hair, flashing off a smile at all the imaginary babes in the lounge.
"I think it fits you, actually. Your hair is quite reminiscent of chocolate icing. Or is that where all of your animal magnetism concentrates?"
What's Beaker trying to get at, here? "You know what, Harris? Maybe it's you who likes to be called baked goods, huh? Cream Puff? Baguette? Maybe that's the ball we're playing with here. I gotta tell you, so far I don't like this game."
"You seem a little defensive."
Bobby scoffs, shaking his head, "To be defensive, I'd have to actually care. And in case you haven’t already notice - a little slow on the uptake? - I don't. So let’s go back to you just drinking your coffee and reading your little paper and me eating my breakfast, and the both of us shutting up. Sound good? Sure sounds good to me." He grabs his donut and takes another savage bite.
"Ah. ...Well then." Harris does go back to his coffee and paper like a good boy, tips his mug up in a half-assed cheers or something, a surrender. But he only takes one measly sip and flips over one loud page, before he cocks his head to the side again and opens his annoying trap, "I don't suppose..."
Bobby throws the last of his donut back on the plate. "Oh what is it now!"
"Let's perform an experiment."
"A what?"
"An experiment. Do you understand English, Bobby?"
"Yes, I understand Eng- the point is that that's not my bag, Harris. I enjoy things I already know the outcome of, and things that don’t involve making me into any more of an ass than I already am on a regular basis. Less mess that way. No surprises."
"It's my bag, though. From now on…instead of 'Bobby' or 'Coach Finstock,' how about I just call you 'Cupcake'?" He’s enjoying this; it’s all over his face, plain as a naked ass. Sick freak.
"How about you don’t call me anything, and we be happy with that? Do you know how ridiculous it'll sound if other people hear you calling me 'Cupcake'? My students, they’ll never let me live it down. They’ll start to think things."
"That sounds like a bonus."
"I have a reputation to upho- is this some sort of fetish?" Bobby leans forward over the table to mumble, "Are you getting off on this?"
It’s just sheer damn luck by now that no one else has come into the teacher’s lounge to hear this screwy conversation.
"No." Harris readjusts his glasses, folding his paper shut and getting up to walk it over to the recycle bins. It’s flabbergasting, how normal that seems, considering the Twilight Zone Bobby’s experiencing right now.
Though Harris keeps his back to him as he next says, "But I think you will."
Bobby’s jaw drops. "Now wait just a-"
"And," Harris turns around, a lazy grin on his face, "I like knowing I'm right. Call that…a fetish." There's something about his expression that is so calmly scrutinizing, dominant for such a scrawny guy, intent and predatory; it makes Bobby's skin prickle. So maybe he underestimated him. Not so nerdy now.
He doesn't know how to respond to that for a second, which is strange, downright foreign. He doesn't like the feeling at all. It gives him the creeps. "You know what, Harris?" he starts after a minute, sitting back in his chair like he can't be bothered by a damn thing. If you don’t feel it, at least try to fake it! his old football coach always used to say, and it’s gotten him through a lot. "I never liked you."
"The feeling is mutual," Harris concedes. "But…I think this'll be interesting, Cupcake."
YOU DON'T DESERVE THAT
RATING: G
LENGTH: 2400 words
ORIGINAL POST DATE: 09-16-11
SUMMARY: Teenage Derek finds a young Stiles in the library with a black eye. (Fill for this prompt.)
WARNINGS: mentions of bullying
"What're you looking at?"
Stiles spooks so bad that the DVD case goes flinging out of his hands and he has to scramble around in a game of Hot Potato to keep it from falling on the floor. It's a close save, and he feels pretty proud about that, but he can hear Billy Burbidge mocking him in his head about it, better watch where you’re swinging those things, clumsy! You’re like a chimpanzee! Gonna take someone’s eye out!
He puts it back on the shelf with jittery fingers, tries to push it deep between the other DVDs to hide it, so that no one else will take it before he can, and looks over at the kid who'd just talked to him.
And he immediately feels like an even bigger loser.
There's a dark-haired, teenage boy standing a few feet away, at the edge of the shelf, with his hands in the pockets of a really cool black jacket that Stiles suddenly wants to put on his birthday list. He has a little stubble on his upper lip, and his hair is gelled up, both of which Stiles envies a whole lot. He's started to shave himself, but ever since he figured out that his father only puts blunt blades in the razors he gives him, it just reminds him of how much of a dork he actually is. And he can’t do anything cool with his hair because his dad buzzes it every few weeks anyway; he says it's easier to manage that way and makes him look sharp.
No one else thinks that.
The guy's watching him out of boredom, it has to be, because no one that cool and that old would have any interest in a baby nerd like him. He must want to pick on him or beat him up. Awe man, what’d Stiles do this time! He looks back at the DVDs and pretends to start reading through the titles. "Nothing. I didn’t touch anything."
The teenager walks over to him and easily pulls the DVD out from its hiding spot, making a funny noise. Here comes the first joke-
He just smiles, big and happy, like he wants to laugh but is sparing Stiles's feelings. "The Wolf Man, huh? Aren't you a little young for this?"
"No," Stiles swipes the case away from him, but when he looks at it, he only feels disappointed. He tries to find what's wrong with it, what makes it a joke. If a cool guy doesn't like it, then it must not be good. But it's one of his favorites, and he thinks werewolves are awesome.
That's why he keeps getting beat up. He likes all these uncool things.
"I'm kidding," the teenager says, patting his shoulder a little hard.
Ow.
"Have you ever seen a real werewolf?"
"No way, they don't exist. They're just made up. That's baby stuff." Stiles doesn't believe a word he just said. But there's no way he's going to start running his mouth about werewolves in front of such a cool guy- who actually doesn’t want to beat him up. Stuff like that gets you beat up. But werewolves are really awesome. Stiles loves all the creepy woods around Beacon Hills, only because it's easier to pretend they're out there and might come and eat Billy and all his friends. Sometimes Stiles stays up hours after he’s supposed to on the full moons, just in case one shows up. He sleeps with the window unlocked, hoping.
The teenager taps the DVD case with his thumb, "They don't really look like that."
"What?! You've seen o- I mean, ha," Stiles deflates. He almost gave himself away. "Ha ha, nice try. I’m too old to fall for that baby stuff."
The teenager shrugs. "I'm Derek."
Derek. What a cool name. That would be his name. It's nothing like Stiles's first name. If Stiles had been named Derek, maybe he would've turned out a lot cooler. People named Derek are awesome since birth. People with Stiles's first name are-
Whatever Stiles is. Not that he doesn't like his Grandpa or anything and think he’s cool in an old, bengay-smelling kind of way, but Grandpa’s way too old to worry about being cool anymore, and no one would him up over his name, unless they wanted to get smacked with a cane.
Stiles should get a cane. One for each hand.
He gets a whiff of Derek's aftershave when Derek moves in a step closer, the kind his father wears and won't let Stiles wear because he's not old enough, and he frowns, jealous. He wishes he was older. Things would be different. Older and a werewolf, and he’d smell really good, too.
"Stiles. That's my name, I mean. What I go by. …Yeah."
Derek just nods - no asking him why or where it comes from or what it means, probably because he's too cool to care - and pulls a DVD off the top shelf, where Stiles can't reach yet. Stiles watches him in awe.
"These are good, too. The original Star Wars- seen them?" He lays Episode IV on top of The Wolf Man in Stiles’s hands.
"Of course I have. I'm not a loser." He saw them on his sixth birthday, before any of his other friends, and he and Scott have watched them every year since for his birthday. They're some of the only movies he can sit through all the way, without getting bored. He always lies and tells Scott his favorite character is Hans Solo, but he really likes Yoda the best, and how he's little, but he's one of the most important Jedi in the whole universe. Stiles wouldn't mind that. Everyone comes to Yoda for help. Everyone respects Yoda. No one ever beats him up.
"And this?" Derek fishes another DVD off the top shelf. Stiles reads Scarface in big, red letters across the front. "Don't let your parents catch you watching it, though."
Stiles feels grown-up, all of a sudden. A real, adult movie that he has to hide from his parents. "What's it about?"
"A tough guy."
"Cool." Stiles smiles, grabbing it front Derek's hands and flipping it over to look at the pictures. The librarian would never let him check it out, but even holding it makes him feel dangerous.
"Can I ask you a question?"
"You just did, stupid." Stiles makes a face. Oh way to go, calling a high school kid ‘stupid’! He looks over at Derek slowly, expecting a raised fist.
Derek actually smirks, though, and Stiles fights himself not to go to the moon about it, but he can't help it. Making such a cool guy smirk is really cool. Is he cool now by default? He feels cooler, so he'll go with yes. If only Billy and them could see him talking to a boy like Derek. They'd stop thinking he was a nerd for sure. They might even be afraid of him for a change.
"Another question, then." Derek pulls a third DVD out, but Stiles can't see what it is, even when he stretches to peer around Derek’s shoulder, and Derek doesn't really seem interested in it, anyway. "Did you get that black eye from those guys out front?"
"Black eye, what- black...yeah." Stiles puts a hand to his face, tries to cover it up, even though Derek's already seen it. Derek doesn't seem like the tattle-tale type, though. He probably knows a lot of cool secrets. "Um, cool, isn’t it?"
"You're too young to get black eyes."
"I am not!" Stiles forgets his inside voice for a second. He cringes and says it over, in a whisper. He's afraid a librarian will pop around the corner of the shelves and shush him hard or ban him for life, but no one comes.
"Fine, you're probably not. But that doesn’t change the fact that they shouldn't do that to you."
"What're you, my dad? He says the same kind of stuff." Stiles puts Star Wars: Episode IV back in the wrong place and begins side-walking down the aisle, "I can handle everything."
"What do they tease you about?"
"Nothing, it’s-stuff."
Derek snickers, and somehow that reassures Stiles enough to actually answer him again, a little more honestly this time.
"They...uh, they say I'm a spazz and I like all this nerdy, baby stuff."
"Like what?"
Stiles avoids the question for a minute, fidgeting his fingers on an empty space in the shelves. "...Werewolves. And old monster movies. And I like mysteries and looking things up. And history. I know a lot about things that no one cares about. Just…geeky stuff."
"None of that sounds like it's geeky or worth a black eye."
Stiles gets frustrated. Why do people always say that to him? If there's nothing wrong with that stuff, then why do Billy and all them still tease him about it? No matter how many times people say everything's okay, it's not okay, and he's tired of hearing it. Saying it doesn’t make it better. Something’s wrong with the stuff he likes, something’s wrong with him, and they need to just stop faking it. If he's really a loser, he wants to know now.
"What do you know?" he mumbles. "You probably never get beat up. I bet no one messes with you."
"Okay." Derek lets it go just like that. He really is too cool to care. "Are they waiting for you to come back out? Are they going to jump you again?"
Stiles cringes. For a while, he'd forgotten about that. Being in the library is always awesome that way, because he can come in and pick up a book or a comic and just go to another place for a while. And it isn't so bad when he has to leave to get home for dinner, because even if Billy and them haven't gotten tired of waiting and left already, at least when he’s getting beat on or chased, he can go back to that other place; it doesn't hurt so bad, then, if it’s just a part of a story in his head. He can pretend that he’s a spy being tortured for information that he’ll never give up or that he’s sacrificing himself for the good of mankind, like all the best superheroes do every day.
"Yeah. But I can take care of it."
Derek doesn't say anything after that. He just has this look on his face that makes him seem like he's thinking really hard about something. Stiles isn’t sure what there is to think about - maybe which Star Wars episode is the best? - and he doesn’t know what to say.
He’s just turned to start digging through the other side of the aisle, when Derek jolts him with a clap on the shoulder and says he has to go.
"Hey, maybe they won't be waiting today," he adds, turning and walking backward a few feet, a loose grin on his face.
He's so cool and confident that for a second, Stiles actually believes without a doubt that he’s right. It’s kind of like he just met a superhero for real.
^
When he leaves the library that day, The Wolf Man and a new book on the DC Universe in his hands, there's no sign of Billy or any of the other guys outside. Not even a smashed Coke can or gum wrapper where they usually hang out on the fountain. Stiles stops and looks around for a while, a lot relieved but still a little scared. What if they're waiting somewhere on the walk home? What if they've decided to change things up to make it more fun? What if they get him right on his own street?
All the way home, he jumps at every noise, and he almost chucks his book after a stray dog, when it comes running around him from behind and scares him. But he makes it home without any more scratches and no sign of Billy, wiped from all the fear and ready for a big dinner and bed. His dad gives him a pitiful look as he passes her in the kitchen. He just soldiers through a lie about Scott and him practicing wrestling moves at recess, and pretends to be a tough guy like Derek and that Scarface dude.
^
At school the next day, Billy and his friends wimp away from Stiles, like he's twenty times bigger than he really is, like he's a monster out to get them. They whine about him keeping his creepy friend away from them, but Stiles has no idea what they're talking about, and they don’t make any sense when he asks. Of both him and Scott, he's probably the creepier one, so he doesn't get it.
He takes advantage of it, though, plays it like this creepy friend is always lurking around the corner, just waiting for them to mess up so he can sic him on them. They keep their distance for the rest of the school year, and Stiles can finally stop worrying so much.
He looks for Derek around town, but doesn’t see much of him, except maybe a time or two that’s too far away to even tell if it’s really him. He figures it’s just because Derek’s older than him and hangs out in all the cool places that Stiles isn’t invited to. Derek probably wouldn’t want to be seen with a little kid, anyway.
^
It's not until a year after that day in the library that Stiles thinks about Derek again and puts two and two together, when the tragedy of a house fire makes front page news and a Derek Hale (16) is listed as one of the sole survivors. The story, which at first was a very distant thing, suddenly confuses Stiles so much with loss and unfairness and anger at whoever would do that to someone he knows. He can't explain why he feels guilt, too, but it's mixed in there with everything else, and he lies awake at night, wondering if something he'd done had set Derek down this path, if he could've done something to stop it but didn't.
He tries to bug his dad into driving out to see Derek and his older sister, Laura, at the hotel listed in the police report, just to know if it’s the same Derek from the library and to say he’s sorry, even if it’s not; but they've already left town by the time his dad gives in.
He’s only eleven, but he follows the story in the papers until they stop writing about it.