One of these days Stiles was going to learn that having a death wish was a bad thing.
Like, last week he had tried to drag Scott out into the forest to look for half a dead body and Scott, being the asshole that he is, refused. Stiles even did the pouty lip puppy eyes thing.
The pouty lip puppy eyes thing always works with Scott.
Not this time thought. This time he got a big fat no.
Want it in Spanish? NO.
He needed better friends.
Anyway, after he’d admitted defeat, (because as much as he was a fool he wasn’t an idiot – going into the forest COMPLETELY ALONE with a murderer on the loose? Please. Even Stiles has more sense than that, death wish aside) he headed home, shucked himself up into bed and listened to the sounds of his Dad getting home at around three am.
The next day he found out that the team had found the other half of the body right near where Stiles had been planning to take Scott for a search. They could have found it damn it! Of course, that also meant they could have been found by his Dad first and that the body would never have been found but, details. His Dad found the body, confirmed it to be an animal attack and not murder (Stiles breathed a sigh of relief for that one, his Dad had long enough hours as it was) got an ID (Hale, Laura – poor girl) and called up the only living relative (Hale, Derek – phenomenally poor kid, Jesus Christ was his day gonna be ruined,) and sent Stiles off to school with a tired smile and a promise that he’d be home for dinner that night.
THE POINT IS Stiles needed to learn playing with danger was not a perfectly good past time for a kid his age. He had a future; colleges to attend, video games to play, sex to have. But, alas, he was yet to learn that.
Because here he was, standing in all his furious glory (with an appearance much akin to that of an angry kitten) chest puffed out, eyes narrowed, a sticky Red Vine clamped between the fingers of one hand and the other pointing accusingly at the chest of a very angry looking blond man, who has a gun might he add, shielding one Derek GQ-calls-me-weekly Hale in an almost completely empty gas station and very convincingly threating to call his father because apparently he’s Draco Malfoy.
He really needed to assess his priorities.
How did he get here, you may ask?
Well unlucky you did because fucked if he knows. Stiles had just gone out to get some healthy snacks (Red Vines were healthy, red is a healthy colour of food, shut up) when he’d noticed he was nearly out of gas and pulled in to the gas station. Tooootttalllly normal.
He’d just finished paying for his gas (after browsing the merchandise of the store for a while and lamenting the price for said gas) when he’d watched one of three large intimidating men smash in the window of a Camaro which was a crime in itself, aside from the whole you know, vandalism thing.
In a blink he was across the lot, in front of the hottest person to ever walk the face of the planet, thank you puberty, and demanding rather rudely to know ‘what the fuck they think they were doing?’
“Get out of here,” hot leather wearing dude had growled (growled who did that? Hot leather wearing dudes, that’s who) and Stiles realized with a jolt that hot leather wearing dude was Derek Hale and really, hadn’t he been through enough shit this week? Hell enough shit for his entire life?
“This isn’t any of your concern,” angry blond man (he appeared to be the leader of the Angry Men, which would be a cool band name actually) had said in a very stereotypically villainous manner.
And hello there, that man has a gun.
Of course his brain processes Derek’s name before ‘weapon designed for messy death’. He’s a teenager, sue him. Still, he took a deep breath and charged on, faith and idiocy on his side.
“Look Gruber, I’m real sorry, but you made this my concern when your buddy Karl over there smashed in the window of somebody else’s car. Now I’m gonna assume that you’re a good, law abiding citizen, although really judging by how you’re cornering orphaned college students at darkened back road gas stations that’s probably not correct, and you know that smashing someone else’s window like that is a chargeable offence. Now if you want, I can call up the Sheriff, and have him come down here and sort this out, or you can get out your wallet and give Derek here some money for a new window and a nice big apology,” Stiles crossed his arms over his chest, “your choice Hans.”
The smirk that blondy had been wearing during Stiles tirade dropped off at the word ‘Sheriff’ and was a very thin line by the time he’d finished speaking. Stiles gulped quietly but kept his chin up.
See what I mean about death wishes?
“I don’t want his money,” Derek voiced from behind him and it was surprisingly high when it wasn’t all growly. Not like girly high, but for some reason Stiles expected the deep scratch of a thirty-five year old alcoholic with a hard life on the road, not, you know, the twenty something year old college kid that Derek actually was.
“Hush,” Stiles said, waving a hand behind him without looking, “I’m defending your honour.”
“I’m not some damsel in distress,” ohhhh the growl was back, fuck that was hot.
“You are in distress and if you don’t shut the fuck up and let me deal I’m gonna start callin’ you a damsel because you’re whining like one, now hush.”
“Are you two done?”
Stiles snapped his attention back to where Angry Blond was glaring.
He needed to work on those too.
“We are if you have a wad of window repair cash and a mouthful of sweet apologies just waiting to be said.”
Maybe he should come up with some kind of score card – 10 points for a glare over 60 seconds, 20 for an eye twitch. Yeah that aughta keep away the pants wetting fear.
Angry Blond flickered his eyes over Stiles shoulder to where Derek was standing, then to the two men offside (also with guns Stiles sure knew how to pick a fight didn’t he) then back to Stiles, then up to Derek again.
“Quite the guard dog you’ve got here Hale,” Blond snarked earning a bark of laughter from the men to the side like it’s the funniest joke in the world.
“Yeah, and unfortunately for you, I bite,” Stiles shoots back determinedly, earning a snort from the leather asshole behind him, rude much, and he pulls out his phone, jiggling it for show, “having the Sheriff on speed-dial is so useful these days,” he adds pointedly.
“Sorry about your car,” he gritted out and Stiles mentally fist pumped because actually fist pumping would ruin the moment, “accidents happen.”
“Accidents happen? THAT’S your apology?” Stiles shot incredulously and Angry Blond gave him a look that said to shut his mouth or a bullet would shut it for him.
“Yes,” he said, turning narrowed eyes back to Stiles, “take it or leave it.”
Okay so working on the death wish thing is starting now.
“Right. An accident. I’m sure you’ll be more careful next time right? Because the police in this town have got this thing about repeat offenders…” Stiles finishes with a shrug, letting his sentence trail off with its own threat.
“Not to worry. This won’t happen again,” and that was clearly a threat at Derek but Stiles chose to let it slide.
Then Angry Blond did the creepiest thing he’d done all evening – he grinned, really friendly like, and suddenly looked like the kind of guy you’d go to for help when your car broke down or something.
“I’ll be sure to keep an eye out for accidents in the future… what was your name again?”
Stiles' return smile felt sharp even to himself.
“Didn’t give it. But neither did you so…”
Blondy held out a hand to shake which Stiles simply stared at until it dropped.
“Argent. Chris Argent,”
“How Bond of you.”
“And your name is?”
“Who said I was going to give you my name? I’m not that stupid.”
Stiles brain pinged, an actual physical sound if you’d believe him, and he’s eyes narrowed again.
“Argent huh? Any relation to Allison Argent?”
Oh and bingo was his name-o that hit the jackpot. If Chris had been angry before he was livid now, actually taking a step towards Stiles like he was going to punch him in the face or something. Derek’s hand fisted itself in the back of Stiles shirt, yanking him back behind Derek and yeah, Stiles had to admit that wasn’t such a bad plan because in the world of physical altercations Derek could probably take him.
Aaaannnndddd he was growling again, actually growling, and that was kind of un-natural.
Yes, because the monosyllabic responses obviously worked so well last time.
Chris looked between Derek and Stiles, furious and turned on his heel, getting in his car and gunning out of the gas station without so much as a threatening ‘this isn’t over’.
“Huh,” Stiles said when all three of the cars had pulled away, leaving the in the eerie silence of the gas station, “that actually worked.”
And now he was slammed up against the side of the Camaro which fulfilled like five of his mental fantasies but there was less intense making out and more angry glaring.
“What the hell was that? Do you have a death wish?!”
“Funny you should say that actually because I was just thinking abou—“
“I don’t fucking care,” And wow, rude, “you can’t just butt your way into other people’s business like that. I don’t know whether your tiny brain could comprehend the fact that those men were armed, but they were fucking armed.”
Stiles shoved Derek back, because the guy had gotten very close with his tirade and unless there was intense making out on the table he needed to back the fuck up.
“Yeah. With guns. I know asshole, I live with the Sheriff I know what a gun is.”
“You live with the Sheriff?”
“Duh. I’m his kid -- why else do you think I would have the Sheriff on speed dial? How else do you think I knew who you were? I didn’t say it because otherwise the asshole with the four-wheeler, and the gun as you so helpfully pointed out, would know and have something to use against me. Better for anonymity.”
Derek rose an eyebrow – damn he must have practiced that in the mirror or something.
“How old are you?”
“Old enough. Now budge,” he poked Derek in the side and was way more surprised than he should have been when the man moved, “I have places to be that aren’t dark and creepy and filled with dangerous men.”
With another mocking snort Derek moved around Stiles to his car, pulling open the door with the broken window and sweeping his arm across the seat. Glass tinkled onto the tarmac lightly before he got in and started it up.
“What,” Stiles called from the side, “no thank you from the damsel in distress?”
The car gunned loudly and ripped out of the spot, screeching loudly and making Stiles jump back.
“YOU’RE WORSE THAN PRINCESS PEACH!” He screamed after the car.
“Asshole,” he added to himself as he walked back to his jeep, questioning all of his life choices.