Author's Note: OK, so, this is a companion piece to Fast Times at Beacon Hills High, but it's AU from everything. (AU from my own story - weird, I know...). You know, I was watching the last episode and I was like, "No one actually gets to have any fun," so hence this was born. Also I was rewatching Skins season 2... But yeah! There are no werewolves in this, just the characters as normal people. I thought it would be interesting. Here ya go! Nice and light, a departure from FT BHH...

Song for the chapter: Can't Stop Partying by Weezer & Lil' Wayne

Disclaimer: I only own Amy.

Warnings: Language, drinking, smoking.

Can't Stop Partying

Lydia Martin's birthday party was the event of the year. Everybody knew this. In fact, it was such a widely known truth that she didn't even bother sending out invitations. Everyone who was anyone at Beacon Hills High would be there, and to not at least show up for one of her famous pink-grapefruit cosmopolitans would be social suicide.

Amy, as Allison's neighbor, was one of the lucky few who actually got to witness the nascence of the extravaganza. It was tough being new in town – that much was indisputable. Lydia didn't think that little Miss Amelia Bell fully understood just how fortunate she was to have moved into the right house and, consequently, established herself with the right sort of people straight off the bat.

Lydia was a perfectionist. She was a perfectionist, and she was a micromanager. Every detail had to be just so, right down to the outfits of her comrades. If Amy was to be a member of her social circle, she had to look the part.

But she couldn't look too good, because upstaging the host would be a gaffe worthy of crucifixion, as far as she was concerned.

Her minions sat in her bedroom, awaiting instruction. Just how it was supposed to be. Lydia stood before them, heaps of shopping bags in hand.

"Allison, you wear the Free People romper because you have the legs to pull it off," she ordered pensively, "And pin your hair up. Amy," she continued, her strawberry-blonde hair whirling behind her as she turned to the other girl, "try something blue. It's a good color for you. Don't go too heavy on the eyeliner, though – this is supposed to be soiree, not a discotheque, and no one needs to be looking like a raccoon."

The two brunettes nodded obediently as Lydia left them to get changed. There were still so many preparations that needed to be taken care of…

oxOxo

The party was in full swing.

The descent from classy to trashy was well underway, much to Lydia's chagrin. Girls and guys, guys and guys, girls and girls – it seemed that everyone was either dancing or making out. Or out of sight. Doing god-knows-what, god-knows-where. But Lydia had locked her bedroom door.

All her friends were having fun, all her friends were drunk. All of them except for Jackson and Scott. Allison, only tipsy, was hanging off of an ecstatic-looking Mr. McCall. But he was sober. Conspicuously sober. It didn't make sense.

She strutted up to the saccharine pair, a tray of drinks perched on her well-manicured left hand. She thrust a red solo cup at Scott (the clear plastic ones had all been used).

"Drink," she commanded.

He was taken aback. "Don't peer-pressure him," Amy hiccupped loudly.

"Shut up, Amy," Stiles cut in. "Do as the lady says, man," he instructed. He threw Lydia was meant to be a smoldering glance as he took a drag of the joint that they had been sharing. He inhaled too much and smoke poured from his lungs as he began coughing violently, effectively sabotaging himself.

Scott, who was midway through a long swig of the strong, fruity liquid, began to choke in laughter. Allison patted him on the back through her own glee and soon he was able to swallow with a grimace. Neither he nor Allison had ever been known to drink excessively. Stiles and Amy, on the other hand…

"Don't tell me to shut up!" Amy protested belligerently when Stiles ceased his convulsions. The girl was wasted. So trailer park, Lydia couldn't help but think. She rolled her eyes and walked away; she had more important matters to attend to, namely figuring out what Jackson's problem was. She left the quartet be.

"Dude, I'm trying to put in work over here," Stiles hissed, passing the blunt back to Scott, "Stop being a cock-block!" Allison and Scott, through the clarity of semi-sobriety, were unable to prevent themselves from snickering at this.

"I am not being a cock-block," she slurred.

"Bro, you've got no chance," Scott added, "She's over there talking to Jackson right now."

"I thought they were broken up!" he exclaimed in horror.

"It's complicated," Allison stated solemnly.

"Complicated, coooomplicated," Amy drawled in imitation.

Stiles chucked despite himself and said, "I don't know how you got so drunk, but it's hilarious, Ames."

"I only had six," she insisted, holding up six fingers as she swayed from side to side.

"Six?" Allison demanded in disbelief, "We've only been drinking for an hour!"

"Psh, you know what guys, YOLO. Yo – fucking – lo."

Stiles nearly doubled over in laughter. He hooked his arm around her shoulders and said, "Y'know, if I weren't so in love with Lydia…"

Amy's eyes widened in dismay as she wriggled from his grasp.

"I'm kidding, I'm kidding!" he assured her.

"You better be kidding!" While the two of them were engulfed in their bickering, Allison and Scott seized the opportunity to slip away to somewhere more… secluded. When it dawned on the other two, they turned to each other slowly.

"Weeeell," Stiles started awkwardly.

"Well," she mimicked. They both looked around shiftily, desperate to find something to distract from the fact that their other friends had abandoned them. Being drunk together was fine, but being drunk together alone was awkward. The fact that they were in smack in the center of a throng of couples going at it only heighted this. Even that creeper Matt was getting some, and here he was stuck with a bleating harpy. Okay, maybe that was harsh. She was objectively attractive, but their chemistry was only as friends.

Stiles tried to maneuver them towards the beer pong tournament, but Amy stopped him.

"Hey Stiles," she started slyly, "Where's that friend of yours? The hot one?"

"Friend? What friend? I have a lot of friends, you're going to need to be more specific…"

"The one with the eyes, and the hair… And the six-pack…" she trailed off dreamily.

"Oh, you mean Derek?" he said dryly. "This isn't really his scene…"

"Okay dude, I need to ask you something," she blurted out.

"What?"

"I need a favor. A big favor. Can you, like, hook that shit up? Like wingman me? Because damn, that man is gorgeous."

Stiles burst out laughing. "Oh my god, Amy, I don't think you understand the situation at all. He and I, I mean, we're friends, but we're not exactly tight. He's not the easiest person to get along with, to put it lightly. I wouldn't get your hopes up."

Amy carefully processed his words. An idea struck her like a lightning bolt. "If you wingman me, I'll wingwoman you with Lydia."

Stiles' honey eyes widened. Ah yes, Amy thought diabolically, I've said the magic words. He wet his lips and said, "Trust me, Amy, if I could… He keeps to himself, though. I can't think of anything that would get him to this party, not to mention he graduated years ago. He's a little old for you, don't you think?"

"Mmmm he's what, like twenty-four? Six years ain't nothin'!" But she had to admit, it was kind of a lot. She couldn't imagine him going for a silly little high schooler… But hey, it was still worth a shot!

Stiles opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by the sound of sirens. "Fuck," was what came out instead.

Amy's nervous ear-to-ear grin told him that she didn't understand the severity of the situation. If he got caught… But wait, his dad wasn't the sheriff anymore. Well shit, that was a downer. But the last thing he needed was something to make his father look even worse in front of the town council.

"We need to go," he told her. Without waiting for a response, he grabbed her wrist and dragged her past the pool, out the back gate. Of course, they weren't the only ones with this bright idea; soon, a massive swarm of teenagers threatened to trample them. Amy was lucky to have Stiles as a source of support and guidance; otherwise, she might have been lost in the stampede.

Eventually, they broke off from the crowd. The only problem was, they had somehow ended up in the woods.

"Well damn," Amy muttered. All the running had sobered her up, but only slightly. "Where the hell are we?"

"No clue. Shit." Stiles ran a hand over his short crop of hair and said, "We should try to find a road or something."

She nodded in consensus, and together they started back towards the direction they'd come from.

After about ten minutes of trudging through the soggy soil, Amy's alcohol blanket began to wear off and she started shivering. Spring nights were still cool in Beacon Hills, especially when you were only wearing a skimpy chemise and shorts.

"I'm cold," she huffed petulantly. Up ahead, they saw the inviting gleam of streetlights. But it was after one AM – the odds of anyone not-shady driving by were slim. Once they reached the dark, moonlit asphalt, she nudged Stiles hard in the ribs.

"Ow, what?" he hissed.

"I have an idea," she stated sneakily. She was far too drunk to sound as disconcerting as she did. Stiles didn't like where this was going.

"What?" He couldn't stop himself from asking; curiosity killed the cat, as they say.

"You should call Derek to pick us up."

"Now why would I do that?"

"A) because I will owe you one, and B) because we're probably miles from home. And who else could you call? Scott? Your dad? I don't think so."

She had a point, but he was absolutely loath to admit it. Beating down his pride, he unenthusiastically shoved his hand into his jeans pocket and fished out his cell phone. Stiles prefaced dialing Derek's number with, "He probably won't even answer," but pressed the phone to his ear nevertheless.

Much to his surprise, a gruff voice answered after only two rings. "What is it, Stiles?" he grunted. He briefly wondered if he had woken him up, but he couldn't imagine that any twenty-four year old would be asleep at one on a Friday night.

"Hey – uh – Derek? I'm – uh – I'm sorry to bother you, man, but I have a liiiittle problemo," he stammered.

"What is it?"

"So I was at this party, and it kind of got broken up by the cops, and, well, long story short, my friend and I are lost in the middle of god-knows where and we need someone to come get us…"

There was a discouraging silence on the other end of the line. Finally, "Are you drunk?"

"What? Me? Noooo, never!"

"You're trashed."

"I mean, I would drive myself home…" It was a lie. But it was a lie that just might work.

Bingo. "No, don't be an idiot. Ugh. Fine. I'll come get you. Where are you," he agreed begrudgingly.

"Yo Amy, what does that street sign say?" Stiles demanded.

"Governor Street," she chirped, squinting her eyes to read the lettering. "We're at the corner of Governor aaaand Rogers."

"Governor and Rogers," he repeated into the phone.

"Ugh. Alright, I'll be there soon," he stated before hanging up.

"He's coming," Stiles announced to an overeager Amy.

She very nearly jumped in excitement. "Yessss," she exclaimed in victory. Stiles shook his head. He couldn't imagine that she was his type.

oxOxo

They waited by the side of the road for a total of around fifteen minutes. In that stretch of time, not even one car passed by. This was lucky, they supposed. Neither of them would have been able to defend themselves if it was, say, a serial killer.

When Derek pulled up in his sleek black Camaro, Stiles could practically feel the lust emanating off of Amy. Oh boy. What was he in for?

He didn't even bother stepping out of the car; instead, he opened the passenger's side by reaching across the seat. The first thing their roguishly handsome rescuer said was, "Where the hell is your car?"

Stiles smiled sheepishly. "I seem to have misplaced it," he said, helping Amy off of the grass.

Derek set his jaw and for a moment he looked as if he might drive away. However, he swallowed his indignation and growled, "Get in the car."

Stiles made a move to guide Amy forward, seeing as he didn't expect her to be able to walk properly, but It was as if a switch had been flicked and she was a totally different person.

"I'm fine," she snapped, waving him off. She flashed Derek a devilish smirk and swaggered towards the gorgeous vehicle. Although her gait held a bit of sway, it was hard to tell whether it was intentional or a product of the alcohol. Derek raised his dark eyebrows, but remained silent as she climbed (with minimal difficulty) into the cramped backseat.

After recovering from the shock of seeing his friend so overtly seductive, Stiles scrambled into the front seat. "My friend Amy, I think you guys have met before…" he explained.

"I remember," Derek cut him off curtly, glancing at her through the rearview mirror. Her bright blue orbs met his gaze, giving him the same sultry look she had when walking to the car. The fact that she had yet to say anything astounded Stiles.

Play it cool, Amy, play it cool, she coached herself. She wasn't stupid. She knew that her overzealous drunken self could be irritating and off-putting. She didn't bother hiding it from Stiles, well, because she had no interest in him. But Derek… She was on her best behavior.

"You guys smell like weed," he stated warily.

"Yeah, sorry about that," Stiles replied, not really meaning it.

Amy ignored the jab. "So Derek," she started coyly, "I hope we didn't interrupt anything too important. A guy like you must have a lot going on a Friday night…"

"Not tonight," he answered brusquely.

"That's too bad," she mused. I bet I could help with that, was generally understood to be the last part of the sentence.

Stiles thought Derek looked… Dare he say it? Uncomfortable. One glance at his chiseled profile was plenty indication that he was trying hard to stay focused on the road. If Amy could pull this off, he would be beyond impressed.

"Who am I dropping off first?" he asked dryly.

"Stiles, you live closest," Amy said.

"Yeah. Yeah, I do," he agreed lamely.

"Fine," Derek grit out.

What followed was dead silence, and the unrecognized sexual tension in the car was almost nauseating. Stiles briefly wondered if anything would happen between the two when he was gone. He couldn't imagine that it would, but Amy was putting on a much better sober front than he thought she was capable of. He had underestimated her, and her overall aura had become... predatory.

He nearly jumped out of the car once they reached his house. "Thanks for the ride," he said in a rush to escape the awkwardness, "You kids have fun!" He gave them a lewd wink, slamming the door before either got the chance to say anything.

The remaining pair made eye contact, but Derek looked away after only a millisecond. "Where –" he cleared his throat "– Where do you live," he demanded.

Amy slithered into the front seat and he averted his gaze as a pair of long, bare legs filled his peripheral line of sight.

"I don't want to go home yet," she protested. For the first time since she got into the car, he saw the effects of the alcohol.

"You've been drinking," he stated, "You should go to bed."

"Only if you join me," she pouted.

"Let me just stop you there – trust me, you're going to regret saying all this in the morning," he replied, amused. Derek was prickly, but he didn't entirely lack a sense of humor. Plus, it was nice to know that good-looking girls still found him attractive. Even if they were only eighteen…

"I regret nothing," she announced animatedly. Oh no, keep it in check, Amy, keep it in check!

He shot her a quizzical look before repeating, "Where do you live?"

"No, no, no, we're not done here."

Again, Derek raised his eyebrows. "We're not?" he humored her.

"No – look, you're here, I'm here, we're here, together, in your sexy-ass car…"

"Where are you going with this?" he teased, feigning innocence.

"I'm just saying, we're here. Together. Alone. At night. There is a mountain of possibilities."

Derek leant in towards her, and Amy couldn't believe what was happening. In a husky tone, he said, "What are you insinuating?"

She felt her heart palpate wildly in her chest. In fact, she even began to feel light-headed. "I think you know," she murmured flirtatiously, also leaning in. Now, their faces were mere inches apart. She could see every beautiful detail of his face. Kind of. If she ignored the spinning sensation.

He pulled back abruptly and her body screamed in protest. "Where do you live?" he asked again, trying and failing to prevent a smirk from gracing his features.

Finally resigning herself to the fact that her plot to seduce him was destined to fail, she rolled her eyes and churlishly replied, "Pinegrove Court."

Relieved, Derek threw the car into drive and got her home as quickly as possible.

Once he was parked on the street in front of what she claimed was her house (he, on the other hand, wasn't too sure), she stood at the open door to his car and stared at him expectantly.

"Well, thanks," she managed. She attempted to conceal her disappointment by turning away before it became obvious. Much to her shock, Derek came out of nowhere and blocked her path, cornering her against the car as her heart hammered against her ribcage.

"Don't mention it," he breathed into her ear. They weren't touching, but the heat between their bodies was stifling. Amy suddenly felt quite faint. She didn't dare turn her head, because then their faces would be touching. Luckily, she couldn't see the wolfish smirk plastered across his face. He loved how much power he had over her – the hunted had easily become the hunter.

But he was just teasing.

Before anything else could happen, he pulled away and said, "Go to sleep. Oh, and don't forget this." He handed her her phone, which she must have accidentally left in the back seat. Without another word, he got in the car and sped off.

She didn't dare. She slowly looked down at her cell, praying. She slid her thumb across the screen and went through her contacts.

Her heart thumped loudly as she scrolled down to "D."

And there it was – a miracle, a glorious miracle.

Derek Hale's phone number.

Author's Note: Haha okay, in my head-cannon Stiles and Scott are stoners, don't judge me. They just seem like they would be. Hope you all liked it! Please review! PLEASE! Love y'all :-)