Stiles was running. He was running from the lacrosse game, into the woods. He still couldn't believe it. His heart was pounding in his chest.
He had actually scored a goal. Three, in fact. He was usually just a benchwarmer, doing nothing but cheering for his friend and hoping they'd win. But for the first time, he had done something. He wasn't just a screw up.
Stiles stopped running, wanting to catch a five second break. He was getting a cramp straight across his stomach, and it was insane how much it hurt. It wasn't just a regular cramp, it felt like being stabbed or something.
He concentrated on breathing, inhaling sharply, not wanting to be known as the kid who died from running too far.
Suddenly, he heard the bushes behind him rustle.
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Stiles whipped around, eyes wide. Oh God. Please don't be that Kanima. Run now. Stiles. Run. Why aren't you running? He could finally catch his breath and start running again, before he heard a shout echoing behind him. "Stiles Stilinski!" It seemed to bounce off the trees, and was loud and clear in Stiles' ears. That wasn't Jackson. And it couldn't be Matt either, Matt was dead. But Stiles knew that voice.
Stiles started running back towards the lacrosse game and crashed into his father's arms. His father didn't seem very happy though. "Stiles!" He screamed, making Stiles wince."What in hell were you thinking? A player's injured and you disappear instantly. Like always, Stiles! I just got my job as a sheriff back, will you remind me how I lost it?"
"Because they didn't want a sheriff with a son that was 'acting up.'" The 16 year old boy sighed in defeat. But all of a sudden, Stiles jerked his head. "Who was injured?"
"Jackson Whittemore, and it appears he inflicted this wound upon himself." The sheriff grumbled. Stiles' eyes widened, and he mouthed Jackson's full name in shock.
"Dad, I was running for my life. Everybody was screaming and yelling and running, so my instinct was to get the heck out of there, okay?"
"No one's there anymore so let's just go home." Stiles' dad muttered coldly, grabbing his son's arm and dragging him towards the lacrosse field. Stiles swore under his breath, getting a glare from his father.
When Stiles and his dad were in the car, they didn't speak. For once, there was no music, no endless chatting from Stiles, or anything like that. It would be peaceful if Stiles didn't know he was going to be so dead when he was home.
When they got home, to avoid another lecture, Stiles got a Pop-Tart out of the pantry, called, "I'm going to bed, night Dad," to his father, and marched right up the stairs.
The first thing Stiles did was take his laptop, curl up in his bed, and turn it on. He clicked on Google Chrome and clicked onto his desktop, Skype. He checked to see if anyone was online. Scott, Allison, and Lydia all had little clouds that were gray and said offline, but one person online was someone he didn't know he had as a contact.
The infamous Derek Hale.
Why Derek? Why in the name of God did he have Derek in his contact list? It was weird.. wait, Derek had a computer? But Derek was all ancient, with a burned down house and no computer's or television or anything.
Eh, why not? Stiles clicked, "Call."
Instantly, it was clicked off of the Calling screen and back to the screen he was on a second ago. Derek had rejected his call! That son of a bitch! Slightly ticked off, Stiles tried again. Same thing happened. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
Until Derek's pissed off face appeared on the screen. "Stiles, it's freaking ten pm. What the hell do you want?" Derek was in a room that certainly looked burned down. The window by Derek's side was shattered, pieces of burned wood pieces were all over the ground, and even the wall behind Derek was falling apart.
"Damn, Derek, you should really go on Extreme Makeover. Your house looks burned."
"No shit, Stiles." Derek said bitterly. "Now what do you want?"
"I want to know why the hell you're in my contact list. I certainly didn't put you in there, because I had no freaking clue you had a computer."
Derek was silent. Stiles kept staring at his clock on the bottom of his laptop screen. 26 seconds had passed before Derek answered. "I put myself in there."
"What the fu-dude. When have you ever even seen my laptop? I keep this in my room, or Scott's house. I have no memory of ever showing it to you."
"Don't call me 'dude', or I'll rip your throat out."
"Oh, haha!" Stiles laughed fakely. "You don't know where my house is! And wait, I've heard that one before! 'I'm gonna rip your throat out!' 'How Derek, you don't have an arm?' 'With my teeth.'" Stiles was so busy being entertaining to himself he didn't notice Derek disappear off the screen.
He finally noticed. "Derek. Derek!" He screamed, one of those forced screams that weren't actually any louder than your regular voice.
"I'm right here Stiles." Derek growled. Stiles looked but Derek wasn't on the screen. Then, Stiles stopped being an idiot and learned where the voice came from.
"Alright, you scary werewolf. I forgot you had freaky sniffing senses and the ability to run really fast." Stiles scowled at the 23 year old, who was lounging on the other side of his bed and smirked bitterly.
Stiles shut his laptop and put it on the floor. "So, Derek, mind explaining?"
Derek sighed. "You were asleep. House wasn't safe. Scott would kill me in the morning, nobody else to turn to, so I slept here."
"Here, as in, on my bed? Aw, gross." Stiles interrupted.
"No, not in your bed, dipshit. I slept in the guest bedroom-"
"We have a guest bedroom?"
"Shut up. And I looked at your laptop and I took it, figuring that if I ever needed to be here again I'd add myself on the one thing we both had. Skype."
"You couldn't of, gone back to your house and added me on Facebook or something?"
"Facebook?" Derek lightly turned his head to the side in confusion. "Plus, I said my house wasn't safe."
"Whatever, dude. I'm eating this Pop-Tart and going to bed. So you can either sleep in my guest bedroom or go to your house. Night." Stiles ripped open the Chocolate Fudge flavored Pop-Tart and begin to wolf it down, as Derek watched with an eyebrow raised.
"You are disgusting. Eating that at like, ten pm. If you eat right after you go to sleep you get fat, you now."
"I don't giff two shiffs, Derek." Stiles muttered, his voice muffled from the Pop-Tart he was demolishing. He'd finished it before Derek could start speaking.
Stiles looked away for a second and Derek was gone. Shrugging, not really caring, Stiles curled up in the warmth of his bed and fell asleep, crumbs decorating his face.