A/N Basically this is going to be a funny and (mostly) fluffy Sterek fic that I'm in the middle of writing for one of my best friends as an extremely late Birthday or Christmas present? Originally it was a challenge from her, but I actually am having fun, and I think she forgot about the "challenge" bit. Now I'm rambling. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this, oh buddy oh mine!

Side Note: This is the first fic I've posted on my personal account, because I mostly cowrite stuff with my other friend on another account which you can find by going to my profile.


Chapter 1

It was the perfect plan for revenge, or so Stiles predicted it would be if Coach hadn't walked in and completely ruined everything. He had spent an hour after school setting up the trip wire outside Jackson's first period classroom. It was connected to a catapult that would deliver sweet, sweet retribution. The wire was taut and Stiles was on the final step of his plan, loading the catapult with a bucket of paint-an alarming shade of chartreuse-when the coach spotted him lurking in the classroom and made a beeline straight for him.

"Stilinski!" Coach yelled, pointing an angry finger in Stiles' direction.

"Coach! Stop!" Stiles frantically waved his hands, but to no avail. "Don't take another—" Too late, the wire was tripped and the paint was catapulted and Stiles was in its trajectory and the Coach, surprised, stopped dead in his tracks. "—step…"

"… What the… is that a catapult…?" Coach struggled to maintain a threatening tone as he spoke between laughs, but eventually was able to complete his duty to reprimand impressively enough with, "get your ass to the principal's office. Now."

Stiles' shoulders slumped, paint dripping down his face and neck, defeated by his own invention.

"Fine," he sighed.

"You know, Stilinski, that color really suits you." Coach commented with a smirk as he pushed Stiles in the direction of the principal.

"Do you really think so?" The yellowy-green teen replied sarcastically as he wiped paint from his eyes. His cheek seared with pain where the lever has smacked him, and he could already feel a large welt forming. Catapults were not meant for short ranged attacks.

Coach took Stiles the short walk to the principal's office, clearly not trusting him enough to get there on his own. The door, plastered with papers advertising school events, fundraisers, and clubs, was not closed all the way and the muffled sound of voices could be heard.

Who the hell would be in the principal's office this late after school besides me? Stiles wondered as he begrudgingly sauntered over to the waiting-room style chairs and stood next to them, rather than sat in them, he didn't want to leave a stain. Coach guarded the exit and scrolled through his phone, a sort of half-smile, half-scowl on his face.

Ten minutes must have passed, and Stiles still had nothing better to do than listen to muffled voices and watch Coach dumbly look at his phone. Growing agitated, Stiles began absently painting designs on his hands. He made a disgusting-colored smiley face and lost interest almost immediately after. With an exasperated sigh, Stiles let himself fall into the chair, completely forgetting why he had remained standing for so long until it was too late. He sighed again as the still-wet paint made a squish, seeping itself into the fabric, no longer caring about preserving the school's chairs that weren't all that comfortable anyway.

Many more minutes passed before the door finally swung open. Stiles looked up confused, having nearly fallen asleep, and slowly peeled his hand from his cheek. He felt his skin pull with it and release with a subtle snapping sound as a dark-haired boy emerged from the principal's office. Angry green eyes flicked in Stiles' direction for a lingering moment, their expression quickly shifting from confusion to amusement in a split second before looking away, pointedly indifferent. Stiles thought he had seen the hint of a smile, maybe even the start of a laugh, but it disappeared so fast he couldn't be sure. The boy shook his head as he shouldered past coach and made his way down the hallway, Stiles scowled at his back, whoever he was. Stiles thought the boy might be on the basketball team, but he wasn't sure.

He completely dismissed his thoughts when he was herded into the principal's office. Principal Phillips looked up with little enthusiasm as Stiles entered. He didn't even blink at the soaked-in-chartreuse teen.

"Mr. Stilinski…." Phillips sighed, pressing his fingers to his temples. "Why am I not surprised?"

"Do I detect a hint of sarcasm in your voice, Principle Phillips?" Stiles commented cheerily as he shut the door behind him.

"Please, let's just get this over with. It's… been a long day," the older man looked worn down, indeed. His thinning salt and pepper hair was sticking up where it was once meticulously combed down and his glasses were slightly askew. Principal Phillips removed the spectacles from his face and wiped them on a cloth, the lines on his naked face more prominent than ever. Stiles realized it must have been the other boy, the one who'd been in here for so long, that had the principal worn so thin.

"Who was the kid in here before me?" Stiles asked.

"Derek Hale, another headache."

"Why's that?"

"He's failing chemistry, in fact he doesn't even show up for class—wait a second, why am I telling you this? We're supposed to be talking about you."

"I guess we are. So what do you want to know? Let's see… I like long walks on the beach, romantic candle-light dinners, classical novels—"

"Just tell me what why you were installing a catapult filled with yellow paint in Mr. Harris's classroom?"

Stiles explained his plan for revenge against Jackson to Principal Phillips, who was slightly more willing to listen to the story than Coach had been. Phillips nodded almost understandably, being familiar with Jackson he wasn't exactly fond of him either, and when Stiles finished telling his version of the catapult fiasco, Phillips had only one comment to make.

"What if Jackson wasn't the first in the class?"

Stiles stared at him, slowly comprehending the question, certain he'd heard the principal wrong. "What?"

"Well, what if some other student was in the classroom before Jackson and walked into the trip wire, causing the catapult to fire on someone who's innocent."

"Uh…" The truth was, Stiles hadn't actually considered that possibility until now. Phillips shook his head in exasperation. He couldn't believe how absent-minded this straight A student could be sometimes.

"Look, the Coach wants you suspended from the team—" he began.

"No! I mean, please don't suspend me, Principal Phillips, sir…" Stiles clasped his hands together in pleading.

Phillips cleared his throat, continuing where he had been interrupted with, "as I said, I should suspend you, but…"

"Oh, there's a 'but'! Yes, there is a 'but'. Thank you so much."

Phillips stared at him and, taking the hint, Stiles clamped his mouth shut, stowing his hands behind his back to show that he was done interrupting. However, he couldn't stop himself from bouncing slightly on his heels excitedly.

"Since nothing actually happened, I'll give you four weeks of detention, twice a week, and I want you to tutor the boy who was in here before you. Like I said, Derek is struggling in Chemistry, and you're so well versed in that particular subject."

Great… Stiles thought. He sucked at tutoring because he was too impatient with the student. He just couldn't understand how some people didn't get chemistry like he did. That wasn't really the problem, though. He supposed he could endure through the horrors of tutoring for a few weeks, but the eight detentions were a whole other ordeal because, with his luck, he'd be stuck with…

"You'll serve detention with Mr. Harris on tuesdays and thursdays…"

Yep. Of course. Stiles groaned. That meant he'd miss practice on those days, too, not that anyone other than Scott would notice his absence. The principal filled out a slip and handed it to Stiles. The paper was to be signed by his dad and handed to Mr Harris on tuesday when Stiles reported for his first detention, which was the next day. Stiles huffed a good bye as he stuffed the slip in his backpack then left the principal's office. The coach had also apparently left the vicinity.

The hallways were deserted except for the occasional janitor here and there, but still the emptiness made Stiles shiver. Quickly making his way out of the school, Stiles got all the way to his jeep before he remembered that he was still covered in yellow paint. Grumbling incoherently, Stiles rummaged through the lacrosse bag stowed in the back and found an old tee shirt. It wasn't the freshest smelling shirt in the world, but it would do. Stiles shrugged and slipped the shirt on over his current, paint-covered, one. When his head emerged he noticed a familiar shadowy figure hanging out by the school.

Derek Hale, standing nonchalantly by the "No Skateboarding" sign, was watching him. Stiles couldn't help but think of Derek in the principal's office and how strikingly green his eyes had looked then. He looked like he was waiting for someone, and Stiles momentarily thought about offering him a ride, but to be honest, Derek was a little bit intimidating with that leather jacket, dark hair, and apathetic attitude. Stiles still felt sorry for the other boy, though, realizing how sucky it must feel to be talked to about failing a class, and so, before he could stop himself, Stiles found himself walking towards Derek who was staring right at him with a furrowed brow.

"Hey," Stiles said, when he grew near. He hoped the intense fear he felt wasn't obvious on his face. He tried to smile. Derek didn't respond… he only stared more. Stiles continued awkwardly, "...so I guess I'm going to be tutoring you in chem, er, basically the only weekday I'm free is Wednesdays now, or we could do it on the weekend at your house or mine. But if not, we could go to the public library… or just stick with the school's library on… you know, Wednesdays..."

"Hmmph." Derek's version of a 'yes'? But what was he yessing to? Stiles was quickly running out of things to say to keep the conversation going. If this is what Derek was going to be like during their tutoring sessions, he didn't know if he would be able to survive them.

"Okay, anyway, uh, do you need a ride home, or anything?" Stiles asked weakly.

Derek looked surprised, his eyes flicked from Stiles to his crappy silver jeep parked several yards away.

"Are you waiting for someone?" Stiles said, causing Derek's gaze to snap back to him.

"My sister left without me," Derek admitted, only slightly begrudgingly.

"That sucks. Well, the ride's still open, if you want it." Stiles smiled easier, feeling more at ease now that Derek had finally spoken to him.

Derek looked at the old jeep again, sizing it up, probably considering Stiles's offer, but eventually he shook his head. "No, thanks." He said.

"Okay," Stiles shrugged, turning back toward the parking lot. Derek watched him walk back to his car. He watched as Stiles slightly struggled with the driver's side door and got in, closing it hard behind him.

In his Jeep, Stiles pulled the ancient seat belt across his chest, clicking it into place. The car, which always smelled vaguely of must, started up easier than it normally does. Stiles adjusted his rear-view mirror a little bit, just until he could see Derek standing there, staring straight ahead. Stiles watched Derek through the mirror until he was forced to finally turn, leaving the school, and Derek, behind for the day.


"Dad? I'm home!" Stiles called as he entered his house. It was late. His dad should be home from work by now. Stiles normally got home after his dad on days when he had lacrosse practice, especially because on those days he would also hang out with his best friend Scott afterwards. But Scott hadn't been in school that day.

"Hey, kid," his dad greeted from the kitchen. "How was school?"

Stiles dropped his backpack by the stairs and made his way through the kitchen, heading straight for the fridge.

"Fine. Scott was absent, though." Stiles said as he stared at their assortment of drinks, trying to decide between root beer or ginger ale. Finally, he grabbed the ginger ale and, closing the fridge door, popped it open, taking a huge swig before turning to his dad, sorting through paperwork at the table.

"That's unusual for him…" his dad commented. He looked up from his papers and Stiles visibly saw him do a double take. Then his jaw dropped cartoonishly. "Stiles?"

"Yes?" Stiles replied, confused by his father's odd behavior.

"Why do you have yellow paint all over your face?" His dad asked.

"Oh, yeah…" Stiles said, as recognition took over. "Wait, one second," he told his dad as he backtracked through the kitchen, found the slip, now crumpled up, in his backpack, and made his way back to his dad. Stiles held out the slip to his father, who already knew what it meant, but still shook his head in disbelief as he read its contents.

"Eight detentions? A paint catapult in Mr Harris's classroom? Stiles, I'm not even going to ask what your plan was." His dad sighed as he signed the slip quickly and handed it back to his son, turning back to all the papers on the table.

"What's that?" Stiles asked, peering over his shoulder. "Work stuff?" If it was, it could be interesting. His dad was the sheriff and this town seemed to attract interesting criminals throughout the years.

"Not for you," his dad said. "Go do your homework, or something."

"Okay, okay," Stiles surrendered to his father's serious expression, and started to head to his room, but not before he got a quick look at the police reports. He only caught a few words of his father's notes in the margins:

Missing

And

Full moon?

That night, Stiles tried calling Scott. There was no answer. A normal person would assume that Scott just didn't feel like answering his phone, that he'd simply been sick that day, but Stiles wasn't exactly a normal person. His anxiety level flared up as he thought of his father's notes and how he looked so exhausted and worn thin when he studied the police reports in front of him. People were missing in Beacon Hills. Apparently, his father thought the moon cycle had some significance, specifically the full moon. The previous weekend had been a full moon, and Scott hadn't been in school on Monday.

Scott wasn't in school today.

Had he heard from him at all on Sunday? Stiles wasn't sure. In fact, he couldn't even remember if he'd talked to him on Saturday. No, he was making too many assumptions. He had spoken to Scott on Saturday, they had hung out that day.

Still, he couldn't help worrying. Deciding he should probably just go to sleep, Stiles turned off the light and hopped into bed, but not before making sure his window was locked first as a precaution. Scott would probably be in school the next day… Hopefully.


A/N Thanks for reading the first chapter of Chemical Law! Please review and I hope you look forward to the next chapter! It won't be as long as this one probably, heheh.