Title: Of Bowling Balls and Bro Nights
Summary: Stiles needed one night of normal. Three werewolves and milkshakes counted, right?
"Dude! I didn't even know a bowling ball could bounce that high! That was so awesome. You know, except for the whole you breaking your nose part. That part sucked. But the blood gushing was pretty sweet."
"Scott, I'm going to need to reconsider our friendship."
"That was the best bro night ever, Stiles!"
"Sometimes I wonder if the bite turned you into a werewolf or a stoner."
"I dunno, man."
Stiles entered his dark bedroom with a sigh. Every part of his body ached. Between being kidnapped and beaten by the ever psychotic Gerard Argent (seriously, that family was not good for his health), running his Jeep into a solid mass of avenging rage lizard (his Jeep was still scratched, thanks for nothing, Jackson Douchemore), and playing lacrosse all day with Scott McCheaterson (werewolf powers be damned), Stiles was pretty sure that, even if he had super-quick werewolf healing abilities, it would take days for the throbbing under his skin to dissolve.
Of course, that pain was in no way alleviated by the overwhelming weariness that took his bones hostage and refused them any reprieve. Stiles had not been able to fall asleep the past two nights, still too wired on adrenaline and anxiety. Not to mention the fact that every time he would go to close his eyes, visions of Lydia hugging a naked Jackson flashed behind his eyelids.
Just thinking about them had Stiles kicking his computer chair in anger. Goddamn it. He was so close. So close to making his eight-year-old self so proud. To making this shell of his sixteen-year-old self feel like this entire mess of supernatural beings and murderous humans was worth it.
Which is why he decided that, even if it was just for one night, werewolves didn't exist. Neither did kanimas or hunters. Mountain ash was just burnt wood and wolfsbane was a harmless, rare flower.
That's it. He was done.
"Werewolves don't exist!" Stiles cried out loud as he flicked the light switch and the room was bathed in florescent light.
Only to illuminate Derek Hale sitting in the corner of his room.
"Jesus Christ!" Stiles flailed, falling back in surprise. Unfortunately for him, what was behind him was his closet that he'd left open earlier. The only thing within his grasp to grab on to in an attempt to not fall on his ass (again) was the doorknob. The doorknob on the open door. The doorknob that unsurprisingly did not prevent the meeting of his ass and the floor of his closet. Instead, all that was accomplished was Stiles (and gravity) closing the closet door on himself, trapping him inside.
Fell in a closet and closed the door on himself. From his position on the floor, Stiles tried not to think to hard on the implications this had on his life. If any. He hoped not.
The door was ripped open and Stiles strained his neck as he looked up to meet Derek's bewildered gaze.
"Are you okay?"
Stiles almost choked on his own spit as he registered the fact that Derek was asking him if he was okay. That gave away to the hysteria that bubbled up in him. "No! You're not here! Because werewolves don't exist tonight!"
With that declaration, he kicked Derek's legs until the older man moved back, probably out of shock that a person like Stiles would even think of assaulting a person like Derek. Once he was out of the line of fire, Stiles closed the door again and embraced darkness once more.
"Stiles, what the hell is wrong with you? I need to talk to you!"
"You can talk to me. Just not about supernatural-y stuff. The weather, the latest Justice League comic, and Scarlett Johansson's rockin' bod are all acceptable topics."
"There's a pack of alphas in town. They're here for us. For my pack. I need to know everything about them or I'll lose—"
Stiles flung open the door and threw his body out of his closet, only to land at Derek's feet. He looked up to another bewildered look—you'd think he'd be used them by now—and cried, "Did you just say a pack of Alphas? How is that even possible? By definition isn't an Alpha the only—wait."
In the middle of his ramble, Stiles found himself getting off the floor and sitting in front of his computer, browser open, and search engine ready to fire. It took him a second to realize why he had stopped.
"WEREWOLVES DON'T EXIST TONIGHT. A PACK OF ALPHAS CAN'T EXIST TONIGHT EITHER."
"Are you insane? What the hell happened to your head?" Derek grabbed both arms of Stiles' chair and turned so that he was staring directly into Stiles' ever widening eyes.
"Dude, personal bubble!" Stiles didn't continue until Derek got his stupid stubbly face out of his breathing radius, "And other than the normal abnormal things, which I'm not talking about tonight, nothing happened to my head, okay? I just can't deal with anything but myself tonight, so I'm taking a break."
Derek's confusion gave away to an all too familiar anger, "You don't have that luxury, Stiles. They are already here. I need to know what we're dealing with." His voice was tense, a faint, inhuman growl underlying his spoken words.
"And I need to be normal for one freaking night, alright?"
Derek's raised one eyebrow, "Some would say that's a ship that sailed a long time ago."
"A joke? Did Derek Hale just make a joke?" Stiles wailed and buried his face into his hands, "I just wanted one night of normalcy and the freaking apocalypse is coming."
Derek sighed, "The apocalypse isn't coming, the Alpha pack is. Why are you not understanding this?"
"WEREWOLVES DON'T EXIST."
"Dude, that totally hurts."
Stiles looked up in shock to see Scott standing in the doorway to his room, a stupid smirk on his face.
"How'd you get in here?"
"Like you're the only one that can get a key made." Scott walked further into the room so that he was standing in between Derek and Stiles. "What's with the no-werewolves thing? I could hear you yelling halfway up the block."
Stiles flopped himself on his bed, face buried in his comforter. "I need one night of nothing happening, alright? No murder, beatings, or sociopathic grandfathers out for power and blood. Just teenage angst and heartbreak."
"The Alph—"
"Derek." Stiles could hear Scott's defensive measures kick in. It was his absolute best quality and 48% of the reason that Stiles loved him—32% was shared interests and the rest was Stockholm Syndrome. "Dude, I heard you talk about the Alpha pack. That doesn't sound good, sure. But nothing's going to happen tonight. We can take one night off from all this and be regular guys, you know?"
Stiles flipped over on the bed so that he could stare into his overhead light. Scott was the best.
"Fine." The absolute best. "I'll see you in the morning."
Stiles watched as the shadows cast by Derek's body shifted and deduced that he was moving toward the window, ready to cast himself into the night sky. He was halted by Scott, however.
"Wait, where are you going?"
Silence was the only response offered and Stiles sighed. He had a feeling about where this was going.
Scott continued, "Look, Derek, Stiles has had a shitty couple of days, alright? He was kidnapped and then the girl of his dreams ignored him, again, for a raging douchenozzle."
"Thanks, bro."
"No problem, dude." Scott turned back to Derek, "When I first got the bite, you said that we were like brothers because of it. And I didn't believe you, but then you helped me and saved my life from Allison's mom and, even though you didn't trust me with the whole Gerard thing, I think you still think that."
More silence. Maybe Stiles didn't know how this was going to play out after all.
"Well, Stiles is my brother from another mother."
Stiles could practically hear Derek rolling his eyes, but he appreciated the sentiment all the same, "Thanks, man."
"No problem, dude." Scott was smiling; Stiles could hear it in his voice. "So, if you and I are brothers and Stiles and I are brothers, then all of us are brothers—"
"So glad to hear that you finally got the communicative property of algebra down, Scott."
"—and brothers watch out for each other when a girl dumps of us—"
"Is this your politically correct way of saying 'Bros before hos', dude? Because Lydia is not a ho. Has questionable taste in men? Yes."
"—and the way of doing that is to get that bro drunk!" Stiles sat up to see Scott proudly pull out a bottle of Jack Daniels out of his bag.
"Dude!"
"Do the two of you even listen to each other?" Derek's face tinged with bewilderment again.
"Yup," they replied in unison.
Derek seemed to suddenly register the alcohol because he did a complete one-eighty and growled, "I just told you that a pack of Alpha werewolves are here for our blood and you choose to put yourselves out of commission by drinking? Are you brain damaged?"
Stiles had to admire the way that only Derek could pose a question and imply the answer in the same breath.
"You know we can't get drunk. We'll be fine."
Stiles rolled his eyes, "And as much fun as it would be to make a complete ass out of myself in front of not one, but two werewolves, I have a better idea of what we can do instead."
"I thought werewolves didn't exist, Stiles," Derek's tone was mocking, betraying the otherwise stoic expression on his face.
"On second thought, Derek doesn't have to come."
The bowling alley was pretty crowded for a Tuesday night at nine o'clock, but Stiles attributed that to the fact that it was League Night. Despite his misgivings, Derek was present, along with Isaac, who Scott insisted had to be invited.
The four made an odd group sitting uncomfortably in plastic bucket seats as they tied their rented bowling shoes, but Stiles reveled in the sight of Derek and Isaac doing something as ordinary as wearing bowling shoes.
Scott entered their names into the computer and thus determined the bowling order, starting with Isaac and leaving Stiles for last.
It was quickly made apparent that Isaac did not have any skills at bowling, earning himself a gutter ball right off the proverbial bat. He approached that disappointment as he did most others in the recent past: badly and full of anger.
"This is stupid. Whose idea was this anyway?" Isaac's glare leveled at Stiles informed everyone that he did in fact know whose idea it was.
Scott and Derek were not much better. Scott at least managed to knock down a couple of pins, which was good for him, really. Derek was surprisingly average at it, possessing no extraordinary talent that Stiles had come to assume he had in spades for everything that was not social interaction.
Which is why Stiles got up for his turn with the biggest shit-eating grin he could possibly manage without breaking his face. Stillinski men had certain, very specific skill sets at which they absolutely reigned at. Sarcasm, detective work, and hugging were at the top of the list. Also on that list was bowling. Stiles was a swell bowler.
He picked up his customary twelve pounder and prepared himself for the shot. Twisting and contorting himself in at least ten different positions as he approached the boundary line, Stiles achieved his "Perfect Cast", a dance that allowed him—nay, guaranteed Stiles a strike, no problem.
The ball bounced, like it always did with him and never could with any other human being, and made its way down the slip and slide that was the lane, before crashing perfectly into the ten pins, knocking them all down.
"OH YEAH!" Never let it be said that Stiles was an obnoxious winner. He preferred the term 'exuberant', which he didn't think his bowling mates would grant him, considering their faces as he moonwalked his way back to his seat in victory.
"What the hell was that?" Isaac breathed in total wonderment.
Scott sucked on his soda through a straw as loudly as possible, "Stiles is kind of the king of bowling. It's his thing."
"I think Isaac was referring to the way you almost broke the floor, actually. How the hell did you get that ball to bounce so high?" Derek asked.
Stiles shrugged it off, smug-faced and gloating, "It's a gift."
So the game continued for the next hour. Scott and Isaac continued to suck royally, but seemed to be having a good time, and Derek slowly improved to getting spares every once in a while. No one was even close to beating Stiles, however, whose score was twice that of their combined one.
And if you think that Isaac and Derek eventually stopped flinching every time Stiles did his Perfect Cast and waved the bowling ball every which way before bouncing it down the lane, well then, you'd be wrong. Scott sat, unperturbed and used to it, and drank his Coke, eating a mountain of curly fries.
It was a fairly successful bro night, really. Until they showed up.
Right as Stiles got up to high-five Derek in congratulations on his strike and bowl his last frame, he caught the green eyes of a particular strawberry-blonde walking into the bowling alley. Only to be followed by the preppy form of a former rage lizard.
Lydia waved at him, lower lip caught in between her perfect white teeth. It was the closest to bashful she was ever going to get and that fact alone led Stiles to raise one hand in a parody of a wave back. Jackson, who had just noticed their group, nodded at them in acknowledgement before turning to the shoe rental worker.
Stiles' mouth was dry and he guessed that his face wasn't doing so hot when even Derek sent him a look of concern.
"We can go, dude." Scott put down his soda and stood up to clap a hand on each of Stiles' shoulders in support.
Stiles shrugged it off with a dry cough that in some universe might have been a believable laugh, but certainly not this one. "Its cool, bro. Besides, I need to make my victory complete."
With a half-grin, Stiles picked up his ball and went to deliver his last Perfect Cast of the night. But fate had other plans because, as Stiles reached his momentum peak as went to throw the ball, he miscalculated the amount of steps he took. He hunched his body in half to prevent himself from throwing his weight down the lane along with the ball and launched the ball out of his hand. Unfortunately for him, the ball reached a height that it never before had that time and with Stiles' body bent in half, that height was equivalent to the one that his face was currently at.
For the more physically and mathematically inclined people in the audience, that meant that Stiles' face and the bowling ball were occupying the same point in time and space. For the less physically and mathematically inclined, that meant that the bowling ball smashed into Stiles' nose.
Stiles made noises that were probably not human and most definitely those of pain. He clutched at his face and his blood flowed over his fingers, gushing red, angry, and strong.
"Oh my GOD! Are you okay?!" Scott yelled as he ran over to him, Derek and Isaac at his heels.
Stiles was only breathing through his mouth now, so he chose not to waste precious breath on answering that question.
"Only you, Stiles. Only you." Derek muttered as he led Stiles by the elbow to the bathroom.
Thankfully (or maybe, heartbreakingly), Isaac had a lot of experience with broken noses and was able to set Stiles' nose without a trip to the hospital. It was painful, but Stiles chose to hear his whimpers and screams as manly declarations of weakness leaving his body—Finstock would be proud.
That is how four of the most unlikely guys in the history of the world ended up sitting in a booth at a 24-hour diner, drinking milkshakes and processing the night.
"Seriously, dude, best bro night ever!"
Stiles ignored his best friend in favor of making fun of the big, bad Alpha. "Vanilla? Really? How freaking boring."
Derek glared over his straw before finishing his pull of the milkshake and smirking, "Sometimes boring is fine, Stiles. Boring doesn't lead to bowling balls in the face."
"Word," Isaac agreed while sipping at his chocolate shake.
"Shut up."
Scott laughed, "You got more hurt doing normal things than you did at any of the other stuff that happened in the past two days!"
"Shut. Up." Stiles drowned his sorrows in his strawberry milkshake, wishing belatedly for the whiskey Scott brought over earlier.
"If you want, bowling doesn't have to exist either." Derek's face was just a smear of smugness and Stiles would have thrown a bowling ball at it if he had one lying around.
"Best bro night ever."