CHAPTER 1: Can Paula Abdul Lose Her Head?
CHAPTER 1: Can Paula Abdul Lose Her Head?
tinyurl/l8k76dr - You may find the prologue here (add .com after the tinyurl)
Stiles hates Twilight. He hates the thoughtless, unmeditated vandalism of his favourite monster. He hates the vacillating, hyperventilating, useless girl who constantly pouts at her own uselessness. He hates the creepy bedside stalking of. . . what was his name again? Vladimir? Maximilian? . . . Englebert?
Never mind.
Despite his general contempt for the movies, Stiles discovered that he rather liked the hunky werewolf; or at least, he liked him much more than that creepy bedstalker Englebert. Then he realized that he couldn't quite recall his name either, so he considered it as a testament to his bisexuality when he substituted it with the appellation: "O he of the perfect abs".
Being a hunky werewolf, however, does not make bedside stalking any less creepy.
"Oh my God, what the hell is wrong with you?" Stiles snapped, gathering up his bedclothes in a frantic attempt to cover his bare chest; an effort not lost in futility, the darkness an inadequate apparel from those irksome red eyes; some of their many ridiculous supernatural abilities including night vision, glowing, and giving innocent sleepers heart attacks.
The silhouette flinched, blanching at his abrupt and untimely discovery, the only indication of his agitation the mixture of guilt and surprise which flashed briefly through his dilated eyes; an indication which would have gone fortuitously unnoticed if it weren't for the fact that they were glowing like a pair of embarrassed, obese fireflies.
Fairness, like so many other abstractions, is an ideal couched only in experience, and one may argue that the alpha's life is enshrouded by the very definition of tragic injustice. Even so, the alpha could not help but lament the unfairness of it all when he was caught out in just two minutes flat, when Edward got away with doing this for hours.
It is important to note that Derek only watched Twilight because his sister begged him to, and obviously, he did not like it. No really, he didn't.
. . .Oh, just believe him, won't you?
Caught red-handed and red-eyed, Derek could not, for the life of him, plausibly navigate a way out of this shipwreck. He could, however, see the surprise in Stiles's eyes slowly develop into what one could only describe as disgust, a transformation every bit as horrifying as the maelstrom's growing arms, dragging Derek down into a spiraling abyss of anguish and despair.
There's an almost audible "ding" when the imaginary light house flared into life. Ahah.
"It's time for you to get up." Derek's voice was archly condescending, brittle in its control.
Stiles flicked his gaze to his clock, the numbers floating a ghostly green light in the void, then turned back to meet the glowing red eyes and the dark blob (that was presumably Derek's head) to gawk in utter disbelief.
"It's three in the morning."
"You said that you were going to undertake the mission today. It is today."
"It's three in the morning."
"I know what time it—"
"It's three . . . in the morning." Stiles's voice was starting to acquire a definite edge.
Derek's steely tone began to falter, the imaginary lighthouse now spluttering pathetically a million miles away, abandoning the ship's captain to gaze down the maelstrom's gaping maw in hopeless desolation; he really didn't think this through. "Yes, but the early b—"
"See that bat?" Stiles cut him off with icy efficiency, pointing coolly at the wooden club he keeps propped up against the side of his bed. "Now see your brain?" Red eyes rolled briefly upwards before their confused owner conceded to the anatomical impossibility. "If you don't get your creepy ass out right now," Stiles enunciated each word slowly, with excruciating clarity, "I am going to use that bat to very carefully bash out your brains."
Derek cringed at the venom in Stile's voice. "But—"
"Out! Now!"
There was a scuffling noise as his window is hurriedly flung open, a sound followed soon after by the unpleasant cold night air buffeting his face. Stiles heaved a sigh of relief when it finally slammed shut, before allowing his head to sink back into the much craved softness of his pillow.
Yawning, Stiles blearily wondered how he got into bed in the first place; failing to do so, he gave up with a lazy shrug of his shoulders, then drifted away contentedly into his pillow; blissfully oblivious to the mournful sound of a certain dejected sourwolf slamming his car door shut.
Derek scowled into the night.
Or morning. Whatever. It didn't seem to matter to short-fused lazybones idiot Stiles either way.
~(T-T)~
~(T-T)~
The tableau vivant is a form of art, pervasively popular before the advent of television, where an actor or a group of actors freeze shock still in mimicry of a photograph. The curiosity of tableaux lies in the incongruous contrast betwixt the confrontational experience presented by live actors and the habitual appropriation and perusal of lifeless photographic images. A most impressive modernist development in the arts, the tableau vivant fails to capture what makes photography excel, but excels in what photography fails to capture.
Stiles's room is a tableau vivant par excellence.
See the opened bag of Cheetos lounging upon his desk, its cheesy inhabitants spread everywhere in the likeness of a regurgitating supermodel. Marvel at the discarded shirts and slacks strewn across the floor, in the vivid form of many exotic, if rather deadly flowers in full bloom, warring for dominance over the precious jungle understory. Gasp in amazement as the first golden rays of sun pierce, with considerable effort, though the thick canopy of pristine dust so affectionately coating his windows, the profound respect towards nature having always stilled hand from reaching washcloth.
Cry tears of mirth and awe when you behold the creature lying frozen in its bed, its maw gaping open in a silent snore, on its edge a single trickle of drool shining as imperiously and stoically immovable as the Northern star. The creature is a work of art, the lack of any visible motion a testament to its impeccable depiction of stagnant stasis, its apparent flaccid lifelessness culminating gracefully in the form of statuesque pulchritude, elegance and grandeur.
(Perhaps donning the term "tableau vivant" is a bit of a misnomer, its literal translation being "living picture".)
Alas, that most dastardly of all human inventions, that philistine, that scoundrel, that infernal alarm clock shares no such appreciation for transcendent art.
Its screeching wail tears across the room, shattering the spell, and yet the cowardly, mechanical plebeian bastard is nowhere to be seen under the unassuming camouflage of the creature's dirty underwear.
The creature does not so much as flicker.
Sing! Let us all rejoice and sing paeans of the creature's incorruptible devotion to the pictorial arts, its professional drive of unwavering immaculacy and precision, its cultured, philosophical appreciation of surreal laziness!
"Stiles, get up." Mr. Stilinski peered through the half-opened door, his arm reaching over to flick the lights on, causing the creature to growl and burrow deeper into its nest. "It's seven already."
The creature did not budge. It also thought: it's Saturday, so what?
"I made breakfast."
The creature stirred. Then stilled, hunger a laughable foe against his cultured and philosophical appreciation of surreal laziness.
"There's bacon."
Well, nothing beats bacon.
\(^.^)/
\(^.^)/
"Maybe your police education was a little bit lacking in the home ec department, Dad, but FYI, bacon doesn't really go with milk." Stiles glared at the sheriff over a bowl of lucky charms, his wooden spoon absently swirling little whirlpools in the rapidly discolouring milk.
"If I need to eat healthy, you eat healthy too." Mr. Stilinski shrugged unapologetically, rinsing off his own bowl.
Stiles angrily shoveled a spoonful of charms into his mouth, his cheeks puffing out with cereal as he spluttered, "Oh, you're so smug. See if I'll fall for it again the next time the sheriff cries bacon."
Mr. Stilinski shot Stiles a skeptical look. "Do you really want to risk it?"
Sometimes Stiles wished that fathers came with return policies.
"Anyway, I'm going to work," Mr. Stilinski grunted as he reached for his coat. "I won't be home till dinner, so just stay out of trouble, okay? And I don't want to catch you wandering around the woods or kidnapping people again. I just don't think that they'd care to reinstate the same sheriff twice."
Stiles stared intently at a slowly sinking marshmallow, desperately trying to ignore the familiar twinge of guilt squirming in his chest.
The sheriff was about to leave when he turns around hesitantly. "And Stiles?"
Stiles looked up, his eyes quizzical.
"I love you."
"Oh my God. DAD!"
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." The sheriff raised his palms before his chest in surrender. "Just . . . don't worry about what happened in the past, alright?"
For a brief, irrational moment, Stiles wondered if wearing his breakfast over his head like a hat would make the situation any less awkward.
"Look, I'm going right now. Remember, stay out of trouble," the sheriff calls before the front door slams shut.
Having read somewhere that milk can be used to wash wounds, Stiles fervently gulped down the sugary slosh in the wild hopes that it will wash away the guilt. As he swallowed the last mouthful, he could feel a curious sensation building up in his chest. Is it actually working? This is unrea-
*burp*
Fanning away at the air, Stiles plonked the bowl into the sink, sighing contentedly as the warm water rushed over his hands, his eyes roaming aimlessly out of the window, not really taking in the view. The sun was hidden behind the clouds, its characteristic location in Beacon Hills, splashing the sleepy town in a deep blue pall. A yawn. His wandering eyes settled lazily on the sycamore in their backyard, its branches trembling under the weight of two incessantly chirping magpies, the pair hopping up and down along the wooden length to a cascade of golden leaves and spiralling seeds; landing haphazardly onto the roof of a black Chevy Camaro.
Drying his hands on the sides of his shirt, Stiles headed into the bathroom and squeezed some Crest onto his toothbrush. His dad's always been on his case for walking whilst brushing his teeth, but honestly, Stiles just doesn't see the harm. He grabbed a magazine with his free hand and plopped himself down before the counter, diligently brushing away as he read a very convincing article about how Christina Aguilera is secretly a Korean Spy and that Gangnam Style was ripped off an alien mating ritual.
Wha—
Stiles exploded, spraying the contents of his mouth like a peppergun, blanketing every reachable surface under a layer of frothy spittle and toothpaste. Notable victims include the coffeemaker, the waffle maker, the juice maker, and the now tragically headless Paula Abdul. Perhaps the real tragedy lay in the fact that her loss isn't really all that noticeable.
Stiles dashed to the kitchen window and sure enough, the Camaro was still out there on the street, casually lounging underneath their sycamore tree.
A thousand different thoughts and emotions raced through Stiles's mind like whizzing torpedoes. The first explosion was surprise and recollection, the second was the embarrassment of having been carried all the way home, fast asleep in the alpha's arms. The third impact was the splintering irritation at said alpha's nighttime visitation. The fourth, and last torpedo was a staggering jolt, a jolt of utter disbelief which crept to the back of his throat, clenching tightly and sealing it shut.
What. The. Hell.
Wiping away the froth on his face with the back of his sleeve, Stiles threw open his backdoor, leaving the mess unattended and the toothpaste caking around Paula's existentially disputable head. It didn't take him 5 seconds before he was staring into his own reflection banging furiously on the driver's window.
Stiles turned as Derek emerged from behind the passenger door, bleary-eyed from sleep and bewilderment.
"What's going o—"
Stiles didn't wait for him to finish. "What the hell are you doing outside my house? What are you trying to pull? Wha— . . .were you sleeping? Oh my God, were you here all night?" Stiles flailed and gestured so much that he must have been an octopus in his previous life.
"Stiles, slow down. I can't hear you over all the talking."
"What. Are. You. Doing. Outside. My. House?" Stiles gritted through his teeth.
Derek scowled. "I came to pick you up. You seemed to be pretty into the idea last night."
"Then why do you look like you just woke up? Oh don't tell me that you didn't, because I know that look, I see it in the mirror every morning." Stiles retorted.
"I fell asleep waiting. Your dad took longer than usu—" Derek bit his wayward tongue, cursing inwardly.
"Than usual? You have got to be kidding me, you're Englebert?"
"What?"
Stiles ignored him, slapping a palm to his forehead as he tilted his head skywards. "Then this means that I'm useless girl. This has got to be a joke; or a really bad dream. No, it's a nightmare. I'm going to pinch myself really hard, and then I'm going wake up." Stiles grabbed a patch of skin underneath his elbow, then twisted.
"Ow."
Derek was still there, staring at Stiles in confusion, as solid and real as the pain throbbing through his arm.
"I have no idea what you're talking about." said Derek. "And who's Englebert?"
"Never mind Englebert! You're stalking me. Or us! Is this some kind of werewolf thing? Do we look like prey? Oh I swear, if you lay a finger on my d—"
"Stiles," said Derek, coolly cutting across Stiles's incessant babbling. "I bear no special interest in your father. I am aware of the time he goes to work because, as you obviously don't care to remember, I spent a couple of nights in his jail."
Some of the tension drained from Stiles's face. "Then why were you in the passenger seat? Did you doze off on the steering wheel and then, I don't know, sleepwolf out and leap into the backseat because you thought you smelled bacon?"
Derek fixes Stiles with a blank stare.
"I just really want some bacon right now, okay?"
Blankness.
"Well? Explain!"
"First off, Stiles, pipe down. The neighbours are beginning to stare." Sure enough, Mr. Jenkins from across the street was out on his lawn, the limply-held garden hose forming a puddle of mud around his feet. Derek inspected his nails with meticulous attention. "There is nothing to explain. I drove here this morning, waited, took a short nap in the back of my car and overslept."
Stiles took a deep breath, struggling to regain his composure. It was only when he inhaled another waft of that familiar musk that he realizes how ridiculously close Derek was. Stiles took a step back.
"I. . . I've got to go, gotta clean something up," Stiles muttered, shutting his eyes as he continued wistfully, "and then I'm going to take a long, steamy hot shower."
Stiles turned to leave, jumping as a strong hand rests on his shoulder.
"I'll help."
Stiles stared at Derek's intent face in pure, unadulterated horror.
Why's h—
Derek paled as he realized how the teen may have misconstrued his offer.
"No! I meant that I wanted to clean with you. Wha—No!" Derek flustered as the look on Stiles's face curdled. "That's not what I meant! I meant cleaning up the mess, with you. Not cleaning y—"
"Stay. Here. I'll be back in half an hour."
Derek hung his head like a defeated puppy; this was not his week.
"Okay."
\(T.T)/
\(T.T)/
The trip to 5th Street was an uncomfortable one. Stiles stared out of the window, resolutely away from Derek; the colourful blur of cars flying past his unseeing vision was doing nothing to lessen the guilt gnawing away relentlessly at his insides. What would his dad say if he discovered what his son was about to do, so flippantly jeopardizing his already teetering career, when the lingering echoes of the Jackson debacle have yet to fade? That look of disappointment from his dad, that look of having given up had ground his heart to a fine dust, and Stiles feared that their relationship may not survive yet another blow.
"So. . . how's school?" said Derek awkwardly.
Stiles jerked out of his reverie to stare incredulously at the man next to him.
"What are you, a soccer mom?"
"I just want to have a conversation."
Stiles rolled his eyes. "You want to chit-chat? I'm sorry, but you just don't strike me as the chatty kind, you know? And you can't really blame me because anything that comes out of that mouth of yours that isn't an incomprehensible growl is some trite epithet about how much you want to rip out my throat. Maybe you don't know this, but we humans generally don't sit around gossiping about our private lives or the latest fish prices with the people who want to murder them. Also, FYI, it's ridiculous th—"
"Good," said Derek with a grin, his eyes not leaving the road.
Stiles shot him a glare. "What?"
"Just keep talking. It's weird when you're quiet."
Stiles didn't really know what to say to that. Fortunately, he didn't have to, the car slowing to a halt as Derek pulled it to the side of the road.
"The alpha pack is just around that bend over there," Derek said, gesturing to a corner about fifty yards down the pavement. "The pl—"
"Is called Beacon Hotel." Stiles interrupted irritably. "I'm not an idiot. I live here."
"Just don't want you to get lost again."
Stiles glared at the alpha, who, for a former felon, had a most unsettlingly innocent smile.
"Whatever. It's not like I'm ever actually in danger of getting lost anyway, because if you haven't noticed, I have a creepy stalker." Stiles turned to punctuate that last word with a slam of the door.
"Stiles, wait!'
Stiles rolled his eyes, leaning on the door for support. "What now?"
A pause.
"I—Just. . . be careful." Derek said at last, a strange look twisting his face.
"I'm always careful," Stiles grinned.
The door slammed shut. And all was silent.
Derek straightened, his arms falling loosely to his sides; then, very, very carefully, he banged his head into the steering wheel.
~TBC~
~TBC~
1) So my 11 lovely followers (and my favourite couple of favouriters) may have noticed the change in tense. My sincerest apologies, but I've realized that this comes far more naturally to me. I shall have to recondition the first chapter in the future.
2) I do not actively think of ways to torture Derek. It just happens.
3) I do not hate Paula or Twilight! It's Stiles. Flame him!
4) Perhaps I've come on a bit too strong in the last chapter, because I ultimately didn't get a single review; so I'm changing tactics.
5) People who follow me are awesome. People who favourite are my favourites. Also, REVIEW OR DIE. . . *please?*