Stiles' ride home was less gut-wrenchingly terrifying than the ride there, but still had him praising the Lord for the existence of solid ground by the end of it, when Stiles was left clutching at the overgrown bush in the front garden.
"Do you live alone?" Derek asked out of the blue, turning the engine off and sitting there.
"Uh, no? I mean – pa lives with me, but he's the Sheriff and so he has a lot of work to do, so he's usually at the station or down the clink. He even sleeps there sometimes, too. I try to get some meals to him but he's stubborn and I don't always have time." Stiles rambled, and kicked a pebble at his feet.
"Huh." Derek watched the stone skip over the pavement. Stiles had a feeling that Derek was disinterested, and that he was a complete square. It was an upsetting thought.
"Uh, do you...want to come in or something?" Stiles asked and gestured to the door with a flick of his thumb.
"You get lonely?" Derek asked, and smoothed the sides of his hair against his head with his palms.
"Uuhm, sometimes?" Stiles said, unsure, because this was kind of odd, actually, and why was Derek still here? "Why?"
Derek sat on his bike and stared at the pebble where it rested in the crack between two paving slabs. "No reason, really." Derek gave a short smile (well, more of a twitch at both corners of his mouth), and started the engine back up again. He nodded to the helmet in Stiles' hands. "Make sure you have that tomorrow morning. And make sure you're awake."
"Do you... I mean, yeah, sure, see you later, alligator." Stiles smiled and waved lazily as Derek began to ride up to the end of the street, and then zoomed back down to the main road in a flurry of leather, jeans, and hair grease. Stiles let his arm drop to his side and slap against his thigh before he turned and went to the front door. He had been going to ask if Derek gets lonely, but he was glad he had stopped before he had completed the question. Derek had a job, a bike, cool hair – he was a cat, and cats have friends. And even if he didn't Stiles shouldn't ask. He was trying to avoid creating anything negative between them, not purposefully create it. Especially when Derek was responsible for getting him to and from school. Especially on a motorbike. Especially when his car was in the garage.
The next morning, however (and thankfully Stiles was awake this morning because yeah, being late twice is not a good way to create a good bond with someone), Derek decided that Stiles was not going to have an easy time of it, and would have to ask the question whether he liked it or not.
Stiles was jamming that helmet on his head again, a tub of grease in his bag today to fix his hair after the ride, when Derek all but commanded Stiles to ask it. "That question you were going to ask yesterday before I left," He said, smoke streaming form his mouth and nostrils, "what was it?"
"What question?" Stiles asked, and it must have been unconvincing because Derek gave him a look that was intimidating and doubtful and a whole number of other things in one.
Stiles hesitated. Then, "I was going to ask if you get lonely. Too. If you also..." At this point he decided that staring at his fingers knotting together was the best survival tactic.
Derek crushed the cigarette beneath the heel of his boot. "Sometimes." He said, and was he mocking Stiles or being honest or what?
They stared at each other, assessing, for a long moment before Derek cockily jutted his jaw. "Let's go." He said, and yeah, that must mean that Derek did get lonely sometimes. There was something both comforting and horribly worrying about that. Who could be so cool and lonely at the same time.
Stiles climbed onto the back of the bike, the seat becoming more familiar each time he mounted it, and immediately wrapped himself around Derek for safety before they were off, arriving at the school to the same crowd as yesterday and to slightly less interested looks. Scott was waiting. Well, he was kissing Allison. But they were doing it outside, which meant that Stiles' arrival was accounted for at least in part.
"What time today?" Derek asked as Stiles slid himself off of the seat.
"Huh, oh, three." Stiles brushed himself down. Lydia wasn't to be seen today. A great shame.
"It's a date." Derek smirked, and revved out of the parking lot.
It took the school another day before it took any action.
Stiles was sitting in his History class on Wednesday when there was a knock at the door of the classroom and a student receptionist scampered into the room and to the teacher, Mrs Horton. They passed a slip of blue paper to her. The class, which had been bent over text books copying down notes on the American Civil War, watched as the wrinkly old woman – infamous for her grumbling over the length of girl's skirts and sleeves – pinched her spectacles to the tip of his drooping nose and squinted at the letter.
"Mr Stilinski," She finally said in a watery voice, "is to go to the Principals office immediately." She peered at him, seated in the middle of the class, and raised an eyebrow expectantly.
Something was stuttering inside Stiles' chest and he sure as hell hopes it wasn't his heart. He couldn't see why he was getting called to Principal Argent's office. To face Argent was a terrifying prospect. He was a tense old man with a balding head and beady eyes, and it was rumoured around school that he once worked in the circus as a weight-lifter. His astoundingly tight grip almost confirmed that. If you weren't afraid of his appearance and strength then you had to be afraid of his personality, and his word-weaving. Stiles himself feared both. He hurriedly shoved his books and pencil into his bag. He didn't see how Scott could risk going steady with Argent's granddaughter. He must treat her really right.
"Those are to be copied up in ink, Mr Stilinski. No exceptions." Mr Horton said as she handed him the paper and watched as he nervously followed the receptionist out into the corridor. She was a gaunt girl in his year named – what was it again? - Erica Reyes. Stiles kept his eyes on the back of her head, covered in a frizzy mane of blonde hair that was dropping out of its curls. She was a taboo figure in the school for the mere reason that she was epileptic, and that her looks didn't make up for it in the eyes of three hundred or so teenagers. As it was, Stiles barely noticed her, and felt awkward just following her to the principal's office, even though he considered himself a rather open-minded guy.
They shuffled together down a staircase, through large swinging doors, and into the reception area. Erica scurried back to her small desk. The principal's office door was unmissable and dark against the white wall. Stiles approached it cautiously with the blue slip crumpled in his hand. He softly knocked on the wood of the door twice, wetting his lips and trying to keep his nerves from leaping into his throat.
"Enter."
Stiles pushed the door open a crack, and peered in to see the balding head of Principal Argent bent down over paper, a fountain pen in hand scribbling his signature on a dotted red line. Stiles slipped through the door, got his bag caught in the gap, and eventually managed to tug himself out and into the room with a loud scuffing sound and a less-than-gentle shutting of the door. Argent breathed hard and heavy through his nose.
"Sit." He motioned vaguely to the chair parked in front of the desk. The leather squeaked horribly as Stiles obeyed the order, and slid back. Argent carefully finished signing his papers before putting his pen in a holder, folding his hands, and looking squarely at Stiles, his jaw clenched and strong and his old, wrinkly eyes cold and hard.
"Mr Stilinski..." He said, and Stiles swallowed, tugging nervously at the leg of his slacks so they weren't uncomfortably bunched. "Russian?" It was an oft asked question, now.
"My gr-" Stiles paused to clear his throat as his voice broke and squeaked, "My grandfather was, but he left Russia around the revolution because uh, because he didn't want to be a Red."
Argent nodded sagely. "Good on him." He finally said, and then stood up out of his seat and began to pace around his desk. "I suppose you know why you're here, Stilinski."
Stiles decided that right now the best thing he could possibly do was keep his mouth shut. Argent was leaving his line of sight, and something about craning his neck to follow him seemed foolish. In truth, he had no firm idea of why he was there. He was just hoping it wasn't something bad.
"It's a strange time, nowadays. You teenagers rocking and rolling and...existing." Argent was behind him now, and his footsteps stopped. The hairs on the back of Stiles' neck prickled, and he was hyper-aware that there was a presence he couldn't see. A heavy, strong hand clapped onto his shoulder and Stiles jumped, staring at it from the corner of his eyes like it were some great big spider sitting there. Argent's blunt fingers pressed hard enough to bruise into the soft flesh beneath his shoulder bone. "I suppose that as the Sheriff's son you know about the recent surge in crime by your lot."
"Uh," Stiles started. Strictly speaking he wasn't meant to know half of what he did, but the only crimes committed by high school kids were loitering and heckling as far as he knew. He drew a blank on how to respond.
"And that's why it surprised me, Stilinski, that you should be one to advocate this type of behaviour." The momentary relief Stiles had felt at not having to reply was swept away by a deeply chilling wind. He froze, not even relaxing as Argent's hand slithered off his shoulder and the Principal came back into view, standing behind his desk.
"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean, sir." Stiles all but whispered.
"Transport." Argent barked, eyes wide. Dread buzzed in Stiles' gut like angry wasps. "It is a clearly stated school rules that motorcycles," Argent spat out the word like it had offended him personally, "are not permitted on the premises."
Scott's words swam in his head. 'You know he was kicked out of the school for vandalism and-and disruption and owning that bike, right?' The wasps dived into a great black hole that had appeared around his naval. Stiles gazed unblinkingly at Principal Argent's face, who stared back with wide eyes.
There was a long pause. The school bell rang outside, muffled by the door.
"Do you have anything to say for yourself?" Argent finally asked, recomposing his face into something much more dignified and a lot less terrifying.
"It won't happen again sir." Stiles blurted, and almost crossed his fingers as he wished to be let off.
"Make sure it doesn't." Argent muttered quietly. There were students rushing past the doors now. "Go."
Stiles scarpered to his feet, hand snatching at the straps of his bag as he went, and sidled quickly out of the room, tripping over his own feet as he tugged the door open, and let it close behind him. He was buffeted by a group of guys as they walked past, Jackson in the lead. After a second of standing lamely in the middle of the corridor something snapped in Stiles' mind and he hurried off after Jackson and his cronies for their gym class.
When the day is over, Stiles barely had a moment to shout a garbled excuse at Scott before he was speeding out of the school and to the edge of the grounds to flag down Derek before he went into the car park and got them both into more trouble that Stiles wanted or needed. He was still catching his breath when the roar of an engine cut through the common hubbub of the end of school. Stiles waved his arms in the air madly as Derek speeded past, swerved to not go into the car park, and braked hard on the road. A car honked its horn loudly. Stiles felt relieved and sprinted, exhausted, to Derek's side. There was a rank smell of burning rubber.
When he was level he bent over, hands on his knees, and tried to catch his breath. The stitch in his side he had developed during gym class was back and just as painful as it had been. He waved a hand, trying to gesture that he would explain in a moment. As he did so, he caught a look at Derek's face. It was livid. Stiles stopped panting at once.
"Get on."
Stiles didn't need telling twice. He barely managed to slam his helmet on and wrap his arms securely around Derek's torso before they were speeding, turning, and then whizzing at breakneck speed down the road. They missed the turn they would usually make for Stiles' house.
He's going to kill me. Stiles thought, terrified. He's going to take me into the woods and kill me.
They drove for what must have been another minute, turned, and Stiles saw it. The edge of the wood, looming in front of them. They would never find his body. But they were slowing fast as they drove down the street, and then at the last minute they turned to the right, and Derek stopped in front of a familiar building. The shell of a car sat on bricks. A pick up truck was parked clunkily by the road. Peeling blue paint on a sign sitting over their heads read 'Deaton's Car Doctor's'. Stiles wasn't going to die.
I've been busy.
