I didn't expect to have another chapter done so soon, but I started writing and kind of couldn't stop with this one. Hope you enjoy!
darkeyesgirl: thanks for the review! Don't worry, you'll get an explanation for Stiles' strange behaviour soon!
Step Twenty: T is for Taunting
Derek parks his car a few stores down from Deaton's, spying three figures setting up chairs on the sidewalk outside the coffee shop. He turns the engine off and pulls the key from the ignition, fiddling with the keychain absently as he frowns out of his window at the figures. It's a nice day today with the heat of the sun tempered a little by the white, fluffy clouds, and to anyone else on the street it might just look like the three figures have decided they'd like to sit outside and enjoy the day's comfortable warmth - but Derek knows better. He knows the baristas are setting up for their next step.
He clears his throat and grits his teeth, lifting his hand to open the car door, but then pauses to consider the sleeve of his leather jacket covering his arm. He glances at the figures on the street, irritation bubbling in his chest already, and decides that the jacket might prove inconvenient. Once he's shrugged out of it and tossed it onto his passenger seat, he opens the door and steps out of his car, slamming the door shut behind him with probably more force than necessary.
As he draws closer to Deaton's, he identifies Stiles, Isaac, and Erica sitting in the chairs on the sidewalk - the young men are both wearing their aprons, but Erica is in a pair of ripped black jeans and a loose white t-shirt, suggesting she's doing this on her day off.
"Is there any point in asking whether you idiots have done the logical thing and decided not to piss off Jackson and Ethan today?" Derek asks flatly when he strides up to them, pulling his sunglasses off his face.
"Says the guy wearing the team colours," Erica retorts, smirking under her own sunglasses at him. "You sure you're not here to be our little cheerleader?"
Derek glances down when he hooks the leg of his glasses on the collar of his shirt - which he suddenly and horrifyingly realises is a short-sleeved Henley in a deep, rich maroon (he swears on his life- no, on his book store, that he absolutely did not consciously choose this shirt).
He maintains control of his expression and lifts his gaze back to Erica, ignoring Stiles looking out the corner of his eye at Derek's shirt. "There's nothing little about me," he says, and immediately - immediately - realises his mistake.
Erica's smirk crawls wider across her face into a wicked, delighted grin. "Nothing?" she challenges, her head cocking.
Derek crosses his arms and ignores Isaac's snort in front of him (and ignores Stiles' head turning slightly to run his gaze over Derek's crossed arms). There's only one way to save his dignity, at this point. He allows a smirk and cocks his head back at Erica. "Nothing."
Stiles coughs and leans his elbow on the arm of his chair, stretching his fingers across his mouth and jaw as his eyebrows shoot upwards, while Erica cackles happily and Isaac holds his fist out for Derek to bump (which he does, but only because it would be rude to leave the barista hanging, and sometimes Derek doesn't like to be rude, okay? Don't look at him like that).
Suddenly Stiles straightens up, lifting his hand from his face to wave it frantically in the air. "Hey, Allison! Allison!" he yells. Derek glances across the street to see the young woman pause mid-wipe of a table on the sidewalk outside of The Bunker. "Is Jackson in today? I have some interesting titbits I'd like to discuss with him!"
Allison pushes against the table to straighten up, her other hand coming to rest on her hip. "Seriously, Stiles?" she shouts back.
"What? I genuinely have some interesting facts that I'd honestly love to hear his thoughts on!"
Allison shakes her head and leans back over the table, one hand holding her hair out of her face while the other wipes the table down thoroughly.
"Hey, Allison!" Isaac calls out.
Derek glances down at Isaac in front of him, and then moves his gaze to Stiles when the barista turns to look at Isaac, too. Stiles catches Derek's eyes with an unimpressed expression, silently communicating his sincere disapproval of whatever this interaction is about to involve.
"You wanna go for dinner tonight?"
"What'd I tell you?" Stiles mutters, still holding Derek's gaze, and throws his hands into the air, palms-up, in an exasperated gesture. "Isaac, need I remind you that this is Step Twenty: T is for Taunting? Not F for Flirting. Cut it out."
"Just 'cause he's got the balls to flirt with who he likes," Erica retorts lowly, an eyebrow lifting over the rim of her sunglasses.
Stiles splutters and whirls around to look at her on his other side. "You shut your mouth, Erica. Shut it all the way. Shut it," he hisses. (And Derek's amusement hisses out of his body like a balloon letting out air.)
Derek decides he's had enough of the baristas' shenanigans and pushes into Deaton's, his eyes finding Scott at the till serving a couple, and a younger guy down the bottom end of the counter, his eyes snapping to Derek. His hair is short and light, sticking up at odd angles, and his eyes are a brilliant blue, currently blown wide with something that seems a little bit like fear as he stares at Derek.
Derek lifts his chin in greeting and wanders up to the end of the counter, resisting the impulse to look out the window and check on the baristas outside. He knows he's scowling.
"Um, hey, hi, Mr- sir," the young guy stumbles, eye twitching in a subtle wince even as he attempts a comfortable smile.
Derek quirks an eyebrow. "Mr sir?" he repeats.
The young guy's smile drops as he purses his lips, his forehead scrunching a little. "I didn't mean it," he says, his tone a little strained.
Derek latches onto the distraction. "You wanna try again?" he asks, cocking his head.
The barista's face hardens even more, and Derek has to bite back a smirk. "No, actually. I'm good."
"You're good?"
"Yeah."
"You wanna stick with Mr Sir?"
The young guy's jaw clenches aggressively, his upper lip twitching with the hint of a snarl. "Yeah, I do," he bites out. "What can I get you, Mr Sir?"
Derek's grin is probably leaning a little heavily on the shit-eating side of things, if he's honest with himself; but the kid got riled up so easily, it's hard not to be amused. He might also be just a little bit impressed by the kid's stubborn determination.
"Woah, hey, okay, Liam. It's okay, it's cool. Chill out, man," Scott's rushed assurances cut through the tension when he appears at Liam's side, placing a firm hand on the younger's shoulder and patting his back with his other hand. He smiles a little nervously, glancing up at Derek and then refocusing on his new colleague. "It's just Derek. He's a friend."
Liam blinks and glances up at Scott, his posture relaxing somewhat. Then he frowns, looks at Derek, then out the window at the three baristas, then at Derek again, and finally back to Scott. "This is Derek?" he asks quietly, as if that means anything.
Scott's eyebrows lift and his lips pout in a slightly caught-out expression, glancing out the window so quickly that Derek almost doesn't catch it. Then he clears his throat, schools his expression into something more casual, and nods. "Uh, yeah, this is Derek, our friend that we were telling you about. The regular," he says, patting Liam's back again while he steers him towards the other end of the counter. "Why don't you get started on his paninis, okay? You remember what they are?"
Liam's eyes brighten and the corner of his mouth curves up. "Uh, yeah. Yeah! I do," he replies, even bouncing a little on the balls of his feet before he hurries off to start making the food.
Scott watches him go, leaning his hands against the counter and exhaling quietly. Derek folds his arms across his chest, allowing a small, satisfied smile.
"What?" Scott asks when he catches Derek's expression.
"Told you you'd be good at this," Derek shrugs.
Scott breathes out a bitter chuckle. "I don't know, man. I mean, yeah, he turned out to not be intimidating and broody like you and Boyd.."
"But he's quick to get angry."
Scott nods, eyebrows lifting. "Yeah. Especially when he makes a mistake."
"You seem like you can calm him down, though," Derek points out.
"Maybe," Scott smiles, a little embarrassed. "What was that, anyway? A test?" he grins as he moves to start on the coffees.
Derek sees him take out two take-away cups and almost corrects him, but decides against it at the last minute. "Just getting a feel for him. He'll need to balance out a little to survive in this place with you idiots."
Scott laughs. "I'm starting to wonder if 'idiot' is just a pet name, in your language."
Derek quirks an eyebrow. "Pretty sure it's not."
Scott glances out the window again before he turns an almost-playful smile at Derek. "Alright, man."
A customer walks out of the shop behind Derek, swinging the door open and thereby allowing for Stiles' shout to leak into the building. "-not even that handsome! You just have a good jawline!"
Derek bites off a groan of sheer frustration, bracing his hands against the counter as his chin dips to his chest. "Idiot," he mutters.
Scott snickers quietly to himself, but Derek blinks and clenches his jaw, realising why Scott's so amused (but he's not going to react, say anything, even think anything, so he doesn't end up manifesting anything stupid).
"At least one of you has the sense to not get involved in this stupid step," Derek grumbles.
Scott pauses and looks over at Derek blankly. "Oh, no. I'm swapping with Isaac in ten minutes."
When Liam brings out Derek's paninis, eyeing him warily, Derek double-checks they're right before he gives the young barista a nod. "Thanks, kid."
Liam's expression loosens slightly and he looks over at Scott like a little puppy waiting to be reassured that he is, in fact, a good boy. Scott grins at his new colleague and Liam beams back at him. Derek rolls his eyes and bids them farewell, pushing out of the coffee shop.
"Hey, Ethan!" Isaac is shouting, slumped so low in his seat he must be getting a sore neck. "You look like the bastard child of Matt Damon and a boulder!"
Erica snorts and Stiles turns on Isaac with an expression of pure repulsion. "Dude, what the hell is up with your taunts? They're ridiculously bad. Like, seriously, just agonisingly terrible. What's-"
Isaac huffs out a sigh. "I dunno, man. My heart's just not in it," he shrugs, bored. "I'm gonna tap out."
Stiles watches him push up out of his chair with a betrayed expression. "What? Fine! Alright, fine. But send Scotty out, alright?"
Stiles catches Derek's eyes when he's turning back to The Bunker, but his mouth snaps shut and he quickly averts his gaze. Derek frowns at him, no closer to understanding why Stiles has been acting so weird since Derek said he didn't hate him. Does he want Derek to hate him? (Derek's stomach clenches when he wonders if Stiles hates him.)
He takes the coffees and paninis back to his car, slumping into the driver's seat and tossing the keys onto the passenger seat on top of his discarded jacket. He sits the order in his lap and stares down at it for a moment, trying to forget the knowing smirk Erica had sent him when she'd spotted the extra coffee and panini as he'd been leaving. His coffee cup squeaks a little when he pulls it out from the cardboard holder and he scowls at it like it's laughing at him, putting the holder down on the passenger seat, too. The extra panini joins it a moment later, and then Derek checks out the window that the baristas haven't noticed that he's still sitting in the parking space before he starts on his lunch.
Five minutes after he finished his own panini and busied himself fiddling with his car keys and scowling out of the window, Derek picks up the panini Scott had Liam make for Boyd and starts to eat it, too. He's not even hungry.
He consumes the coffee made for Boyd, too.
He's been sat here for about fifteen minutes, subtly monitoring the whole T is for Taunting situation, twirling his keychain around his finger and catching it in his palm repeatedly, and he's running out of excuses to stay any longer. But Boyd's words from a few days ago keep running through his head: "Man, you couldn't handle Allison, never mind the other assholes." It doesn't seem like the baristas are insulting Allison (even though she's literally Argent's child), but they're all-too-happy to insult the young men working in The Bunker - young men who have strong arms and mean smirks, who have already proven their ability to bring harm to the baristas (Stiles).
In the end, it's actually pretty efficient of Derek to be playing with his car keys - it means they get jammed into the ignition faster than the blink of an eye as soon as Derek sees Jackson burst out of The Bunker's door with Ethan on his heels. As safely and as quickly as he can, Derek revs his car up to a free space outside the coffee shop and jumps out, slamming the door noisily in the hopes that it'll grab the attention of the two young men nearly on Deaton's side of the street.
He doesn't have time for satisfaction when their heads snap towards him at the noise; he just strides over to Stiles, Scott, and Erica. "Get inside," he snaps quietly, glowering at them.
Stiles scoffs incredulously. "Don't be so dramatic, dude."
But he and Scott both get to their feet as Jackson and Ethan approach. Erica just continues to lounge in her chair, peering out over the top of her sunglasses at them.
"I've had enough of your shit, Stilinski," Jackson hisses.
Derek turns to face them, taking a step to place himself more between the two groups. His fists clench at his sides and he strives to morph his expression into something a little more calmly-enraged (because Jackson looks ready to pummel Stiles and the thought of that makes something red and twisted and loud blaze in Derek's chest).
"Dude, who are you?" Jackson snaps at him. "This has nothing to do with you."
"He's our friend and he's much bigger than you are!" Stiles blurts from behind Derek's shoulder, in a voice full of forced-bravado.
Derek's teeth bite into each other so hard he's surprised they don't crumble (and, seriously, Stiles? Now Derek's your friend? After so long ignoring him?). "Shut up, Stiles," Derek grinds out.
"Oh, so it is a fight you want?" Jackson asks, eyebrows jumping as he scoffs with a bitter laugh.
"Jackson, it's not worth a fight," Ethan mutters, leaning close to his boyfriend's side.
"Of course you want a fight," Jackson continues, shrugging Ethan away. "I mean, why else would you be constantly harassing us like this, right?"
"Why don't you go back inside and cool off?" Derek suggests, his words clipped, eyebrows pinched.
"What, so that he can start up his next ridiculous plan to provoke me?" Jackson scoffs, jutting his chin over Derek's shoulder at Stiles.
"Walk away, Jackson," Derek bites out. "Be the bigger person - it's much more satisfying."
Jackson smirks in a way that makes all of Derek's cells flare with tension. "I disagree."
"Jackson-" Ethan tries again.
"Just 'cause your dad's the Sheriff, doesn't mean you're safe," Jackson spits at Stiles. "Try me, asshole."
Derek has to blink the red out of his vision as he takes a menacing step towards Jackson, aware of Ethan tensing in his peripherals. "Listen, ignore him, play his game, I don't give a shit, alright? But if I see you go for him again - if I hear a whisper of a threat against him, or any of them - I'll break every bone in your fucking body. Got it?"
"You shouldn't have said that," Ethan smirks, and it's all the warning Derek gets before his face twists and his fist comes flying at Derek's nose.
Derek blocks the punch with his forearm, his free hand already curled into a solid fist that he throws back at Ethan, adrenaline jumping through his veins. He only feels a little guilty about the grim satisfaction that thuds in his chest when his knuckles crack against Ethan's cheek and the guy jerks to the side, stumbling.
"Hey!" Jackson barks, lunging for Derek.
Derek sidesteps the attack and gets a grip of the back of Jackson's shirt, yanking the barista back and shoving him away from the cluster of Deaton's baristas still stood behind him. Well, until Stiles lets out a warcry as he and Scott charge at Ethan, tackling him to the ground before he can come back at Derek.
"Stiles!" Derek shouts, because Scott seems to be pretty effective and capable in his attempt to restrain Ethan and keep him grounded, but Stiles is flailing like a fucking fish on dry land trying to get a hold of Ethan's free arm while avoiding his kicking foot, and Derek can just imagine having to explain to the guy's dad that he'd somehow managed to choke himself to death doing something completely unnecessary.
But Jackson is running at Derek again and he has to divert his attention away from the idiot who got him into this mess. Jackson's attacks are rapid and messy, enough that Derek can easily block them and push Jackson back a few steps with some swift, efficient moves of his own, but also enough to keep him busy and unavailable to help Stiles.
"Wait, Stiles, stop!" Scott shouts, and then grunts loudly.
Derek nearly growls when he throws a look over at the others, seeing Ethan breaking free of Stiles and Scott's grips as the former gapes at the latter's face, which is covered in blood from what looks to be a burst nose.
"Oh, shit-" Stiles yelps, his face twisting with distress and then fear as Ethan gets back to his feet and turns an enraged glare on Scott.
He's lifting his foot as if to kick Scott while he's down when Liam suddenly comes barreling out of nowhere, shouting loudly. The new kid launches himself onto Ethan's back, arms curling tightly around his neck and head, and Ethan stumbles a couple of steps before he falls to the ground with Liam still wrapped around him like a koala bear.
And then Derek's head snaps back as a fist slams into his mouth, feeling his tooth puncture his lip. He spits out a curse and blocks the punch Jackson throws immediately after, kicking out at the guy's knee to bring him down to the ground.
"Everybody stop!" Derek barks out, his rage making way for pure irritation. "This is fucking ridiculous, and it ends now."
To his surprise, most of them freeze and stare at him. Jackson is on his side at Derek's feet, panting, glaring up at him, Stiles' hands are on Scott's face as if he can plug Scott's nose with his fingers to stop the bleeding while Scott gapes at Derek, and Ethan is grunting as he struggles under Liam's weight, also glaring at Derek.
"Liam, get off of him," Derek grunts, lifting the back of his hand to wipe it across his lip and collect some of the blood oozing out.
Scott slaps Stiles' hands away from his face, replacing them with his own to pinch the bridge of his nose, and he scrambles onto his knees, his head swivelling until he focuses on Liam. The new barista is still grunting on top of Ethan, struggling to maintain his hold. "Liam, stop!" Scott calls through his blood, spitting it onto his wrist.
Liam stills instantly, wide eyes turning to stare at Scott. "But he broke your nose!" he protests.
"It's not broken," Scott reassures him, though his words are a little distorted. "C'mere."
Liam untangles himself from Ethan, glancing at the older guy warily until he hurries over to Scott's side and helps him onto his feet.
"Are you okay, man?" Stiles asks quietly, materialising at Derek's elbow with wide, startled eyes following the path of Derek's hand across his mouth.
"This is the last time you are doing anything to provoke these guys," Derek grunts out, scowling down at Stiles. "Okay?"
Stiles lifts his gaze from Derek's lip to his eyes and blinks, swallowing. "Yeah, that's probably smart. Tactical retreat."
Derek's shoulders roll back as he breathes a sigh of relief. Then he turns to Jackson and offers his unbloodied hand to help the other guy up off the ground. Jackson glares between him and Stiles for a moment, and then finally mutters something under his breath and slaps his hand into Derek's grip, accepting the help.
"Stiles, I swear to God, you're gonna put me in an early grave."
Stiles flinches and spins on his feet, turning to face a middle-aged man in the Sheriff's uniform. The Sheriff's face is contorted in an image of sheer exasperation, eyebrows twisted and lips pursed.
"Oh, uh, hey, dad. What're you doin' here, man?" Stiles stutters nervously.
"Someone phoned the police, Stiles. Because apparently there were a bunch of young men brawling on the street like neanderthals."
"Oh, uh, here? No, there's none of that goin' on, here, pops. Nothing like that. No brawling. Just civilised-"
"Stiles. Shut up," the Sheriff snaps, moving past his son with his gaze fixed on Scott. "I'm gonna assume this is somehow my son's fault," the man says as he peers past Scott's hand at his bloodied face. "Maybe you should call your mom."
Scott's eyes widen. "No! No, I don't need to do that. She doesn't have to come. I'm fine. I just need some napkins."
"Alright," the Sheriff concedes, glancing at Liam who is still supporting Scott with his arm over the younger's shoulder as if he's been shot in the leg, or something. "Who are you?"
Stiles hisses quietly and Derek instantly hones in on the noise, turning to look at the barista sharply. Stiles' head is bowed, his fingers pulling his sleeve up to try and expose his elbow, his forehead wrinkled unhappily.
Derek is only faintly aware of the Sheriff telling Liam to take Scott inside before moving to help Ethan up off the ground, too busy concentrating on Stiles as he reaches out to take the barista's arm in his unbloodied hand. Stiles inhales sharply as Derek lifts and tilts his arm in a way that he can see the elbow, frowning when he spots the blood shining a bright crimson against Stiles' pale skin.
"Does it hurt?" he asks, and his voice comes out far too soft.
Stiles blinks up at him. "It's stingy," he mutters pitifully.
Derek lets out a short breath through his lips, which have - to his horror - spread in a small, incredulous (but amused) smile. "Idiot," he murmurs.
"Your teeth are covered in blood," Stiles replies, his voice strangely quiet and soft for the message it's communicating.
Derek hums an agreement, running his tongue over his punctured lip and wincing slightly at the flare of pain.
"So, what the hell was this?" a voice asks loudly, snapping Derek's attention back to the Sheriff. The man gestures with a confused expression at Derek and Stiles. "Some hormone-driven fight to defend my son's honour?"
Derek frowns, mouth opening silently. Then he blinks and realises he still has a grip of Stiles' arm. He drops it gently and tucks his hand into his pocket. "Self-defense, for me," he replies. "And an absurd lack of self-preservation for the others."
"Hey," Stiles mutters indignantly.
"Yeah, that tracks," Sheriff Stilinski sighs, lifting a hand to rub his forehead.
"You should really control your son, Sheriff," Jackson bites out, now pressed against Ethan's side.
"That another threat, Jackson?" Derek calls out impulsively, crossing his arms as he lifts his chin.
Jackson's jaw clenches as he glares back at Derek, but he says nothing.
"Alright, settle down," the Sheriff warns. "Who threw the first punch?"
"I did, sir, because he threatened my-" Ethan tries, pointing at Derek.
"How many threats have been made today, exactly?" Stilinski asks, face contorted incredulously.
"Uh, I'd say a healthy amount," Stiles shrugs.
"There's no such thing, Stiles."
"Then you probably don't want an exact figure."
Stilinski sighs and puts his hands on his hips, shaking his head. "Alright. Sounds like there was blame on both sides. How about you all walk away with a warning to stop acting like a bunch of angsty teenagers? Stiles, since I'm certain you have more to do with this than anyone else, you're gonna stop whatever the hell it was that brought this whole situation about. As for the rest of you, if I see you in a similar situation again, you'll spend a night in the station. Am I clear?"
"Dad-" Stiles tries, incredulous.
Derek jerks an elbow into Stiles' side to shut him up, watching the Sheriff follow the interaction with a quirked eyebrow. "Yes, Sheriff," Derek responds.
"Fine," Stiles mutters, rubbing his side with a petulant scowl.
"Yes, sir," Jackson and Ethan intone.
"You boys should probably get back to work," Stilinski nods at the two of them. When The Bunker's baristas turn away from the scene and start across the street again, the Sheriff steps over to Stiles and Derek. "So, are you a new colleague as well?" he asks Derek.
Derek uncrosses his arms to extend his unbloodied hand. "Derek Hale," he introduces. "I own Books. I come here for lunch."
Stilinski's eyebrow quirks again as he shakes Derek's hand. "Hale? I thought I recognised you. I apologise on my son's behalf for getting you into this mess."
"I didn't-" Stiles tries.
"I appreciate that, Sheriff," Derek interrupts, holding back a smirk.
"Your lip alright?" Stilinski asks, frowning.
Derek wipes at the blood again. It's already starting to slow. "Yeah, it's fine. Thanks."
"My elbow's really sore, if anyone's interested," Stiles gripes.
"Shut up and get your friend some napkins and water, Stiles."
Derek smirks when he watches Stiles groan and stomp off into Deaton's.
"You should forget you ever met my son, if you aren't in too deep already," Stilinski comments exasperatedly. "Would save you a whole lotta grief, I'm tellin' you."
Derek ignores what in too deep might mean to Stilinski, never mind what it might mean to himself. "Yeah, I might just take your advice."
"How are your sisters doing, anyway?" Stilinski asks, his tone more earnest now.
Derek blinks at him, crossing his arms over his chest. "They're doing well, thank you."
Stilinski nods, pleased to hear it. "And your uncle?"
Derek quirks an eyebrow and glances beyond the Sheriff. "Bitter and sarcastic and a pain in my ass," he intones dryly. Then he turns a small smile back on Stilinski. "But we're alright."
Stilinski smiles gently. "I'm glad, son."
"Alright, here's your napkins and water and also a slice of cake because apparently I owe everyone a free slice of cake," Stiles rambles as he pushes out of the coffee shop, his arms full. "I put it in a box - figured you weren't gonna hang around."
Derek tries to ignore the way that Stiles clearly finds it difficult to make eye-contact. "How's Scott?" he asks, taking the items from Stiles' arms efficiently.
"Uh, he's stopped bleeding, I think. Erica's cleaning him up in the staff bathroom."
"God knows how that boy has survived being your best friend for so long," Stilinski mutters.
"Uh, I think you'll find that Scott has survived so long because he's my best friend."
"Sure, kid. Now, get back to work before you end up fired, on top of everything else."
Stiles barely mutters a goodbye before he spins on his heels and hurries back inside. Derek tries not to frown at his back.
"I don't understand my son about 99% percent of the time," Stilinski says wearily, crossing his arms as he looks back at Derek curiously. "You're friends?" he asks, as if needing the situation clarified.
Derek glances through the shop window, noticing Isaac and Stiles behind the counter, with Liam cleaning tables. "I come here for lunch every day," he answers. He looks back at Stilinski to find a quirked eyebrow. "My employee, Boyd, refuses to eat anywhere else."
"That right?" Stilinski says, nodding with a thoughtful pout as he throws a look through the window as well. Derek has a feeling he doesn't buy the explanation. "Well, I suppose you should get back to Boyd and your store. I'll need to swing by when I have the time." He reaches out to pat Derek's shoulder. "It was good to see you, Derek. Take care of yourself."
Derek nods a little dumbly. "Yes, sir."
He steps aside to let the Sheriff pass and glances across the street at The Bunker to reassure himself that Jackson isn't just waiting for him to leave before he goes for Stiles again. With a final run of his tongue over his split lip, Derek repositions the supplies in his arms and makes his way over to his car.
When he returns to his store, taking down the "Closed for lunch" sign, he supposes it's lucky that Boyd's not working today, otherwise he'd have to stand there and explain his injury. Although, Erica's probably already told Boyd everything about the fight, anyway, which means the explanation's just going to be demanded tomorrow, at the latest. Derek runs a hand over his face and remembers Stilinski's words, figuring that they're as good an explanation as any:
He's in too deep.