So, this isn't Saturday, but I hope it's alright anyway.

I'm writing a script at the same time by the way, and I think that scriptwriting may or may not have rubbed off a little on my work, so yeah sorry if it sounds stunted and like a script.

And yeah, I know it's short. This story is gonna have quite short chapters.

Also, if you have any idea of where this story is going, I'd love to know, cause I don't.

Merci!

On his way over to Derek, Stiles manages to trip no less than four – no, five – times. He scowled at the man who held his hands up and complained that it was his friend who just sat there laughing. "Jerks," Stiles muttered under his breath.

Making sure his path had no more obstacles, Stiles sauntered over to Derek and slid onto the bar stool next to him. "Coke for me, please," he said to the bartender. He glanced sideways at Derek, who was pointedly ignoring him.

"So," Stiles started, "you're Derek Hale, right? Man, I've heard a lot abou-"

"No, you haven't." His voice, low and gravely, startled Stiles, causing him to – for once – shut his mouth. "Your friend over there was just telling you about me." Was it Stiles' imagination, or was there a tone of jealousy in his words?

"Right." Knowing he was busted, Stiles just accepted the disgusting black liquid and took a sip, pulling a face. Derek raised an eyebrow.

Stiles expected him to say something else. When it became apparent he wasn't a conversationalist, Stiles carried on regardless. "Whaddya do around here, then?" Derek ignored him. "Hello?" Still ignored. "Come on, man," Stiles said, irritated.

Derek leaned over until his face was about an inch from Stiles'. His musky scent enveloped the younger boy and Stiles tried hard not to show his fear. He'd read somewhere that big, scary men with conversational problems and studded boots could smell it.

"Listen," Derek hissed. "I don't want to talk to you, and you don't want to talk to me."

"Oh, b-but I do!" Stiles interrupted, attempting a laugh. Derek glared at him. "I mean, no, no, I don't."

Nodding, Derek continued. "So, let's get this arrangement sorted. You stay outta my business, and I'll stay outta yours. Understand?" Stiles nodded. He half-smiled and reached for the back of his seat to get away from this guy, finding that there wasn't one there because he was on a damn bar stool.

Before he hit the ground, however, a strong hand gripped his upper arm. Derek pulled him back onto the worn, red leather and let go as quickly as he could. Stiles stared as Derek stood and angrily stormed out of the diner.

He could still feel the abnormal warmth seeping through his clothes.

Scott raised his eyebrows as Stiles pushed him over in the booth. His eyes were still fixed on the road Derek Hale had vanished down, his bike roaring.

"So?" No reply. "Stiles." Scott nudged his friend. Stiles glanced over, finally breaking his gaze. He blinked heavily. "So? What did he say?"

Shrugging, Stiles replied, "Eh, not much." He was still stunned at the heat radiating from the man. Maybe he had hand warmers tucked in his jacket...

Stiles remembered his dark voice and dismal aura.

Or maybe not.

"Where'd he go, then?" Stiles asked.

"Dude, stop asking me questions," Scott said. "I don't know!"

"I do."

"Holy sh-" Stiles turned around to the man behind them who had spoken and broke off when he saw the tattoos and bushy beard; his steely eyes could barely be seen. "You do?" Stiles and Scott glanced at one another.

"Sure. He goes to that house, in the woods. Y'know, the burnt one?" The guy next to him turned around, raising his eyebrows.

"They say loads of people died in there. Burnt, in a fire," he said. Stiles liked to imagine that he sounded scared. It would make his fear seem more plausible. He wasn't particularly fond of houses in the woods where people died.

"Thanks, dude." Stiles turned back around and glanced at Scott, who shook his head.

"No. No. We are so not going there." Grinning, Stiles stood.

"Come on!" He motioned to Scott and raced out of the diner. Rolling his eyes, Scott grabbed Stiles' crash helmet, along with his own, and followed him.

Whoever said Scott was the leader of the group, Stiles would never know.