2.
Stiles wakes to the putrid smell of his own sweat and the soft pad of shuffling feet against wood. He scratches at the back of his head absently before hauling himself upright. He shrugs out of his sweltering winter jacket almost sluggishly. As the cool air wafts over his exposed and sweaty skin, he shivers. He begins to fan the front of his sweatshirt distractedly, letting out a disgruntled yawn. His gaze shifts to the kitchenette as he twists his body to get a better look over the back of the couch. The sight that greets him isn't one he'd been expecting.
Derek is moving towards him with something clasped in his hand. A towel is warped securely around his lower waist, droplets of water sliding down and over his toned chest. Stiles blinks and pinches his cheek. He winces. Not an absurdly hot dream, then. Derek places a steaming plate of eggs, bacon and toast down on the coffee table in front of him. "Breakfast," he grunts, before pulling back up to his full height. His nose twitches and his fingers flex as he stares down at Stiles. "The shower is through the left door."
Stiles thinks Derek may have gestured but he is way too distracted to pay proper attention. "Oh," he manages, staring shamelessly. "Thanks." He gulps. Derek's ridiculously hot body just may have short circuited his brain if the difficulty to form coherent sentences is any indication. Stiles never has any problem filling silence with sarcastic remarks and vaguely concealed geeky references.
Derek opens his mouth as if he is going to say something else but Scott comes barreling through the front door loud and obnoxious as ever. His mouth snaps shut once more and his lips wind into a grimace. He turns his back to Stiles and roams towards what can only be assumed is his bedroom. The door smashes closed with a slam.
Scott throws himself down on the couch next to Stiles, spying the food immediately. "Oh, dude, is this for me?" he asks, moving forward with the intention of stealing a piece of bacon, the thieving bastard.
"Get your own breakfast, bucko," Stiles says, moving the plate out of Scott's reach and swatting at his grubby little fingers.
Scott sits back with crossed arms. "Derek never made breakfast for me," he grumbles.
Stiles snorts before taking a bite of the bacon. It is greasy and perfect and just unf. Man can cook, that is for damn sure. "That's because you suck," he says and then grins as Scott swipes at him and misses.
Scott sighs loudly. "Nah, Derek and I naturally hate one another. His gaze is like a long suffering I-can't-believe-I'm-stuck-with-this-stupid-kid." Scott succeeds in stealing a piece of bacon while Stiles glares. "I'm serious, man. If he didn't have some weird messed up sense of duty he would have abandoned my ass a long time ago."
"You are a special kind of dumbass," Stiles concedes, snacking on a piece of toast.
Scott scowls at him. "Hey," he protests.
Stiles laughs. "What? It's true."
"You're a dumbass too, dumbass," Scott retorts childishly as he steals the other piece of toast in retaliation.
Stiles rolls his eyes. "I don't go on idiotic soul searching escapades and end up in deep shit which I adamantly refuse to explain to my best friend, all because some girl broke my heart among other assorted woe is me bullshit." He glares and bites into another piece of bacon with an angry crunch.
Scott wilts. "Allison isn't just some girl."
"Yeah, yeah, she was the sun that shined out of your ass, I get it. At least you moved on, I was getting worried you'd end up in a mental hospital at the age of fifty, writing her name repeatedly on the walls all the while crying, 'my one true love!' dramatically," Stiles says wryly.
Scott's eyebrows scrunch up as if he's concentrating really hard on something that is particularly puzzling. "Moved on?" he questions. "What are you talking about?"
"Derek," Stiles says around a mouth full of food. He waves the last morsel of his toast around as if to drive the point home. "Duh."
Scott's face is stuck between scandalized and wanting to puke. "Gross!" he blanches. "What the hell, Stiles? I like girls!"
Stiles blinks. "So he didn't take your ass virginity in a spike of heated passion and then feel guilty, keeping you here out of some 'messed up sense of duty' as you put it?"
"What?! No! What goes on in that brain of yours, man?" Scott asks, looking positively mortified.
Stiles laughs out right. He shouldn't feel as relieved as he does so he tucks the feeling away in the never going to analyze that ever, thanks part of his brain. "Well if he isn't banging your sweet, sweet ass—" Scott pulls a face "—then why are you staying here with no contact with the outside world?" Stiles eyes go wide in mock-horror. "Oh my god, is Derek running a freaky cult? More importantly, did you join?"
This time Scott does succeed in smacking him on the shoulder. It doesn't hurt even though Stiles expects it to.
"I didn't join a cult, man," Scott grumbles in a way that clearly means Stiles is being dramatic, but he's choosing to ignore it. "Derek's mentoring me," he continues, picking at Stiles' leftovers.
"Mentoring? What is he, your growly yoda?"
Scott laughs so hysterically tears shine in his eyes. "Oh man, that is perfect."
Stiles smiles briefly and then narrows his eyes. "You know you are going to tell me what is going on at some point, right?"
Scott shrugs his shoulders and turns away from Stiles.
"Scott," Stiles says dangerously, crowding into his best friend's space. He is not above guilting the truth out of him. No siree.
Scott turns to face Stiles with a guilty frown. He opens his mouth to reply but Stiles beats him to the punch line. "You know what? I don't want to hear another one of your lame excuses. I'm going to take a shower. When I get out you had better tell me the truth or so help me I will tell your mom where you keep your secret stash of porn." Stiles gets to his feet with as much rage as he can muster and stomps towards the left most door in the room. He stops midway and twists his body ever so slightly to glower at Scott. "And it won't be the softcore one." He shuts the bathroom door with an angry slam. He can feel Scott's wince from the other side.
Mission accomplished.
Stiles strips tiredly, pulling off his smelly clothing layer after layer. He discards them on the floor, turns the shower's red knob to the right and waits for the water to warm. He steps inside when it's near scalding. The water pelts down on him mercilessly, burning away the previous day's grime and his growing irritation with Scott. He sighs, grabs Derek's minty body wash off the wall and slathers it across his body languidly. He scrubs at his skin lazily and then rinses apathetically. He feels clean but something still doesn't settle right in his gut. Stiles squeezes a dab of shampoo into the palm of his hand and works it through his buzz cut. He washes it out hastily, turns the water off and leans his forehead up against the warm, checkered tiles. He stays there for a minute or two, simply breathing in and out as he centers himself. He steps out of the shower then, into the mist.
It occurs to him as he reaches forward to wipe the fog from the mirror that he has no clean clothes to change into. He nabs a towel off the towel rack, dries his face and then wraps it around the lower half of his body. He looks up and stares into the circular opening of the fogged mirror. The bruise that rests on the upper right corner of his forehead sticks out like a sore thumb. It looks uglier than it feels so he pokes at it experimentally. A sharp pain greets his ministrations and elicits a grimace.
That is when he spots them, folded neatly and placed out of the way. Stiles spreads his fingers through the smooth fabric of the black long sleeved tee. He brings it to his nose and inhales. It smells vaguely of mint and the piercing scent that hangs in the air before a downpour. There is also an underlining current of something else he isn't able to identify. It rattles him. He pulls the shirt up and over his head before he can think on it too long. The shirt fits a bit too loosely. The collar sits too wide, exposing his neck and the concave where his shoulders and neck merge. The jeans, however, fit almost snugly, only too wide around the thigh area. They are old, he can tell, and worn with wear. They are nice and warm, however, and he wonders idly if they were left for him.
He opens the medicine cabinet, swipes the toothpaste and vigorously brushes his teeth as best as he can with his index finger. He swishes his mouth, spits, puts the toothpaste back where it belongs and reaches for the door knob. He pauses when he hears raised voices.
"I'm telling him and you're not going to stop me," Scott is saying. He sounds pissed; more so than usual.
Derek's response is quick and concise. "If you tell him, you're even stupider than I thought."
"He deserves to know," Scott snarls. And then, softly, "He's my best friend."
"Involving him will get him injured or worse, dead," Derek growls nastily. "That will be on your head, not mine."
"I would never let that happen," Scott fires back confidently.
Stiles chooses that moment to swing the door open and step out into the fray. His presence brings their argument to a screeching halt. They both turn to look at him and honestly, he's never seen a guiltier pair. "Done arguing about what I should and should not know?" he asks, eyebrows raised.
Scott balls his hands into fists, glares prominently at Derek and then storms out of the cabin. The door clacks closed violently behind him. Stiles pulls a face as he saunters over to Derek. "Yeesh, someone's pissed. You should probably let him tell me. I'm going to find out on my own, one way or another," he grins cheekily. "You'll just get brownie points with Scott if you let him tell me."
Derek eyes him sharply, gaze disapproving. "You don't know what you're asking."
Stiles rolls his eyes. "Can't make informed decisions if I'm not, y'know, informed."
Derek regards him with a dangerous level of frustration. His face scrunches up and yup, there is that constipated I'm-feeling-emotion expression Stiles has come to associate with the growly, sinfully hot park ranger. Speaking of which, he lets himself give the other man an appraising look. Derek's uniform is sharp, pressed and form fitting. The off-beige dress shirt is tucked neatly into the military green slacks and it really isn't fair how well the colors complement Derek's complexion (I mean, c'mon!). A radio is attached to his belt, the adjoining receiver clipped to his collar, right above his gleaming gold badge. The campaign hat that sits on top of his head should look ridiculous but it only serves to be unreasonably flattering instead. There is only one thing about his attire that unnerves Stiles—Derek's gun holster is suspiciously lacking an actual gun.
"Where's your gun?" Stiles asks before he can stop himself.
"Don't need one," Derek replies immediately. He says it like that is a normal fucking response to such a question.
"Sorry?" Stiles says, face going screwy.
Derek's shoulders tense the moment he realizes his slip of tongue. He levels an intense glower in Stiles' direction and if a gaze could cause spontaneous human combustion, it would definitely be that one. Hot damn. "Prefer to wrestle crafty bears and rogue wolves instead?" Stiles questions and yeah, okay maybe he's being a little shit but Derek and his Big Important Secrets freaking deserve it.
"I'm taking you to get your stuff and then you're leaving," he says instead like that is the end of their discussion. Derek has no idea how incredibly wrong he is.
"I'm not leaving," Stiles informs him with a shrug that says nice try though.
"It's not up for negotiation," Derek replies like he has some sort of sway over Stiles actions. Oh, man, is he in for the surprise of his life.
"You can't make me leave."
Derek grins, all teeth. He taps his badge. "I can arrest you for trespassing and call your father, if you'd prefer."
Oh… that sneaky bastard. He wants to play that game, then. It is so on like Donkey Kong. "You don't even know my name," he challenges.
Derek appears vaguely amused. "Don't I, Stilinski?" He bites Stiles' last name out carefully, enunciating every syllable. It sends a rush of warmth right to his dick.
Shitballs.
He glares and crosses his arms. "Then arrest me," he dares cockily.
And oh, crap, yeah, Stiles really doesn't like the dark glint taking Derek's eyes by storm.
He is so screwed.
And that is how he ends up riding shotgun in Derek's truck with his hands cuffed behind his back.
"I really kind of hate you right now," Stiles seethes.
He glances to the side and confirms that Derek is barely containing a smirk of his own, the bastard. "You brought it on yourself," Derek rumbles, making Stiles want to punch him in the face.
The truck's heater is cranked up at least. It also helps that Derek was decent enough to allow him to shrug on a spare jacket before he attacked him, forced his wiry wrists into handcuffs and dragged him outside to the truck. If anything, the tussle had left him wondering what the hell kind of steroids the dude was on. It wasn't natural for anyone to be that strong. He'd held Stiles down with one hand—one! His male ego is forever ruined. Slashed to death. Goodbye. Gone. He has already mourned its passing. It had a good run.
Stiles' eyes flicker forward to the cracked windshield. "You should really get that fixed," he notes with a touch of boredom.
Derek ignores him and continues driving. Fine. It won't be his fault if Derek the Sour Ranger gets them both killed in a fiery, explosive car accident (complete with obnoxious sound effects and everything). He instead opts for pouting whilst looking out the passenger side window. It snowed overnight, blanketing the ground in a layer of fresh, bitter cold, and frozen winter wonder. Stiles lets himself get lost in the expansiveness of it; of the dusted trees and the never ending gray sky. Time passes swiftly. It takes Stiles a whole two minutes to realize the truck has stopped moving.
Derek clears his throat loudly. Stiles glowers and turns to him look at him with an acerbic expression. "So," Stiles begins conversationally, "are you going to uncuff me or are you going to haul all of my stuff on your own?" He smirks. "Don't get me wrong, I'm totally okay with watching you perform manual labor, but the cuffs are starting to chaff—" Derek ignores him, opens his door, lumbers out and pats it shut without a word "—and you're going to ignore me. Great."
After walking around the truck, Derek jerks Stiles' door open. "Out," he orders.
"Aw c'mon, you cannot be serious," he whines, sliding off his seat with Derek's forceful assistance. His feet land squarely in a deep slush of snow, wetting his jeans. Wonderful. Derek tugs Stiles by his elbow into the underbrush and out of the road. He bats his eyelashes obnoxiously at Derek, matching him step for step. "I promise to behave," he coos.
Derek snorts and tightens his grip on Stiles' elbow. "I doubt that."
"What is the point of dragging me out of the truck and into the cold if I only get to stand and watch?" Stiles asks, waggling his eyebrows dramatically. "Seriously, Derek, think about this for a moment—" Stiles cuts himself off when a surprised scream of rage explodes from his lungs. The campsite is not how he left it. In fact, it's destroyed in every sense of the word. Stiles wants to weep. "What the fuck," he screeches instead, his voice reaching octaves he didn't know where previously possible.
He turns to blame Derek loudly, with several choice swear words, but he has already abandoned Stiles to prowl around the campsite. The tent is shredded, his clothes strewn all over the place, ripped and bloody. Even his dad's lantern is broken into about a million pieces (he is so dead oh my god). Stiles can't even slap himself back into reality on account that his hands are still cuffed behind his back. All he can do is gape at the destruction and wonder what the hell he did in his past lives to deserve this, by god. "My dad is going to kill me," he groans, saying a silent prayer for his young soul.
Then Derek does something quite odd. He starts picking up various articles of Stiles' clothing, pressing them into his nose and inhaling. After each piece of clothing he smells (what the hell, dude) his expression grows angrier and angrier until a low, scary growl emits from within his chest. Derek stops in front of a particularly large tree and looks up, scowling. Stiles follows his gaze and then grimaces because really? His favorite black tee (the one with there is no place like 127. 0. 0. 1 printed on the front) is hanging from the tree like some sort of creepy promise. The front of it is maimed by ragged claw marks and gooey, black blood drips from it with a sense of foreboding.
That sets Derek off. A dark, animalistic growl rips from his throat. The sound slams against Stiles' ears with such intensity he swears something ruptures. He winces and stumbles backwards, heart beating wildly in his chest. Derek turns on him and wow okay, are his eyes normally that blue? His teeth snap wildly, long and canine like as his face contorts and shifts horribly. It's grotesque and freaky and what the fuck Derek is stomping towards him, the growling vibrating louder and louder holy crap.
Stiles does the only thing he can think to—he runs.
The underbrush catches his legs, slashing and tearing at the worn fabric of his borrowed jeans as he flees. Branches smack him in the face, slicing his cheek; snow pelts him from above as he accidentally clips a tree with his right shoulder. His breathing has become rapid and he is freaking the fuck out because holy shit. The truck is just within his sights, a relieved smile already curling upwards on his lips when he's seized by the back of his jacket, swung around and slammed up against a tree. "Stiles," Derek snarls into his face, "stop running."
Stiles gasps for air, eyes searching Derek's wildly, heart drumming like a frightened jackrabbit. "Your eyes," he manages, still panicked. "And your teeth!"
A brief glimpse of guilt flashes in Derek's eyes. "I lost control," he rumbles slowly. "It won't happen again."
Stiles' mind is still running a freaking marathon. "Lost control?" he shrieks. "Of what?!"
Derek sighs and appears weary. "If I tell you," he says deeply, eyes freakishly intent. "There is no going back."
Stiles laughs at that. Laughs. "I think we are way past the point of no return, buddy," he snaps. "Don't you think?"
With their chests pressed tight against one another, he can feel the way Derek's growl vibrates throughout the entirety of his body. "When people tell you not to be afraid of the monster under the bed because they aren't real," Derek begins as he leans in so close their noses touch, "they're lying."
Stiles swallows. Welcome to Sunnydale. Enjoy your stay, try not to get killed. He squints his eyes, trying to appear brave even while his heart stutters in fear. "Then what are you? A vampire? I knew I shouldn't have thrown away my stake," he laughs nervously, "rookie mistake."
Derek's lips twitch. He almost looks like he wants to laugh. "Vampires don't exist," he grunts.
"Bummer," Stiles jokes lightly. "Then what are you?"
Derek hesitates before saying, "a werewolf."
Stiles narrows his eyes. "Are you seriously telling me vampires don't exist but werewolves do? Come on!"
"Yes."
Stiles frowns. "So, you're a werewolf, huh?" He really thinks he ought to be having some sort of freak out at this point. But he isn't and he supposes that's something he should be proud of. His eyes widen with a sudden realization. "Is Scott a werewolf, too?" he asks and then, "dude, did you turn him in some effort to create a creep—"
"I did not turn Scott," Derek snarls, grinding Stiles' body harder into the bark of the tree.
Stiles winces. "Then who did?"
"An Alpha," Derek supplies. "It has gone rogue, half crazed with the need to make a new pack. Scott was unfortunate collateral."
Stiles sags against the tree. "Well then, this is just a shot in the dark, but I'm gonna assume the creepy mutant wolf that attacked us last night is the Alpha?"
Derek nods stiffly.
"Also probably the one that ripped all of my belongings to shreds?"
"Yes," Derek affirms with a growl, teeth snapping angrily.
"What the hell does it have against me," Stiles complains, shifting his weight uncomfortably and straining against the handcuffs.
He looks up just in time to see something twist in Derek's expression. He appears almost pained by the rage that ripples across his face. "It wants you," he forces out, words tearing past his lips like a punishment. And then he dips his head to graze against the underside of Stiles' throat, nose pressing into the hard line of his jaw. He breathes in as if his life depends on it, a small, pleased noise escaping the back of his throat when he exhales. His hands snake around Stiles' waist, slipping under the layers of his clothing and traveling upwards, touch feather light. Stiles trembles involuntarily at the caress; his breath quickens, harsh and wild.
"Derek, really," Stiles manages to huff out half-indignantly, "again with the manhandling?"
The tongue comes out then, sliding along Stiles' neck warm and wet. It leaves a trail of heat behind as it journeys down to his shoulder. Derek hovers there idly before pressing his lips full against Stiles' searing skin. He begins to suck leisurely, taking his time holy god. Stiles can feel the pull of Derek's mouth on his skin, the scrap of his teeth against it and the swift movement of his swirling tongue. Derek pulls back, huffs a damp breath over the teased flesh and transfers his attentions back to the crook of Stiles' neck. He bites down with blunt teeth, provoking a surprised yelp from Stiles.
"Derek," Stiles snaps with more force this time, jerking his head away from where he is being freaking bitten. He doesn't remember signing up for this kinky shit.
Derek growls in warning, teeth tightening around the soft underside of Stiles' neck.
"Okay, okay, sheesh," Stiles relents, going slack in Derek's grasp. He can feel the sharp edges of Derek's nails ghosting over the expanse of his back. The caress is sharp as it prickles his skin, eliciting gooseflesh in one shuddering response. Stiles doesn't deny that in feels absurdly wonderful, even to himself.
Derek pushes in closer, maneuvering his thigh between Stiles' legs and nudging it up against his crotch. Stiles feel something very large and very hard pressing in against his own thigh and it is most assuredly not Derek's cellphone. Christ. Stiles feels his own arousal spike despite himself and he groans as Derek twitches against him. The friction nearly kills him. A breathy moan slips past his mouth unintentionally and woah, Derek really likes when he makes that sort of noise. Derek hums throatily in return, finally releasing Stiles' neck from between his teeth. He trails upwards with small nips down the line of his jaw until his lips are hovering just over Stiles. He stares at Stiles, ring of blue pulsating—
"Officer Hale," Derek's receiver cracks horribly, "we have a 504 in lot four of camper parking, do you read?"
There is a long, tense pause wherein neither of them move. Their breaths simply mingle, warm and inviting.
"Officer Hale," the receiver repeats, "do you copy?"
Derek growls nastily, tears his gaze away from Stiles and snatches at the receiver with an irritated grapple. "I copy," he says through clenched teeth, "license plate, vehicle color, make and model?"
"Sam-Tom-1-Lincoln-3-Sam," the voice replies through bad, crackling reception. "'85 blue Jeep Wrangler CJ-7."
"That's my car," Stiles states, dumbfounded. And then, hysterically, "That's my car!"
"On my way," Derek responds into the receiver as he takes a step back from Stiles. His face is normal once more, no freakishly sharp teeth or ridiculously blue eyes; just grumpy Derek who is frowning at him, eyebrows furrowed like he doesn't know how to proceed.
Stiles is too busy freaking out to give a rat's ass. "Code 504, damnit, why did it have to be tampering with a vehicle?! My poor baby!" he wails at the sky.
Derek glowers a little while longer before he turns silently and stalks off towards the truck.
"Hey!" Stiles shouts after him. "Now would be a great time to uncuff me!"
They spend the ride to the parking lot in tense silence. Stiles fidgets incessantly, showing an incredible amount of restraint when he doesn't brush his fingers against the two burning bruises on his neck and shoulder. Derek had (mercifully) unclasped his handcuffs without a word. He also managed to avoid Stiles' gaze and make him feel like he was the one that mauled Derek shamelessly with his mouth. In the middle of the woods. Without explanation. He itches to ask about it, but one look at Derek's dark scowl disperses any and all of his misguided curiosity; for the moment, anyway.
The second they pull into the lot, Stiles heart sinks. The front of his Jeep's hood is ripped upwards and Jesus, it looks like half of his damn engine is missing. He throws his hands hand in the air and wails. "What the hell does this thing have against automotive vehicles?!" He fights with the door and then barrels out. "Shit!"
He sulks his way over to the car when a woman steps in front of him, blocking his path. "Stop right there," she says, eyes narrowing. "This is a crime scene." She states it as if he is an actual moron and not worth her time.
Stiles' face sours. "It's my car," he seethes, gesturing towards the vehicle with an angry jerk.
"Is it?" The woman's asks, arching a perfectly manicured brow. She twists her evilly red lips into an amused smirk. "Well, doesn't your day just suck? Got any enemies I should know about?"
Stiles' eye twitches at that. "Yes," he says sarcastically. "I'm a regular James Bond. Seen any ugly guys with cats skulking about lately?"
"Erica, leave him alone," comes Derek's distinctive rumble from behind him.
She laughs playfully. "Why should I? He's cute when antagonized."
"Erica," Derek warns and if Stiles sticks out his tongue in retaliation, well, no one but Erica sees.
She rolls her eyes. "Engines totaled. The tires were slashed with animal claws, far as I can tell. Nothing appears to have been taken from inside the vehicle but, whatever managed this did one hell of a work over on the paint job." She gestures to the ugly scrapes on the other side of the Jeep with an admiring tut.
Stiles suddenly feels so very defeated. He doesn't have the energy for this bullshit at the moment. He smiles cynically at Derek. "Guess I'm not leaving after all?" he hazards.
Derek ignores him in favor of responding to Erica. "Have it towed to Boyd's. Tell him to send the bill to me."
Erica's eyes dart to Stiles and she grins wickedly. "Oh," she purrs, "alright then." She starts towards Stiles, flicks him playfully on the neck and then saunters to her squad car, prominent smirk in place.
Stiles blushes furiously and mashes his teeth together angrily as he turns his gaze on Derek. "What do you think you're doing," he bites out.
Derek merely looks pissed, but hey, what does Stiles know? That is the guy's freaking default expression. "Don't argue with me on this, Stiles," he grounds out roughly.
"I'll argue about what I damn well please," Stiles snaps in return, glaring hotly as he crowds into Derek's face. "Actually, I am getting real tired of you telling me what to do, of you slamming me into things and oh yeah, freaking sniffing and biting me." Stiles clicks his teeth together and flattens his lips into a thin, angry line. "But, I guess we're not going to talk about that, are we? 'Cause Derek Hale doesn't do conversation or emotions, big fucking surprise!"
If looks could murder, he would be deader than dead under Derek's glare.
"That's what I thought," Stiles says, enunciating each word with a click and pop. He pulls away from Derek just as the other man's nostrils flair. Stiles stomps to the truck's door and wrenches it open with a jerk. "You wanted me to leave? Well, you succeeded, congratulations. Take me back to your piece of crap cabin so I can call my dad and get the hell out of here." He slams the truck door as hard as he can. Fucking Derek Hale. He wants to scream until his teeth fall out.
Derek simply stands there for a beat, scowl intensifying. He meanders over to the truck eventually and climbs in with an angry, jerking motion. He starts the truck and then they are on their way.
It is the longest, most uncomfortable ride of Stiles' life. And he's including that one time he tried to shoplift and got caught by the Sheriff, his dad.
When they pull up to the cabin, Derek tenses and scents the air. He glances at Stiles, who glares back at him. He huffs crossly and slides out of the car. Stiles follows suit. Derek becomes increasingly edgier the closer they draw to the front door. When they cross through the entrance way, Stiles sees why.
A man is sitting at the breakfast table, legs crossed. A predatory smirk plays on his lips.
Derek moves to stand in front of Stiles protectively. "Peter," he snarls.
Peter tuts his tongue disapprovingly. "Now Derek," he drawls, "is that any way to greet your uncle?"
Finished this quicker than I anticipated. So, yay? Just in case anyone is wondering, Stiles' license plate,translated out of police code is ST1-L3S. Reviews loved, concrit welcome.
Follow me on Tumblr. My URL is neuroticsourwolf.
Will update within the week. :)