Chapter Text
Stiles groans when he sees the state of the cafeteria. Jackson was sitting at the table with the most people, all obnoxious jocks and giggling cheerleaders, which of course had to be smack dab in the center of the entire cafeteria. Stiles felt the oncoming rush of anxiety hit the palm of his hand with a tidal wave of sweat; he couldn’t sit anywhere without being noticed by captain temper tantrum and his merry band of brainless clones.
“Dude, is he still giving you crap for what happened last year?” Scott nudges Stiles with his elbow towards Jackson from their position at the entrance of the cafeteria.
“Just look at the evil in his eye. Of course he’s still giving me shit for splashing juice on his—his fancy, coddled, over-priced Tesla. Which wasn't even my fault by the way, the jury was biased and clueless and I demand a retrial.” Stiles is still plagued by the karma of his successful pranks from last year, which some days Stiles would argue were worth it, others… not so much. Today, so far, was one of those days.
“Porsche.” Scott corrects. “His car… Porsche.” Stiles glares at him, somehow not surprised that Scott insists on providing the most useless information. He’ll be considering opening up best friend applications, although he imagines the only other two candidates would be Noah Stilinski and Ms. Gale’s cat from next door.
“Amazing addition, Scotty. It’s a wonder you’re not being flocked by women left and right.”
“Very funny Stiles. Weren’t you the one saying ‘It’s our first week as a Junior! Everything’ll be different this year!’” Stiles rolls his eyes as they take their seat at the only empty tables left by the trash cans. Stiles remembers distinctly, his voice was nowhere near as irritating as Scott was making it out to be. “Where’s that cheery, hopeful boy I was beating at Mario Kart just last weekend?”
“Yea haha, good one, buddy. You couldn’t beat a 12 year old at Mario Kart you sore loser. Pretty sure Melissa’s niece would kick your ass the same way that squirrel did when it ran off with your inhaler.” That memory never fails to get the other teen agitated. Cue the complaints.
“Stiles.” Scott insists in a hushed voice. “You promised you wouldn’t bring that up anymore.”
“New year, new me buddy.”
Although last year he spent most of his time pining after Lydia Martin and getting his grades up, he still managed to have fun with his best friend playing video games and meddling about with the sheriff’s investigations. He doesn’t have many complaints about the previous years, except for the fact that one specific pain in the ass has managed to once again follow him into Junior year with his ongoing vendetta against Stiles.
Jackson, who’s had a grudge against scrawny, annoying (as the asshole himself would describe) kid for about ten years now, has amassed a posse of his own, consisting of shitty, wannabe jocks who picked up Stiles as their personal punching bag for the hell of it. He’s mostly used to their shenanigans by now but one particular posse member has insisted on being even more of a piece of shit than the rest of the circus members; Garrett.
“Hey Stilinski, heads up.” Garrett yells across the cafeteria. Jackson, beside him, already laughing before he throws his apple core at the trash cans—rather, at Stiles and Scott. It splatters on their food trays, and Stiles already feels some of his resolve crack. Fuck, after Jackson’s little stunt in the parking lot this morning, Stiles knew he was going to be an ass today, but already?
“Fuck you Jackson.” Stiles throws the thing back, albeit with a little disgust and far worse aim. Nevertheless it lands somewhere near Garrett, and their whole group starts aggressively hollering insults in Scott and Stiles’ direction.
Sties doesn’t regret retaliating, and neither does Scott from the look on his face. But it doesn’t take very long for their pride to simmer and deflate when Stiles’ name is being hollered by a very angry Mr. Harris down the hall. Typical, Stiles thinks. If it wasn’t his big mouth getting him in trouble, it’d be his shit luck instead.
Mr. Harries instantly tells him to go straight to the office, all red-faced and fuming like he normally is and on any other day Stiles would make a joke about it with Scott but now, he just puts his backpack straps on to go compliantly. It’s the first goddamn day of Junior year for Christ’s sake.
“Mr. Harris, Jackson started it.” His best friend fumbles an explanation, as desperate as Stiles feels. But Stiles knows how this goes, he’s not new to being caught for his deviance. The only reason he hasn’t been labeled a delinquent is because his grades are subpar, and the teachers know it. If only Mr. Harris wasn’t the biggest prick on planet earth, maybe Stiles’ first week of Junior year would’ve gone a little better.
Stiles shakes his head at Scott when Mr. Harris asks him if he’d like to join Stiles at the office. He starts heading out the cafeteria, ignoring the pestering giggles coming from Jackson’s table. He mutters insults of his own but nonetheless thinks it’s better to just get this rotten day over with.
He slumps in the seat outside the Principal’s office, exasperation occupying every inch of his posture. The receptionist told him to sit tight until the student inside finishes, which just so happens to be Derek Hale.
He was a deviant down to the leather jacket which was as stuck to his body as ‘impassive’ was to his face. Stiles had never interacted with Derek before, but he knows that after the sheriff worked on the Hale fire case, that the guy’s been through a lot. Stiles doesn’t particularly like him, as far as he’s concerned Derek Hale could be as malicious as Garrett, but he can sympathize with the delinquent in a way he refuses to with Garrett. That guy gets no excuses.
Stiles huffs an amused breath thinking of what kind of lecture he’s receiving right now. Perhaps something about not scaring the kids just by merely existing, Stiles thinks that’d be a good place to start.
Said delinquent walks out of the office then, stone-faced and broody and Stiles’ palms fill with sweat. He finds himself unable to stop his bouncing leg, nor look Derek in the eye.
He takes a seat beside him, and Stiles’ nerves spur tenfold, but a moment later his name is called from inside Hell’s gateway, and he hauls his shaken body through.
“Sir, he was armed.”
“…With an apple.”
“You don’t know the amount of damage apples can do Mr. Pierson. I hear accidents with—uh selected fruits have become more and more prevalent—”
“Stiles.” Mr. Pierson looks as tired as the sheriff does after a long shift. Stiles holds in a wince knowing that he’s the reason for the principal’s exhaustion.
“Yes, sir.”
“Detention, two weeks.” Mr. Pierson massages his temple. Stiles nods frantically, thankful he’s being let off easy. “Now get the hell out of my office.” Stiles scrambles to put his backpack straps on, knowing this is as merciful of a decision as any.
“You won’t regret this Pierson.” Stiles practically dashes out the office with an extra skip in his step. Mr. Pierson’s always had a soft spot for the delinquents in the school, Stiles suspects it’s because he used to be a bit of a deviant himself in his high school days. It humanizes the principal quite a bit in Stiles’ eyes, and he can’t help but wish certain, specific staff members were similar to the guy. Cough, cough, Mr. Harris, the son of a bitch.
A big reason why bullying hasn’t been properly addressed in the school is because of how prominent favoritism is among the many teachers and students. Mr. Harris for example, seriously has a grudge against Stiles, but is totally welcoming and cool and collected when it comes to Garrett. Seriously, it’s corrupt and absurd, and Stiles won’t stand for it. Well, at least in theory he won’t.
Getting lost in his head leads him to nearly bump into the wall of muscle leaning against the wall right by the reception door. Stiles freezes in place, eyes blown wide in fear and shock when he sees, once again, the one and only Derek Hale in front of him. Fuck, he’s so thankful the guy hasn’t looked up from his phone yet, totally unbothered by Stiles’ presence.
He briefly recalls Mr. Pierson’s request to see the Senior again right before Stiles ignorantly pranced out of his office. He curses in his head, he didn’t want to interact with this big guy in the slightest, but here he is, taking a deep breath in preparation for the worst.
“The principal wants to see you.” Stiles subconsciously makes his voice a little smaller, scared of the potential annoyance he could cause in the seemingly always angry student. “Again.”
Derek gives no indication that he’s heard Stiles, his eyes still narrowed in on his phone, thumb occasionally scrolling.
“Um… Derek.” Stiles tries again, yet he’s met with nothing. “Hellooo…” Stiles looks to Derek’s ears, looking for headphones or earbuds in place, but they’re empty.
He can hear Stiles loud and clear, so what gives? Stiles sucks in a breath, knowing that Derek won’t lay a hand on him in the presence of the receptionist, and experimentally takes a step closer, albeit without properly thinking it through.
Derek’s first words stop him in his tracks, “Shut up.” He doesn't even look away from his phone to acknowledge Stiles or what he said. Okay, Stiles was aware that this guy was unlikeable and stubborn and shitty but this? This is unnecessary, he decides.
He visibly frowns, but doesn’t comment on it, knowing his brave facade is only a result of being the safety of the office.
He opens his mouth to remind the guy he’s needed in the Principal’s office, but Derek abruptly straightens up and Stiles’ breath catches in his throat. He’s a lot bigger than he seemed a second ago and Stiles can’t control his widened eyes and slack jaw. Fuck, all of Derek’s misdemeanours come flooding back into his head, from the school fights, suspensions and property violations—
Derek shamelessly looks Stiles up and down, halting the shorter boy’s thoughts in their tracks. He remains emotionless while Stiles has a miniature heart attack from the delinquent’s intense eyes lingering on his pale neck. Stiles stands there slack-jawed, with absolutely nothing going on in his head from shock, “Uhh…” He says dumbly, unable to express anything but his mental collapse.
Derek doesn’t linger much longer. He just moves past him smoothly and shuts the office door behind him without another word, totally casual about checking Stiles out and then leaving right after.
Meanwhile Stiles just stands there, heart pounding and eyes blinking in front of an empty brain. What the fuck?
Stiles tries to shut down all nerve-racking thoughts that pummel into his head after that strange interaction. He decides he got off easy once again, thankful that that was his first and last interaction with Derek Hale he’ll ever have. He waits for his heart to stop pounding, ignoring the side eye the receptionist sends his way, then takes off to his next class.
“Stiles.” The sheriff's voice filters through his phone. Stiles is thankful there’s a few minutes between the time school ends and detention starts so he can notify his dad of the frankly unjustified outcome of today’s events.
“What!? You seriously can’t tell me I’m the bad guy for this! Jackson’s like the epitome of bullying. If bullying was a sport I’m almost certain he’d have at least 3 medals.” Matter of fact, the guy’s feral. “Plus a ‘Beware of Dog’ title.”
“And you expect me to believe you just had to throw that apple back at him?” Of course his dad would be concerned about the well-being of the enemy.
Stiles rolls his eyes.“Yes! It’s called retributive justice. You’re literally the sheriff, come on pops.”
“Uh huh. Remind me which one of you is in detention again?” Stiles inhales with his eyes closed. He’s on the brink of exploding with outrage.
“You’re the worst law enforcer ever, you know that? Let me talk to someone else at the station, I bet they’d fire you on the spot knowing this is how you treat innocent citizens who were assaulted.”
“You really gotta work on your flattery, son.” His dad almost sounds amused as he talks. Stiles is going to kill him.
“Oh to hell with—” Stiles hangs up the phone, knowing his dad won’t take it personally. Stiles feels as if he’s being toyed with by his own allies. ‘Love you’, the text from his father reads. Well thank fuck for that, Stiles thinks.
The halls filter out and the remaining chatter disintegrates, the only sounds in the silence being Stiles’ footsteps as he makes his way to the room he’s been assigned for detention. He prays to every God out there that it's not under Mr. Harris’ supervision. Anyone but Mr. Harris, that guy has a knack for making Stiles’ life a living hell.
Room 211 comes into view, and he peaks into the class to find it empty. He hesitates to go in, wondering how often and how serious the punishment would be if a student doesn’t attend detention. He envies the easiness of Scott’s day, how he’s probably already headed home to text the new girl he’s met and play video games until his eyes fall off.
Stiles freezes when he feels a presence behind his back. His eyes widen, he swears he can feel the guy’s breath at the back of his neck.
“What the fuck are you waiting for?” Stiles jumps when the guy downright growls. He thinks he recognizes that voice but still scurries to take a seat like a startled rodent. Derek Hale follows him in, tossing his backpack on another desk and deciding to sit directly behind Stiles. Holy fuck, Stiles feels his stomach do a back-flip, Derek Hale is sitting right behind him. He took granted the immunity and security he had in the principal’s office, now he feels like his only saving grace is gone.
Stiles’ thoughts drill a hole in his heart with the way he’s picturing all the many methods Derek could use to pummel his face in. For fuck sake this is the same guy that beat up both Matt Daehler and Theo Raeken in the same week, got suspended for vandalizing school property three times and got damn near locked up for beating Isaac Lahey’s father to a pulp. In which Stiles spent hours after each event figuring out the why and how. He remembered seeing Isaac Lahey hanging out with Derek on school grounds a couple weeks after his father was hospitalized, yet he couldn’t understand why anyone would want to spend time with the violent machine that so viciously harmed their father. He figures the new smile on Isaac’s face meant that perhaps some things had changed for the better.
Stiles sort of fantasizes about the lack of bullying he’d receive if he had a legacy like Derek Hale. Jackson probably wouldn’t even look in his direction, let alone shove him into lockers, trip him as he passed him, mock his every move or smack his tray out of his hand, all in which he has done in the past ten years. Stiles avoided telling Scott that Jackson’s kind of had a vendetta against Stiles since the very beginning, finding it easier to blame it on his own stupidity and Jackson’s spiteful nature over anything else.
The rest of the students wander in and they all wear equally anxious expressions on their face when they see Derek. Nobody had the guts to even look at the brute for more than 2 seconds, Stiles included.
Stiles counts seven students in total, including Garrett, the sore bastard, and a moody but almost late Erica Reyes.
Garret, for some reason, was even more spiteful than Jackson himself, choosing to engage in far more violent measures of picking on Stiles. Stiles always knew that although Jackson was a douchebag, he was far better than Garrett. This guy, without the desire to be on Jackson’s good side, Stiles imagines, would be a far more vicious person.
“Stilinski. What a not-so pleasant surprise.” Garrett purposely knocks into his desk when he passes Stiles. He doesn’t even laugh, Stiles notices, he really hates Stiles for no reason.
“Garrett. Did you finally stop dick-riding Jackson, or is that precisely the reason you're in here?” Stiles turns around in his seat to see Garrett’s reaction in case he decided to throw another… whatever the fuck he could get his hands on but he’s instantly violently reminded that Derek Hale is right behind him. He’s leaning lazily in his chair and he looks up when Stiles turns around. Seeing his eyes burn a hole into Stiles’ own makes him break out in a sweat. Behind Derek’s shoulder, at the very last row of seats, Garrett’s face contorts in anger.
“Watch what I’ll do to you after detention, Stilinski. You’re dead meat.” Garrett slides his pointed index finger across his neck for emphasis.
Yeah right, Stiles thinks, there’s no way Garrett would bully Stiles without Jackson around. He was constantly trying to get his attention and picking on Stiles was one of the easiest ways to do so.
Even with that knowledge, Stiles turns back around to face the front, already plotting a fast getaway in case the rage on Garrett’s face festers into anything else.
Ms. Blake walks in but Stiles feels the eyes trained on the back of his head still attached to his neck and Stiles’ fingers touch it in order to feel some safety. He’s not scared, he insists internally, he’s just pre-cautious.
‘Scott, you gotta help me. Code END TIMES.’ reads the text Stiles types discreetly when Ms. Blake’s got her back turned. Garret’s been zoned in on the back of Stiles’ head for the past 45 minutes, and Stiles thinks perhaps Garrett is as violent of a delinquent as Derek Hale. He remembers the investigation photos of Isaac Lahey’s dad’s bloodied face and bulging black eye and he feels the shiver crawl up his spine to his ears. The worst case scenario fuels his anxiety like an inflated balloon.
“Stop that you fucking spazz.” Derek’s hushed tone interrupts his mental spiral. Stiles immediately stops bouncing his leg up and down, not wanting to piss Derek Hale off even more. Fuck, he can’t do anything in this damn classroom.
He turns his eyes back to the pointless assignment on his desk that Ms. Blake handed out to students at the beginning of detention, attempting to get his mind off his upcoming demise.
It takes about 30 seconds for Stiles’ leg to start bouncing again and he feels Derek’s leg kick the back of his chair, jostling his hand from writing neatly. Stiles impulsively opens his big mouth, deciding this arrogant, entitled guy needed to be humbled.
“No offense, but if you were 10 minutes away from getting slaughtered on school grounds like some overgrown chicken, you’d be pissing yourself too, jackass.”
It hits him like a brick just moments later when he realizes he probably just put another target on his own back for Derek freaking Hale. Derek doesn’t respond, and that locks in the idea that Derek has now formulated a ploy to beat Stiles’ face in. On top of Garrett on his ass, he has Derek to run away from as well. Fucking fantastic.
The clock ticks by too fast, and Stiles barely sticks around long enough to hear Ms. Blake remind them to be here tomorrow after school.
Find the Jeep, get home safe, Stiles repeats in his head like a mantra, power-walking through the quiet school halls, but any and all ease vanishes when an annoying voice sounds from down the hall.
“Run little bunny.” Garrett yells from meters behind him, and Stiles turns around for one split second to see him sprinting towards him with a manic grin on his face. Holy fuck, Stiles books it as fast as he can out the door. Stiles feels the burn in his thighs but he doesn’t dare slow down. He knew Garrett was an asshole but this… this is new. Apparently he can add murderous, Michael Myers clone to the list of personality traits Garrett has.
Just as he’s about to reach his Jeep, the collar of his flannel is yanked from behind by an angry clasp and Stiles is tossed to the ground, his bag toppling over.
“Fuck,” he groans. He sees some loose papers fall from his bag beside him to the damp concrete, little splotches of brown covering the once clean white color of his notes. Garrett stands above him, fists clenched.
“Two weeks of detention over a pest like you.” He sneers at him, and Stiles feels like a cornered hamster against a venomous snake. When Garret starts walking towards him, Stiles inches away on his back and hands. His heart is pounding a mile a minute, and he knows he’ll drive home today with multiple bruises and broken bones, but he can’t help but open his mouth anyway.
“Have you ever looked into therapy for that?” Stiles’ breath voice comes out ragged and Garrett’s face shows the confusion he’s feeling at the random question. “For the temper tantrums I mean.” Fuck, any and all chances of being spared fly out the window. He was right, Stiles is dead meat.
Grimy, aggressive hands reach for him and Stiles has half the dignity to yell for help, but he doesn’t even have the chance to open his mouth. And neither do Garrett’s fists have a chance to reach him, for he’s being body-checked to the floor by a barreling, muscular—Derek Hale.
Okay, Stiles admits it, this whole day is a fucking joke. He thinks he might pass out, from exertion or shock, he can’t tell.
Derek stands above Garrett the same way the snake did over Stiles a minute ago. Yet Stiles feels far more intimidated by Derek than he does Garret, and by the horrified look on Garrett’s face, he is equally as frightened. The Senior inches towards him like a wolf surveying its prey and Stiles gets chills down his spine. Evidently, there are far worse fates than death.
He almost feels bad for Garrett, who scrambles to his feet in a show of invulnerability, until he opens his mouth at least, “Since when did you get a boyfriend you fag?” He asks Stiles, with an almost hysteric look in his eye. Stiles rolls his eyes and picks up his scattered belongings. A homophobic, murderous Michael Myers clone who also happens to kiss Jackson Whitemore’s ass. The list just keeps getting better and better.
He doesn’t expect Derek’s voice to answer Garrett’s question before Stiles gets to it.
“Since now.” Stiles doesn’t manage a second on his own two feet or even to process Derek’s words, before he’s being hauled in by a strong arm on his waist into Derek and his leather jacket. Stiles freezes in shock. He ought to be dreaming, there’s no way this is real.
“Uhh…” Stiles lets out by Derek’s leather clad shoulder. This guy is a real bastard for thinking he can just manhandle Stiles around like that. He almost opens his mouth to chew him out for it but decides Derek is probably the only thing standing in between Garrett and Stiles. He shifts from foot to foot in an attempt to create some distance between the overwhelmingly warm giant beside him but Derek’s eyebrows cinch together as he looks at him with unabashed judgment. His face reads ‘the fuck is wrong with you?’ Fucking hell, he’s stuck here like a stick in the mud.
‘How am I supposed to know?” Stiles communicates back with his wide eyes and moving hands. He’s never even talked to Derek Hale before, and now he’s cozied up next to him like his next trophy wife? This whole situation is absurd.
He thinks he ought to be much more afraid of the guy but for some reason, most of his fear dissipated when Derek arrived in the first place.
“Yea, right. What the fuck are you defending him for Hale?” Despite Garrett’s tense shoulders and defensive stance, he’s still leaning away like he wants to make a run for it any second. It's hard to imagine this is the same guy that was acting all tough and aggressive a few minutes ago.
Derek doesn’t seem nearly as amused as Stiles, his anger evident in his tense shoulders and expressive eyebrows. “Walk away…” Stiles notices Derek’s hesitation. “Gabriel.” And when he sees Derek’s genuinely confused face, he has to hide his amused snort under his breath into the older teen’s shoulder. The moron seriously forgot Garrett’s name, God, Stiles is so going to laugh about this later.
He subconsciously leans into Derek a little more, some part of his brain deciding that he’s not that big of a threat at the moment. The warm hand and strong arm around him is, to Stiles’ shock, making him feel safe. It’s large, sturdy, comforting and cozy. He almost forgets that it’s attached to Mr. Bad boy supreme of all people. Nonetheless, Stiles can’t deny that it’s a pretty good hand, and he makes a mental note to hug Scott later just in case he misses this feeling.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Garrett’s outraged voice interrupts Stiles’ thoughts. Garrett looks at him with a burning rage in his eyes, and Stiles almost feels uneasy. He steps back instinctively, but Derek’s strong arm still holds him close, almost as if to reassure him that he’s okay.
“You got lucky this time, fucking pussy.” Garrett lingers for a moment longer, but ultimately makes the right choice to walk away. A miracle, Stiles would think, until he remembers just how many fights have been rumored to have taken place, and won, by Derek Hale. His reputation gives him an immunity that Stiles can’t even fathom having. He might feel a little envious if it wasn’t for the fact that he’s using his troubling past to help Stiles, of all people.
Garrett finally leaves their field of view and Derek lets go of him abruptly. Stiles barely manages not to stumble, but the older teen doesn’t pay him any mind. He just pulls out a cigarette and a lighter to ignite it, and Stiles can’t help but immediately eye the lung cancer agent. Of course he’d figure now is the right time for a smoke.
He’s shaken up and rattled to the bone with what just took place, but puts his backpack on one shoulder and attempts to collect himself.
He awkwardly looks to Derek, knowing that now would be a good time to thank him for his help but Derek seems to be lost in his own world, taking a long inhale from his cigarette and huffing the smoke with his eyes closed.
Stiles feels a little concerned with how much Derek’s enjoying that thing, and he blames it on his scatter-brained thoughts when what leaves his mouth is in fact not a thank you but,
“Those things kill, you know.” Stiles gestures to the cigarette in Derek’s hand. “Super dangerous in the long run. You seem like you have uh… a lot to live for. You know, being super athletic and having a great uh… reputation.” Every sign in the universe signals to stop talking but it’s truly out of his control. The diminishing anxiety and adrenaline definitely have something to do with his nervous blabbering.
“Why don’t you try having one then.” Derek doesn’t even look at him but offers the cigarette to him anyway.
Stiles gawks in disbelief. “Are you—Are you insinuating—Are you telling me to—“
“Yeah.” Derek interrupts. He looks at him then, stone-faced, and Stiles flushes red in anger.
“That’s low! You don’t even know me.” He puts his hands on his waist, although he doesn’t feel like it adds much intimidation to his words.
Derek’s reply is curt. “I know you talk too much.” He takes a slow, relaxed drag, seemingly unbothered by all the events that have just occurred. Stiles secretly and briefly wishes he could be that nonchalant about these things, but his heart is still pounding away. Perhaps influenced by Derek’s irritating words.
“And how would you know that? We’ve never even interacted before, yet you already have some base assumption that you know me? Well, bullshit. Let me tell you buddy, I’ve heard a lot about you too. You're a stuck-up, arrogant—” Stiles stops himself, pointer finger inches away from Derek’s broad chest. Derek just raises his eyebrow and blows smoke the other way. Stiles takes a deep breath, he was just about to be the cause of his own death because of his opinionated nature.
“What I uh, meant to say was,” Not today Stiles, you’re not angering Mr. I Could Kill You with my Bare Hands today. With quick shifting eyes, Stiles continues, “Thank you for the um, help back there. With Gabriel.” He holds back a snort, recalling Garrett’s face during the whole ordeal.
Derek doesn’t seem convinced. “Really? Because it sounded like you were saying something about me being a stuck-up, arrogant… prick was it?” He feigns a face like he’s recalling a memory.
“No! No. That’s not—nope. Ha ha, that doesn’t sound like me. I would never—I mean, me personally, I don’t have that big of a mouth. You know, I’m—”
“Looks big enough to me.” Derek’s face inches closer to Stiles’, he can smell the scent of the cigarette rolling off him but can’t focus on anything other than the close proximity. Derek’s eyes flick down to his lips, and Stiles' face burns red. What the hell does he even mean by that? Stiles knew he was a big flirt in school but with Stiles of all people? He’s got to be fucking with him. Yet that assumption does nothing to stop his pounding heart and constricting throat.
“What—Big enough for what?” Stiles gulps, slowly leaning back and away from what he thinks resembles a predator more than anything else. “If you mean large foods or, I don’t know, large groupings of food, then you’re in luck because I can fit at least 15 curly fries in my mouth.” Stiles sputters quickly, rambling because of the nerves, but pauses to make a mental map of all the times he’s shoved food in his mouth in the presence of Derek Hale. “I don’t know how you could tell just by looking though.” Stiles concludes with a confused face. Derek just suppresses a grin, and backs off. Something in Stiles is relieved, another part uncertain. He can’t figure out this guy at all.
“Stay out of trouble,” Derek says, walking away to his car. Stiles’ eyes linger on the width of his shoulders without even realizing it.
Stiles stands in the empty parking lot in shock, a mirage of emotions occupy his body and he can’t help but wonder what the hell even was today? He was sitting in a detention room writing a paper on what he did wrong just fifteen minutes ago, and now he’s got an entire stream of events to recall, all including the untouchable school bad boy. He slowly turns around to walk as carefully as possible to his car, because he feels any sudden movements might send his shaking knees straight to the floor.
“Scott, I swear, this guy actually helped me. Garrett flew like eight feet after Derek bodied him, it was insane. He’s like a walking bicep, I promise you whatever you think he’s got going on under that jacket, it’s so much harder.”
“Woah,” Scott’s voice comes out muffled from Stiles’ phone. “Dude, were you like, feeling him up or something?” An absurd accusation that Stiles resents.
“What? No! Of course not. He’s just big. And hard.” He feels himself flush red listening to the way his own voice is filled with uncontrolled admiration.
“What the hell Stiles? How do you go from liking Lydia Martin to swooning over Derek Hale of all people?”
“I’m not swooning! I’m just appreciating. A guy can appreciate… another guy. He’s just, you know—”
“Big and strong, yea I promise you, I got it by now.”
“Oh fuck off, you have no idea what it’s like being held like that.” Stiles shivers recalling how easily he was manhandled around. What the hell did Derek eat in one day? “I felt like Belle from Beauty and the Beast. And matter of fact, you would too if you were there.”
“In Derek’s arms? Pretty sure that place belongs to you now.” Scott snorts at his own teasing. He continues with a girlish voice, “Ooh Derek you’re sooo handsome and strong!”
“You know what Scotty, both you and your math homework can go to hell.”
“What! Stiles, come on—”
“Noope, you had your chance buddy.” Stiles hangs up the phone, but he regrets it a second later when his thoughts wander back to today’s events. Although he’s gone over it multiple times, it still comes as such a shock each time. Derek Hale of all people came to his rescue. That has got to be the highlight of Stiles’ entire life, seriously the overgrown jackass probably didn’t even know Stiles existed until today, and if anything, he was more likely to beat the shit of the younger boy over anything else.
As he starts his homework, ignoring the exploding text messages from his best friend, he can’t help but think that maybe day one of detention wasn’t so bad?