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It was a lot like the last time. The time with Derek. He just wanted to get out again. Take Roscoe and drive. Go until he was far, far away from beacon hills and the supernatural, and the high school drama, and his drunk father.
But no. He couldn’t leave when his father was like this. Not when he could accidentally throw himself down the stairs.
And he couldn’t leave in general. Not the town. Not the supernatural. Not the stupid high school drama.
But he could drive. When his father falls ‘asleep’.
It wouldn’t be long now. He was past the point of a loose vocabulary, and luckily the tears didn’t show tonight, so it wouldn’t be long before he passed out in his recliner, scotch in hand.
For now, he would wait.
***
It only took 30 more minutes, a spilled glass of scotch, and quite a few choice words about Stiles’s spazstic tendencies (and that’s the nicest way the sheriff had put it all night).
Taking the half-empty glass from his father's limp hands before it could fall and quickly setting it on the coffee table, he moved for the entryway, already ready.
He took one look around the house before heading out, locking the door behind him, and stepping into the cool evening air.
He sighed in relief as he made it to the jeep, feeling some of the tension leave his shoulders.
***
He was contemplating, not for the first time, what leaving Beacon Hills would really be like.
Images of himself in a far off no-name town flashed before Stiles’s eyes. He saw himself graduating college, starting a job at some coffee place, meeting the love of his life, moving into a house, and having kids. He saw himself live and die somewhere far away. He saw himself happy, and the itching in his chest, that constant humming in his bones, aching for him to get out lessened slightly. Becoming a melancholy thrum of nostalgia.
Stiles visibly shook himself. You can’t feel nostalgic for something that’s not real, he chided himself. Only then did he realize where he was.
He looked up at the small apartment building as he parked. Of course, he subconsciously drove to Derek Hale’s house, because seriously he just had to make a fool of himself in front of the emotionless werewolf he just so happened to be in love with.
He sighed. There was no point in driving away. Derek would have already heard Roscoe. And not just because of the squeaky brakes that Stiles couldn’t figure out how to fix.
He sighed again, because really what the actual fuck is he doing with his life, and stepped out of the car.
Stiles made sure to lock the door before heading into the building.
He walked slowly up the flights of stairs, even though he had told Derek to fix the elevator probably a billion times.
The door was already open when he made it to the top.
He didn’t bother knocking, simply striding in and kicking off his shoes, letting the new soft rugs rub comfortably through his socks.
Derek said nothing but was standing expectantly leaning against the kitchen counter, water cup in hand.
“Hey,” Stiles said simply, walking over and sitting in one of the high-back chairs at the island.
“Hey,” Derek raised an eyebrow. Seriously, how did he manage to say more with his brows than his mouth?! Because the muscle clearly asked, ‘why are you here?’
Stiles ignored the unspoken question letting himself take in his surroundings. It’s the same as it was last week at the pack meeting. Though distinctly homier than it had been a few months prior.
Derek sighed and set his glass down on the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. Clearly, Stiles was going to make him ask. “Why are you here at,” he glanced at the glowing clock on the microwave, “1:00 in the morning?”
Stiles met his eyes for a brief moment before looking back at the island, shrugging his shoulders. “Midnight drive?” He offered.
“Those happen often?”
Really? Really. Derek was going to choose now of all times to develop communication skills?!
Stiles shrugged again. “Sometimes,” he said evasively.
Derek took a step forward, elbows coming to rest on the island so he was leaned toward Stiles. He took in a long breath through his nose, calling upon any and all patience he could muster. And-
Fuck.
“Stiles.” It was both a question and a demand. It had Stiles looking up at the urgency. “Stiles, please tell me you didn’t drive here drunk.”
That had Stiles stopping all thought. What? “What?” His brows drew together in utter confusion. Stiles was a lot of things. Reckless was not one of them. Ok it was, but like this. He would not have sat in Roscoe, let alone drive her while under the influence.
“Stiles.” Another demand. “Are you drunk?”
“Wha-no-no! Why-what??” Stiles was completely lost.
“You’re here. At 1 in the morning. You’re acting… weird and you smell like you dumped a bottle of Jack Daniel's over your head. Don’t lie to me about this Stiles.”
“I’m not. I’m-I haven’t- I wasn’t even- and I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t.” He couldn’t get the sentence out. This was… well this was quite plausible actually. But still! He wouldn’t. “I’m not drunk.”
“Have you been drinking?”
“No!”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You’re the werewolf! Can’t you tell I’m not lying by my heartbeat or whatever?!”
Oh. Really. Fucking oh. Derek was a moron. A complete and utter idiot!
He did a mental facepalm at his own stupidity and repeated himself, “Stiles, have you had any alcohol?”
“No,” he replied firmly.
And he wasn’t lying. Though his heart was jumping, Derek attested that to the anxiety he could smell rolling off the teen in waves.
“Ok,” Derek said, leaning back again.
They were quiet for a minute then, “Stiles?”
“Yeah…?”
“Why do you smell like you took a bath in scotch?”
Aaaaannd… fuck.
Yeah. The thing Stiles was definitely not going to say was: I spilled a glass of the stuff and my dad, you know the fucking sheriff of the town, got mad and in his drunken stupor threw a bottle at me (well near me - drunks really don’t throw that well) and it shattered against the wall and I had to clean it up so he wouldn’t see it in the morning and feel bad about it.
Yup, that was the thing Stiles was 100,000% sure he wouldn’t say.
And he wasn’t going to lie either. Cuz… fucking werewolves.
So a half-truth then.
“I spilled a glass of Jack.”
“You spilled a glass…” Derek repeated suspiciously.
“…yeah.”
It didn’t sound like a lie. Not in any way Derek could prove. But it felt like one.
“It smells pretty strong for one glass.” He tried to sound casual about it and feared he failed miserably.
Stiles was smart. So fucking smart and it was kinda scary. He was wild and funny and sharp. And it worried Derek. Because he knew he wouldn’t be able to out-talk Stiles. Like ever.
“Hmm. I don’t know what to tell you, Big Bad. Maybe your super-sniffer needs adjusting? Or maybe you're going… What's the word for when you lose your sense of smell? Is there a word for that? There’s a word for blind and deaf but is there really no word for no smell? Is there a word for no taste?”
Nope. He couldn’t out-talk Stiles