amused Author:
swing_set13Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Spoilers: general season one spoilers
Warnings: vague references werewolves, fairy tales, stranger danger, snark and wit
Word Count: ~1,100
Disclaimer: The characters and events depicted in these stories are fictional. Any similarity to any actual person, living or dead, or to any actual events, firms and institutions and other entities is coincidental and unintentional. All characters used are the legal property of their respective creators and/or owners and their constituents.
Notes: For
saucery because she's enabling me. Unbeta'd so be kind, comments are love! Because I've been bitten by the fairy tale bug. So help me. Let me know what you think. I entirely blame saucery. Love you though! Left open-ended for a possible continuation of wolfy romance. Because that's how I roll and apparently was in dire need to write my own version of Little Red Riding Hood. I had part of this lying on my desktop silently mocking me until I finished it off in a wild fit of inspiration. And tree rot exists, it is the bane of every mountain hike I have ever been on. And birddi made wonderful cover art, I mean, I blushed and flailed over it for like an hour. It's gorgeous. I swooned. Made me feel like a real time author. Just gorgeous. And somuchlikeabook did fantastic artwork too! I am blessed with knowing such amazing artists. Summary: Look what we've got, a fairy tale plot.
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Grandma Stilinski is a spitfire lady, set in her ways. She lives on the other side of the forest, up on Widow's Peak Ridge. The name isn't lost on her beloved grandson. Stiles believes she moved there for the purpose of dramatic irony.
Or something.
He's really rethinking only wearing his red lacrosse hoodie for the trek as the cold wind bites through the sweater like it was nothing. Spring can't come more quickly in his opinion.
Yet here he is on the most creepy path ever and it's getting darker by the minute.
The village had a fundraising campaign, almost as successful as saving the clock tower, to get the road repaired but since Stiles and on occasion his father were the only two to use it, it's been hard to get the town's backing for such a venture. There's a reason the town's bridge still has a toll and it's not because of the trolls.
Stiles' bag is full of his Gran Gran's mail, which he hopes isn't just trashy romance novels and tea. If he dies out here, he'd rather it be for something more manly. At his father's urging, he's weighed down by an additional load of two flasks of cider and a bushel of apples, his Gran Gran's favourite.
As the path winds, he hears a wolf's howl. The distant reminder of sticking to the path comes to the forefront of his mind. Stay on the path and the wolves can't get you. Something buzzes in his brain about mountain ash and all that myth surrounding wolfsbane.
Stiles is a practical guy. Not that he doesn't believe in werewolves. Beacon Hills teaches a class on mythical creatures in elementary school. Get them while there young should be the motto. That and shirts are optional. He's surprised a lot of his peers haven't gone hungry from lack of service.
Though the wolf says woof and the zombie goes argh isn't the best teaching plan. Stiles opinions on educational reform are never well received. If the detentions he's sat through throughout all his schooling have taught him. So he's aware of monsters just never met one. He hopes that trend continues.
He just thinks monsters would have better use of their time than feasting on his small intestines. He's a wiry kind of guy, lean, not much to gnaw on.
If he was a monster, he'd have better things to do than feast on the hapless townsfolk, like medical school. Or learn Spanish. Important life skills. Maybe work on his pick-up lines.
Plus, he's sure he tastes horrible. Why else would the lasciviously luscious Lydia Martin refuse to allow him to court her? His dad has assured him on multiple occasions that he's a catch what with his wit and good genes. His father was good at compliments.
Despite his misgivings, he quickens his pace, he'll be at his grandmother's before nightfall. He pulls the hood up over his head and soldiers on and ignores the feeling of being watched. Because looking back never ends well.
He soon trips on a wayward tree rot and nearly takes a tumble when a strong arm steadies him. The apples, cider and mail don't fair too well, Stiles isn't that forlorn about it, less to carry.
"Thanks," Stiles says automatically, because he's a polite guy. He looks up and meets the electric blue eyes of a ruggedly handsome stranger, who seems to not grasp the idea of personal space. He's basically breathing the same air as Stiles. If this continues they'll pass out from carbon dioxide poisoning.
"You're trespassing," the stranger all but growls, his arm digging into Stiles' arm. Stiles is tempted to check for claws. The touch is like a steel band of heat, a sharp contrast with the weather.
"Hey, public domain here, buddy," glares Stiles, pulling his arm out from the stranger. The road may be old but it's for everyone, not just brooding types with sharing issues. "I don't see your name on it."
The road is usually called the "Creepy as Fuck Road", or the "Widow Maker" if his Gran Gran has had too much hard apple cider.
"This is Wolf's Hallow," says the stranger like Stiles is incredibly dense and Stiles takes offense, because he's got the second highest grades in school. Lydia is brilliant at everything. So there is no competing with her.
"No, this is Hale Road," says Stiles because amateur cartography is something of a Stilinski hobby.
The stranger's eyes seem to glow in the fading horizon and Stiles doesn't want to think of how his heart is spiking at the thought of being alone in the woods with him. The stranger's nostrils flare and he seems to be studying Stiles.
"I'm a Hale," the stranger announces and Stiles laughs. There hasn't been a Hale in Beacon Hills in over three generations, not since the Great Fire and those witch hunters.
"Yeah right, tell me a new one, all the Hales are gone," Stiles declares with certainty. "And I have to be going, my grandmother is expecting me."
The stranger is still looking at him but his gaze has softened to consideration like Stiles is particularly intriguing, which is something novel, he usually tends to annoy people in close proximity.
Stiles backs away, keeping his back towards his destination and his eyes on the stranger.
"Just remember, I warned you," he says. "The wolves hate trespassers."
"Oh, like that's not foreboding at all," huffs Stiles. "If you're going to murder me, I'd rather not feel a thing. I have a surprising low threshold for pain."
The stranger laughs, it changes his whole face. Softening it. It makes him look even more devastatingly handsome. If that was possible.
"Get a long Little Red, it's a full moon tonight," smirks the stranger, his hand tugging on Stiles' hoodie. Almost possessive.
And Stiles is tempted to bolt but some things he really can't let slide.
"Little Red? My name is Stiles," he says because really that is the worst nickname. In Ever.
He backs further away.
The stranger's smirk turns into one a shade above shit-eating. "A pleasure then," he nods. "Mine's Derek."
Stiles mentally berates himself about stranger-danger before Derek turns away, walking towards town. "Hey, so you aren't going to kill me?" he asks. He's a masochist, he knows, but he'd rather get it out of the way.
Derek just smiles. It must be a trick of light because his teeth look inhumanly sharp. "Safe trails, Stiles. Stay on the path."
Stiles feels cheated somehow. He probably should just stop talking. "There are no wolves in California," he calls out to the retreating back. Derek just waves back. Stiles is tempted to toss something at his creepy head. Like his Gran Gran's mail. Thinking of her draws him back to the task at hand. The sun is setting and he's going to be late. He shoulders the mail, cider and what's salvageable from the fallen apples.
His dad was right, talking to strangers was never a good idea. No matter how hot they are. Especially when walking away.