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Stiles sat in the back of his creative writing class studying the board intently. He had really wanted to take another English course that semester but this had been the only one that had fit into his schedule. Frowning, he looked down at his computer and the paper he’d written the previous night. The topic had been ‘Heroes’ and after many hours of debating writing about Captain America, he’d decided to take the assignment seriously and wrote about his dad.
It wasn’t that Stiles didn’t have confidence in his writing, the paper wasn’t bad, but they were required to share their short essays with the entire class. As much as Stiles didn’t mind being the center of attention, he abhorred public speaking. He glanced up when he heard the professor enter, chatting with another one of the students.
Stiles ducked his head so he wouldn’t be caught staring, but watched the other student approach his desk in front of Stiles. As he seated, he turned to hang the strap over the back of his chair and nodded at Stiles with a smile. “Hi.”
“Hey,” Stiles returned, fumbling the pen he’d been tapping on the edge of his desk, noticing the smirk as the other student turned his back on Stiles.
They went through this same exchange every class period but Stiles didn’t know his name. The professor didn’t take attendance, claiming that if the students were paying, then they didn’t have to show up if they so chose. They would fail the course because they weren’t there to present, but that was on the student and not the professor.
The class got underway shortly after the professor entered. Stiles waited for him to ask for volunteers like most teachers did when presentations were supposed to happen. Contrary to Stiles’ expectations, the professor simply gestured to the student in front of Stiles. The young man stood and moved to the front of the room.
Stiles studied him as he studied the tablet in his hand. The tips of his ears were tinged with pink as he cleared his throat a couple of times before looking up at the class. Stiles grinned at the thick-rimmed black glasses that sat on his nose. He must need them for reading. They looked nice on him, gave him a bit of a Clark Kent look with his dark hair that fell softly over his forehead and his curious colored eyes. Stiles always tried to figure out what color they were in the split second they made eye contact each day, but always failed.
He cleared his throat. “So, I’m Derek,” he said, running a hand through his hair. Stiles smiled when a couple of girls giggled in the front row, but he was happy to have a name to go with the gorgeous face. Focusing on the tablet, Derek began to read from it, his eyes locked on the screen and refusing to look up at the class. Stiles could relate.
“When most people think of heroes, they think of those from the movies or comic books. Some think of police officers and doctors. All of those fit the textbook definition of a hero, but there are other heroes, the ones that do small things at the right time and never get any credit for it.
“When I was sixteen years old, my family home burned to the ground with most of my family inside of it.” He swallowed hard and Stiles gasped along with the rest of the classroom. “I remember coming home from a late study session with my sister and finding my house aflame and the lawn filled with police and firefighters. One of the officers stopped me from running into the house. He held onto me until he could get my sister and me into his patrol car.
“This man was a hero, but not the one that I am writing about today. While I cried in my sister’s arms in the backseat of the patrol car, the officer drove away from the scene of the greatest tragedy of my life. When he opened the door and helped Laura and me out of the car, I expected to be at the police station or even the hospital. Instead, we were stood in front of a two-story house on a typical block.”
Stiles narrowed his eyes, something tugging at his memory. A night he hadn’t thought about in forever during a time in his life that was still a blur of grief and loneliness. He tried to match faces and voices to what Derek was saying, but he couldn’t believe he would forget a face like Derek’s.
“The front door opened and a young boy, about ten years old, raced down the steps, throwing his arms around the officer. The boy was his son and after he’d been introduced, the boy looked at Laura and me with a frown. ‘You need to eat,’ he said to us and took us both by the hand and dragged us into the house.
“The night passed with the young boy talking non-stop about everything under the sun. I couldn’t even keep up with how fast his mind worked. He served us dinner of macaroni and cheese with hotdogs, pride on his face when Laura complimented his cooking.”
Derek’s voice faded away and Stiles swallowed hard. He thought back to a night so long ago, sharing the table with two teens who smelled of smoke and looked like sadness personified. His father had explained later what had happened and Stiles couldn’t even imagine their pain. Losing his mom had been hard enough but at least he’d still had his father. He’d remembered thinking he was glad he’d taken the time to hug the two teens when the woman from child services had come to pick them up from the house.
“Even though the night had been horrible and the idea of leaving with a woman I’d never seen before who would have a hand in deciding my fate, I felt strong because the officer’s son made me laugh when he talked. As we got ready to leave, the boy threw his arms around me and squeezed me hard enough that I burped.”
The class laughed and Stiles remembered that moment clearly. The smell of mac and cheese on his breath as he said goodbye. Stiles looked up and found Derek watching him as he continued speaking.
“You would never think of a ten-year-old boy wielding hugs and a simple dinner would be a hero, but that night, he was definitely mine. My only regret was never having the opportunity to thank little Mischief, the nickname his father called him by, for making such a difference.”
The class broke into applause after a moment of silence and Stiles held eye contact with Derek as he returned to his seat, sitting sideways so they could still look at each other. “Um…” Stiles started. “I have to tell you something.”
Derek laughed. “No, you don’t,” he said. “I recognized you on the first day but could tell you didn’t recognize me. I wasn’t even sure you would remember when I read the paper.”
Stiles smirked. “You did all that to see if I’d remember you, instead of just saying something?” Stiles teased.
“No, I wrote the paper because the first person I think of when I think of a hero is you.” Derek’s voice was low, eyes serious. “I’m just glad I can finally say ‘thank you.’”
Stiles grinned. “You’re welcome,” he said. “You know, I was planning on making mac and cheese with hot dogs for dinner tonight. Feel like joining me?”
Derek’s smile was dazzling. “I would love to join you. You can finish telling me all about that jerkface Jackson Whittemore in your class.”
Stiles laughed, drawing the attention of the rest of the class and a frown from the teacher. “Oh boy, do I have stories for you.”