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“Listen to me!” Derek yells.
Ten faces turn towards him, with a range of expressions from outright mutinous to cautious or cowed. He doesn’t feel at all bad for that last one, he tells himself.
It doesn’t work.
“None of you are being the f…rickin’ bait,” he says, adamant. He holds up his hand as Allison and Isaac start to protest. “Either there’s no bait, which I support seeing as bait makes no fucking sense at all, or I’m the bait. None of you know what you’re up against. I’ve at least dealt the…things (he’s not gonna admit he can’t pronounce the fucking Heinz 57 mixture of vowels and consonants Stiles insists they’re called) before -
“Ohhh,” Isaac says, the sarcasm so thick even Scott must feel it. “Mr. I’m-the-most-badass-of-alphas. Is this you being self-sacrificing, or just really arrogant?”
“Neither,” Derek snaps. “Like I said, Isaac, I’ve fought one before.”
That impresses them for a second, until, “Ha, ha. Lying, baby, yes you are,” and Derek does not know what the hell goes on in that kid’s head, honestly, his rambles sound like the gurgles of a one-year-old learning to talk.
Scott glances at Stiles. “No, his heart didn’t –”
“Cop’s kid, here,” Stiles says airily. “Derek’s evolved past all your pathetic fucking super-hearing, assholes. His tell, however, is there for the observing.” He’s bouncing a ball on the floor, and it’s fucking obnoxious. Derek snarls at it. “I know Derek the best, okay, clearly I can see the lying, and did you guys know he has a birthmark on his –”
“Stiles,” says Scott in a strangled voice. Erica scowls at him. “Shut up. Where, Stiles,” with a disconcerting degree of eagerness. Scott smacks her.
“Neck,” Stiles sighs dramatically, cackling at the look of torn relief and disgust on Scott’s face. “Just below his collar, thank you Erica, and Scotty, boy, it’s not fucking polite to fucking interrupt a lady, okay, shut the fuck up.”
“I didn’t interrupt her,” Scott mutters.
“Meant myself,” Stiles mutters right back.
Derek is gonna murder him.
“Yeah, yeah, big boy, I know,” Stiles says lazily. “So listen, guys, I have a plan.”
Eyebrows raise. Heads shake. Derek’s scowl deepens.
Stiles exerts a disproportionate amount of energy into sitting up and swinging his legs down from Scott’s lap. Maybe he kicks the guy in the chin. Who cares. Anyway. “No, but I mean…listen, okay? Derek, have you ever actually seen one of these before?”
“My…mom and my pack handled one when I was nine,” he replies.
“Okay. So they need to get back to the water. Bait isn’t gonna work, though, I forget which of you idiots proposed it – ” he’s not gonna say the douchebag’s name, he’s gonna be the bigger man here, but he allows himself a dark glare at Jackson – “but my dad put six tranqs in the things and it didn’t slow them down, and that’s of the scary variety even for humans of the non-human variety.” He pauses for a second; did that make sense?...Scott looks vaguely confused, but. That’s to be expected. “Also, chasing, the chasing will bring out the sheep in them, which, fun fact, sheep scatter all over the fucking place when they’re chased, so. We need,” he says dramatically, “to Free Willy the fuck out of them.”
Scott’s mouth opens, then closes, his protest dying on his lips. Derek looks like he’s mulling it over, and, holy shit, even Lydia looks impressed.
If his junior high self could see him now…
“What was that?” Lydia asks sharply.
Shit. “Did I, ah, say something?” Stiles says, with a weak grin. “I’m sure I would’ve noticed. Yeah.”
Derek’s scowling, again. Fucking werewolves, except, hey, he’s probably jealous. Ha. “We’ll talk later, baby,” Stiles sighs. “Thoughts on Plan FTFOOW?”
No one blinks at the acronym, though Erica giggles.
“Okay,” Stiles says decisively. “We’re gonna need a truck.”
Stiles is driving the truck.
Stiles is driving the truck, okay, he’s not gonna let a lifetime of watching car chases go wasted, but fucking Derek, man. No, fuck that. Fucking Isaac with his puppy dog eyes and his scarves. He’s the biggest asshole of them all, Stiles decides mutinously. And Stiles is driving the fucking truck.
Scott looks torn, which, fucker. Stiles was his friend first. “Um, you could rock paper scissors it out,” he suggests hopefully, the traitor.
“Traitor,” Stiles hisses at him. He faces Isaac.
“We’re not doing rock paper scissors,” says Isaac.
“Nope.” Stiles grins, hopefully like a shark and not like a crazy. “Guess a number.”
Isaac raises his eyebrows, what an asshole -
“Pick a number between one and ten, I have one in mind. You can tell if I’m lying,” Stiles adds hastily, and that seems to win Isaac over, the asshole.
Isaac’s not gonna guess. “Eight,” he says.
“Wrong,” Stiles states. “I win, fucko.” He’s driving the truck. Ha.
“What’s the number?” Erica asks.
“Heh, no, trade secret. I know which numbers each of you would pick,” he says smugly.
“Try me,” Allison says.
“The meeting’s over, yeah?” he asks Derek, because he’s thoughtful that way. Derek nods, a ghost of a smile drifting across his face. Stiles smiles back. “Allison, you get nine guesses,” he says magnanimously.
Allison’s fucking predictable, guessing from one to eight and hesitating before saying ten. Stiles grins broadly at her. “Nope. You lose!”
She smiles, rolls her eyes.
“Entry fee,” Stiles announces. “Five bucks to guess, ten bucks if you win.”
One by one they guess, one by one they fucking lose to Stiles’ genius. Scott goes last, and tries the puppy eyes. “That,” Stiles tells him, “that is a direct waste of the puppy dog eyes, Scotty, wrong as fuck.”
“Do Derek,” Kira suggests suddenly.
Derek snorts. Scott groans. Kira rolls her eyes. Lydia looks at Derek expectantly.
Stiles laughs, but, hey, he’s milked them of their money, it’s the least he can do. He makes a show of protesting, though, “That would be giving it away,” then, glancing at Lydia, “but, alas fair maiden, it’s the least I can do.”
“That’s not how you use alas,” Jackson grumbles.
Everyone looks at him in surprise.
“Shut up,” he mutters, still grumbling.
“Derek, guess a fucking number,” Kira says. Ooooh, spunky. She’s gonna be a hell of an influence on Scott. Stiles waves his arm at Derek, dropping his head to his chest, closing his eyes, affecting a dramatic-but-loveable expression. “Let’s hear it, baby.”
Derek hums. “Eleven.”
Isaac looks so fucking betrayed, Jackson is murderous, and this is what Stiles lives for, but oh shit, Lydia. Stiles’ knees go weak. “That, heh. That was funny!” Her glare intensifies. Like a fucking video game character. Maybe Lydia won’t notice him sidling closer to Derek. “So, uh, maybe all you smart, smart scholars would like to know the science behind that? Or, hey, just, I thought of that, not Derek, so, again. Fucking genius, here.” Why is he fucking rambling, he has Mr. I’m-the-most-badass-of-alphas. He stops rambling. “Watch, suckers, as my dark tall and handsome takes my arm. Take my arm, fucker,” he hisses, and he can feel Derek’s smirk as he does. He grins brightly at the room, waves their collective forty-five bucks at them, oh shit, maybe not such a good idea. “Bye, bitches!”
He maybe scuttles out of the room more than he waltzes, but Lydia is fucking scary, okay.