Road Strip
Where's Scott?
Stiles has been sleeping on the cold, hard ground for the past two days. Starving, scared, alone—“Stiles, put your phone away.”
Okay, so not completely alone.
“Don’t make me ask you again, or so help me I will feed all of the marshmallows to the deer eyeing us across the way.”
“Is that a challenge, o’ father mine? A chunky monkey challenge?”
“That’s barbaric.”
“And so is having no cellphone on hand. What if there’s an axe murderer? What if… what if I find a rabbit and can’t snap a picture? Erica requested all the bunnies, Dad.” Stiles, in the safety of his mind, thinks that pictures of rabbits might be the werewolf version of food porn.
“Fine,” his father sighed: dejected. Because Stiles always fucking wins chunky monkey.
He sends out a quick text to Scott, brb chunky monkey, before getting his game face on ready to conquer.
**
Stiles won chunky monkey , but puked all over his phone. Then, because this is Stiles’ life, a thumping rabbit startled the shit out of Stiles and the phone he was carefully handling with a hankechief fell into the fire. Figures.
He saved the phone, sure, but there is no way that he was going to touch that catastrophe with a ten foot pole until the CDC cleaned that shit up.
**
On day three of the Now-Annual-Because-We’re-Bonding -God-Dammit Stilinski Father/Son Camping Bonanza (alternatively known as the “Stiles Dropped The Werewolf Bomb Get-Me-The-HellOut-Of-Beacon-Hills Camping Trip), a raccoon sneaked its way into Stiles’ dad’s tent and popped his air mattress forcing Stiles to give his over because “sorry son, bad back.”
Stiles knew this trip was going to be trouble from the moment the asshole raccoon walked in. Now he’s just (for real, this time) lying on the cold hard ground. Trouble, trouble, trouble.
**
Seven days. Stiles went seven days without a bed. Without social interaction (re: thanks, marshmallows), without… well, anything. So he allows himself to gush just a bit as he steps out of the car and onto the ground for the first time in what felt like ever. And shut up, Dad, he can unpack later. A lot later, like after he treats his body to some TLC and his mouth to a BLT, later.
But of course this is The Life of Stiles, not Burger King’s, and Stiles will never, ever, ever have it his way so long as his dad is up and kicking. Ever. (And, yeah, maybe Allison’s Taylor Swift CD snuck itself into his jeep again. Maybe it’s all he and his dad had to listen to both ways of the trip. So what.)
He can, however, serve up a salad for dinner. With lots of spinach, carrots, oh! Stiles read up this fantastic recipe online with eggplant--
“Jesus, Stiles. Fine, go to bed.”
He maybe might have sort of been saying that aloud, doesn’t mean he’s manipulative or anything. Nope. Stiles is a romantic, and he will do anything for love. (What’s that? You can’t be in love with a bed, it will never love you back? Wrong.) That M&M commercial with the Red Guy singing about what he’d do for love? That’s Stiles and his bed. Except extremely 100% consensual.
So now Stiles, with a promising future in his sights, is climbing the stairs one step at a time just five more steps away to the hall, which is ten paces north to his bedroom (he’s bullshitting, but fuck it. He’s too busy going crazy with want, ready to succumb to the raw need that is sleep) and… And he’s reached his door. Fuck, Stiles has waited seven whole nights for this moment. He reaches his hand out to the knob, pausing right before he turns the handle (because what the hell, he’s sentimental) and then he turns it, oh god finally and gives his door a big ol’ love shove to see his bed. Just how he left it, too.
He puts on his bedroom blinders, takes a few large strides to his bed and lays down and Jesus that’s nice--
“Stiles.”
“No. No, no no no. No. I’m dreaming. I fell asleep really fast and I’m dreaming.”
“You aren’t dreaming.”
“That’s what they all say. Go away.”
“What did you say to Danny that one time? It’s your dream, take responsibility for it.” Dream!Derek says from across the room.
Stiles goes against everything he’s ever felt to be right (and his bed right now? So right.) and forces himself with all his might to pry open his eyes to see that yes, there is a Dream!Derek in his dream that happens to take place in his room and Dream!Derek just happens to oh shit be on his computer--
“You probably don’t want to be on that.”
“No?” He has the gall to sound amused, the fucker.
“It’s not,” Stiles snickers to himself, “it’s knot a good idea.” Ha! He’s hilarious.
“What’s not a good idea?” Dream!Derek cocks an eyebrow; configuration number 10 (EC#10: are you shitting me) before swiveling around in Stiles’ computer to open a previous tab. “Is Werewolves and Me: Male Anatomy not a good idea? What about Steve and Phil: This is Knot A Drill – A Erotic Werewolf Story, is that not a good idea?”
“Oh, my god,” Stiles scrambled off of his bed fast enough to give him a head rush as he darted across the floor to unplug the computer’s power strip because Dream!Derek wasn’t actually Dream!Derek. Stiles wasn’t dreaming and Derek, actual in-the-flesh Derek saw the tabs Stiles left open in his haste to get out of the house last week – who would’ve thought he’d been excited for said camping trip, really. He had been so naive.
“What was that for?!”said Derek indignantly.
“You invaded my privacy, you creep.”
“It’s not my fault you didn’t answer your phone,” Derek shoots back.
“It’s not my fault I puked all over my phone.”
“It’s not – wait. Are you okay?”
“What.”
“I mean is your phone okay?” Derek huffed, and okay. Stiles can deal with this.
“That depends. Do you have a bio-hazard suit, a rag, and a bowl of rice?”
“You… No. I don’t. I. You know what? You’re a T-Mobile commercial in the making.”
“Wow. You are funny. So funny that… You watch TV? I thought you said you couldn’t watch The Walking Dead because—”
“Stiles,” Derek interjects in his I Am Alpha voice. He’s suddenly serious, which is nothing new because for God’s sake, this is Derek, okay?
“Yes?” Stiles probes, curious anyway.
“It’s Scott.”
Stiles tenses immediately, “what about Scott?”
Derek looks at the floor and cards a hand through his already-disheveled hair (how did Stiles not know that?) and looks back up at Stiles with a somber expression. “Scott’s missing.”
And that’s how Stiles finds himself in a rented Ford Escape with Derek, on a road trip.
Okay, so not completely alone.
“Don’t make me ask you again, or so help me I will feed all of the marshmallows to the deer eyeing us across the way.”
“Is that a challenge, o’ father mine? A chunky monkey challenge?”
“That’s barbaric.”
“And so is having no cellphone on hand. What if there’s an axe murderer? What if… what if I find a rabbit and can’t snap a picture? Erica requested all the bunnies, Dad.” Stiles, in the safety of his mind, thinks that pictures of rabbits might be the werewolf version of food porn.
“Fine,” his father sighed: dejected. Because Stiles always fucking wins chunky monkey.
He sends out a quick text to Scott, brb chunky monkey, before getting his game face on ready to conquer.
**
Stiles won chunky monkey , but puked all over his phone. Then, because this is Stiles’ life, a thumping rabbit startled the shit out of Stiles and the phone he was carefully handling with a hankechief fell into the fire. Figures.
He saved the phone, sure, but there is no way that he was going to touch that catastrophe with a ten foot pole until the CDC cleaned that shit up.
**
On day three of the Now-Annual-Because-We’re-Bonding -God-Dammit Stilinski Father/Son Camping Bonanza (alternatively known as the “Stiles Dropped The Werewolf Bomb Get-Me-The-HellOut-Of-Beacon-Hills Camping Trip), a raccoon sneaked its way into Stiles’ dad’s tent and popped his air mattress forcing Stiles to give his over because “sorry son, bad back.”
Stiles knew this trip was going to be trouble from the moment the asshole raccoon walked in. Now he’s just (for real, this time) lying on the cold hard ground. Trouble, trouble, trouble.
**
Seven days. Stiles went seven days without a bed. Without social interaction (re: thanks, marshmallows), without… well, anything. So he allows himself to gush just a bit as he steps out of the car and onto the ground for the first time in what felt like ever. And shut up, Dad, he can unpack later. A lot later, like after he treats his body to some TLC and his mouth to a BLT, later.
But of course this is The Life of Stiles, not Burger King’s, and Stiles will never, ever, ever have it his way so long as his dad is up and kicking. Ever. (And, yeah, maybe Allison’s Taylor Swift CD snuck itself into his jeep again. Maybe it’s all he and his dad had to listen to both ways of the trip. So what.)
He can, however, serve up a salad for dinner. With lots of spinach, carrots, oh! Stiles read up this fantastic recipe online with eggplant--
“Jesus, Stiles. Fine, go to bed.”
He maybe might have sort of been saying that aloud, doesn’t mean he’s manipulative or anything. Nope. Stiles is a romantic, and he will do anything for love. (What’s that? You can’t be in love with a bed, it will never love you back? Wrong.) That M&M commercial with the Red Guy singing about what he’d do for love? That’s Stiles and his bed. Except extremely 100% consensual.
So now Stiles, with a promising future in his sights, is climbing the stairs one step at a time just five more steps away to the hall, which is ten paces north to his bedroom (he’s bullshitting, but fuck it. He’s too busy going crazy with want, ready to succumb to the raw need that is sleep) and… And he’s reached his door. Fuck, Stiles has waited seven whole nights for this moment. He reaches his hand out to the knob, pausing right before he turns the handle (because what the hell, he’s sentimental) and then he turns it, oh god finally and gives his door a big ol’ love shove to see his bed. Just how he left it, too.
He puts on his bedroom blinders, takes a few large strides to his bed and lays down and Jesus that’s nice--
“Stiles.”
“No. No, no no no. No. I’m dreaming. I fell asleep really fast and I’m dreaming.”
“You aren’t dreaming.”
“That’s what they all say. Go away.”
“What did you say to Danny that one time? It’s your dream, take responsibility for it.” Dream!Derek says from across the room.
Stiles goes against everything he’s ever felt to be right (and his bed right now? So right.) and forces himself with all his might to pry open his eyes to see that yes, there is a Dream!Derek in his dream that happens to take place in his room and Dream!Derek just happens to oh shit be on his computer--
“You probably don’t want to be on that.”
“No?” He has the gall to sound amused, the fucker.
“It’s not,” Stiles snickers to himself, “it’s knot a good idea.” Ha! He’s hilarious.
“What’s not a good idea?” Dream!Derek cocks an eyebrow; configuration number 10 (EC#10: are you shitting me) before swiveling around in Stiles’ computer to open a previous tab. “Is Werewolves and Me: Male Anatomy not a good idea? What about Steve and Phil: This is Knot A Drill – A Erotic Werewolf Story, is that not a good idea?”
“Oh, my god,” Stiles scrambled off of his bed fast enough to give him a head rush as he darted across the floor to unplug the computer’s power strip because Dream!Derek wasn’t actually Dream!Derek. Stiles wasn’t dreaming and Derek, actual in-the-flesh Derek saw the tabs Stiles left open in his haste to get out of the house last week – who would’ve thought he’d been excited for said camping trip, really. He had been so naive.
“What was that for?!”said Derek indignantly.
“You invaded my privacy, you creep.”
“It’s not my fault you didn’t answer your phone,” Derek shoots back.
“It’s not my fault I puked all over my phone.”
“It’s not – wait. Are you okay?”
“What.”
“I mean is your phone okay?” Derek huffed, and okay. Stiles can deal with this.
“That depends. Do you have a bio-hazard suit, a rag, and a bowl of rice?”
“You… No. I don’t. I. You know what? You’re a T-Mobile commercial in the making.”
“Wow. You are funny. So funny that… You watch TV? I thought you said you couldn’t watch The Walking Dead because—”
“Stiles,” Derek interjects in his I Am Alpha voice. He’s suddenly serious, which is nothing new because for God’s sake, this is Derek, okay?
“Yes?” Stiles probes, curious anyway.
“It’s Scott.”
Stiles tenses immediately, “what about Scott?”
Derek looks at the floor and cards a hand through his already-disheveled hair (how did Stiles not know that?) and looks back up at Stiles with a somber expression. “Scott’s missing.”
And that’s how Stiles finds himself in a rented Ford Escape with Derek, on a road trip.
♠ ♠ ♠
This will be three parts because everything is better in three's. Right? Right. 