Black Webs

The Hero Dies In This One

you think that you're the sun,
the whole world revolves around you,
the center of attention,
and everything is drawn to you.

xxxxx

e i g h t:

S t i l e s

"Ah. You're home. Would you like to explain yourself, kiddo?"

Stiles grimaced at the sound of his father's voice echoing from the living room.

He'd only just stepped in after dropping Scott's motorcycle off and had totally predicted this.

Stiles was soaking wet, tired and he had arrived home racing through the streets and leaping off buildings instead of driving his jeep.

Stiles often snuck out of the house in the middle of the night, but he did that through the window, so his father wouldn't find out.

He spent half of the way home plotting a strategy to get from the living room to his own bedroom unnoticed, which was a plan that pretty much went up in flames as soon as his father had sussed him out. "Not really?" Stiles muttered, making a face.

John Stilinski was on the couch in his PJs; a white tee and blue striped pajamas, it was nice to see him in something other than his office clothes. There were days Stiles swore his father slept in them.

He was munching on popcorn and watching a Chinese action film; currently presenting a bunch of Asian people scattering about in terror and running for their lives.

But Mr. Stilinski wasn't looking at the screen, he was looking at Stiles, and that wasn't his happy face.

"I think someone's been begging for some serious ass-whooping," Mr. Stilinski blabbed.

"Wait. Is that a leather jacket you're wearing?" Mr. Stilinski squinted at him, but Stiles evaded that question and winced once more.

"Okay! Okay!" He raised both arms up in surrender. "I'll talk just... Please don't utter the phrase ass-whooping ever again."

Mr. Stilinski shrugged. "I was just trying it out. Come, sit," he said, patting the empty spot on the couch next to him. "You know, I wish I'd taken a language back in my college days," Stiles frowned, preferring to remain standing considering he was all wet.

The wind had dried his hair off, but his jeans felt soggy as if he was wearing a cocoon, and his t-shirt and leather jacket were sticking to his skin like superglue.

"It's got subtitles," Stiles pointed out.

"Yeah, well. It's not the same." Stiles nodded, retracting his steps. "Yo, Pops. How about I make you some real food and take a shower and we can sit and watch all the terrible foreign films you like?"

"You're not getting off so easy, kiddo. Now start talking before I go all bad cop on you," Mr. Stilinski insisted. Stiles sighed, his shoulders slumping in retreat.

"Long story short I was at Scott's playing video games all day and then his friend delivered the bike he'd ordered and we kind of took it for a spin by the outskirts of Long Island but then we got stuck in traffic and it rained and then he dropped me and left."

It sounded hopelessly like conjecture, but it wasn't a lie. It was just half of the truth. Stiles decided it was better not to mention what kind of bike Scott had procured, and definitely better not to mention the detention and fleeing from it part. Mr. Stilinski looked skeptical.

"Where's your jeep?"

"Scott's dropping it off."

"That's funny because Derek Hale came knockin' at my door, jiggling your keys, about an hour before you got here," Stiles winced again. Damn it! He could almost picture Derek Hale's pleased, smug face. Stiles wanted to wipe that smug grin right off.