Sterek one shots

Dammit ,Gym

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"Remind me again," Derek says, rubbing his forehead as he stares down at Greenberg, Jr., "Why you decided to take band as an elective instead of art? The coaches have an agreement with Miss Harrington, Greenberg. She passes you if you finger paint."

Greenberg Jr. flushes from his mop of floppy brown curls right down his throat. "Band looked interesting, sir."

"You can't read music. Greenberg, you can barely even read."

"I thought I could have a natural talent?" Greenberg offers.

Derek stares at him. "Who's the girl?" he asks tiredly.

"Angelica Wilson," Greenberg says in a rush. "She's first flute and her hair is like silvery sunshine and she loves band and--"

"It's too late to transfer out?" Derek interrupts.

"Yeah," Greenberg says, scuffing his toe. "I didn't think this music stuff would be so hard, but Mr. Stilinski gave me an F-sharp on my last exam and he says my grades are in the key of tragedy."

Which means Greenberg can't participate in the cross country meet next week, and goddammit their chances for State were good this year.

"I'll talk to him," Derek says.

"Yeah, Coach?" Greenberg perks up.

"Don't get your hopes up," Derek says. "Most of those artsy types hate us because we get all the funding."

He hasn't met Mr. Stilinski, hasn't really heard much about him because Derek doesn't run in those circles. He's rarely ever in the teacher's lounge, and he spends most of his time in his office near the gym.

He pictures a white-haired maestro with bony hands and a hooked nose. He's not sure why--well, maybe he's remembering his own brief foray into middle school band.

He knocks politely on the music room door, but doesn't hear an answer. The door is unlocked, so he pushes his way inside to find a student wearing headphones, flailing and dancing to music in the middle of the room, his long arms conducting to a beat Derek can't hear.

The kid looks older, like maybe he's a senior, and he has a back and shoulders that Derek wouldn't mind trying out for the wrestling team.

Just then, the kid turns around and spots Derek. His big, brown eyes go wide, and he says, "Fuck!" really loudly, ripping the earbuds from his ears. "Dude, creep like a cat much?"

"Language," Derek instantly reprimands. "Does your teacher know you're in here by yourself?"

"My... teacher?" the kid says. Shit, he's cute. Derek has an immediate crisis of conscience. He crosses his arms over his chest and puts on his best 'You call that a good finish?' face.

"Mr. Stilinski," Derek says.

"Yeah?" the kid answers, like he's waiting for something.

"I am two seconds from hauling you down to the principal's office," Derek glowers. "Don't get smart with me."

"I literally have no idea what is happening right now," the kid says.

"Where is your teacher?" Derek grinds out. "You're in here unsupervised. Are you skipping class?"

"Oh," the kid says. His face slides into a wide grin. "Oh. Yeah, the teach knows I'm here. You might say I'm his favorite student."

"Yeah?" Derek says. "Where's your pass?"

"Don't need one," the kid says. "I practically run this class."

Derek narrows his eyes. "What's your name?"