Lunatics ➳ Derek Hale/Teen Wolf [1]

15. lacrosse skills

Disclaimer: I do NOT own any parts of Teen Wolf or its plot or characters. I do not own Derek Hale. However I do own Skylar McCall and some of the things that come along with her plot (Like Harv & Kelly's, etc.).

☽❁☾

   Yes, I'm still mad at him -Stiles

I can't help but sigh at the sight of the text from our friend. It's already been twelve hours since the events of last night—a mountain lion (like, an actual one this time) miraculously appeared in front of everyone in the parking lot at the school after conferences. Mr. Argent pulled out a gun and killed it right in front of everyone. Stiles' dad had tried to do the same thing as well but, due to the chaos, ended up being hit by a car.

Stiles has assured me he's fine, he's just a little sore and bruised, but he hasn't talked to Scott since. He thinks he could've done something to stop it. It's clear he's projecting his own fear of losing his dad onto Scott as a duty to protect, but neither of us will ever call him out for that. He lost his mother; he's allowed to be scared of any more loss. The part that bothers me is how angry he is at my brother. Scott may be a werewolf, but in reality he's still a sixteen year old boy. He's not a superhero.

"Yeah, he's still mad," I tell my brother, the two of us trudging through the parking garage for the grocery store, our hands clutched around several bags. I realize that Mom's car is still nowhere in sight. "Scott, where are we going?"

Scott stops and looks at me incredulously, mouth agape. "What do you mean? I've been following you this whole time!"

I match his expression. "You have been following me? Scott, you're the one who parked the car!"

"Well you're more directionally coordinated than I am!" he practically shouts, his words echoing through the rather empty garage. We turn and look at the sign labeling this level as level three. "Didn't we park on level four?"

Rolling my eyes, I follow him back over to the elevator and hit the button for level four. The doors open, revealing an identical garage. We start walking, soon coming to realize that Mom's car is still nowhere in sight. Scott drops his bags to the concrete and fishes the keys from the pocket of his coat, furiously pressing the lock button several times until we finally hear Mom's car beep—back on level three.

"Seriously?" we mutter in unison.

As Scott bends down to scoop his bags back up, the milk tumbles out and rolls several feet, disappearing under a nearby truck. He starts to look for it when suddenly it comes pummeling back, leaving four streaks of the white liquid in its path—from four puncture marks made in the plastic jug by what one can only assume was claws. Without thinking, the bags in my hand drop to the concrete as well as Scott and I spin on our heels and run. On the other side of the garage, Scott tugs me behind a random car, the two of us crouching down and trying to catch our breath. The position gives me an eerie feeling of deja vu—the movie store and hiding behind the shelves, the alpha teasing and toying with us.