Fic: Don't Slow the Beat of Our Hearts
Author: tryslora
Title: Don't Slow the Beat of Our Hearts
Rating: PG-13
Pairing/s: Stiles/Derek, Lydia/Parrish
Character/s: Stiles, Parrish, Derek, the Sheriff
Summary: “See, some idiot out there must have watched Speed a few too many times, and as you might know, we’ve got a certain politician’s teenage son living with his mother in Beacon Hills and riding on my bus every damned morning and now someone has decided to make an example out of him and all his classmates if I happen to go under fifty-five miles per hour.” Stiles wishes he were kidding, but no, this really is his life right now.
Warnings: bad movie fusion, spoilers from S4
Submission Type: Fic
Word Count: 3,568
Prompt: #85 - …or die
Author's Notes: Okay, so, I don’t post smut to this comm because it’s all ages (that’s my personal decision), thus I knew I wouldn’t be writing fuck or die. So I wanted to go with something different. I’d been going to be all “don’t stop singing” but then I walked to get lunch and thought Speed and well, this is what you get… as always, I do not own the world nor characters of Teen Wolf, I just like to write about them.
Stiles has never been more glad to hear his phone ring. He punches the button on the steering wheel to answer it hands free, calling out immediately, “Yo, Daddio, you are on speaker and you’ve got fifteen pairs of tender teenage ears listening in on this conversation.”
“Stiles.” The sheriff’s voice breaks up on the speakers, but the irritation and resignation is still easy to hear. “Why do I have Parrish and Hale tailing your bus going sixty up the freeway? Did you happen to miss your exit?”
“Oh, I missed it alright,” Stiles says, his gaze never leaving the road in front of him. “I wish I’d been able to take it, but that’s a big no today, Dad. See, some idiot out there must have watched Speed a few too many times, and as you might know, we’ve got a certain politician’s teenage son living with his mother in Beacon Hills and riding on my bus every damned morning and now someone has decided to make an example out of him and all his classmates if I happen to go under fifty-five miles per hour.”
“You’re kidding.”
Stiles barks out a laugh, because honestly… “I wish I was, Dad. I really really wish I was. Because if I die in a fiery explosive bus crash? Just think how much of a let down that’s going to be after all I’ve been through.”
He can imagine the way his father covers his face with his palm, the way he rubs the spot between his eyes. In all of Stiles’s nineteen years, he’s seen that more times than he can count, but usually it’s for something he’s actually done. This time it’s not his fault.
“Open the emergency door and get the kids to the center of the bus,” the sheriff finally barks. “We’ll take care of this.”
The phone clicks dead and Stiles glances in the rearview mirror to see the kids all staring back at him, eyes wide. “You heard him,” he yells. “Someone open that back door-carefully, and without falling out-then all of you get to the center.”
As he watches them comply he’s actually happy for once that the bus company has him driving a full size bus for these fifteen kids every day, rather than one of the smaller units. They’ll be able to stay out of the way of the swinging back door, and at the same time stay safely back from the engine which is probably the part that’s going to explode if Stiles screws this up.
Stiles, of course, is absolutely and utterly screwed, since he can’t leave the driver’s seat.
“What would Keanu do?” he mutters under his breath. He hasn’t seen the movie in far too long and besides, it was a terrible concept and not much of a plot, and should he really be trying to find real life examples of how to survive in that?
There’s a thump and his gaze jerks briefly back to the mirror to spot someone crouched there, eyes glowing faintly orange for just a moment.
“Parrish,” he says.
“The one and only. Although considering the situation, I think you might be able to remember to call me Jordan,” he says, pushing to his feet and wavering his way down the center aisle of the bus. He reaches out to the kids on the way by, squeezing a hand encouragingly here, patting the top of a head there. He’s doing better at comforting them in those few seconds than Stiles can, which Stiles is grateful for.
Jordan crouches next to him, looking at the speedometer and the extra digital readout that’s been velcroed next to it. The words don’t go below 55 are emblazoned across the top along with a readout of Stiles’s current speed, which just tops sixty while he moves with traffic.
“So.” Jordan’s tone is entirely conversational, kept low enough to be swallowed up in the sound of the bus before it reaches the kids. “How do you know it’s real?”
“The guy called me.” Stiles laughs dryly. “No, I don’t know how he got my number. And it wasn’t anyone I know, it’s not a prank. Every time I dip lower I hear beeping; I know something’s gearing up to blow. And frankly, I’m scared shitless. This is not an ideal situation. Plus, I’m late for my own class and we have an exam. The professor’s probably not going to take someone tried to blow me up as an excuse. Ranks right up there with the dog ate my homework.”
Jordan nods calmly. “I’m going to need to try to trace these wires, see if we’re working with something in the electronics under the dash, or if it goes all the way out to the engine.” He pats Stiles’s knee. “You want to hope it’s in the dash.”
“Lydia’s going to kill me if I get you blown up,” Stiles mutters.
“Well, someone else is waiting in the car behind us to either kill you or kiss you when this is over,” Jordan replies. “He wanted to jump into the bus instead of me, but I reminded him that he’s got better reflexes for driving the squad car at insane speeds through heavy traffic, and I actually know how to defuse a bomb.”
“You have a point.”
“Just stay steady and watch out for traffic.”
As if it’s that easy to just ignore what Jordan’s doing. The deputy slides his fingers along the seam in the plastic, slowly prying pieces apart as he tries to get it open. Stiles can barely breathe, his heart rabbiting in his chest so fast that he swears he’s going to have a heart attack.
Stiles tries to focus on the road, changing lanes in a way that feels reckless when the bus swings into the space barely vacated by another car. He counts his breaths, keeps his foot steady on the accelerator. He drops his gaze to the digital readout-sixty two, now. He’s okay. They’re all going to be okay. He’s got fifteen teenagers and Lydia’s boyfriend counting on him. It has to be okay.
“Stiles?”
“Yeah, Jordan?”
“I’ve got news.”
When Stiles spares a glance down, the entire plastic panel is gone except for the digital readout, still bound in place with two plastic tie-wraps. Jordan is buried under the instrument panel, and Stiles gets a vague idea that there are blinking red lights in there somewhere.
“I don’t suppose you can tell me that this is all just a giant beginning of school year prank and I can strangle a teenager and we’ll be done with it?” Stiles asks hopefully.
“I would love to tell you that but I can’t.” Jordan sighs. “What we’ve got here is a well-made explosive unit-this isn’t an amateur, so congratulations, Stiles, your assassin is big league-wired into the acceleration. The worse news? The faster you go, the less you’re going to be able to slow down. Once it gets a read on you going sixty for a little while, that’s your new lower limit.”
“I’ve been going above sixty for a little while now,” Stiles says quietly. There are so many quips he could make about assassins and all the things they went through a few years ago, but he just can’t make them come out, not now. He has never felt less like joking, and that’s saying something, considering the things he’s been known to say in absolutely inappropriate times and places.
“Well, then, sixty it is.” Jordan rolls out, coming up to sit cross-legged on the floor. “Keep it right there and I’ll work on untangling this mess and getting it defused.”
The radio clipped to Jordan’s jacket buzzes to life. “Traffic is at a crawl about four miles from here.”
Stiles licks his lips. “Hey, Derek.” Hearing his voice helps, but at the same time, it worries Stiles because if Derek really is in the car right behind them, he’s too close. He wants Derek far away when this whole mess goes south and explodes.
“Is John up in the ‘copter yet?” Jordan asks. “We need eyes up high to give us a route around this, because otherwise we are not going to be able to maintain speed.”
“We’re blasting information out over the radio, trying to get people out of the breakdown lane,” Derek says, his voice flat and even. “Stiles, I’m going to pass you now. Follow me into the breakdown lane; I’ll clear a path for you. Jordan, get that damned thing defused. John’s coming in overhead shortly.”
“We’re going to die.”
Stiles isn’t even sure which of his students whispers the words, but it sends a sinking feeling into his gut. He pastes on a smile, looks into the rearview mirror to see fifteen terrified faces staring back at him. “No, we’re not. Because if we do, one of my best friends will so pissed off that she’ll resurrect me and kill me all over again.” The best part is, he’s not even lying. He’s pretty sure death will not save him from Lydia’s wrath. The joys of having a banshee as a best friend.
Jordan twists himself around, lying down, head under the dash again. “Just keep on keeping on, Stiles. Don’t get nervous and accelerate.”
It’s good advice, but when Stiles glances down, he realizes it’s too late. He’s going sixty-five and he’s not sure how long it’s been since he inched up that high. He swallows hard. “Sure. Yeah. What you said. Hold on tight, everyone, things are going to get interesting now.”
He does his best to keep the bus level when he switches into the breakdown lane, but it’s not easy. There’s plenty of width in the lane, but it’s on a slight tilt, angling towards the guard rail and the steeper drop-off beyond that. He manages to get settled just before traffic in the main lanes slows swiftly, then slams to a dead halt while he and Derek roar past.
They’re going to die.
His breath hitches, and something touches his ankle lightly. “Hold steady, Stiles,” Jordan murmurs, and Stiles does his damnedest. He stares at the police car ahead of him, lights bright and whirling as Derek speeds along the road and Stiles follows in his wake.
“Okay, son, we’ve got the path cleared to the next exit, and we’ve got traffic blocked so the exit’s cleared for you.”
Stiles would be thrilled to hear his dad’s voice sounding like he’s offering a solution except that he knows that exit. “Um. Dad. That’s a thirty mph exit, slower in something this big. Hard turn to the right. Twists under the highway. There is no way in hell I’m taking it at sixty in a bus.”
“You don’t have a choice,” Derek says curtly over the radio.
“We’ll be pulling in behind you with a flatbed and a mattress and we can get the kids off your bus,” the sheriff adds. “Let them know what’s going on and to buckle in and hold on.”
This isn’t going to be good. This isn’t even possible and Stiles knows how to believe six impossible things before breakfast and has been doing so since he was sixteen. But this is a real world, totally non-supernatural sort of bad, and he has fifteen young charges and he really doesn’t want to get them killed.
“Mr. Stilinski?” one of them calls quietly.
Stiles draws in a deep breath. “Go to the back on the left side and buckle in. Hold on to each other, hold on to the seats, hold on to anything you can grab. We’re all going to lean left when I corner right and help keep the bus upright with our weight. Then when you see the flat bed, you’re going to start going out the emergency exit.”
He can hear the buzz of you have got to be kidding me and the kids who are telling poor freshman Jeremy that it’s all his fault. And maybe yeah, it is, but he can’t help having a famous father who some asshole wants to manipulate with a little personalized terrorism. Stiles feels for the kid.
Then he doesn’t have time to think anymore, because the exit is right there and Derek is curving out of sight quickly and Stiles has to follow. He hooks his legs around Jordan, keeping him in place so he doesn’t slide down the floor. He hears the kids scream as the bus tilts dangerously close to tipping over, and he’s pretty sure he two wheels it for a while there before they land back on all four with a scream of rubber on asphalt.
He pulls out of the curve going even faster than before, onto a smaller highway where a flat bed is waiting for them, pulling in behind them and matching speed.
Something vaults into the back of the bus with a thump, and in the front, Jordan swears under his breath.
“Are we about to explode?” Stiles asks. He can’t look into the back right now, glancing down at Jordan instead as he hears people moving behind him.
“No, but this is more complicated than I want it to be,” Jordan grumbles. “Did I mention that our terrorist is a professional? Because he is, and this detonation device is a bitch.”
Stiles can barely breathe. He forces himself to make it through, to just grab at one breath and then another, in and out, slow and as steady as he can manage. When he glances in the rearview mirror, the students are being sent out one by one, falling into the cushioned back of a truck, tossed out by one supernaturally strong Scott McCall.
It helps, knowing Scott is here. Because Scotty will always have Stiles’s back. That’s what they do.
“Hey, aren’t you supposed to be in class?” Stiles calls out.
“I figured if you were ditching, I would too,” Scott replies with a grin. “You want me to stay here or get out?” he asks as the last of the teenagers leaves.
Stiles wants to say stay. He wants so badly for there to be something Scott can do, but even the act of switching drivers might kill them, and he really doesn’t want Scott in danger, so he shakes his head and says quietly, “Go. I don’t want to have to worry about you. And Scotty, we’re getting coffee later. Or maybe a really strong drink. I don’t care that it’s not even eight in the morning yet.”
“It’ll be on me,” Scott offers, then he leaps out and into the truck, and Stiles hopes he’s calming the kids down.
Now it’s just him and Jordan and a giant explosive. Scarily enough, this means that his life has improved over what it was five minutes ago, so Stiles will take that.
He looks out over the hood of the bus; the highway is smaller and completely empty. He figures that his dad has blocked the on and off ramps at this point, so he can just go until Jordan gets the bomb taken care of. “Hey, Jordan… tell me you’ve got good news?”
“We haven’t exploded yet, so that’s good news,” Jordan quips. “Other than that, no, not yet. I’m beginning to think we have to go to plan B.”
“What’s plan B?” Stiles asks.
“Parrish, there’s a construction site coming up, and we’ve got water trucks already there. They’ve been hosing down the pavement to grind it up, so they’re full and ready to go,” the sheriff’s voice snaps out of the radio.
“I’m coming in.” Derek’s words are accompanied by a thump, and Stiles sees a shape in the back of the bus.
“No. No,” he says, fingers going tight around the wheel. “Derek, you can’t be here. Fire, remember? Fire bad. Get off the bus.”
“Not without you.”
“Okay, Stiles, this is what we’re going to do.” Jordan twists himself out from under the dash and lies by his feet. “You’re going to make sure this beast is going straight, and I’m going to put my hand down on the gas to hold it in place. Then you’re going to run like hell to the back and Derek’s going get you out of here safely. Okay?”
“Okay,” Derek says.
“No! Not okay!” Stiles’s hands grip the wheel. He can see the construction in the distance and it’s getting close, fast. There isn’t a lot of time to make this decision but he does not like it at all.
“Okay,” Derek repeats, and Jordan pushes down on the gas.
Stiles doesn’t have a choice when Derek yanks him out of the seat, dragging him stumbling down the aisle to the back of the bus. Derek wraps his arms around Stiles and leaps out; they hit the ground rolling and the impact knocks the breath from Stiles’s lungs.
He hears the crash, the heat of the explosion, and he feels like he’s been shot.
“No,” Stiles whispers.
Derek groans softly, rearranging them as he checks Stiles for injury. “I think you’re forgetting something, Stiles.”
“No, I’m not!” Stiles stares at the fire raging. He can feel the heat of it against his skin, even though they’re far enough away to be safe. “Because Parrish! Jordan! Explodey fire! Lydia’s going to kill me!”
“Stiles.” Derek frames his face, leans in forehead to forehead until Stiles can’t see anything but him. He inhales and tastes smoke and Derek, and when Derek kisses him, Stiles sighs into it.
It anchors him, lets him get his breathing under control and pushes the panic back.
As they break apart, he blinks at the shadow walking towards them, burnt skin shadowed in the bright morning sunlight. “Oh.” He’d forgotten. Of course that was plan B. Out of all of them, Parrish could survive a fiery explosion and walk away. In his panic, he had entirely forgotten. “I’m an idiot.”
“You’re my idiot,” Derek says fondly. “And nothing seems broken.”
“Just my blood pressure being up and I’m going to have a massive adrenalin crash any second.” Stiles tilts his head. “Also, this is the third time I can remember seeing Jordan’s junk after he’s risen from the ashes, and honestly, dad needs to remember to keep extra pants around for him. Just in case. Because this is becoming almost the expected plan.”
“Is Stiles okay?” Jordan calls out.
“Scarred by your casual nudity,” Stiles yells back. “Weirdly aroused, yet very nervous because your girlfriend is going to blame me for this. I think I’m going to keep skipping class and ask this nice officer to take my back to my apartment and help me calm down.”
“He’s fine,” Derek says dryly. “As you can see. And no, Stiles, I am not having sex with you while I’m on shift.”
“It’s all in the name of good public service,” Stiles protests. “You need to make sure I’m okay. I’m traumatized.”
“Explain that to your dad.” Derek raises both eyebrows. “My boss.”
“Ah. Yeah. That does kind of lower the appeal.” Stiles makes a face, wrinkles his nose. “Is everyone okay?”
Derek touches the button on his radio and checks in, and yes, the kids are okay, the perpetrator is being brought in, and Stiles and Jordan are as okay as they’re going to be. Stiles manages to stand without wobbling, even though his knees are still shaking from the adrenalin.
“John can drop me off at my place so I can wash up and get a change of clothes,” Jordan says. “You can take Stiles home in the squad car.”
“You know,” Stiles muses as he knocks his hip against Derek, wound close while they head for the car. “I’m an action hero now.”
“You were rescued, so technically by most action movie tropes, you’re the heroine,” Derek points out. “Wasn’t Sandra Bullock the one driving the bus in the movie?”
“Fine, I can work with that.” He turns toward Derek and grabs him, kissing him soundly. “I’m the heroine, you rescued me. My hero. Let’s be stereotypical and-”
Derek puts a hand over his mouth and leans in close, whispering, “No, Stiles.” But Stiles can see the smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth, and he knows he’s winning. By the time they get home, Stiles is sure he’ll be able to convince Derek to help him get cleaned up, just to make sure there are no hidden injuries, and everything after that will be easy. And fun. Several times in many different places throughout their apartment.
“Somehow I didn’t think taking on a job driving high school students from Beacon Hills to an exclusive private school was going to be more dangerous than just going to high school in Beacon Hills was,” Stiles muses. “It’s sad when the non-supernatural world starts trying to kill me, too.”
“You know I won’t let it succeed,” Derek says, kissing the top of Stiles’s head.
Stiles grins and leans into him. “I know, I’ve got your back, too, big guy.” He just hopes that future lifesaving needs come with feet firmly planted on the ground and no need to suddenly re-enact Snakes on a Plane. Drive or die was enough adventure for the moment; Stiles is ready for some well-deserved relaxation and tender loving care.
Title: Don't Slow the Beat of Our Hearts
Rating: PG-13
Pairing/s: Stiles/Derek, Lydia/Parrish
Character/s: Stiles, Parrish, Derek, the Sheriff
Summary: “See, some idiot out there must have watched Speed a few too many times, and as you might know, we’ve got a certain politician’s teenage son living with his mother in Beacon Hills and riding on my bus every damned morning and now someone has decided to make an example out of him and all his classmates if I happen to go under fifty-five miles per hour.” Stiles wishes he were kidding, but no, this really is his life right now.
Warnings: bad movie fusion, spoilers from S4
Submission Type: Fic
Word Count: 3,568
Prompt: #85 - …or die
Author's Notes: Okay, so, I don’t post smut to this comm because it’s all ages (that’s my personal decision), thus I knew I wouldn’t be writing fuck or die. So I wanted to go with something different. I’d been going to be all “don’t stop singing” but then I walked to get lunch and thought Speed and well, this is what you get… as always, I do not own the world nor characters of Teen Wolf, I just like to write about them.
Stiles has never been more glad to hear his phone ring. He punches the button on the steering wheel to answer it hands free, calling out immediately, “Yo, Daddio, you are on speaker and you’ve got fifteen pairs of tender teenage ears listening in on this conversation.”
“Stiles.” The sheriff’s voice breaks up on the speakers, but the irritation and resignation is still easy to hear. “Why do I have Parrish and Hale tailing your bus going sixty up the freeway? Did you happen to miss your exit?”
“Oh, I missed it alright,” Stiles says, his gaze never leaving the road in front of him. “I wish I’d been able to take it, but that’s a big no today, Dad. See, some idiot out there must have watched Speed a few too many times, and as you might know, we’ve got a certain politician’s teenage son living with his mother in Beacon Hills and riding on my bus every damned morning and now someone has decided to make an example out of him and all his classmates if I happen to go under fifty-five miles per hour.”
“You’re kidding.”
Stiles barks out a laugh, because honestly… “I wish I was, Dad. I really really wish I was. Because if I die in a fiery explosive bus crash? Just think how much of a let down that’s going to be after all I’ve been through.”
He can imagine the way his father covers his face with his palm, the way he rubs the spot between his eyes. In all of Stiles’s nineteen years, he’s seen that more times than he can count, but usually it’s for something he’s actually done. This time it’s not his fault.
“Open the emergency door and get the kids to the center of the bus,” the sheriff finally barks. “We’ll take care of this.”
The phone clicks dead and Stiles glances in the rearview mirror to see the kids all staring back at him, eyes wide. “You heard him,” he yells. “Someone open that back door-carefully, and without falling out-then all of you get to the center.”
As he watches them comply he’s actually happy for once that the bus company has him driving a full size bus for these fifteen kids every day, rather than one of the smaller units. They’ll be able to stay out of the way of the swinging back door, and at the same time stay safely back from the engine which is probably the part that’s going to explode if Stiles screws this up.
Stiles, of course, is absolutely and utterly screwed, since he can’t leave the driver’s seat.
“What would Keanu do?” he mutters under his breath. He hasn’t seen the movie in far too long and besides, it was a terrible concept and not much of a plot, and should he really be trying to find real life examples of how to survive in that?
There’s a thump and his gaze jerks briefly back to the mirror to spot someone crouched there, eyes glowing faintly orange for just a moment.
“Parrish,” he says.
“The one and only. Although considering the situation, I think you might be able to remember to call me Jordan,” he says, pushing to his feet and wavering his way down the center aisle of the bus. He reaches out to the kids on the way by, squeezing a hand encouragingly here, patting the top of a head there. He’s doing better at comforting them in those few seconds than Stiles can, which Stiles is grateful for.
Jordan crouches next to him, looking at the speedometer and the extra digital readout that’s been velcroed next to it. The words don’t go below 55 are emblazoned across the top along with a readout of Stiles’s current speed, which just tops sixty while he moves with traffic.
“So.” Jordan’s tone is entirely conversational, kept low enough to be swallowed up in the sound of the bus before it reaches the kids. “How do you know it’s real?”
“The guy called me.” Stiles laughs dryly. “No, I don’t know how he got my number. And it wasn’t anyone I know, it’s not a prank. Every time I dip lower I hear beeping; I know something’s gearing up to blow. And frankly, I’m scared shitless. This is not an ideal situation. Plus, I’m late for my own class and we have an exam. The professor’s probably not going to take someone tried to blow me up as an excuse. Ranks right up there with the dog ate my homework.”
Jordan nods calmly. “I’m going to need to try to trace these wires, see if we’re working with something in the electronics under the dash, or if it goes all the way out to the engine.” He pats Stiles’s knee. “You want to hope it’s in the dash.”
“Lydia’s going to kill me if I get you blown up,” Stiles mutters.
“Well, someone else is waiting in the car behind us to either kill you or kiss you when this is over,” Jordan replies. “He wanted to jump into the bus instead of me, but I reminded him that he’s got better reflexes for driving the squad car at insane speeds through heavy traffic, and I actually know how to defuse a bomb.”
“You have a point.”
“Just stay steady and watch out for traffic.”
As if it’s that easy to just ignore what Jordan’s doing. The deputy slides his fingers along the seam in the plastic, slowly prying pieces apart as he tries to get it open. Stiles can barely breathe, his heart rabbiting in his chest so fast that he swears he’s going to have a heart attack.
Stiles tries to focus on the road, changing lanes in a way that feels reckless when the bus swings into the space barely vacated by another car. He counts his breaths, keeps his foot steady on the accelerator. He drops his gaze to the digital readout-sixty two, now. He’s okay. They’re all going to be okay. He’s got fifteen teenagers and Lydia’s boyfriend counting on him. It has to be okay.
“Stiles?”
“Yeah, Jordan?”
“I’ve got news.”
When Stiles spares a glance down, the entire plastic panel is gone except for the digital readout, still bound in place with two plastic tie-wraps. Jordan is buried under the instrument panel, and Stiles gets a vague idea that there are blinking red lights in there somewhere.
“I don’t suppose you can tell me that this is all just a giant beginning of school year prank and I can strangle a teenager and we’ll be done with it?” Stiles asks hopefully.
“I would love to tell you that but I can’t.” Jordan sighs. “What we’ve got here is a well-made explosive unit-this isn’t an amateur, so congratulations, Stiles, your assassin is big league-wired into the acceleration. The worse news? The faster you go, the less you’re going to be able to slow down. Once it gets a read on you going sixty for a little while, that’s your new lower limit.”
“I’ve been going above sixty for a little while now,” Stiles says quietly. There are so many quips he could make about assassins and all the things they went through a few years ago, but he just can’t make them come out, not now. He has never felt less like joking, and that’s saying something, considering the things he’s been known to say in absolutely inappropriate times and places.
“Well, then, sixty it is.” Jordan rolls out, coming up to sit cross-legged on the floor. “Keep it right there and I’ll work on untangling this mess and getting it defused.”
The radio clipped to Jordan’s jacket buzzes to life. “Traffic is at a crawl about four miles from here.”
Stiles licks his lips. “Hey, Derek.” Hearing his voice helps, but at the same time, it worries Stiles because if Derek really is in the car right behind them, he’s too close. He wants Derek far away when this whole mess goes south and explodes.
“Is John up in the ‘copter yet?” Jordan asks. “We need eyes up high to give us a route around this, because otherwise we are not going to be able to maintain speed.”
“We’re blasting information out over the radio, trying to get people out of the breakdown lane,” Derek says, his voice flat and even. “Stiles, I’m going to pass you now. Follow me into the breakdown lane; I’ll clear a path for you. Jordan, get that damned thing defused. John’s coming in overhead shortly.”
“We’re going to die.”
Stiles isn’t even sure which of his students whispers the words, but it sends a sinking feeling into his gut. He pastes on a smile, looks into the rearview mirror to see fifteen terrified faces staring back at him. “No, we’re not. Because if we do, one of my best friends will so pissed off that she’ll resurrect me and kill me all over again.” The best part is, he’s not even lying. He’s pretty sure death will not save him from Lydia’s wrath. The joys of having a banshee as a best friend.
Jordan twists himself around, lying down, head under the dash again. “Just keep on keeping on, Stiles. Don’t get nervous and accelerate.”
It’s good advice, but when Stiles glances down, he realizes it’s too late. He’s going sixty-five and he’s not sure how long it’s been since he inched up that high. He swallows hard. “Sure. Yeah. What you said. Hold on tight, everyone, things are going to get interesting now.”
He does his best to keep the bus level when he switches into the breakdown lane, but it’s not easy. There’s plenty of width in the lane, but it’s on a slight tilt, angling towards the guard rail and the steeper drop-off beyond that. He manages to get settled just before traffic in the main lanes slows swiftly, then slams to a dead halt while he and Derek roar past.
They’re going to die.
His breath hitches, and something touches his ankle lightly. “Hold steady, Stiles,” Jordan murmurs, and Stiles does his damnedest. He stares at the police car ahead of him, lights bright and whirling as Derek speeds along the road and Stiles follows in his wake.
“Okay, son, we’ve got the path cleared to the next exit, and we’ve got traffic blocked so the exit’s cleared for you.”
Stiles would be thrilled to hear his dad’s voice sounding like he’s offering a solution except that he knows that exit. “Um. Dad. That’s a thirty mph exit, slower in something this big. Hard turn to the right. Twists under the highway. There is no way in hell I’m taking it at sixty in a bus.”
“You don’t have a choice,” Derek says curtly over the radio.
“We’ll be pulling in behind you with a flatbed and a mattress and we can get the kids off your bus,” the sheriff adds. “Let them know what’s going on and to buckle in and hold on.”
This isn’t going to be good. This isn’t even possible and Stiles knows how to believe six impossible things before breakfast and has been doing so since he was sixteen. But this is a real world, totally non-supernatural sort of bad, and he has fifteen young charges and he really doesn’t want to get them killed.
“Mr. Stilinski?” one of them calls quietly.
Stiles draws in a deep breath. “Go to the back on the left side and buckle in. Hold on to each other, hold on to the seats, hold on to anything you can grab. We’re all going to lean left when I corner right and help keep the bus upright with our weight. Then when you see the flat bed, you’re going to start going out the emergency exit.”
He can hear the buzz of you have got to be kidding me and the kids who are telling poor freshman Jeremy that it’s all his fault. And maybe yeah, it is, but he can’t help having a famous father who some asshole wants to manipulate with a little personalized terrorism. Stiles feels for the kid.
Then he doesn’t have time to think anymore, because the exit is right there and Derek is curving out of sight quickly and Stiles has to follow. He hooks his legs around Jordan, keeping him in place so he doesn’t slide down the floor. He hears the kids scream as the bus tilts dangerously close to tipping over, and he’s pretty sure he two wheels it for a while there before they land back on all four with a scream of rubber on asphalt.
He pulls out of the curve going even faster than before, onto a smaller highway where a flat bed is waiting for them, pulling in behind them and matching speed.
Something vaults into the back of the bus with a thump, and in the front, Jordan swears under his breath.
“Are we about to explode?” Stiles asks. He can’t look into the back right now, glancing down at Jordan instead as he hears people moving behind him.
“No, but this is more complicated than I want it to be,” Jordan grumbles. “Did I mention that our terrorist is a professional? Because he is, and this detonation device is a bitch.”
Stiles can barely breathe. He forces himself to make it through, to just grab at one breath and then another, in and out, slow and as steady as he can manage. When he glances in the rearview mirror, the students are being sent out one by one, falling into the cushioned back of a truck, tossed out by one supernaturally strong Scott McCall.
It helps, knowing Scott is here. Because Scotty will always have Stiles’s back. That’s what they do.
“Hey, aren’t you supposed to be in class?” Stiles calls out.
“I figured if you were ditching, I would too,” Scott replies with a grin. “You want me to stay here or get out?” he asks as the last of the teenagers leaves.
Stiles wants to say stay. He wants so badly for there to be something Scott can do, but even the act of switching drivers might kill them, and he really doesn’t want Scott in danger, so he shakes his head and says quietly, “Go. I don’t want to have to worry about you. And Scotty, we’re getting coffee later. Or maybe a really strong drink. I don’t care that it’s not even eight in the morning yet.”
“It’ll be on me,” Scott offers, then he leaps out and into the truck, and Stiles hopes he’s calming the kids down.
Now it’s just him and Jordan and a giant explosive. Scarily enough, this means that his life has improved over what it was five minutes ago, so Stiles will take that.
He looks out over the hood of the bus; the highway is smaller and completely empty. He figures that his dad has blocked the on and off ramps at this point, so he can just go until Jordan gets the bomb taken care of. “Hey, Jordan… tell me you’ve got good news?”
“We haven’t exploded yet, so that’s good news,” Jordan quips. “Other than that, no, not yet. I’m beginning to think we have to go to plan B.”
“What’s plan B?” Stiles asks.
“Parrish, there’s a construction site coming up, and we’ve got water trucks already there. They’ve been hosing down the pavement to grind it up, so they’re full and ready to go,” the sheriff’s voice snaps out of the radio.
“I’m coming in.” Derek’s words are accompanied by a thump, and Stiles sees a shape in the back of the bus.
“No. No,” he says, fingers going tight around the wheel. “Derek, you can’t be here. Fire, remember? Fire bad. Get off the bus.”
“Not without you.”
“Okay, Stiles, this is what we’re going to do.” Jordan twists himself out from under the dash and lies by his feet. “You’re going to make sure this beast is going straight, and I’m going to put my hand down on the gas to hold it in place. Then you’re going to run like hell to the back and Derek’s going get you out of here safely. Okay?”
“Okay,” Derek says.
“No! Not okay!” Stiles’s hands grip the wheel. He can see the construction in the distance and it’s getting close, fast. There isn’t a lot of time to make this decision but he does not like it at all.
“Okay,” Derek repeats, and Jordan pushes down on the gas.
Stiles doesn’t have a choice when Derek yanks him out of the seat, dragging him stumbling down the aisle to the back of the bus. Derek wraps his arms around Stiles and leaps out; they hit the ground rolling and the impact knocks the breath from Stiles’s lungs.
He hears the crash, the heat of the explosion, and he feels like he’s been shot.
“No,” Stiles whispers.
Derek groans softly, rearranging them as he checks Stiles for injury. “I think you’re forgetting something, Stiles.”
“No, I’m not!” Stiles stares at the fire raging. He can feel the heat of it against his skin, even though they’re far enough away to be safe. “Because Parrish! Jordan! Explodey fire! Lydia’s going to kill me!”
“Stiles.” Derek frames his face, leans in forehead to forehead until Stiles can’t see anything but him. He inhales and tastes smoke and Derek, and when Derek kisses him, Stiles sighs into it.
It anchors him, lets him get his breathing under control and pushes the panic back.
As they break apart, he blinks at the shadow walking towards them, burnt skin shadowed in the bright morning sunlight. “Oh.” He’d forgotten. Of course that was plan B. Out of all of them, Parrish could survive a fiery explosion and walk away. In his panic, he had entirely forgotten. “I’m an idiot.”
“You’re my idiot,” Derek says fondly. “And nothing seems broken.”
“Just my blood pressure being up and I’m going to have a massive adrenalin crash any second.” Stiles tilts his head. “Also, this is the third time I can remember seeing Jordan’s junk after he’s risen from the ashes, and honestly, dad needs to remember to keep extra pants around for him. Just in case. Because this is becoming almost the expected plan.”
“Is Stiles okay?” Jordan calls out.
“Scarred by your casual nudity,” Stiles yells back. “Weirdly aroused, yet very nervous because your girlfriend is going to blame me for this. I think I’m going to keep skipping class and ask this nice officer to take my back to my apartment and help me calm down.”
“He’s fine,” Derek says dryly. “As you can see. And no, Stiles, I am not having sex with you while I’m on shift.”
“It’s all in the name of good public service,” Stiles protests. “You need to make sure I’m okay. I’m traumatized.”
“Explain that to your dad.” Derek raises both eyebrows. “My boss.”
“Ah. Yeah. That does kind of lower the appeal.” Stiles makes a face, wrinkles his nose. “Is everyone okay?”
Derek touches the button on his radio and checks in, and yes, the kids are okay, the perpetrator is being brought in, and Stiles and Jordan are as okay as they’re going to be. Stiles manages to stand without wobbling, even though his knees are still shaking from the adrenalin.
“John can drop me off at my place so I can wash up and get a change of clothes,” Jordan says. “You can take Stiles home in the squad car.”
“You know,” Stiles muses as he knocks his hip against Derek, wound close while they head for the car. “I’m an action hero now.”
“You were rescued, so technically by most action movie tropes, you’re the heroine,” Derek points out. “Wasn’t Sandra Bullock the one driving the bus in the movie?”
“Fine, I can work with that.” He turns toward Derek and grabs him, kissing him soundly. “I’m the heroine, you rescued me. My hero. Let’s be stereotypical and-”
Derek puts a hand over his mouth and leans in close, whispering, “No, Stiles.” But Stiles can see the smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth, and he knows he’s winning. By the time they get home, Stiles is sure he’ll be able to convince Derek to help him get cleaned up, just to make sure there are no hidden injuries, and everything after that will be easy. And fun. Several times in many different places throughout their apartment.
“Somehow I didn’t think taking on a job driving high school students from Beacon Hills to an exclusive private school was going to be more dangerous than just going to high school in Beacon Hills was,” Stiles muses. “It’s sad when the non-supernatural world starts trying to kill me, too.”
“You know I won’t let it succeed,” Derek says, kissing the top of Stiles’s head.
Stiles grins and leans into him. “I know, I’ve got your back, too, big guy.” He just hopes that future lifesaving needs come with feet firmly planted on the ground and no need to suddenly re-enact Snakes on a Plane. Drive or die was enough adventure for the moment; Stiles is ready for some well-deserved relaxation and tender loving care.