Danny should've known better than to let Scott and Stiles become his 'friends', especially when it's transparently obvious that they're just in it for the gay bar. Danny isn't sure why they're in it for the gay bar, or why they seem to think Danny needs 24/7 surveillance, but it's at least twenty percent cuter than it is annoying, so he lets it pass.
Also, Scott makes an excellent wingman. An oblivious wingman, but excellent, nonetheless. Right now, for example, he's staring beseechingly at Danny as a muscular guy with a fake tan drags him off to dance, leaving said muscular guy's denim-clad friend looking appreciatively at Danny.
Well, at least Scott's paying his way. In hot guys. Which is the most attractive currency ever, in the history of ever.
Stiles just sits around and gets drunk. Drunker. And ramblier.
"I mean," slurs Stiles, "I'd totally want to lose my gayginity to you, man."
Danny turns to him, startled. "What?"
"Gayginity. Gay virginity. Hm. Although I also have my straight virginity…"
"Stiles. I've said it before, and I'll say it again. I. Am not. Attracted to you."
"Not even a little bit?" Stiles props his chin on his crossed arms and gazes up at Danny, eyes wide and golden-brown in the shadows of the bar, and -
"No," says Danny, and looks away. At that tall guy in the denim jacket. Much more his type.
"You know what I think?"
"No, Stiles, I don't know what you think, and I thank god for the privilege."
"Of not being telepathic? 'Cause, you're right, that could get confusing."
"Of not being you."
Okay. Maybe that was a little harsh.
Danny glances at Stiles, to make sure he hasn't crushed the poor kid's already-fragile self-esteem, but Stiles is just quiet. Pensive, almost, rolling his empty glass back and forth.
It's such a non-Stiles expression that Danny just stares, feeling weirdly like he's been ambushed. By something. Not that he knows what that something is.
"I think," says Stiles, slowly, "that you don't wanna date nice guys. Because that would be real. Because it would last. And you're not ready for that."
"Wow. Thanks for calling me a commitment-phobe with horrible taste."
"You're welcome. Heh. But no, seriously, Danny."
"Seriously, Stiles? Shut up."
"Your ex-boyfriend was a douche."
"Not arguing that, but - "
"Your best friend is a douche."
Danny can't argue that, either. But he's not going to say it.
"You have a type. A douchey type. Like that denim douche that's ogling your ass."
"Really? He's - no, wait. How do you even know he's a douche?"
"Because you're considering dating him."
"Elementary, my dear Watson."
Danny snorts, in spite of himself. "All right, Freud - "
"Call me Freudlock. The flawless love-child of Freud and Sherlock."
"Freudlock," says Danny, indulgently, because why not indulge the guy when he's so wrong? When he's so terribly, pathetically wrong. "If you're so right about everything, then why do you even bother hitting on me?"
"Because you deserve a nice guy," Stiles murmurs, and even though he's got that usual dopey smile on his face, his eyes are serious. So serious, and they're -
This is ridiculous. "I'm perfectly capable of dating nice guys, okay?"
"Oh, yeah?" Stiles tilts his head. His lips are still damp from all the drinking he's been doing. "Prove it."
So Danny huffs, hauls Stiles up by the collar, and proves it.
With his mouth.
And with his tongue.
When he's done proving himself, he sits back down, pulls his own drink closer to him and takes the biggest swallow of beer his human physiology can possibly allow.
Stiles teeters dangerously before collapsing onto his bar-stool. His pupils are blown. His lips are swollen. He also appears to be hyperventilating.
"That wasn't dating," Stiles croaks, eventually.
"I know," says Danny, and gestures the bartender over to order another drink. "But it's a start."
"Oh." Stiles blinks. Repeatedly. He has stupidly long lashes. "…oh."
Danny hides a smirk behind his glass.