“Have a good day, sir,” says the flight attendant, smirking a little, like -
“Fine,” Derek grits out, taking his suit back from the kid’s hand. He knows that he should, technically, be grateful. Not many stewards go to the trouble of sewing buttons back on for passengers, although Derek still thinks it’s weird that this guy even knows how to sew anything, not just because he’s clumsier than a stack of bricks teetering precariously on the edge of a cliff, but because he’s - because he’s a guy. Not that Derek’s sexist, or anything.
The smirk ratchets up a notch, as if the kid’s reading Derek’s mind. “Grew up with a single dad,” he confides. “I had to do the sewing for the both of us.”
“I didn’t need to know that,” Derek snaps, and then feels like an asshole when another stewardess walks past, all perfectly-permed hair and coolly-raised eyebrows, like Derek’s a substandard lifeform, but he’s paying for a ticket on-board this airline, so she can’t say anything.
“That’s Lydia. Don’t mind her. She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?”
“No,” Derek growls, strangely nettled. She’s just an ordinary young woman. She doesn’t deserve such -
“No?” The attendant smiles at him, soft-mouthed and dark-eyed, somehow managing to be both courteous and impudent. “Not your type, sir?”
Fuck it. “Thank you,” Derek says, finally, brusque and surly. “For the. The button,” and then he’s ducking out of the plane and clambering down the steps, before the guy says anything further.
Stiles, his name-badge had read. Stiles Stilinski.
Derek’s part of the Executives Club for British Airways and the Admirals Club for American Airlines, so he generally has his pick of chartered flights.
When he inexplicably ends up choosing the exact same flight for his fortnightly trip from Denver to Las Vegas, though, he doesn’t question it. It’s… convenient, that way. Fits his schedule. Allows him to attend even more meetings at the various Hale subsidiaries.
And if it means he gets to see Stiles ‘I Look Like a Cartoon Character in a Waistcoat’ Stilinski every single time, that’s - that’s just a coincidence.
“Well, isn’t this a coinkydink!” Stiles exclaims after seeing him for the fourth consecutive time. Seriously, who even says that? “Aww, c’mon, sir, don’t put on such a sour face! At least,” Stiles’s voice drops to a hushed whisper, so that Derek has to lean closer to hear him, “I didn’t say kink.”
His breath brushes warmly against Derek’s ear.
And then, with a wink, he’s off.
Derek stares after him.
Stares down at his drink, on the rocks, ice clinking quietly with the barely-noticeable turbulence.
Stares at his hand, spread out on the napkin.
He takes a sip, around an uncharacteristically dry throat, and swallows.
Having a thing for air stewards is not - it’s not a kink.
Not if it’s just the one steward, anyway.