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I Flatly Refuse To Call This "The Bend And Snap"

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It starts with an interrupted lunch break.

Well, no, that's not true. Really it starts when Allison invites Danny out for what she presents as a bar crawl and what turns out to be the two of them, more than slightly drunk, in that gourmet grocery store on Third Street at one in the morning staring in despair at the prices on the fancy cheese.

"I need to leave Scott for a billionaire," Allison says finally. "Or maybe just drink less, I'm not sure."

"I need more clients," Danny says, running a finger longingly over a wheel of gouda. "Do you know how long it's been since I could afford food like this, Allison?"

"Have you ever been able to afford food like this?"

"Once," Danny says, recalling with a mixture of fondness and dread the three months he spent as JLo's personal yogi. "Then I used it. My money. To buy a studio. Why didn't you stop me? Why didn't you say to me, 'Danny, don't buy a studio, be a leaf in the wind, spend your money on fancy cheeses?'"

"Because that would've been crazy?" Allison says, leaning into his side. "Because when you're sober you like your studio? Because who needs that much cheese?"

"Need more clients," Danny mutters again. "Studio and cheeses. That's where true happiness lives."

So, yeah, if Danny's going to be honest about it, it starts in the cheese aisle of the gourmet grocery store on Third Street, with Allison raising her eyebrows and saying, "Well, if you're really hard up for clients--and I mean really hard up, Danny, because you don't want him otherwise--I might have this friend."

The interrupted lunch break is just when he realizes he might--might!--have played this one a little wrong.

--

There's someone screaming in the lobby. Danny spears another piece of arugula from his salad and doesn't look up from his book; he's got a three o'clock, and it's 2:15. His entire morning was packed with group classes, his entire evening is packed with private sessions--if someone is screaming in the lobby, well, Jackson can deal with it. Whatever's going on out there is officially not Danny's problem.

The screaming stops. And then starts again. And then stops. And then starts again. Danny takes a sip of his water and turns a page; it really is a very good book.

"Danny," Jackson snaps, slamming Danny's door open with twice as much force as is necessary, "there's some asshole screaming in the lobby."

"Do we know why he's screaming?"

"Well, clearly whatever's on the other end of his phone is pissing him off," Jackson says. "How am I supposed to know? I tried to get him to shut up and he waved at me!"

"He…waved at you."

"Yeah," Jackson says. He crosses his arms over his chest and drops into the chair on the far wall, sulking. "I'm not going back out there, man. I don't get paid to take abuse."

"That is literally all you get paid to do," Danny says, but he sighs and gets up when Jackson doesn't budge. "You're officially the worst receptionist I've ever had."

"I'm the only receptionist you've ever had."

"Yes," Danny agrees, "that's the sad part."

He leaves his salad and his book behind and strolls out into the hallway, manfully ignoring the way Jackson yells "Nobody puts people on hold better than me, Danny! Nobody on earth is better at saying 'Mahealani Yoga, this is Jackson, how can I help you!' You'd die without me!" after him. There aren't enough hours in the day, especially not if there's a stranger screaming into his cell phone in the lobby.

He reaches the lobby. It is definitely occupied.

Danny shoves his hands into his pockets and leans against the doorframe, figuring a considered plan is probably the best approach. There is, indeed, a man pacing the middle of his floor. He's got short-ish brown hair that's sticking up in all directions, which is probably a result of the way he keeps frenetically shoving his hands into it. He's wearing what looks like a two-day suit, no jacket, the sleeves of his white oxford pushed up past his elbows and the neck on his tie stretched to hell, and it's not that he's screaming into his cell phone, exactly. It's more that he's holding it to his ear for a second, pulling it away, making a face, and then yelling at it, waving the hand that isn't holding it around.

"I don't give two shits what Lydia wants!" the guy screams. "You can't do that with a closed network, okay, you can't, it's not possible, it can't be done! Do you want me to say it louder? Do you want me to say it in Spanish?"

Danny crosses the room in three strides, reaches around the guy's back, plucks the phone from his hand and turns it off. The guy turns, mouth open, and Danny slides the phone into his pocket, sticks out his hand, and says, "Hi, I'm Danny. We don't allow cell phone use in the studio; it distracts from our overall goal, which is, of course, your relaxation. Do you have an appointment?"

The guy blinks at him. Repeatedly. "You…you took my phone."

"Do you have an appointment?" Danny has learned to stick to the pertinent facts, especially with the high-stress clients--this guy has My therapist made me do itwritten all over him. He drops his hand. "Or maybe you'd like to make an appointment? We do private sessions and group classes for--"

"You took my phone," the guy says again, like nothing else has even registered for him. Maybe it hasn't, Danny thinks; maybe he is the first in a new design of person whose brains are actually, physically stored in their Blackberries. He thinks he might have read a Stephen King novel like that once.

"I'd settle for a name," Danny says. "I'm guessing it's not 'You took my phone.'"

"I--you--" The guy makes this face that is, quite frankly, weird; Danny's not sure if he's going for sexy grimace or frightening baring of teeth, but either way he's coming up short. Short and weird. Danny raises an eyebrow, and the guy narrows his eyes and snaps, "Stiles. My name is Stiles. I'm here to see the guy, the head guy, the," Stiles waves a hand at the sign proclaiming their name in the corner, "Mahealani guy. Give me my phone back."

"You're Allison's friend?" Fancy cheeses, Danny reminds himself. With more clients, he can have it all. "I wasn't expecting you until three."

"You're Mahealani?" Stiles says. He blinks again. "But you said your name was…something started with a D. Sorry, I was kind of stuck on how you took my phone."

Maybe, Danny thinks, the phone has given him some kind of brain damage. In retrospect, maybe that's what that Stephen King novel was about. "Mahealani is my last name. Danny is my first name. This is not complicated."

"Stilinski," Stiles says, sticking out his hand. Danny takes it and raises his eyebrows, and Stiles says, "Uh, I mean, my last name. Is Stilinski! Since I have your last name and you should…have my last name…oh, shit, did you say this was supposed to be three o'clock? I thought it was supposed to be two, which would've made me late, not sure if that's better or worse--oh, fuck, but that means my two o'clock is not actually a three o'clock which, sorry, means I have to go! I'll call you, we'll reschedule, bye!"

And then he runs out the door, darting back inside a second later to take the cell phone from Danny's outstretched hand only to vanish again.

"Who's named Stiles Stilinski?" Danny says to the empty air. Naturally, no one answers him.

--

gyzym: that's how they meet, right, but within a month danny is seeing stiles three times a week for private sessions
gyzym: and through these sessions, danny has learned the following things:
gyzym: 1) stiles is the head of IT for a company called alpha industrial. he has two bosses, one of whom is named lydia--as far as danny can tell she's the head of the entire operation, and depending on the session stiles is alternately elated with her or sure that she is some kind of demon put on earth with the sole goal of causing his untimely death
gyzym: his other boss is named derek; danny doesn't know his last name, unless it's actually an unintelligible string of curse words
gyzym: 2) stiles knows allison because he was and is allison's fiancee's childhood best friend. danny knows scott, because it's generally considered bad form not to meet the guy who is going to be marrying YOUR childhood best friend; he likes scott. scott is calm and levelheaded and, yeah, occasionally a little bit silly, will every now and again tell a fart joke, has taken to coming into the studio when he's in the area to harass jackson--but he's sane, is the point. there is nothing about him that indicates that he would have an insane person for a lifelong buddy.
gyzym: 3) stiles is an insane person.
nat: Oh Danny. Allison tried to warn you.
gyzym: NOTHING ALLISON SAID WOULD HAVE BEEN ENOUGH OF A WARNING
gyzym: because, okay
gyzym: danny? pretty much has his life together. i mean, yeah, sure, he has his moments where he thinks that he's sunk all his money into a tiny yoga studio in a town in california that already has three yoga studios
nat: but he's a levelheaded guy with good business sense
nat: and he's charming
nat: and good at what he does
gyzym: well, yeah, and like
gyzym: by and large danny doesn't see the point in adding unnecessary stressors to his life
gyzym: like, OBVIOUSLY everyone has
gyzym: stressful moments
gyzym: things that get to them
gyzym: thoughts that keep them up late at night
gyzym: thoughts like, WILL I EVER FEEL LIKE MY STUDIO IS STABLE ENOUGH WITHOUT ME FOR ME TO TAKE A VACATION
gyzym: thoughts like, WHAT IF I END UP ALONE IN THIS APARTMENT FOREVER
gyzym: but mostly? mostly he knows better than to fall prey to those kinds of thoughts
gyzym: mostly danny does his utmost to live in the moment
gyzym: because there is a reason danny got into yoga to begin with
gyzym: and that reason is that yoga, as a practice, gels pretty well with danny's worldview
gyzym: deep breaths, stay flexible, and try to keep yourself grounded to the extent that you can
gyzym: stiles? is not grounded.
nat: pssshhhh Stiles is 18 inches above the ground held down by balloon string ALWAYS
gyzym: stiles is so not grounded that danny has spent more than a few of their sessions staring at his flailing attempt to maintain a pose and trying to think up an actual word
gyzym: that means
gyzym: "the opposite of grounded"
gyzym: to describe stiles
gyzym: stiles shows up fifteen minutes late to every session with such regularity that danny has started scheduling around his lateness
gyzym: stiles walks into the studio still wearing his tie three times out of five
gyzym: stiles tries to TALK
gyzym: through every pose, through every moment of instruction, and through the guided mediation
gyzym: no matter how many times danny tells him that the POINT
gyzym: of meditating
gyzym: is silence and inner peace
gyzym: stiles does not seem to understand either silence or inner peace as concepts
nat: or even as like, goals to work towards
gyzym: danny's actually pretty sure that, given the opportunity
gyzym: stiles would either spit on silence and inner peace
gyzym: or try to talk them into seeing things his way
gyzym: not that danny thinks stiles has a particular way of seeing things
gyzym: other than a) I AM RIGHT ABOUT EVERYTHING
gyzym: b) EVERYONE I WORK WITH IS A MORON (except lydia, sometimes)
gyzym: and c) I'M ONLY HERE BECAUSE MY THERAPIST SAID I HAD TO BE
nat: I PAY MY THERAPIST A LOT
gyzym: and it's the third of those things that danny begins to get a little irritated with
gyzym: because, first of all, what self-respecting mental health professional would inflict this guy on an unsuspecting yoga instructor?
gyzym: and, secondly
gyzym: how on EARTH was the therapist expecting it to help
gyzym: but it's not all bad
gyzym: because, for one thing
gyzym: danny turns out to be
gyzym: stiles' fifth yoga instructor in six months
gyzym: and the other four were all at competing studios
gyzym: and stiles talks about them.
gyzym: he talks about how they were terrible at their jobs, and he talks about the health and safety violations he saw in their studios
nat: of course he'd notice mold in the locker rooms
gyzym: right?
nat: I mean, he was obviously desperate for some excuse to high-tail it out of those studios
gyzym: he talks about their methods for recruiting clients, and he talks about the horrible music they play during their sessions
gyzym: and danny finds himself....well, it's not that he's taking ADVANTAGE of the things stiles is telling him, exactly
gyzym: it's not EXACTLY that he's using this information
gyzym: to poach clients
gyzym: and then, after the second month comes and goes, instructors
gyzym: from these other studios
gyzym: because that would be wrong
nat: hey! It's a legitimate business plan to gather information on competitors
gyzym: yes! and it is just that, coincidentally
gyzym: he happens to find it much easier
gyzym: to get clients
gyzym: if he happens to mention
gyzym: some of the things one his own
gyzym: anonymous clients
gyzym: told him about the competition
gyzym: so, fine, that's a perk
gyzym: and, also, there's the fact that stiles pays
gyzym: CONSIDERABLY BETTER
gyzym: than most of danny's other clients
gyzym: which turns out to be the result of allison's interference
nat: I'm guessing he's not completely unaware of his.. difficulties as a client
gyzym: he is not completely unaware of his difficulties as a client, but WE'RE NOT THERE YET, I WILL GET THERE IN A SECOND
gyzym: but in the beginning, what danny knows is that allison gave stiles an hourly rate
gyzym: that is in fact twice danny's actual hourly rate
gyzym: and stiles
gyzym: has been paying it!
gyzym: even though the actual rates are posted all over the place
gyzym: and even though jackson is an idiot and has mentioned this fact to stiles at LEAST once
gyzym: stiles is still paying the ridiculous money
gyzym: and he's coming in three times a week
gyzym: and suddenly danny can afford fancy cheeses
gyzym: not as many fancy cheeses as he would like, perhaps
gyzym: but enough fancy cheeses that the headache of stiles is, perhaps, maybe, possibly, worth it
gyzym: and then there's the third perk
gyzym: which is the perk danny tries not to think about
gyzym: and that is the fact that stiles, underneath the crazy hair and the crazy eyes and the crazy talking and the general crazy
gyzym: turns out to have....well
gyzym: a pretty nice body
gyzym: a seriously nice body, actually
gyzym: he's got the the whole coiled strength and trim-waist-to-broader-shoulders thing going on for him
gyzym: and what danny might, if pressured, admit to be an ass that looks incredibly good
gyzym: in yoga pans
gyzym: and there's the whole "painfully fuckable mouth" thing but danny is obviously not thinking about that because stiles is a client and danny is a professional
gyzym: but if danny was not a professional
gyzym: and stiles was not a client
gyzym: stiles might kind of, sort of, possibly
gyzym: be pretty much exactly danny's type
nat: sdfghjkl;lkjhgfds
gyzym: but danny's not thinking about that
gyzym: he is not thinking about it at all
gyzym: and one month becomes two becomes four and danny is definitely not thinking about it
gyzym: even though stiles is starting to actually....get pretty good at yoga
gyzym: and he still talks through their sessions but danny's beginning to recognize that maybe some people find inner peace through non-stop babbling
gyzym: because for all he finds that completely ridiculous in concept and practice...it seems to be working for stiles
nat: more than one path to zen and all that
gyzym: exactly!
gyzym: and stiles has stopped coming in still wearing a tie
gyzym: and boss-derek's last name turns out to be hale, not fucking-goddamn-shit-fuck-fuckward
gyzym: and the crazy around his eyes has lessened a little bit
gyzym: and he's carrying himself....better, danny decides
gyzym: the word is better, because before stiles had been all jerked motions and hard-wired tension
gyzym: and he still is, to a degree, but there's more calm in the way he holds his shoulders
gyzym: and he doesn't jump every time danny touches him to correct a pose
gyzym: and the problem is this just makes him more attractive
gyzym: not that danny's thinking about it
gyzym: he's definitely not thinking about
gyzym: the way stiles' skin is always warm under his hands
nat: NOPE
gyzym: or the way sweat tends to bead at the corners of his temples
gyzym: or the way sometimes he smiles at danny and danny kind of has a hard time breathing until he looks away
gyzym: he's not thinking about it
gyzym: he's not touching it
gyzym: until the dinner party.

--

Danny...is drunk.

Danny should not be drunk. He is, nevertheless, drunk; it had seemed like a good idea at the time, with Allison waving a third, a fourth, a sixth tequila shot under his nose, crowding him into the kitchen to hide from her guests with him. She is the one, Danny thinks sourly, who wanted to host a dinner party to begin with--Danny should not be the one who is drunk for her troubles! Danny should be out mingling. With Allison's guests. Who might be clients, if Danny played his cards right.

Unfortunately, right now Danny's cards are pretty much, "Vomit," "Vomit," or "Keep sitting in this chair on Allison's back porch, trying not to vomit." He closes his eyes.

"Hey," someone says.

"Leave," Danny tells whoever it is. "It's the smart choice."

"Oh my god, this is so much more fulfilling than I ever imagined it would be," says the unseen stranger. He sounds, Danny thinks, awfully familiar. "I thought you were perpetually at one with your core, but look at this. You are at one with being three sheets to the wind instead. I officially feel less stupid about every time I ever faceplanted on your floor."

Danny cracks one eye open only to see Stiles grinning down at him. He's wearing jeans and a red sweater that clings in all the right places--which, Danny thinks in melodramatic tones, is a sign of how close to death Danny himself must be. He is looking at a version of Stiles Stilinski that is wearing neither a tie nor criminally form-fitting yoga pants. This is obviously a sign of the apocalypse.

"Are you a sign of the apocalypse?" Danny says, because he figures he might as well know.

Stiles laughs. "Not today, Mahealani. If the apocalypse comes, I'll be as surprised as anyone else. Do you want some water or something?"

"Death first," Danny mumbles, "water later." He closes his eyes again.

"Poor guy," he hears Stiles say. There is still laughter in his voice, because, as Danny has long since been aware, he is a terrible bastard with an incredible ass who should not be allowed to remain alive. "You got Allisoned, didn't you, I recognize her handiwork when I see it. Stay there, I'll be right back."

"Allison's not a verb," Danny says, but he's pretty sure no one hears him.

He thinks he maybe falls asleep for a minute or five, because when he opens his eyes again, it's because he's being shaken. Stiles is looking at him with his head cocked to the side, perched on the arm of this suddenly-too-small deck chair, his eyes golden-hazel and concerned. Danny should stop looking at him for the sake of his sanity, and finds that he can't. Bleakly, he wonders if maybe he'll be lucky enough to get struck with a sudden case of alcohol-induced blindness. Probably not.

"Hi," Stiles says.

"Hi," Danny says.

"You are trashed like it's your job description," Stiles says.

"Allison's not a verb," Danny says, since he's pretty sure Stiles missed it last time. "Allison's a….a…"

"Hurricane?" Stiles suggests. His eyes are dancing. Danny didn't think people's eyes really danced in real life. Maybe it's the tequila; he definitely wouldn't be surprised. "Enabler? Tank?"

"Tank," Danny agrees, blinking blearily at Stiles. "Always was. Even in high school. 'Specially in high school. Almost killed Jackson one time because he didn't wanna be," Danny stops, trying to remember the word. Beated? Besteded? Victorized? "Beaten. By a girl."

"And he got alcohol poisoning for his sexism, huh?" Stiles sounds very, very amused. Also, there is something blissfully cold on the top of Danny's face; he tilts his head, trying to figure out what it is. He catches sight of the bottom of a water bottle just as he feels something else cold, and also water-bottle shaped, being pressed into his hand. "Sorry, I would've grabbed one of those ice-pack things you have at the studio, but Allison apparently doesn't keep them stocked. I didn't know you guys went to high school together."

"An' grade school," Danny mutters. "An'…the other one."

"College?"

"That's it," Danny agrees. "Allison was scary in college. All…drinking an' more drinking an' running all those…club. Things. Ver' scary."

"Yeah, I remember," Stiles says. The cold feeling moves against Danny's forehead, and it occurs to him to wonder if Stiles is actually holding a water bottle to his face. He hopes not; that would be embarrassing. In the yoga-instructor-to-incredibly-hot-client relationship, Danny is pretty sure he is always supposed to be the one holding the ice pack. "Scott met her junior year, so I met her junior year too. Did you go to school around here? Just because it's kind of…weird, you knowing her forever and me never having met you. Before you changed my life with your magic yoga skills, obviously."

Stiles is definitely holding a water bottle to Danny's face; the cool, easy pressure is making it easier for him to think. Definitely embarrassing. So embarrassing. Embarrassing forever. He closes his eyes again. "Transferred. Sophomore year. Out east. There was…family things, doesn't matter. You really don't have to, uh, with the water bottle."

"I totally have to, dude, I owe you," Stiles says easily. He moves the water bottle again, to the back of Danny's neck this time, and fuck if it's not the best feeling in the history of ever. "You've given me, like, what, a million massages? A million and five?"

"Unprofessional," Danny mutters, because, yeah. He's given Stiles a massage or four or twelve, that is totally true. He shouldn't have, because in the yoga-instructor-to-incredibly-hot-client relationship, Danny was also supposed to be the person who kept his distance and didn't make it weird, but, well. Stiles asked. And had nice shoulders.

Tense! Tense shoulders. Tense ones. Not nice. Obviously.

"I don't know what you're talking about, this is the most professional conversation I've had all day," Stiles says.

"That's because you swear at everyone."

"I don't swear at you," Stiles says, which is just such a lie. It is such a lie, and Danny makes a noise that he meant to be the words That is such a lie but that, instead, just comes out as a noise. It must make sense to Stiles, though, because he laughs and says, "Yeah, okay, sometimes I swear at you. Sorry. It's not my fault! The human body is not meant to be put in pretzel-shapes, it's not natural, I don't know what you expect of me. You should drink some water."

"Other people," Danny says, with as much dignity as he can muster, "are good. At being pretzels."

"Are you calling me a bad pretzel?"

"You're the worst pretzel," Danny says, and then, thinking about the water suggestion and its various merits, he opens his eyes.

Stiles is smiling at him, this big, warm, crinkly smile that's taking over his entire face, and there's a problem, Danny thinks, with the yoga-instructor-to-incredibly-hot-client relationship. The problem is that his client is incredibly hot, and smiling at him all big and warm and crinkly, and holding a water bottle that is still blissfully cold to the back of Danny's neck, and he is the worst pretzel. He is, because all of Danny's other pretzels are just clients, are just people whose bodies need Danny to help them, and whatever Stiles is, he's not that anymore. In fact, Danny is beginning to think that it might be his body that needs Stiles' body, which is just….unprofessional. The least professional. Maybe Danny's the worst pretzel; right now, that would not come as a shock.

"I am so drunk," Danny says. "Why am I so drunk?"

"Allison," Stiles says, shrugging. "When in doubt, she is always to blame. Do you want to maybe find somewhere to camp out that isn't, uh, this chair? Because no offense, but I think you might be in sleep-it-off territory."

Danny considers that for a second. "I think…leaving this chair…would be bad."

"Poor guy," Stiles says again. "Okay, then I'm gonna get a chair for me, because I have striven hard under your excellent tutelage for my current lack of physical aches and pains, and I refuse to sacrifice it to hard plastic up my ass when there are other options. Don't move."

Hard plastic up my ass, Danny thinks, is an interesting phrase. The kind of interesting phrase that is going to be burned into his memory for eternity. The kind of interesting phrase that he is never going to be able to unthink, especially when he's got Stiles in the studio, bent over being the worst pretzel, his ass right there for Danny to look at and think about filling with hard things that are not made of plastic and oh, god, Danny is going to lose his best client due to hitting on him while drunk. He can feel it coming, the critical point where he says something stupid and has to say goodbye to fancy cheeses, possibly forever.

He drops his head into his hands. Stiles comes back.

"You're going to make the fancy cheeses go away," Danny says to his knees. "If you don't leave."

"Well, that's sounding like a pretty good reason for me to stay, actually," Stiles says. He sounds calm. It is very strange; Danny is the calm one. Stiles pays Danny to be calm, and good at being a pretzel. Making him a pretzel. Why is everything pretzels? Nothing makes sense anymore. "Tell me, Mr. Mahealani, are you always stalked by fancy cheeses when you're trashed?"

"Not stalked," Danny mutters. "I stalk them. With money. And…hunger. I had it all worked out, I could have the studio and the cheeses, but now…now I think maybe not."

"God, you really are a funny drunk," Stiles says. He's not laughing, though; he's talking very quietly, and his hand is on Danny's back. He sounds…fond, Danny thinks. Then he unthinks it, on the theory that it's not the sort of word he would ever use if he was sober. "Jackson tried to warn me when I came out here to find you, but I didn't believe him. You're so together the rest of the time, you know? It kind of scared the crap out of me for awhile. You should've told me about the cheeses months ago, it would've made you much less intimidating."

"I'm not intiminimating," Danny insists. He pauses, because something about that sentence was Not Right, but presses on when he can't figure out what. "And you were never scared of me. You were the worst. I had to hide phones from you. You never listened. To anything. You talked all the time."

"I talk when I'm nervous," Stiles says. Then, ruefully, he adds, "Well, and when I'm angry, and when I'm annoyed, and when I'm stressed out, and when I don't want to do something but my therapist says I have to even after I've failed at it four times." The hand on Danny's back moves a little; it feels nice. "You were totally intimidating. You kept taking my phone, and even when I talked through everything you still made me finish the sessions, and you're at least six degrees hotter than pretty much everyone else I see on a regular basis. I was terrified of you for like, the whole first month. So I talked more, because I talk when I'm nervous. You see how this works?"

"You're talking now," Danny points out, and Stiles laughs.

"Yeah, I am, aren't I," Stiles says. The hand on Danny's back has fingers, which Danny knows, because they've started tapping against him very lightly. It's soothing, and Danny closes his eyes again. "Which is probably because…you're still kind of terrifying, Danny, you know that? More terrifying, maybe. It's just for different reasons now."

"'S bullshit," Danny says. "You're the scary one. You're totally breaking it. The thing. Yoga-instructor-to-incredibly-hot-client relationship, you make it a problem, I don't know how to…not…unprofessional. So much scarier than me."

Then, without ceremony, he passes out. It's….really not one of his better moments.

---

Danny wakes up, and promptly decides better of being awake. Or human. Or alive. He falls asleep again.

--

The second time Danny wakes up, it's noon, Allison is sitting on his bed.

Or…her bed, now that he thinks about it. Her guest bed. That he appears to have slept in. He blinks at her, finds that moving his eyelids produces incredible agony, and groans, rolling over to bury his face in his pillow.

Her hand is on his cheek a second later, wrenching his face back away from the pillow. She gives him a disappointed look and slides a pair of aviator sunglasses over his eyes. "There. Now we can talk."

"Have you never had a hangover before?" Danny's voice is about 700 decibels too loud, but he swallows down the cry of pain on the theory that it'll be even worse. "Sunglasses aren't actually a cure-all."

"I tried to tell her that," says Scott from the doorway, which is when Danny realizes Scott is in the doorway. He is also wearing sunglasses, and he looks about as bad as Danny feels. "She wouldn't listen. I'm gonna lay on your bed now, but I wanted you to be awake first, because bros don't surprise their bros with cuddles. Bros ask to cuddle first."

"Uh," Danny says. He looks at Allison, who rolls her eyes. "Okay?"

"Cool," Scott says, and climbs into bed, resting his head on Danny's stomach and grabbing Allison's hand. "So, can we talk about how my best friend totally wants to bone you?"

"Or how you totally want to bone his best friend, either way," Allison says, while Danny makes a strangled little noise and wishes for death. "Aren't you glad you woke up?"

--

As a direct result of interfering interferers who interfere, Danny finds himself standing at the edge of a playground two hours later. He is wearing a t-shirt that belongs to Scott McCall. He is wearing a pair of sweatpants that belong to Scott McCall. He is, fortunately, wearing underwear that is firmly and inexorably his own, but it is, unfortunately, not clean underwear. He has not showered. He has not napped. He has not, in actual fact, been home. Allison dressed him under the guise of planning to let him lie around for the day, lent him a spare toothbrush, blindsided him with coffee and a greasy breakfast, and then drove him to the park, shoved him out of the car, and abandoned him.

"You need this," she said, leaning out the window and grinning at him. "Because I know you, and I know you'll talk yourself out of manning up and saying 'Stiles, we need to have sex,' with some perfectly rock-solid reason that you'll make me feel guilty about arguing with--"

"It's not ethically right to sleep with my--"

"See, you're already trying," Allison said brightly. "And Stiles is way worse than you. In fact, I have it on the good authority of both Scott and Jackson that Stiles is having a full-on nervous breakdown right now, because apparently he told you that you make him nervous last night and obviously that's reason enough to threaten to fling himself off the nearest bridge."

Danny smiled despite himself. "He only threatens to fling himself off the nearest bridge when his bosses ask him to do stuff that isn't actually physically possible."

"Look, you already know he's insane, and you still want to sleep with him," Allison said. "Obviously this is meant to be."

And then she drove away, leaving him with nothing but his nerves, his coffee, and her aviator sunglasses. The sunglasses don't even work on him; Danny caught his reflection in the tinted windows of a passing car a few minutes ago, and he is definitely not rocking the just out of bed look. There's the argument that he might be rocking the recently-escaped-from-the-asylum-look, or possibly the vagrant look, but he's been trying not to consider that since he thought of it.

There were children on the playground when he got here. Their parents have removed them. Looks-wise, Danny is figuring this is not a good sign.

He hears Jackson's Porsche before he sees it, because Jackson's been driving like he was in high school since they were actually in high school, shrieking to terrible stops and forever trying to give Danny a heart attack. He turns around just in time to see Stiles get shoved out; he's dressed more or less exactly like Danny is, sunglasses at all.

"Be brave!" he hears Scott yell, and, while that does explain where Scott had vanished to after he declared bro-cuddles to be officially over, it doesn't do much to soothe the balm of the Porsche pulling away and leaving Stiles standing there, looking more or less poised for flight.

Danny sighs and walks over to him. "So, uh. Hi?"

"Is that Scott's shirt?" Stiles says. Then he runs a hand through his hair, that same frenetic, half-mad energy Danny remembers from the first time they met. He hasn't seen Stiles do that in awhile, and it's weird, how calming it is to know Stiles is freaked out too. "I mean, uh, hello, obviously, I just, that looks like a shirt that I bought for Scott one time, long time ago, practically ancient history, but you could totally have the same shirt, so--"

"It's Scott's shirt," Danny says, taking pity on him. "They're Scott's sweats, too. Allison kind of dressed me up and left me here, which I'm guessing you get, since those pretty much look like Jackson's clothes."

"He kidnapped me," Stiles agrees miserably. "Last night. After you passed out. He's worse than Allison."

"That's because Allison, deep down in her soul, is capable of compassion for others," Danny says on a sigh. "Jackson is only capable of compassion for himself."

"Right," Stiles says. He runs a hand through his hair again, and Danny really shouldn't be so charmed by it, the way he looks like he's a quarter-inch from cracking in half. "So, uh, I guess this is the part of this exchange where I say that I'm sorry for, you know, being drunk at you while you were too drunk to tell me to stop being drunk at you. So. You know. Sorry about that."

Danny smiles; he can't help himself. "Really? I thought it was the part where I apologize for getting plastered and hitting on you, officially ruining our instructor-to-client relationship."

"There is literally nothing you could do to ruin our instructor-to-client relationship," Stiles says. His voice has gone kind of desperate and babbling, and he's three shades paler than your average hangover sufferer, and those sunglasses look ridiculous on him, and Danny is pretty sure he's well and truly fucked, feelings-wise. When someone looks as shitty as Stiles does and you still want to bang them into next week--or, if Danny's going to be honest about it, curl up on a couch with them for three to five hours and then bang them into next week--your goose is probably cooked. "I've been told in no uncertain terms by my therapist that you are the best thing that's ever happened to me and I am never ever allowed to stop going to see you because if I do I'll probably have a heart attack before I turn thirty, so. I mean, I wouldn't worry about it. I know I'm the worst pretzel, but if anything it's going to be you firing me, and also what do you mean hitting on me, and also I'm going to stop talking."

The smile on Danny's face is actually starting to hurt a little. "Stiles?"

"Yeah?"

"You're kind of freaking out, aren't you?"

"Kind of is an understatement," Stiles mutters. "Possibly even the understatement of the century, but Scott's a terrible person and Jackson is a terrible person and I really did, I want you to know this, I really did try to stop them from abandoning us here without any way for you to run. Or for me to run. Or for any running to, um, happen."

"I don't want to run," Danny says.

"That is remarkably short-sighted of you," Stiles says, very faintly.

Danny looks at him for a second; what he wants to do is kiss Stiles, put two fingers on the edge of his jaw and ease their mouths together, flick his tongue against those stupid, ridiculous, impossibly fuckable lips until they open for him. But Stiles does kind of look like he's going to have a heart attack before he turns thirty, possibly right here and possibly right in front of Danny, and as first dates go, he thinks that would probably not be a great one. "So. Since you're freaking out and your therapist says I'm the best thing that's ever happened to you--"

"Oh, god," Stiles says, "you can forget I said that, you can actually forget that I have ever spoken, like, ever, at all--"

"Do you want to do a session?" Danny says. Stiles gapes at him, and Danny laughs and adds, "Look, Stiles, we both feel like shit, you're obviously stressed half to death, and we're in a big empty park. I'd really like it if you didn't pass out or anything, and I owe you for helping me out last night anyway. Yoga? On the house? And then we can talk?"

"Uh," Stiles says, sounding a little dazed, "that's…yeah. Sure. Why not?"

Danny runs them through the absolute easiest set he can think of, basic poses and deep breathing exercises, shooing people away when they try to watch or, god forbid, join in. Stiles really doesn't need any help, not with a set this easy and not after all these months of work, but Danny lets himself touch anyway, reaching out whenever he feels like he has an excuse. It takes awhile, but eventually most, if not all, of the color returns to Stiles' cheeks, and he grins at Danny and collapses back against the grass, patting the spot next to him. Danny stretches out next to him, and they're silent for awhile, a comfort between them that Danny knows, now, is more than just the typical client-to-instructor bond.

"You think you can let me say something without completely losing your shit?" Danny says after a few minutes.

Stiles pushes out a breath that's half-laugh, half-sigh. "Odds on that are about fifty-fifty, honestly. But you should probably just go for it, they're not going to get any better."

"Great," Danny says, and pushes himself up on one elbow to look down at Stiles. He's so attractive Danny could cry, and he has no idea, suddenly, how on earth he's been managing to teach him yoga. Stiles is the opposite of inner peace. Stiles produces the opposite of inner peace in Danny. It's maybe the best thing about him. "Look, the thing is, I like teaching you, Stiles, but I'd really prefer to be dating you."

"But I'm the worst pretzel," Stiles says, blinking.

"Yeah," Danny says, leaning down to kiss him, "you really, really are."

--
gyzym: I THINK I'M DONE NOW
postcard: TBH A SEX SCENE WOULD NOT GO AMISS
postcard: I AM JUST SAYING~
gyzym: actually you know what
gyzym: there is not!fic in this
gyzym: IN CHAT FORM
postcard: sfhsjfksdfhsdjf
gyzym: SO GUESS WHAT IS GOING TO HAPPEN TO YOU NOW
postcard: hfjksdfhsdfk I AM SO VERY FINE WITH THIS TURN OF EVENTS
gyzym: okay so i think what happens next, right
gyzym: is that stiles and danny are totally STUCK
gyzym: at this PARK
gyzym: because scott and jackson and allison totally LEFT THEM THERE
gyzym: so for awhile they're just laying there in the grass
postcard: sdfhskjfhksjdhfksdhfdskfh
gyzym: making out like teenagers
gyzym: their sunglasses keep knocking together until finally stiles gets frustrated and pulls off his, and then danny's, and then just TOSSES THEM AWAY
postcard: sdfhdsjkhfsdjkfhdksfjh AWWW
gyzym: and stiles kisses recklessly and enthusiastically and with his hands wandering
gyzym: one in danny's hair, one slipping up under the hem of danny's shirt, and this is not the kind of thing danny does, really
gyzym: making out with people in the park like he's fourteen
gyzym: he didn't even do this crap when he WAS fourteen
gyzym: because it's indecent and stupid and the least practical option, usually
postcard: AWW DANNY YOU CAN BE NOT-SENSIBLE NOW, IT'S OKAY
gyzym: but, on the other hand, right now
gyzym: not kissing stiles?
gyzym: is definitely less practical
gyzym: than kissing stiles
postcard: sdfhsjkfhsdh
gyzym: so he's going to have to just go ahead with it, just this once
gyzym: and stiles keeps making these little noises against his mouth
gyzym: these soft little sounds that make danny want to fuck him senseless
gyzym: but stiles ALSO keeps
gyzym: pushing danny back by the shoulders and kind of...laying siege to his mouth like he's an invading army
gyzym: and danny's never been kissed like that
gyzym: danny's never been kissed like the person on the other end wants nothing more than to consume him alive
gyzym: and THAT kind of makes danny want stiles to fuck HIM senseless
postcard: shfjksdhfksjfhsjkhfdjkshfdjskfsf
postcard: IT'S OKAY DANNY
postcard: IT'S OKAY
gyzym: so by the time allison shows up
gyzym: smirking
gyzym: and saying, "i want it on record that i made this happen"
gyzym: danny doesn't even get into with her
gyzym: about how she's a terrible person who should never have abandoned him in a park dressed like a hungover vagrant
postcard: sdfhjksdfhjksdfhdkshfjkshfjkshfkhfkshf
gyzym: he just takes stiles' hand
gyzym: and accepts the ride to his apartment
gyzym: because stiles' apartment is apparently on the other side of town
gyzym: and, also, danny does not want to leave things like
gyzym: condoms and lube
gyzym: to chance
gyzym: when he knows perfectly well that he is STOCKED UP AND READY TO GO
postcard: sfhsjkfhskfhjsdkfhdsf oh my god
postcard: HE'S SO PRACTICAL BUT OF COURSE HE IS
gyzym: except that they don't end up making it to condoms and lube
gyzym: because when danny's door shuts behind them stiles is already pressing danny up against it
gyzym: and mouthing the words
gyzym: it is not fair how hot you are, do you know how NOT FAIR it is that you are so FREAKING hot, months and months and months of you just singing my eyeballs
gyzym: into danny's neck
postcard: shfksdfhsdkjhsfjkhsfjkhksdfhks
postcard: oh my god of course he'd take umbridge at danny being TOO HOT
gyzym: and as he's saying this one of his hands reaches down under scott mccall's sweatpants, what the hell, to wrap around danny's dick
gyzym: and the thing is that stiles has unsettlingly
gyzym: good hands
gyzym: danny knew that long before he even started admitting to himself that he was spending most of their sessions
gyzym: being Incredibly Unprofessional
postcard: sdfhskdfhsds GOD THAT'S REALLY HOT
gyzym: HAVE YOU SEEN STILES' HANDS THOUGH IT'S ALL LONG TAPERED FINGERS AND LIKE, HNNG
postcard: sfhsdjkfshd UGH I KNOW
gyzym: and danny
gyzym: kind of can't stop thinking about it
gyzym: all the times that he's looked at stiles' hands spread out against the wooden floor of his studio
gyzym: all the times danny's looked down at them and thought about what they would feel like inside of him
postcard: sfhjsdkfhsdfhjksdfh UGH I HATE YOU THAT'S SO HOT
gyzym: or look like, wrapped around his dick the way one is now
gyzym: so he yanks the sweats down
gyzym: so that he can see
postcard: hsjkdfhsdjkfsdjkhfdsjkfhdjsfhs ughhhhhhh
gyzym: and stiles makes this kind of...not-quite-choking noise and the combination, the way his hand looks and the sound of him right there, cracks something in danny open, and he flips them, pushing stiles back against the door instead
postcard: sdfhjskhsdhfksfhfh
gyzym: pulls stiles' pants down, runs two fingers down the length of his dick and catches his mouth in another kiss
gyzym: and he doesn't really know how it happens
gyzym: because it is not the calm, rational, measured thing to do
gyzym: but this is what stiles does to him, pushes him out of these little boxes he builds for himself, out of his clean, safe world
postcard: sdfhskdfsd UGH YES
gyzym: and so within half a minute they're rutting against each other, their dicks pressed together and slick and caught in one of stiles' huge, gorgeous, spindly hands
gyzym: and danny's hissing, god, i've wanted you for months, i've wanted you the whole time
postcard: OH MY GOD BABY THIS IS SO HOT I HATE YOU
gyzym: and stiles is biting down on his shoulder so hard that he might be breaking the skin and danny doesn't care, he doesn't CARE, because it's so white-hot-gorgeous-good
gyzym: and he comes all over
gyzym: stiles' thigh
gyzym: and, regrettably
gyzym: the front door of his apartment
postcard: sfhjskdfsf IT'S OKAY FIRST TIMES ARE AWKWARD BUT AWWW
gyzym: and stiles somehow manages to streak come across half of the welcome mat
postcard: dsfhjskfhdsjfhsdhfkjdshfshdfhdsfhdshfskf
postcard: omg THEY'RE SUCH BOYS
gyzym: and they kind of
gyzym: breathe against each other for a minute
gyzym: and then just start LAUGHING HYSTERICALLY
gyzym: and kind of half-assedly clean up, still laughing at themselves
gyzym: before they curl up on the couch
gyzym: sleep for three-to-five hours
gyzym: and have proper sex, no hangovers, upon waking :D