The CVS up the street from Scott's house is overstating the prices on Monster energy drinks. Stiles could even prove it, if he felt like driving to the convenience store by the school and buying one there--he could return to CVS triumphant, with the receipt in his hand, and demand that they explain themselves.
On the other hand, it's only sixty cents. Also, if Stiles felt like driving to the convenience store by the school, he wouldn't be in here to begin with.
"Anything else?" the guy behind the counter asks, bored, when Stiles drops his drink in front of him.
"Nope," Stiles says. "But this is highway robbery, just so we're clear."
"Sure it is, kid," the guy says. "You want a bag for that?"
"Dude, they're salt and vinegar potato chips," Stiles says, when Derek glowers at the bag. "Not the devil. Not an impending attack of zombies. Potato. Freaking. Chips. Stop looking at them like that!"
Derek seems to consider this for a second. Then, unsurprisingly, he decides on, "No."
"What the hell is wrong with you," Stiles says, mostly to himself, around a mouthful of chips. "I mean, I understand you're allergic to fun, you've made that super clear, you might as well get that stamped on your forehead, but now you're allergic to potato chips? Seriously?"
"Yes," Derek says.
"Yes," Stiles repeats, disbelieving. "You're allergic. To potato chips."
Derek cracks one of the Camaro's windows, his glare going from We're All Gonna Die to just his typical The World Is My Oyster But It Seems To Have Filled It With Poison look as he says, "To vinegar."
Stiles blinks. And blinks. And blinks again. "What, really?"
The radio in Stiles' Jeep lives to embarrass him; he has long known this. It's part of their bond, like the way her left turn signal kicks on every third time Stiles turns right, or how she tends to leave vengeful oil droppings on his driveway after he uses her in a high speed chase. Stiles understands these things about his car, and, in return, Stiles' car understands any number of things about Stiles. His tendency to sleep in her, for one. His habit of using her to ferry werewolves about the town, for another.
Still, she could have put on Let's Talk About Sex before Boyd and Scott got in the car. Stiles would have liked to be alone with it.
Stiles catches Boyd's eye in the review mirror, and then Scott's in the passenger seat. They all look away from one another hastily, glancing out of the respective windows.
Forty-five seconds later, they're pulling up to a red light screaming the lyrics at the top of their lungs. A suburban mother looks at them with narrowed eyes from her mini van; Stiles grins around "Let's talk about you and me," and waves hello.
"I don't like it," Allison says finally, her head cocked to the side.
"That's because it's not his color," Lydia says, and whips the messenger bag out of Stiles' hands. She hands him another; as far as Stiles can tell, it's the exact same shade of beige. "Here, try this one, it's much better."
"I don't even want a messenger bag," Stiles says, for the dozenth time. "I'm not carrying any messages! It's just an interview--and, wait, what do you mean not my color? What? What does that even mean, do I have to color coordinate--"
"Yes," Allison and Lydia say together, "you do."
"I am never asking you guys for help again," Stiles mutters, slinging the damn thing over his shoulder. "And I swear to god, if this bag doesn't get me through this interview and into Berkeley like, by itself, I'm going to set it on fire and make you watch."
"Whatever," Lydia says. "That one looks ugly too, by the way."
"It really does," Allison agrees. Some days, Stiles hates them.
"Seriously?" Stiles says. "Tennis?"
"You're the one who wanted me to take an active interest in fitness, son." Stiles' father is chomping on a carrot stick with a vengeful sort of glee; there's a punchline to this, he just knows it. "I don't think it's fair for you to change your mind now."
"I'm not changing my mind," Stiles says, waving his hands. "It's just…tennis."
"Yeah," Scott says, wincing. "The shorts are kind of…really short." Then he looks over Stiles' dad contemplatively, and adds, "But actually, you're probably okay. I mean, flaunt it while you've got it. That's what my mom always says."
"Dude," Stiles groans, dropping his head into his hands. "Don't encourage this, this is horrifying."
The carrot stick shrinks another inch, and Stiles' father says, "Every third Saturday shouldn't be too much of a time commitment for you, should it? I need a doubles partner, and you did promise to help me get in shape."
Stiles groans again. He knew there was a punchline.
In retrospect, Stiles isn't sure why the pack decided to have a porn and chicken night. Well, no, that's a lie; Stiles knows the pack decided to have a porn and chicken night because he said, "Let's have a pack porn and chicken night!" It's more that he doesn't know why everyone else agreed. It has become clear to him, over the last half hour, that no one he knows understands porn the way porn is meant to be understood.
There's a plate of grilled chicken on the coffee table, because Derek refused to allow Stiles to just go to the damn KFC no matter how many times Stiles insisted their gravy was more interesting than Derek's obsession with charring meat. Surrounding it is a frankly impressive collection of empties, though there's not a one of them without a beer in their hands, and everyone is staring at the screen with their heads cocked.
Eventually, Derek says, "You know we could be having actual sex, right?"
"That is not the point of a porn and chicken night," Stiles says solemnly, as everyone else groans. "The point of a porn and chicken night is the collective appreciation of porn. And chicken. This is supposed to be bonding time."
There is another long pause, and then Scott throws an arm around Allison's shoulder and says, "I guess I just don't get it."
"What's to get?" Stiles says. "They fuck, we watch them. And, usually, think about fucking. It's not rocket science."
"But, like." Scott frowns and points at the screen. "You don't know them. He could be a total douche! She could be a total douche!"
"Yeah, but I don't care," Stiles says, in the slow tones of a man fighting what he knows is a losing battle. "I'm in it for his eight inch cock and her double D's, it's not like I'm planning on wooing either of them."
"I would hope not," Derek mutters in Stiles' ear, to another round of groans from everyone with super-hearing. Boyd throws a pillow at him, which Derek spears on his claws; then, apparently remembering that it's his pillow, he looks murderous. "For god's sake. I was only saying."
"Shut up, Derek," Scott says. "And Stiles, that doesn't make any sense."
"You don't make any sense!" Stiles says, possibly a little wildly. "How can you not get this? It's porn! It's just, you know, porn!"
"I get it," Erica says, after another considering pause. "I mean, she's not exactly my type, but I can see his appeal."
"It's the hair, right?" Allison says, leaning over Scott's arm to give Lydia a significant look. "We were talking about this the other day--nobody's hair looks that awesome if the sex is good. It's unrealistic."
"Look at her lipstick," Lydia agrees, while simultaneously touching up her own. "Not even one smear. He's got to be pretty terrible in bed, doesn't he? I mean, no offense or anything, but a girl likes a little passion."
"Who's supposed to take offense to that!?" Jackson demands, sounding offended. Lydia smirks at him. Stiles despairs of them all.
"For my money, I'll go with the guy-on-guy stuff every time," Danny says, shrugging. "It's not even because it doubles my chances of liking one of them, I just think the production value is better."
"Oh, that is crap," Stiles says. "That is crap and you know it, the production value on this shit is all the same. Well, except for the artsy feminist girl-on-girl stuff, that stuff is usually pretty amazing, but it's kind of hard to find. Which sucks, because Lydia ruined normal girl-on-girl porn for me by pointing out how gross the dudes making it are--thanks again for that, by the way."
"Oooh, remind me later that I've got a website for you," Lydia says, at the same time Derek says, "Stiles, how much porn do you watch?"
"I watch the normal amount of porn!" Stiles says, waving his hands. "The totally regular and healthy amount of porn! You guys are all freaks."
"Nobody's a freak," Boyd says, rolling his eyes. "No matter how much porn they do or do not watch. Can everybody just shut up and eat their chicken?"
Silence again, a long, stretched out one this time. After awhile, Derek throws an arm around Stiles; he settles against Derek's chest, but bitterly. Porn and chicken night has betrayed him. Porn and chicken night has betrayed them all.
"Uh," Scott says eventually, "anybody else want to switch this out for regular Pirates of the Caribbean?"
Nobody argues, not even Stiles.