To Cora, 1:24 AM: im tired of guys just wanting to hook up with me. im like, guys, i know im pretty and i have a slammin bod and i love making out, but cant someone treat me with respect??
After rejecting indecent proposal #17 of the night, he is ready to drown his frustrations in a bottle of tequila. Even though he doesn’t exactly have the best relationship with tequila after that one time in New York.
Complaining to his baby sister about how all the men at Jungle just wanted to fuck was a real low point. But it isn’t like he has any actual friends that he could commiserate with - because that is the actual rock bottom reality of his life.
He’s only just returned to California after years of living on the East Coast, and his resting bitch face (complete with Murder Brows) and complete inability to talk to people has made it impossible to make friends. That and he doesn’t like most people - and people seem to be determined to prove him right on that account.
“Fuck, you’re hot,” another random stranger makes an approach.
“No,” he growls, making the guy take a couple steps back.
Derek doesn’t even bother looking at the guy, because if that was his opening line… He is just going to be another superficial asshole who doesn’t care about anything but Derek’s looks. And Derek has at least some standards, even when he is on his way to getting a good buzz going. (Which he will be, soon, hopefully. He’s too sober for this shit.)
He is just about to get the bartender’s attention, because he really needs a damn drink after #18, when he is rudely interrupted yet again.
“That’s cold, dude,” another voice sounds, this time from his left. “You didn’t even look at that one. Efficient, though.”
Rolling his eyes at the nickname, Derek turns to see the guy who’s deigned to comment on his rejection protocol. And he stops in his tracks, because well…
The guy is a mess. There’s glow in the dark lipstick prints on his face (several of them matching the drag queens up on stage), a rip in his t-shirt that’s close to exposing a nipple, and his eyes are alert even though the bags under his eyes speak of serious sleep deprivation.
He’s the most interesting person Derek’s met in ages.
“Don’t call me dude.”
And he’s fucked it up in about five seconds, as is his wont.
“This is going to sound like a line, so bear with me,” the guy grins, briefly drawing Derek’s attention to his mouth. “But you have to give me your name for me to stop calling you dude.”
Mr. Interesting is right - it does sound like a line. So Derek just gives him an unimpressed look before trying to get the bartender’s attention.
“Fine, I’ll go first,” the stranger takes another sip of his ridiculous cocktail, practically molesting the straw. “I’m Stiles.”
What the hell is a Stiles? That is a terrible name, but he’s probably heard worse in New York, because Brooklyn is hipster central these days.
He nods. “Derek.”
Mentally starting a timer for how long it takes Stiles to start commenting about how he’ll be screaming that name later, he stares down at his water bottle. Fuck, he still hates tequila - does he really want do that to himself?
Maybe he should ask the bartender for something else, when he finally gets the guy’s attention.
“Good, now I won’t have to call you dude, dude,” Stiles smirks, and it’s infuriating.
Derek rolls his eyes, determined not to enjoy that terrible joke. He knows that this is probably the end of it, and Stiles will either hit on him or stop talking to him - this is just about getting the unattainable guy. It’s a tactic, something from the playbook.
Cynical? Yes, he is.
“Wars or Trek?” Stiles turns fully towards him.
And he’s still being pornographic with that drink - Derek’s trying not to look at it too much, because even though it’s a cheap ploy, he’s only human and Stiles’ mouth is just sinful.
It takes a while for his brain to process that inane question - and no, that has nothing to do with the single beer he had about two hours ago.
“Star Wars or Star Trek?” Stiles acts like this is a normal question.
Abandoning his quest to get the bartender to service this corner of the bar, he decides that he might as well continue talking to Stiles. They can chat for a bit, and then Stiles can get his awkward come-on out and Derek can reject him and he can go the fuck home and jerk off to porn. Because that is more satisfying than any of the men who propositioned him.
“That’s what you’re going to ask me?” He scoffs.
“Yes,” Stiles’ hands are in motion now. “I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in about a week, and since Danny has bailed on me to grope his boyfriend and the queens are still hard at work, this is the most stimulating conversation I’m going to get. Or would you rather talk about DC versus Marvel?”
That explains why he looks like he’s about to crash. If Derek cared, he’d ask why Stiles hasn’t been sleeping. But Cora’s called him an asshole since she was old enough to know that she shouldn’t use that word, and she is not wrong.
“C’mon, Derek,” Stiles goads him. “Or if you’d rather reject some more brave souls, I can just move away and leave you to it.”
He snorts, because brave souls? Really? Drunk idiots is his preferred synonym.
“Fuck no,” is what he ends up saying.
“Poor baby is tired of being the object of everyone’s affection,” Stiles is clearly an asshole, and Derek should not be charmed by it.
So he snipes back. “Jealous?”
“I don’t know about your life,” Stiles just goes in. “Sure, you’re hot like burning, but you’re an asshole who’s too embarrassed to talk geek with me. I’m expecting you to keep up - you look like the guy who owns both a leather jacket and a thumbhole sweater. You have layers.”
What the fuck would that kind of guy even look like? Like Derek, apparently, because Stiles is fucking right about this and it pisses him off. He doesn’t get to wear his leather jacket much, because California’s weather is a lot hotter than he’s used to, and he’s already looking forward to the upcoming winter. Even if he only wears his favorite sweater in the comfort of his own apartment.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” And he’s smug about it too.
“I’m like an onion,” Derek is annoyed enough to stick with the conversation.
Sarcasm drips off his every word - he’s expecting Stiles to have at least enough intelligence to grasp that.
And he’s proven right when Stiles laughs.
“So much more than just a pretty face,” he nods emphatically, almost like he’s his own bobblehead. “I respect that.”
This guy is completely ridiculous, so why is Derek still here, staring at his hands and long fingers and contemplating what they’d feel like on his skin? He’s pretty damn close to kinkshaming himself at this point. Because really, this is what does it for him?
Because yes, Stiles is attractive, tall and slim with eyes that make him think of honey, a mouth that never stops moving - just like his hands. Still, he’s dressed like he just lost a fight with someone or something, and he isn’t doing what Derek expected he’d do.
And that’s the thing, right there. Stiles is a fucking breath of fresh air after eighteen guys pulling exactly the same trick.
“You’re an asshole,” he tells Stiles, unable to hide how delighted he is by it.
“Ditto,” Stiles shoots back, also grinning.
He’s jostled a bit by the people trying to get closer to the bar, but no one uses the opportunity to get all up in his business - which is a new experience. Because he’s been so caught up in Stiles, no guy has dared to come over with yet another awkward come-on. That’s a bonus.
“Fuck, I’m so tired,” Stiles lets his head drop onto the bar.
Derek hopes it sticks, because the bar is covered in sticky drink residue and other fluids he does not want to examine too closely. At the same time, he just wants to carry Stiles off somewhere to make sure he gets some fucking sleep.
Which… He doesn’t do nurturing well. It just doesn’t come naturally to him.
“Why are you still here?”
“Only so we can have these moments,” Stiles’ wit doesn’t suffer, somehow. “Because Danny’s my ride and he’s not done riding Ethan yet.”
Stiles motions in the direction of the dancefloor, and Derek pointedly does not look at what he’s pointing at. Because the vultures will descend the second he makes eye contact with someone.
“I’m taking you home,” Derek’s mouth is moving before his brain catches up.
“Oh, Derek,” Stiles bats his eyelashes at him like he’s a Southern Belle. “I thought you’d never ask. But seriously, as much as I’d love to get all up in that, I’m way too exhausted to do you justice. Raincheck?”
Cora is going to die laughing when she finds out about this - and she will. She always does.
“I’ll take it,” Derek finds himself saying. “But I’m still dragging your exhausted ass out of here. You’re drooling on the bar.”
Of course Stiles almost trips as he pulls himself back into a normal standing position, and of course Derek isn’t stupidly charmed by this idiot. Only he is.
“So you have been looking at my ass?” Stiles’ smile is sleepy and fond now.
“Just as much as you’ve been looking at mine,” he shoots back, motioning for Stiles to follow him.
Stiles laughs, almost elbows Derek in the gut and proceeds to take the lead.
Never a dull moment.