Work Text:
Stiles watched from behind the counter, ringing up a customer, as the guy took a shirt from near the bottom of the pile, unfolded it to hold up against his (toned as hell) torso while looking down at it, shake his head, then set it on top of the pile without bothering to even try to fold it - and this is thethird time the guy has done this in the past ten minutes.
One time Stiles may have been able to forgive, he actually doesn’t mind folding shirts all that much once in awhile. But he is nearing the tail end of an eleven-hour shift - with no breaks, mind you, because corporate for some reason thought it was a good idea to stick one person in the tiny store in the mall in the middle of summer - and Stiles has had to deal with countless old ladies shopping for their grandchildren, teenagers messing with his displays, kids leaving their sticky fingerprints on counters and windows. He does not have time for some picky asshole who doesn’t seem to know how to fold a shirt and put it back in the stack where he found it - no matter how gorgeous his eyes are or how adorable his bunny teeth and the little furrow between his eyebrows are. No siree. This is the last straw.
So, smiling at the customer leaving the counter and wishing them a good day, Stiles takes a deep breath, grits his teeth, and goes to fix the three shirts the dude messed up. He’s about to go confront him too - well, ask if he needs any help because the most Stiles can do while at work is be just the tiniest bit passive aggressive and even that’s pushing it - when another old lady walks in and asks for his help to look for something for her granddaughter. Sighing, Stiles turns away from the guys and helps the woman.
It can’t have taken him more than fifteen minutes tops, however, waving the old woman off with a grin, that Stiles turns back and finds five more - count ‘em, five - shirts piled haphazardly on five different shelves. And the guy is still taking his sweet ass time, wandering around the store - which is only about 50 feet by 60 feet, okay, Stiles measured one day he was so bored, it’s not that big.
So, after fixing the second round of shirts the guy left behind so he can gather a semblance of calm, Stiles finally gets the chance to head over to him with a huge, fake smile on his face. “Good evening, sir. My name’s Stiles. Is there anything I can help you find?”
The guy barely glances up with a “no thank you” on his lips, Stiles can tell, when he does a small double take, his eyes widening, nostrils flaring, and a smirk quirking his lips. “Actually,” he corrects himself, “there might be something you can help me with, Stiles.” Raising his eyebrows, Stiles waits for the man to elaborate. What he does is pull out yet another shirt from the pile in front of him, unfold it with a flourish, and hold it up to himself. “How do you think this colour would work on me?”
“Well, sir,” Stiles says, trying to move past the fact that a very attractive man is very possibly flirting with him right now - trying to remember that this man is the bane of his existence and will likely be the reason he has to stay later tonight to fix all the shirts, “grey is technically speaking a value, not a colour. But,” he takes the shirt from the man’s hands, folds it carefully, and puts it back in the correct place in the stack without having to chest the sizes - he’s been working here a long time, okay? - before grabbing a forest green henley from a pile next to him and handing it to the man, “might I suggest this colour? I’m no clothing expert, I just work here during summer breaks, but I think this would really bring out the green in your eyes.” He pulls out a blue henley of the same size and also hands it to the man. “Or you could go with bringing out the blue in your eyes.” He pulls out a dark red one. “Or you can go with this, which would look awesome against your tan skin and black hair.”
The guy hums, looking at all three shirts. He holds each one up to himself in turn, trying to decide. “I don’t know…” He’s about to just throw all three on the shelf - making that eleven shirts in a row he has rejected and placed back without a care - when Stiles reaches out without thinking, grabbing the man’s wrist in a tight grip. He looks back up at Stiles, eyebrows raised.
“Sorry,” Stiles pushes out as he snatches his hand back and stuffs both in his pants pockets. “Please just - at least go try them on to try to help you decide. And if you don’t like them you can either leave them in the dressing room or give them right to me, okay?” He crosses his fingers in his pockets, praying to whatever gods there are that the guy does not leave any more shirts just lying on the shelves.
Looking at him for a few moments, the man’s smirk grows into a grin that Stiles could only describe as evil. “Okay, Stiles,” he says, his voice practically purring out Stiles’ name, forcing him to hold back a shiver. “I’ll try these on - but only because you asked nicely.” And with that he heads over to the dressing rooms, all three shirts in his hand.
Breathing a sigh of relief, Stiles goes through the store to make sure he didn’t miss any other messed up shirt stacks - he didn’t - then goes to stand behind the counter while he waits for the guy. A few minutes later he watches as the man comes out, eyes trained on Stiles like he’s a delicious rabbit he’s going to eat later, and throws the red henley on the shelf with a smirk before walking up to the counter.
Clenching his fists, Stiles forces a smile. “Just the two, then?”
“Yep,” the guys says with smile, handing over the shirts and pulling out a wallet as Stiles rings them up. When Stiles tells him the total the guy pulls out a debit card - Derek S. Hale - then takes it back, signs the receipt, and picks up the bag. “Have a good evening, Stiles.” He winks over his shoulder as he leaves.
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“I swear to god, Erica, the guy did it on purpose,” Stiles groans as Erica pours him another whiskey from behind the bar later that night. “He looked right at me the last time he did it!”
“Sure he did, Batman,” Erica says in that placating tone she uses when she thinks Stiles is being ridiculous - and he admits, he usually is, except not this time. “Or maybe this was the fifth eleven-hour shift you’ve worked this week, with no breaks and probably three hours of sleep under your belt each night.”
“Try six,” Stiles mumbles into his glass. Erica raises an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue. “For the whole week.”
Shaking her head, she points at him as she backs to the other side of the bar, where Boyd is beckoning her. “I’m cutting you off. You need to go home and get some fucking sleep.”
Stiles waves her off as he downs the rest of his drink, leans over the bar to put his tip in the jar behind the register, then heads to the door. As he’s about to open it and start walking back to his apartment a guy walks in, a familiar-looking guy. Where has Stiles seen him before?
“Oh, hey Stiles,” the guy - Derek says with an easy grin, his eyes lighting up and the laugh lines around them crinkling. “Getting a drink after work, huh? Wanna join me and -”
“You!” Stiles exclaims, poking him in the chest so hard the guy takes a step back, his smile fading. “You are a prick.” Not waiting to let Derek respond, Stiles pushes past him and out the door, walking down the sidewalk toward his apartment.
He hasn’t gone more than a few blocks when he hears footsteps running up behind him and a voice yelling, “Hey, wait!” Derek catches up with him easily, grabbing Stiles’ elbow to pull him to a stop and turn Stiles so that they’re facing each other. “What the hell was that? Did I do something to offend you?”
Stiles bursts out laughing, gesticulating wildly. “Did you offend me? Try messing up my shirt stacks and throwing your rejects back on top - which you did nine times, buddy. Nine. Now I can let once, maybe twice slide, but you’re a grown ass man, I know you know how to fold clothes and how to read sizes.
“Then you go and throw another shirt onto a shelf - after I explicitly asked you to leave it in the dressing room or hand it to me if you didn’t want it - all while staring at me with a smirk. That’s just rude! I was about ready to take that shirt and either strangle you with it or stuff it down your throat!” Finished with his tirade, Stiles stands there breathing heavily, his face hot either from anger or embarrassment from the outburst, and runs his hands through his hair.
“I, uh…” Derek clears his throat and shrugs. “I’m sorry? Really! I am!” he rushes to add when Stiles glares and opens his mouth to say more. “It’s just - I don’t really shop for myself that often, so I already felt awkward and out of place, and then i saw you and I just,” he shrugs again, “I guess I just reverted back to the old days, when i was a dick to people that I find… attractive.”
Cocking his head, Stiles lets a grin spread across his face, too tired to resist. “So what you’re saying, Derek S. Hale, is that you were pulling my pigtails. Like an emotionally repressed third grader.”
Huffing, Derek takes a tentative step closer. “Do you make a habit of memorizing names from customers’ debit cards?”
Stiles shakes his head and he grabs a hold of the collar of Derek’s shirt. “Only the ones who piss me off.” He pulls Derek forward and kisses him hard on the mouth. Stepping back, he lets go and keeps walking. When Derek doesn’t follow he calls over his shoulder, “Well c’mon! You might as well model those shirts you did buy to make it up to me!”
Derek comes up behind him and throws an arm around his shoulders. “I’m never gonna hear the end of this, am I?” he sighs.
“Nope,” Stiles states, popping the ‘p’.