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A Story To Tell The Grandcubs

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Oh god it's Kurt. Creeper Kurt, the worst blind date in the history of the universe, has just come in. Creeper Kurt who couldn't take a hint, who Stiles finally got rid of by telling a ridiculous lie that is now going to bite him in the ass.

Stiles spins around, panicking a little because why is this his life? Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

The hot guy in the leather jacket standing next to him at the bar is watching him have his little panic attack while he waits to be served, seemingly amused. And then he hears from behind him, “Stiles, is that you?”

And Stiles says to Leather Jacket Guy, “Creeper ex headed this way, I'm sorry, please go with this,” and pauses just for a moment, to see if there will be any sudden objections, but the guy just smirks, so Stiles leans up the inch or so it takes to reach his mouth and kisses him.

Leather Jacket Guy is, in addition to being hot and accomodating, an excellent kisser. “Stiles? Hey!” Kurt says cheerfully. Kurt was always ungodly cheerful. Like one of those robots off Buffy. A Kurt-bot.

“Hi,” Stiles says.

“Hi,” Leather Jacket Guy says to Kurt.

“Hi,” Kurt says to Leather Jacket Guy. Stiles wants to die from the awkward.

“I swear he normally has manners,” Leather Jacket Guy says to Kurt, holding out one hand to shake. “I'm Derek.”

“Kurt,” Kurt replies, with such a vigorous handshake that Derek momentarily appears nonplussed. Then he says to Stiles, “I thought your ex was named David.”

The ex I completely made up? Stiles probably did say David. Hell, he might have said Murgatroyd, how is he supposed to keep track? “Nope,” Stiles replies. “Derek.”

“Oh.” Kurt looks puzzled for a moment, brow furrowed and head tilted like a dog trying desperately to understand human speech, before it smooths out into that eerie, too-wide serial killer smile. “Well, it's nice to meet you, Derek. Stiles was really happy about you moving back to Beacon Hills. Said he never got over you. And now I see why.”

Creeeepy. Who says shit like that? Stiles wonders. But Derek takes it in stride, shrugs and presses a kiss to his temple. “I thought I wanted to be anywhere but Beacon Hills, and then I was, and all I could think about was home and everyone I missed. Especially Stiles.”

Finally the bartender gets to their end of the bar. “What'll you have?”

“Two beers.” He glances across the crowded room, then barks a laugh and shakes his head. “And a pina colada, apparently.”

The bartender serves him, he pays, and says, “It was nice to meet you, Kurt, but we should get back to our table.”

“Right, sure,” Kurt says, but he just keeps standing there smiling.

“Okay, well, bye,” Stiles says, takes the beer Derek hands him, and makes his escape.

“Who's your friend, little brother?” says the woman waiting at the table, stirring her straw through the dregs of a pina colada.

“Laura, this is Stiles. We're rescuing him from an ex who might legitimately be an axe murderer. Or a robot.”

“Yes!” Stiles says, because finally someone else gets it. “Like the Buffy bot, oh my god, so creepy!”

“I was thinking more like Ted,” Derek surprises him by saying. “With his closet full of dead ex-wives.”

Stiles shudders, because-yes. He has made a narrow escape. Again.

“I guess things didn't work out with...David?” Derek asks.

“There was no David,” Stiles admits in an agony of mortification. “I just really suck at breaking up with people. I went on three dates with him after the worst blind date of all time, just because I couldn't get out the words, 'I don't want to see you again.' So I made up an elaborate lie, and I really should have known better; it's not like Beacon Hills is a big city where I'll never run into him. Thank you for rescuing me.”

“There's no David?” Derek asks. Stiles shakes his head. “And you're incapable of breaking up with people?” Stiles nods. “Good,” Derek says, looking satisfied.

“Oh, really?” Laura asks, and at her brother's nod, starts laughing, and says to Stiles, “Look at it this way; you'll have a hilarious how-we-met story to tell your grandkids.”

Stiles starts to wonder if he has been rescued, or only fallen out of the creepy frying pan and into the crazy fire. Then Derek puts an arm around his shoulders, nuzzles his neck and...sniffs him? And that really doesn't help.

But he says to his sister, “You just want me to hurry up and have kids in the hope that Mom will stop nagging you, now stop scaring him off or I will tell her all about your secret boyfriend.”

“Don't you dare!” she yelps, and then Derek steals her drink and tells her only good sisters get their alcohol paid for, and she threatens to tell embarassing childhood stories to Stiles, and Derek's arm around him is warm and appealingly muscled without being confining, and Stiles decides that it was just exposure to Kurt making him paranoid. Derek is probably perfectly normal, apart from being hotter than a volcano god.

As it turns out, Stiles is wrong about that, but werewolves beat out creepy axe murderer robots any day.