Chapter Text
And boy, Stiles is just completely spot-on. From the start, he’s relegated to the very bottom of business class, far away from the pilot’s cabin and, by extension, Lydia. Not that it matters, Stiles supposes, because Lydia is still pissed with him after that one incident with the sparkly fruit wine and her uniform.
Stiles is bustled into a seat, given orange juice, and told very firmly to stay put and not harass anyone for alcohol. And that is unfair really, because who can survive a ten-hour flight without some alcohol based nectar for motivation?
Stiles pouts for as long as possible, stopping only because his face begins to hurt and nobody (aside from Isaac, who is nice and sneaks him a tiny glass of champagne) pays any attention to him. He does manage to talk Danny into trading him two crosswords and his iPod in return for cute drive-thru guy’s number, though, so that’s excruciating boredom partially settled.
“Can I amble in for a nice little pilot to pilot chat with Jackson?” he asks when Lydia sweeps by him. She doesn’t even deign to answer. Although it’s not like Jackson would really want to talk to Stiles anyway - he hasn’t quite gotten over Stiles actually being better at him when it comes to piloting. Stiles secretly thinks that it’s like a hammer to Jackson’s ego whenever he sees Stiles fall over and remembers that Stiles actually beat him. It’s brilliant.
Jackson doesn’t really mind Stiles though, because everyone comes around after a while; even Lydia, who takes pleasure in Stiles’ misery, but takes him out for waffles all the time anyway. It makes Jackson sulky, but Stiles is pretty sure that Lydia has progressed from being lady-goddess-of-his-eternal-future to terrifying-lady-goddess-who-he-is-not-romantically-attracted-to.
It’s complicated, but they all seem to like it fairly well.
Stiles settles down in his seat and occupies his time with piling as many spare blankets and pillows on himself as he possibly can. He’s up to twelve when the passengers start filing in.
And of course, the universe isn’t satisfied with taking away his long weekend – no. Just as Stiles has to break for air, the hottest person to every exist walks right by him. Tall, dark, sex-on-legs is understandably baffled by the squeaking lump of blankets staring at him.
“Hi?” Stiles offers.
Hot-guy just glares like Stiles is stabbing his kitten with a breadknife, walks stiffly on to the seat furthest from Stiles and swings his bag onto the compartment above. His (very snugly fit) black t-shirt rides up as he does so, revealing just a silver of hard, tanned, totally ripped torso.
Stiles whimpers a bit, because of course shit like this happens to him, and returns to his blanket burrow. Maybe if he grovels long enough, Danny will return drive-thru guy’s number.
Five minutes before takeoff, there is a very loud crash, and then the sound of someone being smacked across the head very, very hard.
‘Peter, I swear, if you won't shut up about crashing into the sea I will rip your neck out and throw you out the window. Laura will understand."
And yeah, hot-guy’s voice is pretty damn sexy as well, Stiles realizes. He still looks remarkably angry for someone holding a glass of champagne and a paperback copy of the hobbit, though.
There is a swish of cloth and perfume before Lydia appears, pretty, sweet, and absolutely terrifying at the same time. She assesses the situation, because she is a professional (unlike, say Isaac who is unashamedly gawping at someone just out of Stiles’ sight) and presses her hands together.
"Is there a problem, gentlemen?"
Stiles peeks over the seats and sees hot-guy shooting eye-daggers at the older man seated next to him who looks incredibly unfazed.
"No problems, darling," he says,"my nephew here is just a little-"
He is cut off by a semi-growl from hot-guy and shrugs good naturedly, throwing the largest shit-eating grin ever back.
"I don't think I can sit with him for ten hours," hot guy says, voiced pinched, "Are there any other seats avaliable?"
The man -Peter, presumably- grins at Lydia and flahses a wink that actually manages to throw her off for a second. "I'm cool with anything, dearest." Which is just so many levels of creepy, no matter how attractive he may be for his age. Stiles is pretty sure the man is either magic, or very evil
Clearly, Lydia seems to think so too. After a few more minutes of discussion and hand gestures that Stiles can’t interpret, Lydia is plucking blankets off him and stowing them away with both tidiness and accuracy. With one hand.
Behind her, hot-guy is looming menacingly, still clutching his champagne and his paperback. He’s taken his leather jacket off, and oh god, those arms-
“Mr Hale has requested a seat change,” Lydia says, shooting Stiles a warning glance, “And this is the only seat left, so if you don’t mind moving your pillows, Sir.”
It’s an order, of course, one that Stiles obeys with swiftness that seems to satisfy Lydia who smiles nicely at hot-guy – Mr. Hale- and leaves them alone. There is an awkward pause that last a few seconds before the plane jerks ever so slightly. Sties barely notices any movement at all, but what he does notice is the way hot-guy flails about and grabs for the chair handle, clinging on for dear life. It’s very well masked, but Stiles is very observant. He is also very good at recognizing the crazy glint of panic that takes over when someone is afraid of flying. It’s a quirk.
Hot-guy glares even harder, seats himself heavily on the seat next to Stiles and determinedly ignores Stiles in favor of pretending that his little panicky freakout never happened.
Stiles blinks, takes stealthy look at the definition of hot-guy’s biceps, and figures that hell yes, he can deal with this kind of stuff happening.