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There was just something about airports that just made everything in the world horrible.
Stiles sighed at the subdued chirping from his bag and waited the ringtone out. Not that he regretted, at all, giving Scott a cuckoo clock for his tone to commemorate the insanity, but he was kind of tired of the stink-eye he kept getting from the lady sitting in his bank of chairs. Which...yeah, whatever. If he was bugging her that much, she could move. It was nearly midnight and there were plenty of options.
Hell, maybe he'd move.
But, right. Phone.
Stiles fished his phone out of the bag, ready to dive headfirst into the newest edition of Groomzilla; the flailing.
It had just better not be ice sculptures again.
Or maybe it should be. "Allison said no" was the best phrase, seriously.
Another text came through while he was still unlocking his screen, and the stink-eye was back. Great.
-----
It was ten minutes to one, Scott had finally fallen asleep (he was going to regret this latest moment when he had to pick Stiles up in a few hours), and it wasn't quite so easy to move around to a new seat anymore.
Or, it was, but he'd have to leave his gate to do it. Everyone on his flight apparently thought that 'arrive two hours before' means showing up in the last half hour. Bonus points for last ten minutes.
What was the point, when your flight was at god-awful one-something in the morning? What could they possibly have been doing that made that last hour and a half so--
Okay, so he knew what that couple had done with their extra time. He could understand that. He would have done that. Sex would probably make the whole airport thing less circle-of-hell worthy.
Stiles stretched, bending back over his chair to get enough room for his left arm, pondering what sort of gestures would be necessary to suggest to a couple of someones that the lipstick smears down their necks were still really obvi--oh god, what was his hand on.
There was a strangled noise to his right and Stiles yanked his arms back in, already feeling his neck flushing even before he turned around to see the holy hell.
Realization one: there was an underwear model wandering the airport. (If there wasn't, he should consider a career change. Stiles was just sayin'.)
Realization two: said model was staring back at him with the most amazing eyes. It was seriously unfair. Especially when they were all...big like that. He had a feeling that wasn't normal. It was probably shock. Of the surprise kind, not the feed sugar and keep warm kind.
Realization three: he'd totally just bumped the model's ass with his hand. Which was really regrettable, since he hadn't even been aware of it at the time. Just had a confused impression of resistance and denim against his knuckles to work with.
"Uh," Stiles offered, elegantly. And abruptly aware that he was gaping a bit.
He closed his mouth, and rallied when the model just raised his eyebrows. "I-- Sorry. I wasn't looking."
"You are now," the model smirked. And walked away. And his ass was just as ridiculous in motion, hot damn.
That was totally unfair. Stubbly and attractive men weren't allowed to also be sassy and witty. Especially not at Stiles' expense.
Stiles sighed and tried to ignore the stares from the people sitting around him. Focused instead on bunching his coat up inconspicuously in his lap.
He had a type, okay? And they weren't normally that level of hot.
-----
Stiles liked the circles of hell analogy for airports, because it let airplanes be the next level down.
The advantage of getting to his gate on time rather than in time was that he ended up sitting practically in the queue line that formed up. And it was sad that he knew how to manage that. He was spending way too much time in airports.
Point was, though, he was ready and waiting when his section loaded. And it was precisely to avoid situations like this.
Stiles smiled weakly at Mr. Hot Ass and tried to press closer to the bank of seats. Tried not to think about the probable brushing that was about to occur, and instead focus on cramming his bag into the overhead compartment. (He knew it would fit, the blasted thing.)
Only Mr. Hot Ass was just standing there. Smirking a little as he shifted to one side to let someone else squirm past both of them with a smile so fake and forced it was practically Velveeta.
The bag slid into place and Stiles did his best to fold his limbs into his seat in a quick and graceful manner (yeah, that didn't work), so the guy could slide past without having to touch Stiles. Or whatever.
(Hah. Joke's on him. Stiles liked the aisle seats.)
Only then Mr. Hot Ass slid his duffle up into the overhead compartment (and somehow had none of Stiles' problems, even though his bag looked even bigger. no fair), slapped it closed, and--
Stiles' brain blanked briefly, choosing to focus on the shift of muscle under denim as that hot ass was suddenly right in front of his face. Those legs spread (just for a moment, almost lost in the motion) so they were almost straddling Stiles'.
It was at once more awkward than normal (hello, inconvenient hard on, please go away now, sorry, no reason to get so worked up, really) and, weirdly, less.
Maybe because he couldn't bring himself to mind the sudden face full of butt, for once.
Mr. I Melt Brains For a Living smirked at him again once he was settled, and Stiles lost control of his mouth. "Y'know, you could have just said something. I'd have let you go first."
"I know," Mr. Unfair replied, somehow smiling wider without losing that edge of asshole that Stiles wished he didn't find so attractive.
Also, he really needed there to be fewer butt-related thoughts on this topic, if he was going to keep what was left of his sanity.
"I'm Stiles," he offered, mostly hoping Mr. Hot Ass would provide a name so he could stop thinking of him like that (because, really, it was just a matter of time before it dropped out of his mouth). "You like the window seat, huh?"
"Derek," he got in return, along with a slightly less jerkish smile. "And yeah. I like being able to see the ground. Or have the option, anyway," he added with a wry twist to his expression as he glanced out at the darkness waiting past the wing. "What about you?"
Stiles snorted, but found himself relaxing now that they were actually talking. "Please. I booked this flight seven months ago. I don't need windows, I need to be able to pretend I can get up and walk out of here if I need to."
"Don't like airplanes?"
"Hate 'em," Stiles confirmed with a grin.
Derek nodded, leaning in a bit. "Glad to know you're not crazy."
"Oh, man, are you easily fooled," Stiles laughed. "Here, let me tell you--"
-----
It was easy, after that.
-----
"And you thought that was a good idea," Derek drawled, judging every single one of Stiles' life choices with his eyebrows, but particularly that one.
And--whatever. "I'll have you know that being on a sports team looks good on college applications, even if you barely ever get off the bench."
"You said you were even more clumsy in high school," Derek mused. "I'm not sure I believe you. I think you'd have died in a tragic accident, if that was the case."
Stiles really, really wished he didn't find snark so attractive.
He really, really, really wished he hadn't learned it was even better when it went both ways.
-----
Derek shook his head, laughing in this weird way he had that meant he wasn't making any noise. "That's nothing."
"Nothing?" Stiles asked, loudly enough to get a not-so-subtle shove against his seat from whoever was assigned to the spot behind him. "I spent five hours in the ER because of that."
Granted, most of that had been waiting for someone to be free, but still.
Derek leaned in again, smirking like he knew what it did to Stiles' heartrate. "Let me tell you," he murmured, "about my sister, and her Batgirl fixation."
Ten minutes later, Stiles was in awe that the infamous Laura was still alive and fairly certain he could have counted Derek's eyelashes at any point in that story, if he'd been able to drag his attention away from Derek's voice.
Also? Fuck, he smelled good too.
-----
"Where are you off to after this?" Derek asked, his ankle casually hooked over Stiles', to keep him from fidgeting. Or, maybe, to keep him from trying to get up and fight his way through the press of people disembarking.
He hated planes. He hated feeling confined. He hated crowds.
It was the only situation he could think of where 'getting off' was the absolute worst.
"Wedding," Stiles groaned, rolling his head and trying to focus on the conversation instead of the wall of people stacked up next to him. "My best friend's gone insane, I swear. He's supposed to be here to keep me from getting eaten by the subway, but..." He checked his phone again and sighed. If Scott had texted while Stiles was in the air, his phone hadn't found the messages yet. "He was also up really late, freaking out, and has been known to sleep through...everything. So."
But Derek was giving him the weirdest look, now. "Where's the wedding? Or, I guess, where are you staying?"
"Two very different questions," Stiles nodded, trying to keep from drumming on the tiny armrest between them. "The wedding's somewhere upstate. Uh, New York," he said, gesturing vaguely at the outside of the plane (with his luck, probably toward Pennsylvania, but it was the outside that really mattered more than direction at that point). "Not New Jersey."
The weird look didn't go anywhere, but it was starting to look more amused than--whatever. "And where are you going now?"
"Baggage claim, to sit my ass on a bench until Scott wakes up, probably," Stiles sighed. "I know there's subways and stuff and that they're supposed to be really good but, seriously, I am not to be trusted with mass transit," he admitted, somewhat resignedly. But, really, 'a thing' didn't even begin to cover the trouble he'd discovered he could get up to with a route map and a vague idea of where he was supposed to be. "Trust me. Although, maybe I can get a cab from here? But I think I read something that said you can't get a cab from Newark to New York, so--"
"I'm renting a car," Derek interrupted. "And staying at the Michelangelo."
Stiles had been craning his head around someone's hip (he hated planes he hated planes he hated planes) to see if there was any hope of movement yet (answer? minimal), but his attention snapped back to Derek at that. "That's-- Why are you renting a car, if you're staying downtown?"
"Allison and Scott don't have a car," Derek pointed out, as though that was a thing he was supposed to know. And what the hell, Stiles didn't think he'd even mentioned Allison by name. "I'm the poor sod in charge of making sure they get to Roxbury."
They'd mentioned that. Allison had a cousin who knew the area, and wasn't scared to death of New York drivers who was going to-- "But you just flew in from LAX."
"I used to live out here," Derek smirked the assholiest smirk to ever smirk, the gestured past Stiles. "Careful. They're--"
The warning came just too late to keep Stiles from getting bumped in the head by someone's oversized purse as the wall-o-people started moving, but the thought was appreciated.
Mostly.
-----
It was a boring hour, waiting for luggage and staring at Derek's ass as he checked in at the car rental kiosk (yes, boring. there was only so long he could stare at a non-moving ass, even one that amazing, before it stopped being interesting), but they kept themselves busy.
Derek had photos of Scott and Allison on his phone. They were the same ones Stiles had, with Scott's eyes closed in carefully explicable, natural ways.
They confirmed that Derek was a bit of a moron who had no idea that Stiles was that Stiles until he'd brought up the wedding. (Mostly because he was apparently horrible at names, an admission that came with eye rolling and blushing and it was adorable, okay?)
Allison answered Stiles' text to Scott with gratitude and relief that magic had apparently happened and he wasn't going to end up stranded at Newark. He replied back that she had NO IDEA how much she was going to regret this, then ignored the string of question marks she sent back.
Stiles started counting the tells, and all the little cues that suggested he wasn't about to make Allison's life incredibly awkward. (Well, he probably was, but not in that way.)
"So," he started, once they were both actually in the car and Derek was getting it set up to his specifications. "Werewolf?"
Gold eyes flashed at him over a grin as Derek bent himself in half to push the seat back a little further. "And you're the friend that figured it out before Scott did."
"The one and only," Stiles confirmed. "So, half of our job between now and Friday is keeping Scott distracted, right?"
"Only half?" Derek drawled and Stiles snorted because...well. Point.
"Right. Anyway, y'know what'd be really distracting? Us smelling like sex. Like, all the time."
Derek choked. Stiles considered that a win.
It was doubly a win for the way Derek's eyes lingered on his mouth, when he glanced over after recovering. "We should probably at least do coffee or something first."
"A six hour flight isn't enough of a date for you?"
Derek shrugged, grinned, and turned his attention to the parking lot as he pulled out. "Plenty of restaurants between here and the hotel."
-----
As it turned out, smelling like lust and heavy petting all the time was plenty enough distraction for Scott.
Allison gave them the most awkward thank you speech ever at the reception. It was awesome.