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‘Ah shit…’ Stiles glances around at the prettily rustic square in which he’s currently hopelessly lost. It’s lined by houses in a multitude of ice-cream colors, many of which have charmingly uneven windows framed by wooden shutters and a vibrant over-spillage of brightly coloured flowers. The sun slants in unexpectedly through the blue-grey October clouds, lighting up the creams and pastels of the masonry, and Stiles can suddenly pretend like it’s summer. Or home.
He swallows down the little wistful pang that catches in his throat and tries to concentrate on the issue at hand. At any other time, Stiles thinks he would have been delighted to find himself here, in this beautiful little slice of the city. Only right now he doesn’t exactly know where ‘here’ is, so technically he’s lost himself here, and that is rather less delightful since he has someplace else he needs to be.
He glances despondently down at his phone, pushing at the button a few more times just in case. The phone does nothing but stare silently back, it’s gaze accusatory through the myriad of cracks that have devastated the screen.
‘Don’t look at me like that!’ Stiles pleads, petting at it. ‘I’m sorry I dropped you! That fountain just came outta nowhere!’
The phone stays silent and judgemental.
Stiles wonders if there’s such a thing as CPR for phones. He would totally give it the kiss of life right now, dignity be damned. ‘Come on, baby…’ he whispers, caressing the poor, broken screen. His heart lights up right along with the screen for a brief, glorious second, but then they simultaneously plunge right back into darkness. ‘Ah fuckadoodledoo…’
There’s a noise from the other side of the quiet square – a noise Stiles recognises all too well from his childhood as a sort of smothered laugh, at his expense. Stiles spins on his heel, wobbling precariously because oh, right, he’s on cobbles, which seem to have been put frickin’ everywhere for the sole purpose of trapping and tripping Stiles’ feet.
Sole purpose. Heh.
Stiles wishes Scotty were here right now to appreciate his searing wit.
Also because Stiles could totally steal his phone and use it to navigate himself away from the steely gaze that’s being directed at him from a pair of mirrored aviators on the opposite side of the street.
Stiles chooses to disregard the fact he’s been caught whispering sweet nothings to his phone in favour of assuming that the dude the sunglasses are attached to laughed because he speaks English, and could maybe help a brother out.
Stiles crosses the street and comes to an awkward stop in front of Sunglasses Dude, who is sprawled languidly in a white metal chair out front of a tiny bistro, and who, despite being mostly covered by his sunnies, a beaten-up leather jacket, and a black beanie, happens to be the hottest person Stiles has seen in forever.
And that’s saying something, because he’s in Paris, and everyone is gorgeous.
Sunglasses Dude does not seem similarly impressed by Stiles, judging by the way he doesn’t move at all other than to slightly tip his chin in Stiles’ direction to acknowledge his existence. Then he arches one thick, dark eyebrow.
Stiles clears his throat. He can totally talk to this massively-intimidating guy who looks like he’s doing some sort of ad campaign for leather jackets and really, really tight jeans. It’s not like he’s hitting on the guy, he just needs directions. He rifles frantically through his rudimentary French, kicking himself for concentrating on Latin at the expense of other, more useful languages, just because Lydia Martin had been taking it. He has not once had the need to talk to a hot guy in perfect Latin. Damn his sixteen-year old crotch for making that stellar life choice on his behalf.
He starts with the internationally winning combo of a grin and a wave. ‘So, hey,’ he says, ‘I mean hi, uh, hola, ah fuck, uh, bonjour, is what I meant, I just… yeah.’
The guy’s mouth twitches at the corners, just a little, revealing the promise of dimples beneath his perfectly groomed stubble. ‘Hola,’ he says dryly.
Stiles lets out a breath. Okay. He can work with this. Mrs McCall slips into Spanish pretty often, and Stiles had taken it as an elective way back when in middle school, but it’s rusty enough that he has to grope around in his brain for a second to find some of it. ‘Estoy perdido,’ he says, hoping to god he’s saying the right thing and not something that’s going to get him punched in the nose.
The guy looks down briefly and huffs out an actual laugh this time. ‘Eres afortunado.’
‘Huh?’ Oh god, Stiles’ Spanish is absolutely not at conversational level, he is so taking a course when he gets back home.
‘You’re lost,’ the guy says back to him, clearly taking pity at the bewilderment on Stiles’ face.
‘Oh thank god, you’re speak English’ Stiles drops into the seat opposite him, weak with relief at finding a fellow American with, hopefully, a working phone.
‘I do. But are you sure you want to? Your French is so good…’ The guy’s lips quirk up into that sarcastic little half smile again, and Stiles stomach does something swoopy like he’s just tipped over the highest loop of a rollercoaster and is about to descend into something unknown.
Stiles scowls at him. ‘Rude, dude. I’ve been picking stuff up. I can ask for a coffee, and, like, frites bouclés and shit.’
‘And you can say you’re lost in Spanish, so really that’s all your bases covered, as far as Europe’s concerned.’ The guy keeps his sunglasses trained on Stiles, his face all hard, perfect angles except for the tiny curve of his lips which belies his amusement.
‘Hey, don’t underestimate me, dude! It may seem unbelievable to you but my Spanish is even better than my French. I can ask for stamps, or a ham and cheese sammy, or I can angrily accuse you of having broken my pottery donkey. I’m practically fluent!’
‘Impressive.’ The guy fiddles with the teeny tiny cup in front of him, because of course someone who looks like that drinks espresso. ‘What’s Spanish for ‘who are you and why are you sitting at my table?’’
‘Oh, shit, right,’ Stiles shakes his head at himself. It had only taken about six seconds to get so caught up in snarky banter with Sunglasses Dude that he’d totally forgotten it wasn’t who he was meant to be seeing. ‘Sorry, man. I was actually wondering if you could give me directions. Betsy here died.’ He wiggles Betsy at Sunglasses Dude (Stiles briefly considers nicknaming him Miguel because of the Spanish, but then settles on Maverick, because, obviously), in order to fully demonstrate how very dead she really is.
‘Betsy?’
‘My sweet baby Betsy,’ Stiles sighs mournfully. ‘Loyal companion, snapchat addiction enabler, and expert navigator. She will be missed.’ He presses a hand to his heart and wonders if it would be too much to sing the national anthem in her honor. Just, like, a verse or whatever, not the whole thing. That would be weird.
‘What happened? Was it foul play, or suicide because she couldn’t stand to hear you try and speak French any longer?’
Stiles glares as fiercely as he can, and sticks his nose up in the air a little, for good measure, although combining the two proves to be surprisingly difficult without crossing his eyes, which somewhat ruins the effect. ‘It was accidental,’ he says as icily as he can in the face of Maverick’s ridiculous hotness. ‘Gravity and I parted ways briefly, and Betsy was an innocent bystander.’
Maverick crinkles his nose up, which is fucking adorable. ‘And you came out without a map?’
‘Of course not,’ Stiles says, rolling his eyes. ‘I came out with Betsy.’
Maverick sighs and shifts a little so he can reach for his back pocket. Stiles tries really hard not to stare at his thighs. He’s a little jealous of Maverick’s aviators, all of a sudden. Not only are they excellent at giving him an air of mystery, they’re probably awesome for surreptitious ogling. Stiles is not a naturally surreptitious person. He is, in fact, exceptionally bad at stealth. Ogling, however, he’s something of an expert in.
Maverick slams something down on the table-top in a pointed sort of way, which makes Stiles jump. He clears his throat, and points at the neatly folded sheet of paper between them. ‘Oh you meant a map type of map. Like out of the olden days.’
‘The days when you weren’t reduced to a soulless little blue dot on a screen by satellites and marketing executives, yeah,’ Maverick says, a little huffily. It makes Stiles want to squeeze his cheeks, it’s so cute.
‘Hey, don’t speak ill of the dead!’ Stiles covers Betsy with a protective hand. ‘You’re one of those, huh?’
‘One of what?’
‘One of those, ‘the government are always watching and by the way all the conspiracies!’ guys.’
Maverick tilts his head a little and says, drily, ‘Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you,’ which makes Stiles laugh. A smile tugs at the corners of Maverick’s mouth, and he ducks his chin like he’s embarrassed. ‘Where do you need to go?’
‘Um, Rue des Abbesses,’ Stiles says, grateful that he has something of a head for random details even if he can’t dredge up seventh grade Spanish.
Maverick manipulates the map a little while he checks the index, running his finger down the list and then over the grids of the map to locate exactly where Stiles wants to go. ‘It’s a bit of a distance,’ he says uncertainly, once he finds it.
‘Yeah,’ Stiles replies. ‘I’m staying with my buddy and his girlfriend about a half hour from here. He told me to take the metro but I thought a walk would be nice. Help me soak up some of the ambience, ya know? Course, that was with Betsy’s guidance. If you could just, like, point me in the right direction, I can make my way.’
‘It’s about another half an hour's walk…’ Maverick does not sound any more certain.
Stiles slumps back in his chair, the woven metal cold through the material of his shirt. ‘Shit. Betsy promised me twenty minutes. But I guess I wasted some of that bothering you with my terrible linguistic skills.’
‘You have an appointment?’
‘A date,’ Stiles clarifies. ‘For brunch.’
‘You want to call her?’ Maverick pulls something out of his jacket pocket that was probably the latest model of cell phone sometime in the eighties. No internet, Stiles is almost certain.
‘Um, I don’t actually know his number…’ Stiles says, kicking despondently at the cobbles under his feet. ‘Betsy knew it.’
‘Ah. Well I’m sure he’ll?’ Maverick waits for Stiles’ answering nod before proceeding. ‘I’m sure he’ll understand.’
‘I dunno, man,’ Stiles says, pushing a frustrated hand through his hair. ‘First date.’
Maverick grimaces. ‘Well if you head in this direction for long enough you’ll get there. If you fall into the Seine you’ve gone too far.’
Stiles narrows his eyes. ‘Thanks for the tip.’
‘Hey, no problem.’ Maverick pushes the map toward Stiles a little, keeping his fingertip as a place-marker. Stiles scoots his chair closer and leans in so he can see it better.
‘Oh so we’re here?’ Stiles says, scanning the map.
‘Yeah.’ Maverick turns to him slightly, and reaches up to pluck the sunglasses from his face, revealing unexpectedly light, beautiful, blue-green eyes which are so pretty Stiles ends up blinking at him like an idiot for way too long.
‘You okay?’ Maverick asks, his tone amused enough that Stiles knows he’s totally given away his attraction. Damn. It’ll be fine as long as he just plays it cool.
He nods rapidly, many times in a row, and then says, ‘Guh.’
For fuck’s sake.
It’s worth the humiliation though, because Maverick’s mouth breaks into this dazzling smile, all adorable, white teeth and perfect stubble, and a laugh gusts out and crystallises in the freezing morning air, hanging between them along with all Stiles’ attraction. Maverick shakes his head, his mouth settling into a more understated, pleased curve as he focuses his attention back on the map, tracing the route with his finger.
He tucks his sunglasses into the neckline of his soft-looking sage green shirt, which is excellent, partly because Stiles can’t get enough of those eyes, and partly because the weight of the glasses tugs the neckline down just enough to reveal a beautifully sculptural neck, and the dark curl of chest hair.
Stiles swallows thickly. ‘Have you been in the city long?’
Maverick glances up at him. ‘Couple of months.’ He shrugs, like international globe totting ain’t no thang. ‘You?’
‘Week or so,’ Stiles says, aiming to match his insouciance. ‘Like I said, I’m visiting my buddy who lives here with his girlfriend. I fly back to Cali at the end of the month.’
Maverick raises one of his thick, expressive brows. ‘And you’re dating? Your French must be better than it seems, if your pick-up lines worked that fast.’
Stiles snorts softly. ‘Oh. No. It’s a kid I met on Tinder.’
‘Tinder?’ Maverick leans on one elbow, gazing at him. It’s disconcerting how shrewd his gaze is, like this guy can see through all the bullshit right to the core of who he is.
‘Yeah,’ Stiles says. ‘The dating app. You know, swipe right, and all that?’
Maverick stares at him blankly. ‘You came to Paris to use a dating app?’
‘No, but…’ Stiles trails off, not very keen on explaining that he really has no game at all, but that being in a tiny apartment with Scott and Allison who compete daily for the ‘cutest couple on the face of the earth award’ has made him feel a deep, lonely ache right in the pit of his stomach. ‘Scott – that’s my best friend – seeing him here with Allison is so... I just… And, you know, this is the city of romance. So. Why not?’
Maverick looks at him steadily. ‘Ah.’
‘And what about you?’ Stiles asks, the bittersweet pull of attraction in his belly making him bolder than usual. ‘Are you here looking for love?’
‘I don’t know,’ Maverick says thoughtfully. ‘I like to explore. I like getting lost along the way. I’m open to that being a place… or a person.’
Stiles is utterly charmed and intensely curious. ‘Why do you have a map, if you’re hoping to get lost?’
‘GPS is A to B. Maps…’ Maverick flattens his palm over the colourful rendering of the city that’s spread out in front of them, ‘are possibilities. Adventures.’
The long, strong fingers of Maverick’s hand are now barely a whisper from Stiles’ own fingers, and neither of them seem inclined to move them. Stiles doesn’t think he’s imagining the charge that seems to flow between them, or the intention in the blue-green gaze that holds his own steadily.
He forgets about his brunch date entirely.
The map’s the only tinder he needs now, serving as kindling to the sparks that flare above it.
Eventually Maverick tears his eyes away, biting at a pink, perfect lower lip with something that looks a lot like regret. ‘You should probably get going.’
‘Oh. Yeah.’ Stiles gets slowly to his feet. ‘Thanks for coming to my rescue. You’re my hero.’
‘No worries,’ Maverick says, though Stiles can feel the air thick between them with things that hang there unsaid. It's so weird, how strong his attraction is to this guy that he just met. It feels like they've known each other for forever.
‘So… bye.’ Stiles waves and turns to leave the square, pausing every other step to take a longing look over his shoulder at the broad figure of the other guy.
This is crazy, he knows, even as his steps falter. He doesn’t even know this guy’s name. Doesn’t know if he’s gay, could be misreading the situation entirely. And yet.
By his next glance Maverick has gotten to his feet and is thumbing through his wallet, pulling out a couple of bills to give to the waiter.
Stiles rounds the corner so he can no longer catch a glimpse of Maverick, and all he feels is wrong wrong wrong.
‘Fuck it.’ He spins around and runs back down the cobbled street to the square, but Maverick is gone. ‘Shit.’ Disappointment floods his chest like ice water.
‘Lost again?’ Comes that soft, amused voice from behind him.
Stiles turns around, thanking all his stars that Maverick is still there, arms crossed loosely across his very lovely chest. ‘Uh,’ Stiles runs his hands through his hair before writing it off as a lost cause. He takes a deep, shaky breath. ‘Maybe. I don’t know. Would you want to be? With me? Lost, I mean?’
Maverick stares at him for a long second, long enough that panic sets in, but before he can freak out entirely Maverick steps into his space, encircling him with solid arms. The map crinkles from inside the leather jacket, which is soft and cool against Stiles’ arms.
‘Yeah,’ Maverick says, eyes warming with a smile. ‘Yeah, I think I would.’
Stiles’ grin is so massive and goofy it can probably be seen from space. He doesn’t give a single shit.
‘I’m Stiles, by the way,’ he says, digging his fingers into the buttery leather of the jacket.
‘Derek,’ Maverick – Derek – says, and then he leans in to kiss him.
Stiles knows they just agreed to get lost together, but damn if the first press of his mouth to Derek’s doesn’t feel like coming home.
(He doesn’t end up making his brunch date, but he does get the chance to try breakfast at Derek’s the next morning. He makes really good eggs. With avocado, Stiles is delighted to discover, because he's from California, too.
He also uses Derek’s ancient dial-up - Stiles seriously didn’t know it was a thing that even existed any more - to log into his emails and discover a long apology note from Tinder-kid, who hadn’t made it in the end anyway.
Stiles forgives him.
He watches Derek towel his hair off after his shower, water droplets rolling down his defined shoulders, and smiles as he shuts down the decrepit laptop.
There’s something to be said for a little bit of analog magic, after all.)