Work Text:
And everybody's saying that there's nobody meaner
Than the little old lady from Pasadena
--
It's a few weeks before something shakes up the pattern they’ve been sticking to and Stiles shuffles into the lab nearly ten minutes late without his backpack, hair a mess and glasses askew. He’s lucky that Harris is out for the week on conference (or maybe that’s the reason behind his tardy entrance), but when he collapses against his lab bench with his head on his arms, Derek puts his work on hold to make his way over. Stiles doesn’t make any move to sit up when Derek reaches his bench, just sinks more heavily into his crossed arms until only a crop of hair is visible, and he can't see Derek's frown of disapproval.
“You better not be hung-over.”
Stiles lets out a groan, burying his face deeper into his arms as if he could somehow burrow through the wood and wind up in the alcove below.
“Honestly, I wish I was.”
"You look pathetic." Derek's tone is distinctly unsympathetic. "Up. Explain."
Stiles groans again in response, and Derek sits back and waits. After a few moments, Stiles looks up from the cage of his arms, raising his face high enough that his words can be heard without being muffled by the cloth of his hoodie.
“Fine.”
It turns out a friend from back home had dropped by late last night for an unexpected visit, and Stiles had been forced to spend the early hours of the morning rearranging his dorm room to fit another person. He sighs, blinking up blearily from the safety of his arms. “Still, she’s an old friend. She’s always been this overwhelming.”
“Where’s she visiting from?”
“Caltech.”
At Derek’s raised brow, Stiles coughs out a laugh, grinning weakly at him across his arms.
“Believe me, she is the most terrifying person you’ve ever met.”
Thinking of Laura, Derek considers arguing the case, but Stiles is drooping with exhaustion, nuzzling his face against the crook of his elbow, and so he lets it go. A timer goes off behind him, signalling that his time is up regardless of what he might be considering, and so he rests a hand against Stiles shoulder, squeezing briefly.
“Good luck.”
“Yeah. Thanks, buddy.”
--
As Stiles has work, she’s taken his key and planned to nap through the morning, arranging to meet with him for lunch on campus. When lunch comes around though, Stiles is a picture of awkwardness, shuffling over to where Derek is just finishing off a dissection, trying and failing to ignore Stiles as he shifts uneasily from foot-to-foot. When Derek finally breaks, glancing up from the microscope to ask just what is wrong with him, he winces, gnawing on his front lip as he mumbles.
“I’ve got bad news, dude.”
Derek stares at him, jaw ticking until Stiles continues, spilling the rest of his friend’s request: she wants Derek to join them.
“But you’re not obligated to. God, I told her as much, repeatedly, but she threatened to castrate me if I didn’t at least ask. And, now I have. I’ll just text her and let her know that I did as she asked, and you agreed with me that her demands are completely outrageous.”
“Why would you do that?”
Stiles coughs out a laugh, before he pauses, glancing up at Derek to find he is in fact not smiling. “Wait, you’re not joking. Jesus, I forget you do that.”
“Do you want me not to come?”
His cheeks flush with colour that travels down his neck to the patch of skin Derek can see at his chest, and Derek has to swallow as Stiles shakes his head rapidly. “No, hell no: I’d love it if you came, really. This is just. Sudden.”
“Sudden.”
Stiles nods, resting his chin on top of his folded arms as he gives Derek a long, considering look. Derek waits him out, holding his gaze until he finally glances away, focusing on the bench again. “It’s just… we’ve only just arranged this, well,” here he gestures between the two of them, grimacing as he does so, “us, living together in the same apartment. I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.”
Derek shoves him off the desk, enjoying the grim satisfaction as Stiles slides off easily and yelps as he collides with the floor. He splutters as he scrambles upright, gaping openly up at Derek.
“What was that for?!”
“You’re an idiot.” Derek gives him a smirk, before leaning down to give him a hand, pulling him up easily even as Stiles grumbles about it, murmuring half-assed insults under his breath. Derek has to bite his tongue to keep from laughing when he catches ‘dick-face’. Jesus, sometimes it felt like he was dealing with a child. “When does she want to meet?”
“In about half an hour, at the PRC. I need to run home to change first, though.”
He eyes Stiles in his ironic tee-shirt shirt and worn, laundry-softened jeans that hang closely to his frame, and the messy bird nest that functioned as his default hairstyle. “That’s probably for the best. I’ll meet you in the courtyard?”
Stiles narrows his eyes at that, but inclines his head in agreement anyway.
“I’ll let that go for the time being, asshole. See you in about twenty minutes.”
--
Lydia Martin makes a beautiful, confident picture with her carefully applied make-up and perfect posture, her hair glimmering like spun gold in the midday sun. Her eyes are sharp on her approach, glancing over him where he stands next to Stiles, awkward and excruciatingly underdressed as she plants a kiss on Stiles cheek – and he wishes he’d done more than laugh when Stiles had arrived in a salmon-pink button-down, hair combed and neat for once. Jesus, Derek wishes he had done something with his own hair; he’d been meaning to trim it for months, but when your audience day-to-day is a room full of fish tanks and a series of dehydrated embryos, it had seemed pointless to keep up appearances.
With the look Lydia is giving him, Derek regrets that he hadn’t paid more attention. He rubs at his jawline, wincing at the three-day old stubble he finds there.
“You must be Derek.”
“It’s nice to meet you.”
He sticks his hand out, which she glances at with pursed lips. She considers it for a moment before extending her own. “The pleasure is mine.”
Her grip is firm and steady, and she gives him a perfunctory smile that seems entirely pleasant when they separate. Derek is therefore left without an explanation for Stiles’ reaction when he freezes, eyes narrowed on his friend as she takes a step back, flicking her eyes up and down his form.
He’s just opened his mouth to ask, when Lydia speaks up again, that brilliant smile still in place as she voices the question: "so, what's your deal?"
"Excuse me?"
"You're clearly attractive, and smart, and yet you create an aura that makes people want to avoid you." She taps a fingers against her bottom lip, scrutinizing him, and Derek has no idea what to say. "Stiles also likes you, which means there must be something wrong with you."
He retracts his hand, lips twisting into a scowl and her expression twists with disapproval. "That's exactly what I mean."
Stiles stares at his friend with wide eyes, his mouth half-open in shock. "Lydia- what?"
Derek echoes his question. "What?”
“You.” She gestures along the length of him, as if her subject wasn’t clear, and Stiles chokes in his periphery, burying his face into his hands with a muffled moan. “Your looks say hello, but your face says don’t even think about it.”
“Do you want me to apologise for my face?”
"Don’t be stupid."
"Lydia."
"Not now, Stiles."
"I - still don’t know exactly what you want me to say."
"Lydia, what are you-"
"Just start by answering my question.” At that she turns to Stiles, piercing him with a narrowed glare. “Enough, Stiles. You've talked about him enough; I'm allowed to ask a simple question."
Stiles makes a choking noise, looking as if he’s being strangled. "There's nothing simple about that question."
"Stiles, it's okay." The look Stiles gives him is agonised, and Derek struggles to keep his composure. He breaks, and lets out a snort. "Really."
"If you say so."
"Lydia. If you’re asking what I think… well. I don't want people approaching me for the wrong reasons. I'm more than," he gestures open-handedly at his face, before coughing into his hand, cheeks burning, "this."
"Were you a late bloomer?" She sounds genuinely curious, fingers tapping delicately together as her eyes glance over him again, focusing on his shoulders, his ears, and he can feel the heat there flaring under the scrutiny. Hoping to disguise it, he raises a hand to rub at the back of his neck, rolling his shoulders in a shrug.
"I’ve never put much stock into appearances. We were home schooled for most of our education. The one year I spent in high school was not entirely... pleasant, so I never went back."
"I see." Lydia leans back, apparently satisfied with his answer, and Stiles buries his face in his hands.
"How is this my life?"
Derek relaxes back into his seat, allowing himself a smile as he takes a long awaited sip of his drink. Stiles hands twitch from where they cover his head, and after a moment, he peeks out from beneath his arms.
Derek is tempted to smirk as he asks: "any other questions?"
Stiles' shudders at that, eyes wide and alarmed as he glances between Derek and Lydia. "God, please, no."
He nudges Stiles with his knee without even thinking about it, and after a moment Stiles returns the pressure, smiling up at him even as his fingers thread through his carefully fixes hair, sending the strands every which way.
“Are you hungry? I'm hungry. Let’s lunch.”
--
Later that evening, after a late lunch – delayed by the fact Lydia had done everything but force Derek to go home and change - and a dozen cocktails that cause Derek and Stiles to take the afternoon off work, Stiles catches Derek by the collar, dragging him closer until his mouth brushes his ear. His words are slurred, but clear enough for Derek to catch: “I’m so sorry about earlier. But really, I did warn you.”
Derek may accidentally end up pushing him into a lamppost.