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“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit-“ Stiles twisted around the counter and crouched down, his eyes following the approaching group clad in leather through the front window of Hale’s Bar. He had started the 4am to noon shift only a week ago, and was still only working every other night when some sleaze ball ducked in just before his shift had started and stuck around for a few refills of scotch, leering over the counter at him the whole time. He was fairly drunk before Stiles decided to cut him off around 5am, and the guy had retaliated by making loud obscene comments about his mouth and where he could put it before fumbling out the door.
After the scene was cleared and most of the early morning drinkers that had been ordering in a steady stream tapered off and left, he did his rounds cleaning up the empty tables and beer bottles. Not understanding why his dad had thought working at a bar before his afternoon classes would be a bad and, “dangerous thing Stiles, you don’t know what kinds of people hang around a bar that early, and let me tell you son—they’re not good people,” when the guy who had been sitting quietly in the corner the whole night with his head down grabbed his ass as he walked by.
For a second, Stiles hadn’t realize what had happened. Thought that maybe he had bumped into the table by accident, but then thought better when he remembered the distinct feel of fingers digging into the flesh of his ass and it being letting go with a slap. Stiles gritted his teeth, setting down the tray with empty bottles on the bar before turning around to Mr. Silent staring at him with a smug grin. The creep fully scraped his eyes up Stiles and snarked about how he’ll be taking him home with him. Stiles returned his grin bitterly joined by the middle finger and with the request for him to leave, immediately, before he called security.
The man didn’t find his response as funny and his grin dropped to be replaced with a fierce glare and the question of, “Do you even know who I am.”
Which left Stiles forgetting everything his dad had ever taught him about criminals and alter egos before snipping back with a, “The guy that’s being permanently banned from this bar.”
With the authority that he has if ever met with any type of assault or violence, had to break up any said assault or violence, or caught someone with a fake ID or someone booting for someone underage. Which at this moment, sexual assault was enough of a case for Stiles to lock himself firmly behind the bar and pick up the security phone, holding it up next to his head while staring at the man with a glare. Mr. Silent had glared back, smashing his glass onto the counter which caused Stiles to jump in surprise before storming out the door.
Now only an hour later, Stiles hid behind the counter with a look of horror when he recognized Mr. Silent leading a crowd of leather wearing, probably-packing-some-illegal-weapons-in-my-belt, hulking guys towards the bar, realizing that no security call or surveillance camera could save his ass from getting kicked this time.
The only person left besides him in the bar knocks on the counter for another drink, startling him enough out of his trance with his “looming death” outside the bar to bash his knee into the cabinet below and hiss in pain. He stumbles up, pulling out another craft beer from the mini cooler and popping the cap for the guy, passing it over before getting ready to crouch down again when he stops. With more natural light streaming through the front window thanks to the rising sun, Stiles gets a better glimpse at the man who had been sitting there for the last 20 minutes that isn’t under the bar’s shitty dim yellow florescent bulbs. He never thought that a morning drinker going on their fourth round could look so—well, he never though anybody who looked like this man would have any need to be a morning drinker in the first place. Secondly, oh wow, are gods real? Because he might have found one sitting at his bar.
He looked clean, sharp, stubble shaved down but enough to define his face and hair gelled up, leather jacket tight where his muscles bulged with his arms folded up on the counter and holding the neck of his beer in one hand. Stiles let out a breath cause he’d been staring, almost gaping, at the guy who kept his gaze locked on his drink, albeit it wavered a bit beneath his lashes, probably already drunk after downing so much alcohol in such a short amount of time.
The bell above the door chimed as Mr. Silent entered with his goons and Stiles’ breath caught in his throat again, but for a whole other reason, and he leaned forward and grabbed the good looking guy’s hand and talked below his breath in quick tempos,
“The customer I flipped off earlier tonight for touching my butt turned out to be the son of some high-ranking mafia someone-or-rather, and now he’s back with his posse and you’re the only other person left in the bar so can you PLEASE do something instead of sitting there looking drunk as a skunk?”
The guy stared baffled for a moment (with his amazing eyes) before shaking off Stiles’ hand, and Stiles’ heart shrunk in his chest and fell into his stomach as the guy pushed back from the bar and stood facing the people crowding at the door. They parted slightly, leaving a trail to the door, expecting him to leave at the sight of them, but to their surprise and Stiles’ he didn’t make a move forward. A few of the beefier men looked at each other, staring down the intoxicated man Stiles stupidly asked to save his life when he really should have just called the police. That way he would at least end up at a hospital and not bleed out on the floor after they’re done with him.
Hesitating, Stiles slowly inched his hand towards the security phone under the counter as the standoff continued, but before he could move close enough, Mr. Silent finally decided to speak up.
“Don’t move, pretty-boy.” He waved the side of his jacket away, metal glinting off the sun light to reveal a gun tucked into a holster. Ignoring the awful pet name, Stiles lifted his hands instantly, holding them in the air with his frightened gaze trained on where the gun was once again hidden behind his leather jacket. Mr. Silent’s smug grin returned and he moved on from looking at Stiles to the guy that hasn’t stepped away from the bar. “You. You must not be thinking straight. Get out.”
There was another standoff and the stupid, stupidly attractive man didn’t budge, glancing up with a bit more clarity then before. The scene looked almost comical. A posse of mafia looking, bulky, probably into cross fit and steroid induced on one side, all behind their ring leader who should probably have his name changed to Mr. Gun, and a not as muscly guy standing up against them all. All wearing leather. It was like a greaser’s movie, they all just needed their hair slicked back, well—besides the ones that did have their hair slicked back. A few of the scary looking dudes were sporting some unfortunate hair styles and premature baldness.
“I don’t want to see any of you here again,” said Mr. Attractive, shifting himself so he stood more fully in front of Stiles.
The rest of the blurry men chuckled, Mr. Silent cocking the side of his jacket away again with a hand on his hip, flashing his gun. Mr. Gun, it is then.
“You don’t, do ya,” he snarked, grinning widely now and glancing around the guy at Stiles with a wink, which horrified Stiles more as the proceedings went on. “What makes you think I’m going to listen to the likes of you?” He nodded on, backed up with a literal wall of muscle as he laughed.
Stiles’ hope deflated. They were going to die. All over his new job there’s going to be pieces of Stiles and Mr. Attractive sprinkled like fairy glitter.
“Maybe this,” there was a terrible crunching sound, like grinding bones, and startled gasps from the gang, expressions morphing into that of pure terror as they scrambled for the door handle behind them and Mr. Gun scrambled for his gun on his hip and let out a ear piercing scream at the horrifying roar that followed. They made their exit, practically climbing over each other to get out, not waiting to ask questions or say goodbyes. The most of them continued yelling as they ran down the street and out of sight, the rest had attempted to get away in their vehicles but stalled and bumped into each other on their way out, leaving metal on metal screeching and large flakes of paint to fill the road.
Still with his hands up in the air, Stiles could barely handle what he saw out of his peripheral. Morphed bone structure and mutton chops, actual fangs and glowing blue eyes. But when he glanced towards the guy, his face was back to normal and he had turned back around, reaching out to the bar slowly before finishing his beer.
“I’m Derek Hale,” the guy—Derek, nodded at him, placing his empty bottle on the counter.
Stiles not realizing he had had his mouth agape, snapped it closed and wondered why that name sounded familiar. “You’re…”
“Laura’s brother.”
Stiles thought that it made sense now, Laura was his boss and the owner of the bar alongside her younger brother, Derek. She had said he’s been out of town to deal with some business in California. California, Hales, Laura and Derek, it all sounds so familiar. “And you’re a, ah.”
“Werewolf.”
“Ah.”
“You smell like magic.”
Just feeling the cramp in his arms, Stiles lowers them and gestures with his hands, “Oh uhm, I dabble. Cool party tricks and all that.”
“Like actual magic.”
Stiles holds his hands up in defense. “Okay, so I maybe do more than dabble—but my hometown’s vet taught me the basics, yeah I know that sounds crazy and it’s nothing more than being able to light a candle and levitate a few pencils, but he gave me a few books to study while away at college. He’s my best friend’s boss, Alan Deaton.” Don’t give him specifics, Stiles. Get your head in the game. “But yeah he’s not my best friend, Scott’s my best friend, not Deaton. Deaton’s just this, just this guy. Very vague. Vet.”
Derek hums in response, eyebrows climbed high on his forehead.
“So, werewolf,” said Stiles.
“Mage.”
“Spark,” Stiles corrected.
“Well then Spark, will I be seeing you tomorrow?” Derek asked coyly, leaning in against the counter now more relaxed than he was before Stiles started to ramble.
“Ah no.” Stiles bit his lip at the slight furrow of Derek’s impressive eyebrows, before connecting the dots and gasping. “Yes! Well not really, I work every other day. So Monday, I’ll be here.”
Derek stood back and let his mouth curl up a bit, satisfied. “Glad to hear it.” He then walked out the door of the bar, of Hale’s Bar, and didn’t turn back.
Stiles could feel his disbelief seeping onto his face as he slumped and directed his gaze to the empty bottle.
“Werewolves,” he hissed, noticing how Derek didn’t leave any money to pay for his beers.