Work Text:
A Shot in the Dark
---
To those that the gods have not abandoned, Sunday usually rhymes with fun day. Stiles, however, has managed to make it rhyme with catching-up-with-a-week’s-worth-of-neglected-readings day. Like a significant number of college students, he’s affected by a terrible condition known as ‘chronic procrastination,’ which, if left untreated, will most likely become the cause of his premature death.
Maybe if he bangs his head hard enough against his organic chemistry textbook, the knowledge inside will transfer to his brain by osmosis? Unfortunately, the text message he receives from Lydia asking for his whereabouts keeps him from testing out his hypothesis. A couple of minutes later, she shows up at the coffee shop where Stiles has been studying for what seems like fifty years, a little short of breath as if she’d been running.
“Please tell me you came here to put me out of my misery,” he groans as she flops down into the seat across from him.
“Not today, dear,” she says, sliding a parchment paper bag toward him, a sweet smile on her scarlet lips.
Stiles' eyes zero in on the logo, an ‘M’ flanked by a pair of stylized chickadees, and his heart flutters when he recognizes it. With the tip of his thumb and forefinger, he opens the bag to peek inside, already salivating in anticipation.
“Why are you bringing me madeleines?” he asks, squinting at Lydia with suspicion. Stiles doesn’t have much of a sweet tooth, but if there was a dessert he could eat until he fell into a diabetic coma, it’d be those little shell-shaped sponge cakes his mom used to bake all the time when he was a kid. The next best madeleines come from that high-end French bakery, Mésange, located at the other side of town where the tourists actually outnumber the locals. Stiles lifts a hand before Lydia can answer. “Wait, I know. You need a favour.”
“Can’t a girl just randomly bring pastries to her friend without being accused of harbouring ulterior motives?” Lydia scoffs, using Stiles' notebook to fan herself.
“But you and I both know you aren't just any girl, miss Martin,” Stiles replies, handing her a napkin that she daintily dabs around her face and on her neck.
"Well, that's something I cannot deny." She flashes him a grin that makes him roll his eyes with affection.
"So, what is it that you need this time? A road trip companion for a crazy weekend in Vegas? A sous-chef to help you cook a fancy romantic dinner for your better half?"
"It's actually a model that I need this time."
"A model? Like, a fashion model? Like, you want me to help you find one?"
"I want you to be one."
Stiles blinks at her, taking a moment to process what she’s just said. “I’m not saying that’s a crazy idea, but you have to admit it is a little wild, even for you." Even Scott, who’ll always support Stiles no matter what he chooses to do, would have serious doubts.
"Believe me, under other circumstances, I would’ve asked someone else, but I’m in a bit of a predicament here.” Lydia heaves a sigh, tucking a strand of hair that has escaped from her braid behind her ear. “One of my models went and broke his leg a couple of days ago. It's impossible for me to put off my photoshoot for a later date; it has to be done tomorrow. I need someone who's got a similar body type to replace him because I don't have time to make major adjustments to my outfits. And it so happens that you’re about the right size and look reasonably good on camera."
“Um, I'm flattered, I guess, but this comes at the absolute worst time. I’ve got this godawful exam on Tuesday that I need to study for, not to mention the research paper due Wednesday, which is giving me massive anxiety attacks because the only thing I've written down so far is the reference list. And next week, I have two exams and another paper to write. So yeah, I'm kinda swamped."
Lydia retrieves an impressive three-ring binder from her tote bag and slides it over to Stiles. "These are detailed notes for you to study for your upcoming exams. They are grouped according to subjects and colour-coordinated for easier memorization."
"Lydia, what– How did you–" Stiles sputters, at a loss for words, as he flips through the notes that look even more thorough than the info in his textbooks.
She casually inspects her nails, painted the same vivid red that adorns her lips. “Let’s just say that I’ve got good contacts.” She’s never sounded more like a mob boss and Stiles can feel his chest swell with pride.
“I appreciate all the effort you’ve put into persuading me, but I really don't think I can do it. You know I can't hold still for more than fifteen minutes at a time."
Lydia leans into his space, putting her elbows on the table and resting her chin on her laced fingers. "There will be snacks that’ll include curly fries and my famous caramelized bacon-wrapped cocktail sausages," she says with the confidence of someone playing their winning hand, a triumphant glint in her eyes.
Someone with a solid set of principles and beliefs will firmly stand their ground and refuse to be bribed with the promise of free food. Stiles isn't that someone.
"Ugh. This is so unfair. You know I can’t resist curly fries and your famous caramelized bacon-wrapped cocktail sausages," Stiles whines, wiping the drool that’s already escaping from a corner of his mouth. He’s weak, there’s no denying that, but he’s also a broke-ass college student, which means refusing free food is a luxury he cannot afford.
“It’s settled, then,” Lydia says as she gets up and smooths out her skirt. “Come on, let's go."
“What? Where?”
“I need to have you pre-fitted before the actual photoshoot.”
“Like, now?” Stiles groans, but he’s already shoving his books inside his backpack.
“Yes, now. Hate to rush you, but we don’t have all day.”
Trust Lydia Martin to barrel through work and life with as much efficiency as a German factory. Stiles makes a mental note to get her for Christmas a gift card for a full day at the spa, because God knows the woman deserves some well overdue relaxing time.
Lydia’s small hand falls on his arm before he gets up. “This means a lot to me, Stiles. Thank you."
He smiles and squeezes her hand briefly. "I know how important this project is to you. You've been working on it for months."
“If I get a high enough grade, I'll be sent to compete for the Mercier Fashion Award. It's an opportunity of a lifetime."
“Remember to save me a seat in the front row. I don’t want to miss the moment you’re handed the award.”
A small, almost shy smile blossoms on Lydia’s lips. “I’ll remember.”
---
Lydia’s apartment also doubles as her work studio. Fortunately enough, it has never been a source of conflict with her girlfriend Allison who, bless her soul, doesn’t mind having her furniture buried under mountains of garments and fabric samples all day, everyday.
“That’s your substitute?” asks a guy perched on Allison’s desk as Stiles and Lydia walk into the living room, skepticism written all over his aggressively gorgeous face.
The guy’s embodying that thrift-shop-enthusiast, fine-arts-major, kombucha-brewer aesthetic that’s all the rage right now : trimmed beard, dark hair tied in a messy bun, tattoo-covered arms, the whole nine yards. A goddamn walking wet dream, that’s what he looks like, but Stiles still has enough blood left in the brain to register the mild disdain that has seeped through the guy’s voice.
“Hey, buddy. I’ve been told from a reliable source that I’m about the right size and look reasonably good on camera," Stiles says, raking a hand through his hair, a cheeky grin on his lips.
“That wasn’t what I― It’s just that you don’t seem, well…” the guy trails off, wrinkling his nose and crossing his arms over his chest as if Stiles' mere existence was offending his senses.
“I don’t seem what, exactly?” Stiles demands, losing his smile and mentally rolling up his sleeves. He didn’t get out of bed today to have some hot stranger lowkey insult him for no reason.
“Okay fellas, put the rulers away, zip up,” Lydia interjected, taking a dark blue suit jacket off the clothing rack beside Allison’s desk. “Derek, that’s Stiles and yes, he’s the substitute. Stiles, this is Derek, my photographer. I don’t care if you guys get along or not, but inside my studio, everyone is a professional and acts accordingly, got it?”
“Well, technically, I’m not a trained model, so –” Stiles snaps his mouth shut with an audible clap when Lydia levels a glare at him that would have blown his brains out had it been a gun. “But I guess I can act like one,” he amends, raising his hands in a placating gesture.
"We're going to shoot in the kitchen since that's where the lighting is best," Lydia says as she hands over to Stiles the jacket she's selected from the rack, along with its matching shirt and trousers.
“I thought I was just trying on the clothes,” Stiles remarks, glancing at Derek who’s hopped off the desk, standing about the same height as Stiles, but whereas Stiles is lanky with soft edges, Derek is all hard muscles and sharp features.
“I need to see how they appear on you on camera too,” Lydia replies, tugging on Stiles' red hoodie. “Off with your clothes, please.”
“I usually like to be offered at least a drink first,” he jokes, and predictably, Lydia doesn't dignify it with a reply, already busy picking out a pair of mahogany Oxford shoes to go with the suit.
The shirt slides on Stiles' skin like liquid silver, the diaphanous organza hugging his shoulders perfectly. By contrast, the jacket is cut in a heavy wool damask, its black iris pattern standing out from the cobalt ground like hypnotic silhouettes against the night sky. When it comes to fashion, Stiles isn't shy to admit that he knows squat, but even a novice like himself can tell that Lydia’s tailoring is impeccable. Though the pants are a little too tight to his liking, but it wasn’t like his preference carried any weight in this matter, anyway.
“I don’t feel my legs anymore,” Stiles complains all the same, because he’s read somewhere that whining is as effective a stress relief method as anything. “Like, my blood is no longer reaching my toes. I’d hate to have them amputated, Lydia. I’ve grown quite attached to them; they help me walk around with grace and dignity.”
“Stiles, I really don’t think it’s your toes you should be worried about,” Lydia retorts with the shadow of a smirk on her lips, and Stiles' alarmed gaze falls down on his crotch. “Now, quit fidgeting so much and tuck your shirt inside your pants.”
Lydia practically shoves him into the kitchen as soon as he gets the Oxfords on, her heels clicking quickly against the ceramic tiles as she fusses around him, making the final adjustments to his outfit before stepping away to let Derek do his job.
“Look straight at the camera, don't smile, don't slouch, arms along your body,” Derek directs with the enthusiasm of someone who's having all their teeth pulled out at once.
“You gotta give me a little more than that, man,” Stiles says, extending his arms and bending his knees experimentally. “What am I supposed to project, here? Sadness? Contempt? Hysteria? I can pull a pretty convincing hysteric vibe, if that's what we're going for.”
He looks questioningly at Lydia who's perched on the counter behind Derek, only half serious. She quickly turns her head to the side in a vain attempt to conceal the amused smile that's tugging at her lips, while Derek only stares at him like he's just escaped from Eichen House.
"You're not auditioning for The Rocky Horror Show, Stiles," Lydia says with a complimentary eye roll. "Just keep it neutral."
Stiles looks back at the camera and forces his features to relax. Unlike subsisting on ramen and energy bars only during the few weeks preceding finals, posing for pictures isn't a skill he can say he's ever mastered, as exemplified by his trademark stiff limbs and deer-caught-in-the-headlights expressions immortalized in nearly every single photograph of himself. This alone should have deterred Lydia from ever considering him a suitable candidate for the kind of endeavor she's asking him to undertake, but he guesses this is a ‘desperate times call for desperate measures’ type of situation.
"What the hell are you doing?" Derek growls, eyebrows knitted together in annoyance. "You look like you're about to take a dump."
"Oh, I don’t know, maybe your delightful company is giving me cramps," Stiles retorts without missing a beat.
"It's okay, Derek," Lydia intervenes before Derek can snarl back. "Today we're just focusing on the clothes and how they look on Stiles."
Derek mumbles something Stiles doesn’t quite catch as he snaps a picture of Stiles with the flash on. “Sorry,” he says, looking the opposite of sorry as far as Stiles' fried retinas can see. He totally did it on purpose, the bastard.
The shoot itself isn't actually all that bad, as it only requires Stiles to showcase the clothes from several angles while Lydia takes some notes. The extravagant poses and sultry pouts are reserved for the following day, Lydia has informed him, and the mere thought of it has sufficed to make him sweat with dread.
Stiles is inserting a leg inside his third and final pair of trousers for the day when Lydia’s cell phone starts buzzing loudly on the dinner table where she left it.
“I promised Allison I’d pick her up after her last class today,” Lydia announces after she has disabled her alarm. “Can I trust you guys to finish the shoot without killing each other?”
“Of course,” Stiles says while Derek just grunts in response.
Just like she did with his two previous outfits, she helps Stiles don his last one, making sure everything is in order before allowing Derek to take the pictures. Once she believes that Derek and Stiles can now proceed without further assistance, she grabs her purse and leaves them to their own devices.
When the door finally shuts with a soft click behind Lydia, Stiles drops the reassuring smile he’s slapped onto his face to assuage his friend’s fear of mutiny. Turning his back to Derek, he leans over the dining table to grab an apple from the fruit basket.
“We’re not done yet,” Derek blurts out, his voice sounding a little strangled for some reason.
“Dude, I need a break, and you could use one too,” Stiles says around a mouthful of apple. “We’ve been working non-stop for at least an hour; we deserve a snack.” He rolls another apple toward Derek who, after a brief hesitation, intercepts it with a small sigh. Unlike Stiles who couldn’t be bothered, he brings the apple to the sink and rinses it thoroughly before he takes a bite, frowning like the fruit has just insulted his entire family.
"So, Derek. What’s your deal? Why are you so angry?"
Derek levels a dry look at Stiles, his jaw clenching briefly. “I’m not angry.”
“He said angrily, with an angry expression,” Stiles stage-whispers.
“What?”
“What?” Stiles repeats, blinking with faux innocence.
“What’s your deal? Why do you always have to turn everything into a cheap-ass joke?” Derek retorts, his tone low and cold.
“Wow, harsh much? Well, there goes my dream of making it in the comedy industry. I’m devastated.”
“This is exactly what I’m talking about! How do you get anything done with that kind of attitude?”
“Oh my God, dude, what crawled up your ass and died?”
“You know what? If you can’t take this seriously, if you’re deliberately sabotaging this project that Lydia and I have been working our asses off for, you can just leave right now before you ruin everything for good.”
“What the– wow.” Stiles has to set his apple down, because Derek’s outrageous accusations have just killed his appetite. “Okay, I don’t know if you remember when I mentioned earlier that I wasn’t a trained model? Well, for once, I wasn’t joking. I’m only doing this as a favour to Lydia who happens to be one of my best friends. I know I’m awful at this, okay? But I’m really trying my fucking best and your acting like a first-class jerk isn’t helping!”
Stiles braces himself for the inevitable sucker punch that will probably reshape his nose, gritting his teeth and clenching his hands into fists. But all Derek does is scowl at him for a whole minute before he releases a long suffering sigh, shutting his eyes for a second as if he was asking a superior entity to give him strength.
“I’m sorry,” Derek finally says, the tense line of his broad shoulders relaxing somewhat, and Stiles freezes with his fists raised mid-air, totally taken aback. “I guess I just didn’t realize– You’ve been acting so flippant that I thought you just didn’t care.”
“Dude, I do care. People cope with stress in different ways, right? Mine happens to be turning everything into a cheap-ass joke, as some wisecracker so eloquently put it.”
Derek has the decency to look vaguely contrite. He even offers Stiles his very first smile, though small but genuine, and it makes him go from looking like a serial killer to a teenage heartthrob so fast Stiles fears he might get whiplash.
“So, this is a collab?” Stiles asks to have something else to focus on.
“Fashion photography isn’t what I do usually, but it’s good for me to have a diverse portfolio. Lydia needed a photographer, I needed new subjects, so we decided to team up.”
They resume the photoshoot in a much better mood than when they started it, now that they are both on the same page. Derek turns out to be a pretty chill dude when he’s not preoccupied with fending off potential saboteurs.
"Not gonna lie, I'm kinda disappointed at this whole modeling gig," Stiles confesses as Derek snaps a picture of his left side.
"And why is that?"
"I was expecting encouraging compliments thrown my way left and right, but you’ve been awfully quiet. I mean, America's Next Top Model has given me standards."
“You’re right. My bad,” Derek says behind his camera. “Could you turn your head a little bit to the left for me, please?”
Stiles obliges naturally, and Derek starts pushing on the shutter release with frantic abandon, punctuating each snapshot with “gorgeous” and “beautiful” and “a-ma-zing”, all delivered in the most deadpan tone Stiles has ever heard.
Doubled over with his hands around his stomach is the state in which Lydia and Allison find Stiles a little while later, his whole body vibrating with thunderous laughter.
“What’s happening?” Lydia asks with concern, her gaze flicking from Stiles to Derek who’s willing himself so hard to contain his own laughter that he’s kind of turning blue in the face. “Derek, are you feeling all right?”
“A-ma-zing,” he snorts, and Stiles completely loses it, half-collapsing on Derek with tears rolling down his cheeks, which earns him a mild glare from the latter who nearly dropped his camera.
“I don’t see why you were so worried about them,” Allison says with a fond smile. “They seem to be getting along just fine.”
“Oh my god. What have I done?” Lydia whispers, her voice quivering a bit with horror.
---
The next day after his last class in the afternoon, Stiles heads over to Derek’s studio with mild anxiety settling in his stomach. Yesterday pre-fitting was nice and all, but today’s the real deal. He doesn’t want to fuck it up, especially when Lydia’s future career might be on the line. That’s a lot of pressure on a guy who looks as lively on camera as a taxidermied raccoon.
He is greeted at the door by a stunning girl with long barley-coloured hair and Shiraz-stained lips. Clad in a black bustier and leather pants, she’s assuming the dominatrix regalia – minus the whip – with a confidence that increases her sex-appeal tenfold.
“Well, hello there,” she purrs, her kohl-rimmed eyes raking over his body in such a way that he feels the urge to cover up even though he’s already dressed. “I’m Erica. You must be Stiles.” The smile she gives him is bright and genuine as she shakes his hand. “Derek said you were cute, but I think the poor guy needs to have his eyes checked.” Stiles' face falls a little at that, but she quickly leans over and whispers into his ear, “Because ‘smoking hot’ would be more accurate.”
“Oh, um, thanks? The same goes for you,” he sputters with enough heat radiating from his cheeks to fry some eggs.
“Aw, I get the cute part now,” she replies with a laugh, stepping aside to let him in.
The studio is actually an immense loft wreathed in sunlight. Stiles' eyes are immediately drawn to the large windows opposite the entrance where Derek and Lydia are already at work with a model. The ease with which the latter follows Derek's direction makes Stiles feel, if he had to be honest, a little envious.
Erica quickly introduces him to the rest of the crew – four part-time models, including the one being currently photographed, one photo assistant, and one hairstylist – before she pushes him down on a chair and takes out her makeup arsenal.
“Is that really necessary?” Stiles asks, eyeing Erica’s flat brush dubiously.
“Honey, believe me, HD photography makes everyone, even supermodels, look like unskinned potatoes,” she replies airily, loading her brush up with some primer, and then applying it on Stiles' forehead, nose, and chin.
“Don’t worry, you’ll still look like yourself, but like, a 2.0 version of yourself,” Kira the hairstylist chimes in, rubbing sculpting pomade into Stiles' hair. She’s the one who immediately beamed at him when they got introduced to each other as if he was a long-lost friend, and he couldn’t help but return the wave she’d offered him with equal enthusiasm, his eyes drawn to the colourful fox running down her upper left arm and seamlessly blending into the intricate floral design that stretches to her wrist.
Kira is one of those people with kind eyes and warm smiles that inspire trust upon first sight, and Stiles wants to believe her, he really does. But then Erica starts dabbing a green creamy product around his nose and mouth, and he resigns himself to looking nothing short of a Mardi Gras celebrant.
It’s over quicker than he thought, and as soon as he leaves his chair, Lydia grabs him by the wrist and drags him behind a folding screen for him to change. As he slips the pants on, he swears they feel tighter around his butt than they did the day before.
“All you have to do is relax and follow Derek’s lead, all right?” Lydia says with an encouraging smile as she runs her hands along Stiles' shoulders to smooth out the creases on his jacket.
“What about ‘and don’t forget to have fun’?” he can’t help but tease a little bit.
“This is a very serious photoshoot,” she replies with a frown. “There will be no fun to be had.” The corner of her lips curls into a small smirk, making Stiles snort with relief.
Somehow, he feels that some weight has been lifted off his shoulders. Everything will be all right. He’s going to nail this and nobody will ever know that beneath his calm and collected exterior, he was internally screaming for Jesus to come and take the wheel this whole time.
“Hey, Stiles,” Derek says when he sees Stiles shuffling over, his eyes a little wide and mouth ajar. Oh fuck. Stiles knew it: he looks ridiculous. Derek, though, looks just as gorgeous as he did the day before, clad in a grey sweater and dark ripped jeans, his untied hair falling an inch over his shoulders, black as tar, making the green of his eyes shine like peridots. He’s exchanged the full beard from yesterday for a clean stubble that highlights his cheekbones, sharp enough to cut through glass, and the angular line of his jaw which Stiles is dying to drag his fingers along and pepper with wet kisses.
“Hello, Derek,” he replies, resisting the urge to run his fingers through his hair self-consciously. “I was hoping you wouldn’t recognize me under this mask.”
“You look… fine,” Derek declares with a funny wiggle of his eyebrows, the shadow of a grimace appearing on his lips, and that’s an expression that doesn’t make him look in the least bit trustworthy.
“Aw, stop it before you make me blush all over,” Stiles replies, affecting a coy demeanor that makes Derek huff and roll his eyes.
“Derek, it’s your sister,” Mason the assistant says, an ominous rumble to his voice, holding Derek’s cell phone as if it could bite him at any moment. Stiles was surprised to learn that Mason wasn’t one of the models, what with his slender build and flawless skin, a rich umber tone that allows any hue he wears to look delightful on him. He explained that he was more interested in being behind the camera than in front of it. Lucky bastard had a choice.
“Which one?” Derek replies, visibly reluctant to take the call.
“The scary one,” Mason answers, his eyes pleading, almost thrusting Derek’s phone into his hand. When Derek lifts an eyebrow, he amends, “The scarier one.”
Derek heaves a sigh and brings the device to his ear. “Laura, I’m working.”
“...”
“Hmm, let me think about it. No.”
“...”
“For the last time, Laura, I’m not making a sexy calendar for your company, no matter how much you’re willing to pay. Gotta go now. Bye.” Derek hands his phone back to Mason who’s biting his bottom lip to suppress a smile.
“That’s too bad. I think I would’ve looked absolutely fetching in satiny red lingerie,” Stiles comments, and he doesn’t miss the way Derek’s eyes widen briefly before he ducks his head in an attempt to hide the faint blush that has appeared on his cheeks.
“I concur,” Erica chimes in from the couch where he has migrated with Kira.
“You would’ve made a scrumptious Mr. January, Stiles,” Kira adds and Mason nods in approval.
“Hey, Lydia!” Erica calls over her shoulder at where Lydia is busy steam-ironing the two other shirts Stiles will be wearing later for the shoot. “You should start a male lingerie line when you’re done making suits.”
“Excellent idea, Erica. I’m sure Stiles would love to walk down the runway for me in nothing but a thong and fishnet stockings.”
“All right, let’s get back to business!” Derek announces loudly before Stiles can inform everyone that, indeed, he would love to walk down the runway in nothing but a thong and fishnet stockings, and he would love it even more if Derek walked along with him.
Five minutes into the photoshoot, Stiles can already feel sweat forming on his skin. He knew modeling wasn’t easy, but he’d never anticipated how uncomfortable it can actually be. Between contorting his body into physics-defying poses and rearranging his facial muscles to convey the appropriate emotion, he’s pretty sure he’ll end up spraining something sooner or later.
The simulacrum of confidence he slipped on when he came into the studio is being torn apart with every annoyed glance and pitiful look cast his way by the other models. What he lacked in experience he was hoping he could make up for with his innate ability to pick up things quickly, but apparently, it isn’t working, not this time. Derek looks like he’s going to pull out every last strand of his beautiful mane. Even Lydia is losing patience, yelling her own directions at Stiles over Derek’s. What he wouldn’t give to have Scott come and rescue him right now.
“Okay, enough!” Derek shouts, his voice sharp like the crack of a whip, making Stiles jump a little. “Everybody out!”
Stiles is about to leap out of his chair, but Derek’s glare pins him down. Kira squeezes his arm on her way out, a sympathetic look on her face, while Erica playfully punches him on the shoulder. Mason gives him an encouraging smile, and the models, unsurprisingly, just ignore him as they leave.
“Lydia," Derek sighs, looking sideways at Lydia who’s still standing next to him, hands on her hips.
They exchange a whole conversation through their eyebrows, and if Stiles had to be honest, it kind of scares him.
"Fine," Derek finally huffs, and a satisfied smirk curls up Lydia’s lips. Stiles would’ve given her a high-five for standing up to Derek if the annoyed stare she directs at him hadn’t reminded him that he’s in trouble. Shit.
“What’s going on, Stiles?” Lydia asks, crossing her arms over her chest.
“I don’t know, I just– I can’t seem to concentrate, for some reason,” Stiles explains lamely, his shoulders drooping.
“Did you forget… to eat lunch?” she continues, her features softening somewhat, and he can read in her eyes that she isn’t talking about his eating habit at all.
“If by ‘lunch’ you mean my Adderall, then no I did not forget to take it,” he answers curtly; he’s stopped being embarrassed by his ADHD since high school. It’s not like he has much control over it. Medication helps with the symptoms, but the condition is still there, and since it didn’t disappear at the end of his adolescence, he’ll most likely have to deal with it for the rest of his life.
“Then what’s going on?” Derek chimes in, voice laced with concern. Stiles’ heart might have melted a little. “Yesterday you didn’t have any trouble following my directions. You were even throwing jokes around and all.”
“I guess I’m just… more comfortable with only you two around?” Stiles realizes it as soon as he says it, the restlessness he’s been feeling since he stepped into Derek’s studio finally explained.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Lydia asks, uncrossing her arms.
Stiles just shrugs, rubbing at the back of his neck a little bashfully.
“All right, let’s try this again. Only the three of us,” Derek says, camera ready in hands.
Stiles repositions himself on his chair, takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes for a moment. He can do this. It’s just like role-play, but like, not the sexy kind. Not that he wouldn’t want to have sexy role-play with Derek – images of Derek in various attires flash before his eyes: police officer uniform, business suit, maid apron –, but not when Lydia’s there, Jesus. That’d be weird. And creepy. Brrr.
“Hey, are you cold?” Derek’s voice abruptly pulls him out of his thoughts.
“What?” Stiles blinks at him, confused by the question.
“You just shivered like you were cold. I can turn down the AC if you want.”
“Nope, I’m fine, not cold at all,” Stiles blurts out, heat creeping up his neck.
“Are you hot, now?” Lydia asks, quirking an eyebrow.
“Can we just carry on with the photoshoot already?” Stiles almost begs as he forces his thoughts to remain PG.
Now that there are fewer eyes on him, Stiles has to admit he does feel a little more at ease. Lydia makes a visible effort to remain silent this time so as not to put additional pressure on him, and he appreciates it immensely. With only Derek shouting directions at him, it’s easier for him to both focus and relax.
The pose requires him to sit in a chair turned sideways with one leg extended, his upper body facing the camera while his head is slightly turned away, eyes searching the horizon wistfully.
“Pull your shoulders back and twist your torso some more, come on!”
“Derek, if I twist any further, I’m gonna pop a spinal disc,” Stiles retorts with a frown.
“You’re not gonna pop anything, Stiles,” Derek scoffs.
“Well, certainly not under these conditions,” Stiles mumbles.
Derek must’ve caught that, because his eyebrows make that weird wiggling thing again, his mouth twisting into an amused smile.
“How about we try something else,” he says, his canines showing, and Stiles’ stomach flutters in response. “Go over the wall and just… stand erect against it. Think you can do that?”
“Plastering myself against hard surfaces is my favourite hobby,” Stiles replies instantly, a large grin splitting his face. He uses the cool bricks to support his back and splays his arms out like he was hugging the wall from behind, resting a leg against it.
“Oh my god,” Lydia says, revulsion and hilarity struggling to dominate her expression.
“That’s perfect,” Derek comments with a snicker as he snaps a picture. “Give me more intensity in the eyes. I want fire, passion!”
“You asshole,” Stiles replies with a glare that unfortunately doesn’t have much heat in it.
“Amazing,” Derek says so softly Stiles almost misses it, hiding the smile that has formed on his lips behind his camera.
---
“And then there was the group photo and it turned out to be less painful than I’d thought,” Stiles tells Scott later on that night at the dining table. The rest of the photoshoot after his disastrous solo performance kind of went by in a blur. All he can remember is that the job got a little easier once he started ignoring everyone except Derek.
“Dude, I still can’t believe you didn’t bring back any of Lydia’s famous caramelized bacon-wrapped cocktail sausages,” his best friend bemoans, his sad puppy eyes making Stiles’ heart hurt a little.
“I’m so sorry, Scott. After the shoot everybody just jumped on the snacks like starved-out animals and I could barely sneak two sausages onto my plate before they were all devoured. I almost lost an eye on the battlefield, Scott. It was awful.”
“Awn, it’s okay, Stiles,” Scott, the eternal saint, coos, patting Stiles on the shoulder. “You tried.”
“But I managed to smuggle out some curly fries and celery for you,” Stiles says, taking them out of his backpack.
“You’re the best!” Scott exclaims with a fist bump. He isn’t as devoted to curly fries as Stiles – who is, honestly? – but he really does have a love affair with celery, the beautiful weirdo.
“So, how’s life, Scotty boy? Seems like I haven’t seen you in months even though we live in the same apartment.”
“Oh, you know, vet school is super demanding. I feel like all I do these days is go to class, study, eat, and sleep.”
“I feel you, man. Same here,” Stiles sighs, munching on a celery stick before he realizes what he’s doing and switching it for a curly fry.
“But the other day I ventured into a coffee shop and met the most beautiful woman I had ever laid eyes on,” Scott continues, looking dreamily into the distance.
“You keep saying that about every woman you meet.”
“Well, certainly there can be more than one most beautiful woman on Earth.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s not how superlatives work, but whatever.”
“She smiled at me, Stiles, and it was the sweetest, most adorable smile.”
“Did you get her number?”
“Of course! There’s no way I’m not seeing her again.”
“Attaboy, Scotty!” Stiles grins, happy for his friend. Scott hasn’t dated anyone since Allison, and even though they split up amicably, he’d felt bummed out about it for the couple of months that followed. Oddly enough, he only got better when Allison started dating Lydia, as if the fact that she had definitely moved on had propelled him out of his morosity and encouraged him to do the same.
“What about you?” Scott asks with a hopeful glint in his eyes.
“What about me?” Stiles replies, confused.
“Did you get Derek’s number?”
“What? No. Why would I… Nope.” Stiles doesn’t know why he sputtered, because it’s not like he had ever considered the possibility. Nah.
“Why not?” Now it’s Scott’s turn to be bewildered. “You’ve never quit talking about him since yesterday.”
“There’s strictly nothing going on between Derek and me. It’s all professional.”
“Who are you trying to convince?”
“I– Okay, fine,” Stiles sighs, because he cannot lie to Scott when he’s looking at him with those sad and confused eyes. “I kind of... like him? A lot? But I’m pretty sure he finds me annoying, so. Yeah, no.”
“You should try talking to him,” Scott advises. “At least get to know him better, as a friend.”
“I don’t want to be his friend and be constantly reminded, every time I’m with him, that I can’t have him, you know? I don’t know if I can deal with that.”
“But that’s only because you’re assuming that he’s not interested at all or won’t develop interest over time.”
“Your emotional intelligence annoys me,” Stiles grumbles, biting into a celery viciously before he spits it out with a grimace.
“What really annoys you if the fact that you know I’m right,” Scott explains with a cheeky grin.
Stiles just tosses a celery stick at him, which he catches mid-air – damn his Lacrosse-honed reflexes – and eats in two bites.
---
He doesn’t have much time to think about Derek during the rest of the week, overwhelmed with schoolwork. On Friday night he receives an email from a Derek Hale that only reads "Which one showcases Lydia's clothes better?" Intrigued, Stiles clicks on the first JPG file attached to the email and nearly falls off his chair. The second picture isn’t much better.
He clicks on ‘reply’ and starts typing furiously.
From: Stiles Stilinski <[email protected]>
To: Derek Hale <[email protected]>
What the fuck, Derek?! Are you trying to give me a heart attack? Both pictures are horrible! In the first one I look like I’m about to sneeze my brains out and in the second one, man, I can’t even. You CANNOT send either of these to Lydia, she’s gonna kill me!
He hits ‘send’ and goes make himself some tea to soothe his poor nerves. When he sits back down in front of his laptop, another message is waiting for him.
From: Derek Hale <[email protected]>
To: Stiles Stilinski <[email protected]>
They’re the only close-ups that really capture the details on the shirts, and that’s what Lydia needs to complete her photo collection.
Stiles narrows his eyes at the screen. From the hundred of close-ups Derek took of Stiles that day, it’s impossible that only two have made the cut, especially these two.
From: Stiles Stilinski <[email protected]>
To: Derek Hale <[email protected]>
Dude, seriously. I call bullshit.
He receives a reply less than a minute later.
From: Derek Hale <[email protected]>
To: Stiles Stilinski <[email protected]>
I guess I’m busted. To be honest, I was just trying to find a pretext to contact you.
What a fucking dork. Stiles thinks he’s a little in love. It takes him about five minutes to calm down enough to write without making a typo every two words.
From: Stiles Stilinski <[email protected]>
To: Derek Hale <[email protected]>
Text me immediately right this instant now 510-614-9565
He isn’t proud to admit that he jumps on his phone the instant it pings with a new text message, his heart skipping a beat or two.
Derek: Hey.
Stiles: Don’t ‘hey’ me. Wtf man. You never showed any sign of whatever.
Derek: So eloquent, as always.
Stiles: Shut up. I’m still processing.
Derek: In my defense, you haven’t been any more obvious than I have.
Stiles: Are you fucking kidding me? I was practically drooling all over you every time we were in the same room.
Derek: I was hardly able to string two sentences together whenever you were around.
Stiles: Omg. That’s why you were acting like such a dick when we first met. You were just being overwhelmed by the sight of my otherworldly beauty.
Derek: ...yes. Let’s go with that.
Stiles: Dude! Dinner date tomorrow 7ish?
Derek: Ok. Mexican?
Stiles: Hell yeah!
Maybe two days spent with a stranger isn’t enough to fall a little in love with them, but it’s a shot in the dark Stiles is willing to take. He can’t remember the last time he laughed so much and felt so at ease with someone he knew so little about. Surely it must be an encouraging sign, right?
---
As fate would have it, they run into Scott and Kira at the Mexican restaurant.
“Dude!” Scott and Stiles exclaim in unison, fist-bumping each other. Out of the corner of his eye, Stiles can see Derek and Kira exchange an alarmed look.
“No double date,” Derek whispers and Kira immediately agrees.
Stiles gets dragged to the farthest booth from Scott and Kira’s, protesting a little on principle, even though internally he’s delighted to have Derek all for himself.
“What a small world we live in,” Stiles comments as a waitress comes and sets two glasses of water on the table.
Derek hums in agreement, his eyes roaming across Stiles’ face as if it was the very first time that he saw it, his lips stretching into a smile so sweet it makes Stiles flush from head to toe. The things he wants to do to Derek right now... He downs his water in one gulp in order to regain a semblance of composure.
“Hey, are you feeling all right?” Derek asks, eyebrows knitted together in concern.
Stiles wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and flashes Derek his brightest smile. “I’m feeling amazing.”
---
Fin