Work Text:
Stiles didn’t clock him at first. To be fair, it was a slow Thursday, the AC was on the fritz, and he was halfway through rearranging the summer linen display because someone (Laura) thought peach was the new neutral. He had just started lecturing the mannequin about color theory when the bell over the door jingled—and in walked the living embodiment of “I don’t care if it matches, it’s black.”
Tall. Broad. Inexplicably angry-looking. And so, so committed to a black-on-black-on-grim wardrobe strategy it was honestly kind of impressive.
“Can I help you?” Stiles asked, already calculating the odds of this guy confusing the Hale store for the hardware place two blocks down.
The guy paused by the table of distressed denim like it had personally offended him. “Just looking.”
Sure, and Stiles was a mannequin. “Right, because your outfit clearly screams ‘open to suggestions.’ Listen, I'm not trying to insult your entire existence or anything, but if you’re here for a funeral, we sell actual suits in the back. If not, maybe consider letting some color touch your soul.”
The guy’s eyebrow lifted. Slowly. Like he was trying to decide whether to be offended or amused.
Stiles didn’t stop. Why would he? “And the boots. Look, they’re nice, very 'I stomped a man in an alley,' but they’re not really summer appropriate unless your entire aesthetic is brooding cryptid. In which case, no judgment, just...maybe try a linen blend? Loosen the vibe?”
The guy didn’t say anything for a second, just stood there like a very judgmental statue carved out of stubbornness and gym memberships. One eyebrow stayed raised, but the corner of his mouth tugged, like maybe he hadn’t decided yet whether to be pissed or entertained. Stiles had that effect on people. Usually right before they stormed out or came back the next day in something he'd picked out, pretending it had nothing to do with him.
“I’m just looking,” the guy repeated, tone flatter this time. Dryer. Very don’t engage the wild raccoon in the fitting room.
“Yeah, and I’m just saying.” Stiles crossed his arms, cocked a hip, and planted himself in front of the distressed denim display like a final boss made of sarcasm and questionable fashion choices. “It’s seventy-five degrees out, you’re dressed like the lead singer of a post-apocalyptic boy band, and this store doesn’t believe in the phrase ‘too much effort.’ So if you're here, you're getting styled. You’ve officially wandered into my domain.”
He gestured around them with a flourish that nearly knocked over a hanging rack of silk camp shirts. “Welcome to Hale’s. Where style goes to live, and black goes to die.”
The guy blinked. Very slowly. “Do you talk like this to every customer?”
“No,” Stiles said, grinning. “Just the ones who look like they bench press small cars and scare children for fun.”
Another beat. The guy exhaled. It wasn’t quite a laugh, but it wasn’t not a laugh either. “You work here?”
“Manager on Thursdays,” Stiles said brightly. “General nuisance the rest of the week. And if you’re wondering whether I’m always this annoying, the answer is yes—but I grow on you. Like mold. Or avant-garde throw pillows.”
The guy’s eyes flicked to his name tag, then back up. “Stiles?”
“Yep. Just Stiles. Like Cher. Or Voldemort. And you are?”
He hesitated. Just long enough to be suspicious. Then, casually, like he wasn’t about to derail the entire trajectory of Stiles’s day, “Derek. Hale.”
Everything in Stiles went still. Like cartoon-anvil-to-the-head still. Then his mouth caught up with his brain and decided to run directly into traffic.
“Oh shit. I mean—okay, wow. No one said you were coming back, I thought you were, like, a recluse. Or dead. Or running some kind of wolf sanctuary in Oregon.”
Derek stared.
Stiles flailed. “Not that you look like you live in a wolf sanctuary. Well. Maybe a little. Like a very well-groomed lumberjack who hates joy and indoor lighting.”
“You’re bad at apologies,” Derek said.
“I am, yeah, but in my defense, you walked in here looking like you were about to file a noise complaint against color. And no one told me the lost Hale heir was making a guest appearance today or I might’ve led with something more charming. Like, I don’t know, ‘hello.’”
Derek crossed his arms. The movement pulled his already tight shirt even tighter, and Stiles did not look at the biceps. He didn’t.
“You’re really not gonna let this go, are you?” Derek asked.
“Not until you try on this shirt,” Stiles said, reaching behind him and triumphantly holding up a pale blue button-down with tiny embroidered suns across the collar. “It’s cheerful. It says ‘I’m emotionally available and not actively plotting murder.’ It’s what we in the biz call a statement piece.”
Derek looked at it. Then at Stiles. “It says I got tricked into this by an over-caffeinated stylist with a color complex.”
Stiles beamed. “That means you’re gonna try it.”
Derek sighed. But he took the shirt.
And for the first time since the bell rang, Stiles swore he saw him smile.
It wasn’t much. Barely there. A twitch at the corner of his mouth like the idea of being dressed by a snarky stranger was equal parts exhausting and vaguely amusing. But it was a smile. Directed at him. Which, objectively, was insane. No one smiled at Stiles mid-monologue unless they were about to fire him or fall in love with him, and given the state of Derek’s glower and general commitment to grudge-core aesthetics, he was guessing it wasn’t the first one.
“You’re enjoying this,” Stiles said, narrowing his eyes. “You want me to think you’re suffering, but deep down you’re into the whole makeover montage. Admit it.”
Derek raised an eyebrow. “This isn’t a montage.”
“Not with that attitude.”
He turned, because victory tasted better when paired with a dramatic exit, but Derek’s voice followed him—low and rough, the kind of voice that sounded like it had grown up on gravel and silence and only recently remembered how words worked.
“You’re not what I expected.”
Stiles froze, one hand halfway to the stockroom curtain. He didn’t turn around. Just let the words settle. He’d been told he was too much more times than he could count. Never unexpected.
“Yeah,” he said, forcing a lightness he didn’t feel, “I get that a lot. Comes with the charm and overwhelming need to be liked.”
Silence. A beat too long. Then—
“I didn’t say I didn’t like it.”
Stiles turned then. Slowly. Derek was still standing there, holding the shirt, that not-quite-smile still ghosting his face like it had no idea what it was doing there.
“Careful,” Stiles said, heart hammering now for entirely different reasons. “Flattery gets you a second outfit. And maybe a linen jacket.”
Derek didn’t look away. “I’ll take my chances.”
And Stiles—Stiles forgot what he was doing, what day it was, how breathing worked when someone looked at him like that and meant it. Because this guy? The guy who walked in looking like he hated natural light and human interaction? He wasn’t just humoring him.
He was seeing him.
And that was dangerous. And kind of thrilling.
“Right,” Stiles said, clearing his throat, already halfway to talking himself out of it. “Try it on. Impress me. Or at least don’t rip it. That shirt’s worth more than my rent.”
Derek turned toward the fitting rooms without another word.
And Stiles leaned against the nearest table, heart still thudding like a warning.
Great. He was doomed.