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“Hey shawty, how ya doin’?” Stiles kind of sashays towards Derek, lips loose with a mischievous smirk. Derek thinks it looks real fucking ridiculous and Stiles probably deserves ten wedgies for trying to pull a bad rip off of Joey Tribbiani.
What?
He was an avid Friends sitcom enthusiast before… everything. He still is.
“No,” Derek grumbles, distraught thick in his voice. “Stop, Stiles. No. Don’t even try.”
“What!” Stiles feigns ignorance, shrieking in protest, his entire body flails in spastic motion with it. Derek kind of wants to knock him out with a good hook and see if he still moves so goddamn much when he’s unconscious, but he doesn’t.
Because he’s sane and normal, unlike Peter, regardless they share the same blood.
“All your pop culture references are just—” Derek groans and Stiles is looking at him with this earnest face of… he doesn’t know it but he probably thinks its hope? Either that or constipation.
Stiles has a very wide array of animated expressions. It’s difficult to keep up sometimes.
“—they’re horrible. Not in a bad way.” He adds, like it would actually make it seem less offensive. “You’re more of a sarcastic Kristen Stewart ha-ha, rather than you know, the one you just did. Whatever it was.”
Stiles obviously doesn’t care that Derek just insulted his game, or new experience in trying out new personalities in the monstrosity of teenage wannabe phase because he goes wide-eyed and gasps at him, “You know who’s Kristen Stewart?!”
Derek cowers at him. He hates it, okay, more like he’s put off because he hates things—mostly people, actually just the Argents, no, just one of them. Who is dead, because he killed her. Relish still burns in his veins when he thinks of her scream. Yeah, he might be as insane as Peter is.
Anyway, he gets put off whenever one of his pack member insinuates that he doesn’t live in the 21st century, like, do people not notice that he awesome technological gadgets in his apartment?
See: The flat screen television he bought, unsupervised mind you, and it’s one of the newest in the market, comes with 3D glasses and a touch screen. Or, you know, the fact that he has an iPhone? And has apps? And plays said apps when there’s teenage kids screaming bloody murder about things he just doesn’t give a shit around.
Read: Scott’s love life, Stiles’ love life, actually, the entire pack’s love life and their constant curious state of mind about their genitalia area.
“She was in Twilight,” Derek says, stoically, but really he’s bursting a nut trying not to laugh at Stiles’ reaction.
“Dude!” Stiles shrieks crazily, an octave or two higher. “You know Twilight?”
Derek grins because he’s a douchebag.
“Yes,” Derek says. “Team Jacob, man.”
“Hold up, hold up, hold up!” Stiles gushes, cheeks flushing with excitement. “Derek Hale, gloom extraordinaire and canine teeth associate, watches motherfucking Twilight? Jesus.”
Stiles cards his hands through his hair, messing it up. It’s almost distracting because he has been growing it out from the previous buzz cut he sported so it’s sorta an in-between a shaggy-do and well-shagged do’.
Yeah.
Derek’s not taking that path. Nope.
“Well,” Derek drawls and he’s grinning now, small but he feels the heavy weight of his two front teeth sitting on his bottom lip. “Guess we learnt a little about each other today.”
Stiles snorts and it sounds disgusting, like the kind where mucus gets backed up too much and one would usually choke on it with a gurgle. “Yeah, no shit, bro.”
“Also, internet memes?” Derek continues. “Fad.”
Derek walks away then and if he honest to god smiles when he listens to the dull thump when Stiles knees hit his wooden apartment of flooring, muttering “Fucking—marry me,” in a breathless gasp. Well, no one needs to know that but him.