Chapter Text
The arcade lights were too bright, the carpet too ugly, and Stiles Stilinski was talking way too fast for a human being who’d allegedly had only one iced coffee today.
Scott still didn’t believe the “one coffee” part.
“Okay, okay — dude — if they have Dance Dance Revolution I’m gonna destroy you,” Stiles announced as they pushed their way inside. “I’ve been practicing. In secret. Like a ninja. A DDR ninja.”
Scott snorted. “You practice by flailing in your dorm room.”
“That was ONE TIME— HI SORRY —” Stiles yelped as he nearly collided with a small child sprinting past with a fistful of tickets. “Anyway, tonight is fate. Something incredible is gonna happen here. I can FEEL it.”
“You say that every time we leave the dorm,” Isabelle said, flicking a long, blonde strand behind her ear. “Last week ‘fate’ was you winning a free slushie.”
“Which was incredible!” Stiles insisted.
Scott opened his mouth to argue but froze when he spotted two people across the arcade near the skee-ball lanes.
Derek Hale.
And the older guy Scott vaguely recognized from campus gossip, Derek's uncle, didn't know his name. The one with the very punchable smirk.
“Oh no,” Scott murmured.
“Aw crap,” Isabelle muttered, because Peter Hale had already spotted her. And locked on like a wolf who’d seen a deer.
Stiles followed their line of sight and stopped breathing.
Derek Hale was leaning against the skee-ball machine, dark henley clinging to him in ways that should have been illegal, arms crossed, expression brooding-by-default. The neon lights made his eyes look greener. Or bluer. Or… something. Stiles’ brain stopped processing color altogether.
“Hhhholy — Scott — Scott — I’m having a moment — Scott —” Stiles hissed.
Scott patted his shoulder. “Breathe. Maybe don’t stare like you’re about to propose.”
“I’m not! I’m just — he’s — look at him! That is a man carved out of...of broody marble!”
Isabelle raised an eyebrow. “Stiles, close your mouth.”
He snapped it shut. Too late, Derek had already glanced over. And for an impossibly long second, they made eye contact. Stiles felt every molecule in his body scream abort, abort, flee, roll under a pinball machine and never return.
Derek looked away first, only to mutter something to the older man beside him. Peter Hale’s smirk widened. Then Peter sauntered toward them.
Isabelle made a face of pure disgust. “Absolutely not. Nope. No thank you.”
“Sweetheart,” Peter purred, already ignoring her refusal, “if you keep looking at me like that, I’ll start thinking you’re flirting.”
“Please don’t,” Isabelle said flatly. “I’d rather flirt with the sticky claw machine.”
“Bold choice.” Peter’s gaze swept her slowly. “But I admire a woman with standards. Even low ones.”
Stiles choked on absolutely nothing. “What is happening —?”
Scott winced. “Friendly fire. Isabelle, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Isabelle muttered. “I’m immune to slime.”
Peter’s smile sharpened. “And you haven’t even seen my good side yet.”
“Oh, I’ve seen enough.” Isabelle folded her arms, pure Stilinski disdain. “Please return to whatever crypt you crawled out of.”
Peter actually laughed. “Delicious.”
Meanwhile, Derek stayed where he was, watching all of this with an expression halfway between apologetic and mortified. He clearly knew what his uncle was like.
Stiles swallowed, palms sweating. “Scott. Scott. Scott. I can’t talk to him.”
“Talk to who?”
“Derek! Derek Hale! Right there!” Stiles whisper-yelled. “He’s — he’s...look at him!”
Scott glanced over and shrugged. “Yeah. He looks like... Derek.”
“He looks like if ‘brooding’ became sentient and got a gym membership!”
“Dude. Chill.”
But Derek was walking over now. Slow. Hesitant. Obviously forcibly dragging himself away toward Peter’s chaos.
Scott elbowed Stiles. “Okay. Act normal.”
Stiles froze. “I don’t know what that means.”
Too late, Derek was right in front of them.
“Uh… sorry about my uncle,” Derek said quietly, voice deeper than Stiles was prepared for. “He’s… Peter.”
Stiles’ mouth opened. Nothing came out. He just stared. And thought, holy crap, is he into guys? because if he is I’m already emotionally compromised.
Isabelle nudged him sharply in the ribs. “Stiles.”
“Ow —! Right! Hi! I’m Stilinski Stiles. Stiles Stilinski. Not Stilinski Stiles. I mean unless you want — I don’t know — hi.” He extended his hand then panicked halfway and turned it into a weird finger-gun gesture.
Derek blinked. Then, Stiles would’ve sworn on every arcade token, his mouth twitched. Almost a smile.
“I’m Derek,” he said. “Hi.”
Stiles made a small noise that might have been English. Scott clapped him on the back to knock the weird out. “We’re gonna go play air hockey. Want to join?”
Derek hesitated...
Peter called across the arcade, “Derek, remember to make friends your own age!”
"Maybe you can flirt with ones your own age." Derek grimaced as he then turned to Stiles. “Yes. Please. Anywhere else.”
Stiles beamed. And maybe, just maybe, Derek’s ears went pink.