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“Oh my God, that was the longest day ever."
Derek looks over at the guy who drops onto the stool next to him at the bar; he’s dressed similarly to Derek’s own rip-away police uniform, except it looks better. A lot better. He must be doing a lot better at this private stripper business than Derek is, because his badge looks like it’s made out of actual metal. The guy’s got eyes the same color of the whiskey sitting at the bottom of Derek’s glass, attractive moles dotting his face and neck and a pink mouth that Derek can’t stop staring at.
He’s ridiculously gorgeous and it’s unfair. No wonder he’s got a better uniform.
Derek tilts his head at Joe the bartender and soon another glass of whiskey is set in front of the guy.
"Oh, thanks, dude. Man, you definitely know what it’s about, right?” He smiles appreciatively at Derek and they clink glasses together. “Mm. I’m Stiles, by the way. Don’t think I’ve seen you around before. What precinct are you in?” Stiles licks a drop of whiskey off his lips and Derek is entranced before he realized he’s been asked a question.
“45th,” Derek makes up off the top of his head. It never hurts to be good at improv, his clients always love it when he gets really into the police persona. Stiles must be really good at it, to be challenging Derek to keep up in character like this.
“Oh, no wonder, you guys didn’t make it to the annual citywide fundraiser last month. I definitely would have remembered meeting you.” Stiles waggles his eyebrows at Derek flirtatiously.
Derek smiles back at him appreciatively, finishing his glass. “Yeah, we like to keep busy,” he says in what he hopes is a gruff swagger.
Stiles laughs, clapping him on the back. “Oh man, I don’t know if I could handle all the shit you guys do. My throat is sore all the three parties I just got done with today."
Derek stares at him incredulously. Three parties in one night? That’s…a lot of dancing. He trails his eyes down Stiles’ body, pretty sure he’d find nothing but lean muscle under that uniform. Wow, Derek notices for the first time that his belt is equipped with a lot of realistic looking gear–flashlight, a nightstick, handcuffs– even the gun looks real.
"I can barely handle one party,” Derek says sincerely. “You’ll have to show me your moves."
"Oh, definitely,” Stiles snorts, like he has absolutely no confidence in his dance skills.
“Come on, I might learn a thing or two,” Derek says.
There’s the sound of glass breaking and shouting coming from the other end of the bar, and Stiles stands up, going, “What the–”
There are two men embroiled in a fist fight and have just upturned a table, the other patrons in the bar backing up fearfully.
Before Derek can blink, Stiles is in the middle of the chaos and somehow has pushed the men apart and quickly pins the other to a table when he tries to land a punch on Stiles. “Hey, I was just trying to get you guys to stop, and this is my night off, and now I’m gonna have to write you up for assaulting an officer,” Stiles says, matter of factly, and then there are handcuffs being brought out, and rights being read, and Derek is very, very dumbfounded.
“You’re a real cop,” he says, shocked, when Stiles walks past with the two guys in tow.
“Thanks for the backup, dude, that was real smooth,” Stiles says, shaking his head. “Of course, I can see you didn’t have any of your gear with you, and you wanted me to have all the glory, so I can impress you, right?"
"I am definitely impressed,” Derek says. “But, uh, I’m not a cop, sorry–” and now he can feel the back of his neck heat up with embarrassment, thinking about Stiles doing lewd stripteases now just feels like he’s wronged his fair city. “I’m a stripper,” he adds quietly.
“Oh,” Stiles says, standing still for a moment. “So you thought–”
“Yeah, I’m sorry.” Derek looks down into his empty glass sheepishly, pretty sure he’s going to be reprimanded. Instead, there’s a coaster sliding towards him with a phone number on it.
“Sounds like maybe you can teach me some of your moves, then,” and then Stiles winks at Derek and saunters out the bar.