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Stiles has just taken a huge, delicious first swipe from his double scoop of Snickers and fudge ice cream with his tongue and is distractedly shouldering open the door to head out from the ice cream parlor when he happens to glance out the all-glass storefront and spots a familiar leather-clad figure walking, no, more like prowling past. He pauses mid-lick as his attention is helplessly drawn to graceful lines of Derek’s body, bulging biceps and tapered waist clearly discernible even in that slightly oversized leather jacket he favored. Stiles’s eyes immediately latches onto the way Derek’s muscles flex with his purposeful strides, dark denim clinging like a second skin to his magnificent thighs and—wait, no, he’s not looking.
…Okay fine he’s totally looking, and not even subtly, because that miraculous, mind-blowing, gravity-defying ass is like a force of nature and he defies anyone to not ogle the shit out of that. He would totally be trying to bounce quarters off it if he didn’t fear for his life. He likes his throat intact, thanks.
Stiles hesitates for half a second, unsure if he should go on to make some sort of acknowledgement to Derek or retreat back into the store to avoid a direct confrontation. On one hand, Stiles has been bored out of his mind since summer vacation started and Scott abandoned him to embark on his super secret journey to self-betterment, and Derek Hale is an excellent distraction; he’s nice to look at, and pushing Derek’s buttons has been a favorite sport of Stiles’s ever since he figured out that he could. On the other hand, this is the first he's seen of Derek since the dude quietly disappeared at the end of the fiasco with Gerard and the Kanima, and they did not exactly part on good terms, never mind the fact that they were never friends or even the sort of acquaintances that make small talk to begin with. And Stiles still can’t get the way Derek’s face looked after—after, out of his head. It’s…it’s screwing with his head, making him feel things, and he doesn’t like it.
The decision is soon taken out of his hand, however, as a little girl with twin pigtails ducks under his arm to run through the half-open door, screaming a fierce sounding battle cry at the top of her voice the whole time. An apologetic parent follows after the girl, but Stiles barely notices, because the commotion has caught Derek’s attention, and they make eye contact.
Shit.
Derek’s footsteps falter. They’re less than three feet away now, so it’s not like they can pretend to not have seen each other. Stiles sighs, shuffles out of the doorway, and steps onto the sun-warm pavement, pulling the glass door shut behind him, cutting off a last gust of cool, air-conditioned breeze.
At this distance, Stiles can clearly see that Derek is not his usual cocky self. He is tense, almost impossibly so considering how wound up he already seems to be on a daily basis. His shoulders are hunched, expression grim, eyes weary with dark circles underneath, and his usually artfully disheveled appearance has began to crumble at the edges, verging on actual disheveled now; his hair is unkempt, his eternal five o’clock shadow rather scruffier than usual, his face gaunt and pallid underneath all that tan; even his leather jacket seems to be drooping a little in the heat. Stiles’s heart gives an inexplicable twinge in his chest and he is appalled at himself.
Stiles bites his lip and waves, trying for casual. “Uh, Derek! Hey man, what’s up?”
Derek merely nods tersely in some semblance of a greeting, gaze skittering from Stiles’s face.
“Glad to see you’re not bleeding out in a ditch somewhere,” Stiles tries.
Derek gives him a flat look and his brows furrow slightly, but he doesn’t say anything.
Stiles ploughs on stubbornly, despite the non-reaction. He flails a hand at the dark purple t-shirt Derek has on under his jacket. “Wow, dude, is that color? Amazingly, you are wearing more color than I am!” He gestures down at his own plain white t-shirt and worn grey sweatpants. The white tee is clinging a little to his chest with sweat, so he plucks at the collar distractedly while he waits for some sort of reaction.
Derek’s lips thin, his frown deepens a little, and he shrugs. Stiles is momentarily distracted by a bead of sweat that is dislodged by the movement and is making its leisurely way down one side of Derek’s neck into the hollow between his clavicles. He blinks and tries to shake himself out of it. Derek is still refusing to say a word, apparently. Stiles takes that as a challenge.
“Want some ice cream? You look like you could use some ice cream, dude, just sayin’.” He pauses, but couldn’t resist adding with a smirk, “I’d share, but this is pretty much all chocolate.”
Derek’s eyebrows give a foreboding twitch at that and he rolls his eyes, huffs out an exasperated breath. He looks kind of amused though, and his shoulders un-hunch a little, so Stiles is going to mark that as progress.
He’s trying to decide whether to make a snide remark about Derek out and about in broad daylight instead of lurking in the shadows or to work up to another dog joke (maybe something about heat and stupid leather jackets or something, he knows there is one somewhere but it's eluding him at the moment, dammit) next, when he feels something sticky and cold trickle down his fingers. Stiles blinks down at the forgotten ice cream cone in his hand.
“Aww, crap,” he mutters under his breath and busies his mouth trying to catch as much of the mess as he can before more of the yummy goodness can go to waste, makes a happy little sound at the explosion of cool sweetness on his tongue. He switches the cone into his other hand when he deems the danger of further spillage successfully averted and starts cleaning his now sticky hand, straining his tongue to reach the stray dribbles of caramel syrup and melted ice cream on the side of his wrist while simultaneously struggling to not drop what remains of his frozen treat. It takes some tricky maneuvering, but he manages it.
Derek is glaring down at the pavement beneath his feet when Stiles looks back up. He’s strangely tense again. Stiles fumbles desperately for something to say.
“Uh, so, the ice cream here is really good! Mm, so good, seriously,” he smacks his lips loudly to emphasize his point. Derek finally lifts his eyes from the ground to stare at him blankly. “They have awesome non-chocolate flavors too! You should totally try some, dude, I can—”
Derek cuts in suddenly. “You got a little-” He clears his throat and drops his gaze to Stiles’s mouth. He swallows and points to his own mouth. “Here,” he taps his upper lip, then gestures at his nose, “and here.”
Stiles licks his lips reflexively and tastes chocolate. Oh. “Oh,” he says, and feels himself flush. He scrubs a hand over his mouth, then rubs viciously at the tip of his nose. “Did I get it all?” He asks meekly.
He watches as Derek wets his own lips. Derek meets Stiles’s gaze again, briefly, and nods before he returns to glowering at the ground.
“Um. Thanks. I guess.” He waits for a response that doesn’t come, then decides philosophically that he’s probably pushed enough for a day. “Well, I’ll leave you to your, uh, whatever it was you were up to just now. Don’t get killed, if you can. And you seriously should consider trying their ice cream here, when you’re done with your ‘thing’.” He laughs awkwardly, and shoves the ice cream in his hand into his mouth to stop any further rambling.
Derek lets out a quick exhale, (Stiles can’t really tell for certain whether it’s in annoyance or amusement, though he really hopes it’s the latter,) grunts out a, “Stay out of trouble, Stiles,” and, with another curt nod, resumes his prowl down the sidewalk without a single glance back.
Stiles watches Derek (and his amazing ass) until he turns down another street and finishes his cone with a satisfying crunch, then, licking his fingers, he strolls over to where his jeep is parked with a bounce in his step, humming tunelessly under his breath. Maybe this summer won’t be so bad, after all. Probably.