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Stiles must be hallucinating right now. That’s the only plausible explanation for this madness.
He stares open-mouthed as none other than Derek Hale, resident grumpy alpha werewolf of Beacon Hills, CA and notorious badboy archetype, stands slouching at the front of the line waiting to be served in the adorably pink-and-ruffles themed little café tucked all the away on the other side of town from most of Stiles’s usual haunts, which he found on the internet and which he’s planning to check out today (apparently the cherry pie here is phenomenal, that and he is bored). Another day, another all-glass storefront, through which he gets another surprise sighting of Derek ‘I-feast-on-the-blood-of-my-enemies-and-it-does-wonders-just-look-at-my-freaking-arms’ Hale, who is currently lounging in a sea of pink and white and lace and ruffles, and looking like he belongs there; Stiles is finding all of this a tad hard to process.
Stiles continues his gawking from his spot right outside the large windows as Derek makes his order with remarkable ease and familiarity—Stiles thinks the barista might have said ‘your usual?’ which, what?—and then struts over to the pick-up area where he accepts an extra large cup of something in an alarming shade of pink with a truly awe-inspiring amount of whipped cream piled on top—seemingly voluntarily, you guys! He even paid out of his own pocket!—and kind of sort of smiles—Derek Hale smiling, you guys!—at the barista before he retreats to one of the tables in the corner. This is so bizarre, Stiles does not have words.
Derek is also wearing color today, a v-neck in this greenish bluish color (teal? Whatever. Anyway, it complements the pastel color background, like, scarily well), and not wearing his signature leather jacket. Stiles is officially in the Twilight Zone. (The denim torture device Derek likes to wear as pants are still present and glorious as always, though.)
He watches Derek plop down in a comfy-looking (pink) chair and remove the plastic lid to prod at the mountain of whipped cream, first with his straw (also pink), then with a finger, holy shit did that just actually happen, and then put the finger into his mouth. In that moment it's as if everything is suddenly switched to slow-mo, all faded into the background so that the only thing in focus is Derek, licking whipped cream off his finger thoroughly and with evident enjoyment, then leaning in and wrapping his lips around the straw and sucking, oh holy god, eyebrows furrowed in comical concentration, cheeks hollowing and cheekbones standing out in sharp relief with each sip, and just basically looking like porn.
Stiles must make a sound, because Derek is suddenly looking straight at him, eyes wide (and wow they are a particularly stunning shade of green-blue-grey-gold today offset by the bright color of his shirt) and mouth agape with a smudge of white, probably whipped cream, at one corner, lips still slightly puckered though the pink straw has fallen out. Stiles may or may not make another strangled sound at the back of his throat, a cross between a nervous giggle and a frustrated whine.
Which each passing second of their little stalemate and/or staring contest, Derek’s bunny-in-the-headlights look is gradually morphing into one of pure annoyance, and Stiles’s busy brain immediately starts cataloguing the way Derek’s eyebrows twitch and scrunch up into a new formation, one of the many subtle nuances of Derek Hale’s facial expressions to convey displeasure. It’s fascinating, okay. He silently thanks the powers that be for the quelling effects of the look of murderous rage Derek is sending his way on the, ahem, problem in his pants, because, well, walking into a cute little café with a boner does not sound like a good idea, especially when there is an angry, prickly werewolf on the premises. Now he just has to hope that he doesn’t get a terrified boner instead. (It’s happened before, and yes, they were all instances involving an angry Derek Hale. Stiles is emphatically not thinking about it.)
Stiles realizes his mouth has been hanging open in a slack-jawed gape for quite some time now, so he wets his lips and clicks it shut. Meanwhile Derek is starting to look resigned, gaze shifting to fix on his hands on the table instead, and then he slumps fully into his seat and reattaches his lips to the straw with a petulant almost-pout on his face (Stiles would say it’s kind of adorable but he’s not tolerating such nonsensical thoughts from himself today), so Stiles deems it safe to enter and pushes his way into the shop.
He flashes a quick grin at the barista who chirped a greeting at him upon his entrance and saunters over to Derek’s table, hands in pockets, making a valiant attempt at nonchalance thought it’s probably a lost cause since he can feel his face twitching into a teasing smirk.
“Hi there, Derek. Fancy seeing you here. Never would have thought this would be your kind of joint,” he drawls as he come to a stop at the table and drapes himself over the back of the unoccupied chair. He admits he might have cackled a bit towards the end there.
“Could say the same for you,” Derek grits out, shooting him a dirty look.
Stiles scoffs. “Whatever, man. It looks like you’re already getting all cozy here. I, on the other hand, am just… scouting this place,” he flails a hand out and gestures around them, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Not the same thing, man.”
Derek doesn’t say anything this time, merely rolls his eyes and slurps his drink obnoxiously.
Stiles eyes the swirly pink slush skeptically. “Dude, what even is that? The color looks toxic,” he says, taking great pleasure in the offended look on Derek’s face. “Why is it so pink? That’s just unnatural.”
Derek scowls. “It’s a raspberry and strawberry white chocolate frappe. Of course it's pink. There's nothing wrong with pink.”
Stiles is perfectly fine with the color pink, and in fact he finds the tinge of pink staining the tip of Derek's ears right that second absolutely delightful, but for once he wisely opts to keep his mouth shut. Instead he dials up the degree of playful mockery in his grin to max and directs it full-force at Derek.
“Oh my god, my mind is blown. Derek Hale's super secret guilty pleasure is pink beverages at the cutest little café in Beacon Hills. You know, I'd have put you down as the type to enjoy drinking coffee that's as black as you soul. But whatever gets you going, I guess. You could definitely do with some sweet things in your life, man. Right now I'm just marveling at the fact that the overwhelming amount of pink here did not sweeten your sour disposition in the slightest. Now that is a feat.”
Derek glares at him halfheartedly, but his pinched expression eases to a complicated mixture of exasperation and reluctant amusement. It’s kind of endearing.
After a bit more lighthearted teasing and goading just because he can, Stiles finally goes up to the counter to order. He asks for Derek’s drink, only two sizes smaller (and apparently it’s called Tickle Me Pink, no, seriously, and, ‘Derek's usual order is with extra whipped cream because it adds to the texture.’ Ha. Stiles probably sprains something laughing at that, half collapsed on the counter, and he’s never going to let Derek live this down because that would be an utter travesty; plus Derek’s face when he looked back toward his table had been priceless), plus a cup of their regular brew, and of course, a slice of the supposedly decadent pie.
The intensity of Derek's glare immediately kicks up a notch at the no doubt shit-eating grin that's plastered on Stiles's face (and has not diminished one bit over the past five minutes) as soon as Stiles turns to head back to Derek's table with his purchases, and it just keeps ramping up as he gets closer.
Stiles bursts out laughing again before he reaches the empty chair. “Dude, oh my god, I can't believe—seriously?” He continues breathlessly after he flops gracelessly into the seat, stopping every now and then to chuckle to himself. “Oh god, this actually got even better. Christmas just came early. This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me, better than anything I could've imagined.”
Derek glowers sullenly, but at least he hasn’t tried to run away, so Stiles counts it as a win, and gives Derek’s foot a friendly nudge under the table.
“Okay, time for serious business, the final revelation,” he says dramatically, wriggling in his seat in mock nervousness. “Here’s to hoping it won’t kill me.” Picking up his Tickle Me Pink (god this will never not be funny), Stiles takes a careful sip and hums thoughtfully. It's surprisingly not as nauseatingly sweet as he thought it would be and actually kind of amazing in a soothing kind of way, and he tells Derek so. “I'm impressed, man,” he then adds, smirking. “I concede that you know your shit when it comes to frappes. Unexpected perk of a sensitive werewolf palate, I guess,” he sniggers and takes another sip, gnawing distractedly on the end of his own garishly pink straw.
When he covertly glances over in Derek's direction, he barely catches Derek looking hastily away from the general vicinity of his mouth. He bites his lips and tries to think of something to say to diffuse the sudden tension between them, but his mind is stuck on the (maybe, probably, hopefully) wistful look on Derek’s face. He picks up his fork instead.
“Want a bite of my cherry pie?” He pauses and thinks over what he just said, then stifles a giggle and adds, peeking up at Derek through his eyelashes, “you can have my cherry, if you want,” then winks and waves at the maraschino cherry nestled in a dollop of cream on his plate, trying desperately to keep a straight face.
Derek stares at him for a few moments and then snorts, and Stiles was just about to congratulate himself on an innuendo well played when all of a sudden Derek is leaning over the tiny table and invading his personal space, posture entirely too casual and somehow oozing seductiveness, predatory smile playing at one corner of his lips, and Stiles swears his eyes actually smolders.
Stiles makes an embarrassingly squeaky sound when Derek plucks the cherry off his plate and slowly pops it into his mouth, eyes locked with Stiles's the entire time. Stiles hopes his whimper at the sight of Derek licking whipped cream off the tip of his thumb, this time from merely a foot away, was an awful, masochistic invention of his feverish(ly aroused) mind.
Derek still hasn’t looked away by the time he finishes chewing and swallows. Then he has the audacity to wink back, Jesus. Stiles nearly chokes on air.
Derek already has on his impeccable poker face (which Stiles is extremely jealous of, by the way), practiced air of cool indifference firmly back in place, when he says, “you still got a lot to learn, Stiles,” though he's definitely exuding a lot of smug satisfaction. Stiles can only sputter wordlessly. He takes a sip of his coffee in the hope of calming his pulse. His hand gives a barely perceptible twitch when he puts the cup back.
Derek immediately zeros in on the minute spasm and narrows his eyes. “You are twitchy today,” he says slowly, tone thoughtful. “Well, twitchier than usual.”
Stiles shrugs. “Oh. Probably the, uh, four cups of coffee I’ve had today.”
Derek raises an eloquent eyebrow.
Stiles bristles defensively. “They were really small cups! I've been trying out different cafés okay, I'm rating the coffee and bestselling pastries of each café so of course I had to personally sample what they had to offer! Scientific method!”
Derek gives him what was probably meant to be a stern look. “No more caffeine for you today, Stiles.”
“You're not the boss of me,” Stiles huffs indignantly, then squawks as Derek shoots out a lightning quick hand and snatches his coffee away. Stiles can only watch as Derek shamelessly gulps down the contents of the cup all in one go. Damn werewolves. “O-oh my god, you are such a dick. I was totally doing this for science.”
Derek arches both brows this time and looks not at all repentant. “Hmm. Not as good as my drink,” he declares smugly. “You're welcome.”
“Humph. Well, too bad for you because I'm not sharing my pie with people who are dicks,” Stiles makes a show of turning up his nose and curving an arm protectively over his side of the table, then digs into his pie (which is delicious as promised), making sure to be as messy as he can, smacking his lips loudly after each bite. Derek just watches without a word, seeming vastly entertained, and wrinkles his nose when Stiles childishly sticks out his tongue at him with his mouth still full of pie.
Stiles finishes the pie in record time, and Derek’s only response to his triumphant (and muffled) cry is another eye-roll and a mildly disgusted and grudgingly impressed look.
“You wish you could eat your pies as awesomely as I do,” Stiles says gleefully as soon as he swallows his mouthful.
Derek looks at him with a perfectly blank expression. “No, I really, really don’t.”
“Lies.” Stiles kicks him under the table again.
“…Whatever helps you sleep at night.” Derek kicks back this time.
They play not-footsie for a while, but soon they both get competitive about it and starts drawing odd looks from the other patrons. They sit in awkward silence for a minute until Stiles snaps and babbles something about meeting with Scott and stands up with a clatter, clutching at his Tickle Me Pink (tee hee). Derek frowns a little, probably sensing the lie, but he doesn’t say anything and follows suit, rising to his feet with a lot more grace.
They part ways at the door.
Stiles scratches his neck self-consciously and shuffles his feet, turning to face Derek. “Uh, hey man, don't worry, I won’t tell anyone you like raspberry frappes. I was just messing with you earlier. Your little secret is safe with me. Yeah. So I’ll, uh, I’ll catch you later, Derek.” He raises a hand in a clumsy wave and winces at his own awkwardness.
Derek tilts his head, glancing away and then back at Stiles, then, amazingly, aims the small almost-smile from earlier at him, a little shy and a little, well, sweet, and Stiles narrowly avoids walking into the glass sliding door. He coughs and nods jerkily at Derek, gingerly rubbing his elbow, and then flees to his jeep without looking back to see Derek’s reaction to his flailing escape.
He sits there in the driver’s seat, taking deep breaths and pressing the still cold plastic cup against his burning cheeks for five solid minutes until they no longer feel warm.
So, his thing for Derek Hale is most definitely a… thing, now. And, they may or may not have just gone on a pseudo-date together? Are those a thing? Yeah, he should probably stop thinking about things now.
This summer is certainly turning out to be… interesting.