Derek hates his summer job. Mainly because his sister is his boss. And she refuses to make anyone else deal with customers.
“You need to work on your people skills, Derbear,” she says as they restock the concessions.
“Why not Greenberg?”
“Greenberg is the projectionist,” she replies. “That boy has a gift.”
He would flip her off but their mom rounds the corner with an armful of recycling.
***
The Hale Drive-In has been a staple in Beacon Hills since 1947 and it’s been in business ever since airing classical films as well as blockbuster hits.
Derek loves the theatre. He hates the customers. Especially Stiles.
Stiles loves the drive-in. In the summer, he goes to Hale’s so often that his car radio is semi-permanently tuned to the drive-in’s station.
He never checks to see what’s playing, just turns up and watches whatever the double feature is. Sometimes the same double feature sticks around for weeks and he sees the same movie over and over, terrible dialogue etching itself into his long-term memory.
It’s not like he goes for the movies themselves, anyway. He goes for the experience: the huge screen looming over a sea of cars, the night breeze through his open windows. He likes to sit on the hood of his car and lean back on his hands or elbows, listening as the movie soundtrack blends with the steady chorus of crickets and the distant sounds of Derek and Laura bickering in the concession stand.
Derek Hale is a cranky jerk who lives to rain on Stiles’ fun outdoor throwback movie experience. He’s smirky, mean, and makes terrible popcorn. Stiles hates that guy.
Derek hates making popcorn. He smells of butter for the next two days after working the ancient popcorn machine his father insists is still functioning. The same machine that threatens to burn Derek’s fingers every time he has to add butter.
He can’t wait till his younger brother is old enough to man the machine. Because Derek hasn’t gotten a date since he started making popcorn. It’s like the Hale version of the chastity belt. As soon as Laura was off popcorn duty, she got three dates and the keys to the Camaro.
Derek has given up on dating since Kate Argent laughed at him when he asked her out to see the revival showing of North by Northwest last summer.
He’s picking up stray garbage between the parked cars and ignoring the few couples not enjoy the film but making out, when he spots him.
Stiles.
He’s sprawled obscenely on the roof of his jeep. And eating Reese’s. A brand not carried at concessions because of Uncle Peter’s kids allergies. And clearly in violation of rule #2 of the drive-in. No outside food. Half the profits that keep Hale’s open is concession sales.
And Stiles is flaunting his rule-breaking.
Flaunting.
Lydia frets at the frayed end of Prada’s leash, where her dog gnawed through it after willfully urging Lydia to take her for a walk during Christmas finals.
She hasn’t replaced it yet. Not since the Martin Christmas debacle when her parents decided that they were reconciled enough for a family dinner. Which led to another encompassing screaming match over the carefully catered turkey.
But now she’s waiting in Dr. Deaton’s animal clinic for the stoic vet to make an appearance and fix Prada, who is curled up into an even smaller ball than usual in Lydia’s lap. She’s been like this since Thursday.
The entrance door opens with a rush. “Sorry, Doc, I had to-” begins an unfamiliar boy with a slightly crooked jaw line. He smiles awkwardly when he notices her.
“Urgh, I’ll just-” he says gesturing to the back exam room door. His arms jerking wildly. Prada lets out a small woof. And the boy stops his shuffle to peer at her lap.
“Prad!” he beams, his face lighting up. “How are you, girl?”
Her dog actually perks up to lick his outstretched palm.
“Prad?” Lydia asks, pulling her dog closer to her body.
“Oh, I mean, Prada,” the boy says, flushing, pulling back from Prada. “I’m Scott. I deloused her last time. She ate half of my shoe. We sorta bonded.”
happy birthday to a friend who wishes to be mysterious
“Urgh, my head,” groans Stiles from his cramped sprawl in what looks to be the porcelain embrace of a bathtub. The stale taste of melon berry liqueur almost makes him puke. He quashes that back with a dry heave. He doesn’t remember anything. Except he hopes he’s still in Vegas. Though this bathroom looks more expensive than the room he was sharing with Scott when he started this weekend.
And he’s wearing a tuxedo. A tailored one. And holy shit.
“What the fuck.”
A gold banded ring on his right ring finger.
He’s can’t stop the nausea that overcomes him. And it has nothing to do with melon liqueur.
***
Derek wakes up naked. A myriad of unfamiliar scents surrounding him. His mind feels blank. His mouth tastes of melon. Like from that horrid candy Laura used to eat when they were kids. And still eats. The most persistent assault to his senses is the shrill ringing of his cellphone on the night table to the California king bed he’s currently plastered on.
“What?” he growls.
“Congrats, little bro,” says Laura over the phone. “And to think, Uncle Peter thought you’d be a spinster for life.”
“WHAT.” He sits up, the sheet falling away and the headache thrumming in the back of his head becomes a full marching band.
“Mom is going to be pissed you didn’t invite her and dad,” continues Laura.
“This isn’t funny, Laura,” he says looking at his right hand.
“Oh my God, you don’t remember. I knew you couldn’t hold your liquor,” says Laura despairingly.
But Derek isn’t listening. Not when the most delectable guy trips out of the bathroom wearing Derek’s tuxedo.
“He could be anywhere,” muses Stiles from his cluttered desk, looking at where Derek is studiously typing in his quarterly report, with his index fingers, like a geriatric eighty-nine year old man.
“Who?” asks Derek, pushing up his hideously horrendous square black framed glasses.
“That dreamy werewolf,” sighs Stiles.
“Werewolves are evil,” quotes Derek. “Argent won a Pulitzer for proving that.”
“Argent is crazy. And you should have seen him. He had these eyes. These glowing blue eyes that could just burn through to your soul,” says Stiles, looking out to the darkening sky of the city. “He’s the outlier to them. He saved me from those muggers. He was tall, dark and handsome. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Clearly,” says Derek, his face turning a bright shade of red as he turned back to his work and readjusted his glasses.
And just when Stiles thought it couldn’t get any worse, there’s a bike cop ticketing his pink Vespa in front of his patisserie.
now i just want pics of douchy sunglasses wearing bike cop derek and patisserie owner stiles riding a pink vespa or drag racing on their respective modes of transportation. or stiles getting ticketed for speeding from a derek riding a bicycle
bike cop derek wears his douchy sunglasses too and has a bike bell. tring tring! tring tring! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ ♥ and those white socks pulled up
Stiles knows opening the patisserie is the single most atypical Stiles related behaviour. Second, if he counts buying the pink Vespa now parked in front of the curb of his shop. But technically the salesman at the dealership shouldn’t have let a drunk Stiles buy one. Or at least sign up for premium financing. Either way, change is good. A good change. In with the new. And out with everything that reminded him of his ex that tore out his heart at the alter in front of all his friends and family. So a fresh start. The complete opposite of law enforcement is pastry chef. Or at least it made more sense six months ago when he moved back with his dad to Beacon Hills and out of the apartment he shared with his ex-fiance in Quantico.
This has to work.
It’s going to work.
Fucking hell, a police officer is ticketing his Vespa.
“Hey!” Stiles shouts, scrambling from the doorway of his shop to where the police officer is trying to figure out a way to stick a ticket on Stiles’ pink motorbike. “Yeah you! Officer-” Stiles squints at the name emblazoned on the two sizes too small uniform. “Hale. That’s my-“
“Oh good,” Officer Hale says and Stiles is left holding a pink ticket to match his Vespa.
And the stupid police officer in tight shorts actually bikes away. Safety helmet and all.
“Son of a b-“
***
”-itch!” Stiles finishes his long diatribe as his best friend since diapers, Scott McCall, finishes his chocolatine.
“This could use more butter,” says Scott, licking his fork.
“It does not,” scowls Stiles. “You ate three of them.”
“Taste testing,” replies Scott. “And can’t you just tell your dad about this?”
Stiles scrubs his face tiredly. “And what, get another sad eyed look about my life choices? And how maybe moving back here to Beacon Hills wasn’t the best idea?”
“Your dad would never-“
“The eyes! Scott, the eyes! I mean, he’s been treating me with kid gloves since-“
“since the wedding?” finishes Scott. “Dude, you haven’t even talked about it with me. We got drunk in the woods and-“
“And that was therapeutic and purging,” says Stiles.
“Vomiting in the woods is not purging,” replies Scott, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “I think I lost my appetite.”
“Good, great, then maybe I can get some paying customers to deal with this hundred dollar fine,” scowls Stiles looking at where he posted the pink ticket on the cork board that announces the week’s specials. Right under the bright cursive print highlighting raspberry madeleines and cassis macarons. “From a bike cop.”
“You said he was hot,” says Scott.
“Not the point, Scott!”
“Dude, I think it kind is. I mean, your Vespa is still out there,” points Scott. “You’re going to get ticketed again.”
“That’s the plan,” says Stiles.
“Your plan is to get fined even more?” blinks Scott. “I can’t believe you used to be a secret agent.”
“Special agent,” says Stiles.
“That is the word I would use,” says Scott before pushing up from his chair. “I gotta go. Promised Allison I’d pick her up from the gallery.”
“Yeah, yeah,” mutters Stiles. “I’m going to pretend you’re paying for those madeleines.”
“They’re for Allison,” says Scott. “Good luck with your stakeout, Special Agent.”
Stiles flips him the finger as a old couple totter into the patisserie.
IT ONLY GETS BETTER WHEN YOU REALIZE THAT BIKE-COP!DEREK IS ALMOST CERTAINLY WEARING BIKE SHORTS, AS WELL.
i have no idea how the night turned to patisseries and bike cops and former fbi agents
Stiles knows opening the patisserie is the single most atypical Stiles related behaviour. Second, if he counts buying the pink Vespa now parked in front of the curb of his shop. But technically the salesman at the dealership shouldn’t have let a drunk Stiles buy one. Or at least sign up for premium financing. Either way, change is good. A good change. In with the new. And out with everything that reminded him of his ex that tore out his heart at the alter in front of all his friends and family. So a fresh start. The complete opposite of law enforcement is pastry chef. Or at least it made more sense six months ago when he moved back with his dad to Beacon Hills and out of the apartment he shared with his ex-fiance in Quantico.
This has to work.
It’s going to work.
Fucking hell, a police officer is ticketing his Vespa.
“Hey!” Stiles shouts, scrambling from the doorway of his shop to where the police officer is trying to figure out a way to stick a ticket on Stiles’ pink motorbike. “Yeah you! Officer-” Stiles squints at the name emblazoned on the two sizes too small uniform. “Hale. That’s my-“
“Oh good,” Officer Hale says and Stiles is left holding a pink ticket to match his Vespa.
And the stupid police officer in tight shorts actually bikes away. Safety helmet and all.
“Son of a b-“
***
”-itch!” Stiles finishes his long diatribe as his best friend since diapers, Scott McCall, finishes his chocolatine.
“This could use more butter,” says Scott, licking his fork.
“It does not,” scowls Stiles. “You ate three of them.”
“Taste testing,” replies Scott. “And can’t you just tell your dad about this?”
Stiles scrubs his face tiredly. “And what, get another sad eyed look about my life choices? And how maybe moving back here to Beacon Hills wasn’t the best idea?”
“Your dad would never-“
“The eyes! Scott, the eyes! I mean, he’s been treating me with kid gloves since-“
“since the wedding?” finishes Scott. “Dude, you haven’t even talked about it with me. We got drunk in the woods and-“
“And that was therapeutic and purging,” says Stiles.
“Vomiting in the woods is not purging,” replies Scott, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “I think I lost my appetite.”
“Good, great, then maybe I can get some paying customers to deal with this hundred dollar fine,” scowls Stiles looking at where he posted the pink ticket on the cork board that announces the week’s specials. Right under the bright cursive print highlighting raspberry madeleines and cassis macarons. “From a bike cop.”
“You said he was hot,” says Scott.
“Not the point, Scott!”
“Dude, I think it kind is. I mean, your Vespa is still out there,” points Scott. “You’re going to get ticketed again.”
“That’s the plan,” says Stiles.
“Your plan is to get fined even more?” blinks Scott. “I can’t believe you used to be a secret agent.”
“Special agent,” says Stiles.
“That is the word I would use,” says Scott before pushing up from his chair. “I gotta go. Promised Allison I’d pick her up from the gallery.”
“Yeah, yeah,” mutters Stiles. “I’m going to pretend you’re paying for those madeleines.”
“They’re for Allison,” says Scott. “Good luck with your stakeout, Special Agent.”
Stiles flips him the finger as a old couple totter into the patisserie.
whichever post gets the most likes
- are you ok with derek teaching intermediate calculus while wearing an ascot?
- or stiles opening a patisserie and riding a vespa?
i’ll write a longer ficlet
Stiles knows opening the patisserie is the single most atypical Stiles related behaviour. Second, if he counts buying the pink Vespa now parked in front of the curb of his shop. But technically the salesman at the dealership shouldn’t have let a drunk Stiles buy one. Or at least sign up for premium financing. Either way, change is good. A good change. In with the new. And out with everything that reminded him of his ex that tore out his heart at the alter in front of all his friends and family. So a fresh start. The complete opposite of law enforcement is pastry chef. Or at least it made more sense six months ago when he moved back with his dad to Beacon Hills and out of the apartment he shared with his ex-fiance in Quantico.
This has to work.
It’s going to work.
Fucking hell, a police officer is ticketing his Vespa.
“Hey!” Stiles shouts, scrambling from the doorway of his shop to where the police officer is trying to figure out a way to stick a ticket on Stiles’ pink motorbike. “Yeah you! Officer Hale,” Stiles squints at the name emblazoned on the two sizes too small uniform. “That’s my-“
“Oh good,” Officer Hale says and Stiles is left holding a pink ticket to match his Vespa.
Stiles is trying hard not to stare but his intermediate calculus lecturer is hotter than the sun. But he’s wearing an ascot. A nautically themed ascot. With a sweater vest. Tucked into his sinfully tight tan checkered trousers. They’re actually trousers. With black suspenders. It would look ridiculous on anyone else.
Anyone other than Assistant Professor Derek Hale. The youngest professor in the math department.
Stiles is so going to flunk this semester’s core math course. And it’s that ascot’s fault.
Okay but what I want to know is why no one has written “Were Science,” a story about a dorky high school genius named Stiles Stilinski who tries to create the perfect man from a magazine photo of an underwear model, a National Geographic article on wolves, and a picture of Grumpy Cat.
sometimes british slang ruins an otherwise pitch perfect fic. for example:
“i fancy you,” derek whispers.
“my heart yearns for your stubble scrapped cheek whose burns not even the thames could quench,” says stiles, ardently.
i can’t read this without laughing and it losing all the teen wolf je ne sais pas quoi. pardon my canadian sensibilities
OH MY GAWD. SOMEONE MADE A REC FOR MY FIC. I AM BESIDE MYSELF IN HAPPINESS AND SHOCK!!!
