Chapter Text
Derek’s palms are sweating. He’s suddenly starting to think that this is a terrible idea. Every shred of confidence he felt on the phone when he asked Stiles to meet him has suddenly disappeared now that it’s actually about to happen.
He’s chosen a seat in the back of LaLuna, hiding himself behind a shelf littered with novelty coffee mugs. From his spot he has a pretty decent view of the front door between an “I <3 my dog” mug and a thermos, and he’s mostly sure that he can’t be seen by anyone who comes in.
He checks his phone again. 2:50pm. There are still 10 more minutes before he’s supposed to meet Stiles. Sighing, Derek idly opens his text messages and surfs through the ones they’ve been exchanging over the past week.
When he’d first told Stiles to use his number, he wasn’t sure that he actually would. Making a move that bold was completely out of Derek’s character, but something about Stiles’ easygoing manner had made Derek go for it.
To Derek’s surprise it had taken less than a minute for Stiles to text him after they’d hung up. All he’d said was “Hello sir ;)” and that’d been enough.
Since then, he and Stiles had been texting nonstop, about everything and nothing. Derek had talked about his next book, Stiles had talked about his upcoming exams; they’d both talked about their intense love for action heroes and the Discovery Channel. Derek was liking him more and more with every conversation they have.
Derek taps his phone on the table in front of him nervously. Stiles’ last text to him says, “I’ll be wearing plaid. As usual. You should probably get used to it. Actually if you don’t like plaid you actually probably shouldn’t come.”
Derek chuckles at the message again before his stomach re-churns with worry. What if Stiles is completely different in person than the easygoing, good-humored guy he seemed to be over the phone? What if they have no connection when they come face-to-face?
A bell rings as the door swings open and Derek quickly shifts to hide behind the shelf and peer through the mugs.
Plaid. His eyes trace up the orange plaid shirt at the front of the cafe…to a girl’s face. Not Stiles then. Derek slumps back down in his seat.
He checks his phone again. 3:02. A sense of dread begins pooling in Derek’s stomach as he wonders if he’s about to be stood up. Just as he starts to spiral into a dark hole of rejection, his phone beeps.
He looks down to a new message from Stiles. “Also…I’m late maybe 99% of the time. Should probably just be up front about that now.”
Derek laughs out loud and types a response. “ETA?”
His phone lights up immediately. “Oh. Now.”
Derek’s heart rate doesn’t even have time to speed up before he hears the bell on the front door ring. He ducks down again and assumes his previous surveillance position.
A guy walks through the door, looking around with an enthusiastic energy. Derek’s eyes immediately fall to the blue plaid shirt he’s wearing. It’s pushed up around the elbows to reveal frankly sinful forearms with impossibly long fingers attached to them. Derek’s eyes flicks up to the guy’s face and his heart stutters in his chest.
The guy-Stiles-has short brown hair, amber eyes, and a dotting of moles decorating his face. His body is lean, yet just the right amount of muscular, and he has a pair of black framed glasses sitting on his slightly turned up nose. To put it simply, he is exactly Derek’s type.
Derek groans and slides back further behind the display case. Shit. Derek looks down at himself. Stiles is all lithe, clean cut, soft features. And Derek, he thinks, is-rugged, to say the least. He suddenly feels way too built, regretful that he didn’t shave, and definitely like he should have left his leather jacket at home.
He and Stiles are total opposites. Derek knows there is no way a guy who looks like that would be into a guy who looks as course as Derek.
He peers through the mugs again to see Stiles pulling out his phone and typing on it. Derek’s own phone beeps on the table. Crap. Derek lunges forward to pick it up and read the message. It’s from Stiles.
"You here man?” it reads.
Derek has no idea what to say. He never told Stiles what he looked like, maybe he can just sneak out, pretend he didn’t show up, text Stiles some kind of excuse later….
His phone goes off again. “Pretty sure I heard your phone ping.”
Another beep. “There it is again.”
“Shit,” Derek swears silently as he fumbles to put his phone on silent. But he can’t do it fast enough to quell the assault of text messages coming in.
“And again”
“And again”
“And again”
Stiles is rounding the corner, phone in his hand, still typing as he approaches Derek.
“Aha!” he texts just before he looks up.
Derek straightens in his seat as Stiles looks him in the eye…and then immediately drops his phone.
“Oh, fuck,” Stiles says involuntarily, still staring straight at Derek. Derek’s stomach drops. Definitely not the reaction he’d been hoping for, but no more than he’d expected after actually seeing Stiles.
Stiles glances down as he realizes he’s dropped his phone. “Fuck,” he repeats, as he bends down to retrieve it. Derek really didn’t need that visual. He could have lived just fine without ever knowing anyone on the planet had an ass that fine.
Stiles straightens back up and just continues to stare at Derek, saying nothing.
Derek rolls his eyes and pushes himself out of his seat. “It’s fine,” he states calmly. “We can just…forget this happened. Don’t worry about it. I’ll just go.”
He reaches down to pick his phone up off of the table and tries to make his way out of the café. Unfortunately, the only way is directly past Stiles.
Stiles runs one of his ridiculously long hands through his hair and sighs. “Okay, fine. If that’s what you want…” he says slowly.
“You really…You don’t have to explain yourself. I get that I look like this, and you look like that…” Derek trails off.
Stiles’ face contorts into something that looks vaguely hurt. “Wow. Okay. Yeah. That’s direct, but yeah.”
Derek sighs. “I can tell that I’m not what you expected.”
Stiles chuckles a bit. “Yeah, I’ll say.”
“Sorry,” Derek mutters, standing next to Stiles feeling huge, and stupid, and stupidly huge.
Stiles quirks his head at Derek. “I’ve never heard someone apologize for being insanely hot before.”
Derek takes a step back, feeling the air rush out of his lungs. “Wait, what?” he manages.
“That’s a new one on me. Appreciate it though, I guess…” Stiles says as he pushed his glasses up on his nose.
“No, wait-“Derek holds a hand up in the air. “You think I’m…you find me…attractive?”
Stiles narrows his eyes at him. “Well, duh.”
Derek huffs out a laugh. “You’re kidding. You?”
Stiles hangs his head. “Wow, okay. You were so much nicer via the phone. You really don’t have to be such a dick about it. I already know we’re in completely different leagues.”
Derek finally lets himself genuinely smile. “You mean where you look like an Abercrombie model and I look like I’m part of a motorcycle gang? You’re right.”
“An Abercrom-wait, do you think I’m attractive?” Stiles asks, pointing at himself.
Derek huffs a laugh. “Yes. Very.”
Stiles’ mouth gapes open and Derek has a very hard time not staring at it.
“Maybe we should start over,” Derek says.
“Yeah. Maybe,” Stiles responds and then sticks out his hand with a grin. “Hi. I’m Stiles. It’s good to actually meet you.”
Derek chuckles and takes Stiles’ hand. It’s soft against Derek’s own rough ones. “Yeah, you too. Want to sit down?”
Stiles shakes his head. “No.”
“…No,” Derek repeats as his face falls.
“I think we should just leave,” Stiles continues, smiling wickedly.
Derek is confused. “Why?” he asks.
“Because,” Stiles says, “I think we’ve done enough talking. And I’m not huge on PDA.”
Derek intertwines his fingers with Stiles’ as they head out the door.