In hindsight, Stiles could understand how his actions might be interpreted a certain way.
But when has hindsight ever helped him?
“I think he’s a werewolf,” Stiles says, eyes narrowed and following the, admittedly, hot-like-burning possibly-a-werewolf browsing through the shelves of Beacon Hills’ comic book store unimaginatively named Comics and Stuff.
Erica snorts and rolls her eyes, giving minute tweaks to the expensive figurines in the glass case even though there’s nothing wrong with the way Stiles set them up. She just likes to exert dominance over him by redoing his work. It’s disgustingly successful, the boss is considering giving her a promotion (but no raise because haha, as if. Comic book stores don’t make money anymore since people can just buy things online instead).
“You could just ask him out like a normal person–oh wait,” she pauses, “you aren’t a normal person.”
Stiles scowls. “Yellow makes you look jaundiced,” he snipes then–because he does have some self-preservation–darts away frantically.
Right into the solid wall of probably-a-werewolf’s muscular chest.
Stiles kind of bounces off him like the least aerodynamic rubber ball in existence and only gets saved from collapsing to the ground in an ungainly heap of limbs because definitely-a-werewolf manages to snag his wrist and tether him upright.
“Holy inferiority complex, Batman!” Stiles yelps, because why make only one reference when he can do two simultaneously?
Hot Werewolf tilts his head in a way that shouldn’t be cute considering his whole molten-sexuality-vibe going on, confused but curious–which is one of the more positive reactions Stiles has gotten in the face of his… everything.
In response, Stiles just stares like a gormless idiot. Hot Werewolf has really nice eyes.
Erica coughs, swooping in to save him, “Do you need help with anything?” She asks checking out Hot Werewolf blatantly.
Never mind, she’s obviously swooping in to do something other than save Stiles from himself.
Hot Werewolf turns toward her, “Just need to pay for this,” he says, holding up a Superman t-shirt in his left hand. His right hand is still wrapped around Stiles’ wrist.
Shit, he can probably feel how fast his pulse is going.
“Sure thing,” Erica says, leaning forward with a smirk in a combination that Stiles has actually seen her practice before, and then, bizarrely, she steps away? “I have to go shelve the Catwoman serials, but Stiles here can help you with that.”
“I can?” He asks, uselessly, to Erica’s retreating back as she heads in the complete opposite direction of where the DC serials are. “I-I mean, yeah, definitely, I can totally help you with that, dude,” he amends, doing his best to get to the cash register while his wrist is still being held hostage by Hot Werewolf.
“Don’t call me dude,” Hot Werewolf argues, but amenably follows Stiles’ lead. “My name’s Derek,” he adds, while Stiles rings up the t-shirt.
Hot Werewolf–Derek–is apparently the kind of person to give exact change. Stiles tries not to fumble the coins too badly, but even with two hands now, he can feel the pressure of Derek’s gaze.
“Thanks for shopping at Comics and Stuff,” Stiles says by rote as he hands over Derek’s receipt. “Come again soon.”
“I’m sure I will,” Derek smirks, teeth bright and sharp and thrilling.
It’s not until the door chime jingles sadly that Stiles takes a shaky breath.
“Wow,” Erica says, “I practically gift-wrapped that for you. You should be making out with him right now. Like, up against that shelf right there.”
And because Stiles has no idea how to respond to that, he ignores it and says instead, “He’s definitely a werewolf.”
A/N: I was discussing food allergies with my sister and had a weird thought and then it turned into this so…
I thought I was going to be able to do it all in one shot but its approaching midnight so apparently this is going to be a multi-parter.