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It’s not a big deal. Not yet, anyway.
People are late for dates all the time. Derek’s even been late for a date or two before, once from car trouble, once from fighting a rogue omega—and even though his date had found Derek’s battle-mussed hair cute, and he’s sure Jennifer would look just as good with what he insisted was just a bad hair day, he really hopes it’s the former. He’s had enough of dating people involved in the supernatural world, thank you very much.
Derek checks his watch again, biting the inside of his cheek. She’s twenty minutes late now, and hasn’t answered either of his texts. He doesn’t want to look clingy and message her again, but this is an extremely upscale restaurant, and the maître d’ is beginning to shoot him venomous looks. Derek takes a sip of his ice water and pretends not to notice, watching as the ice melts pathetically in the glass the waiter had set at the empty seat across from him.
After thirty minutes, the other patrons begin to notice him. How could they not? Like everyone here, he’s dressed to the nines, a black suit over a white dress shirt, beard as well-groomed as ever, hair styled just so. He’s also, most notably, sitting practically in the middle of the restaurant, all by himself.
After thirty-five minutes, he texts Jennifer again.
Derek Hale [7:35 PM]
Hey Jenn, don’t know if you’re having car trouble again or something, but please let me know if something came up and you can’t make it tonight. We can reschedule if you need.
Except no, they really can’t, because Derek has no desire to show his face in Chez Whittemore ever again. Plus, these reservations had cost him a fortune, and he’d had to wait a month to get them. Besides, if Jennifer’s not here… they’d booked this in the first place to spice up their relationship a little, since Jennifer seemed to be losing interest. She wouldn’t just ditch him though, would she?
At 7:40, the waiter—Matt, reads the embroidery on his royal red vest—comes back over to his table.
“Sir, do you think your date will be coming this evening?”
He doesn’t do a very good job of hiding his sneer.
“Probably just running late,” Derek mutters.
He pulls at his collar, takes another sip of water. It’s sad when you can hear your own heart skip a beat.
“Yes, well…” Matt says, upturning his nose. “Do you suppose you could place your order? Not that we’re rushing you out, Mr. Hale, but I’m sure you understand your reservation began forty minutes ago. Perhaps it’s best to get a move on.”
Derek glances edgily toward the door. He should just leave. That’s what he should really do.
But god, the reservations were so expensive, and even if he’s been stood up—and gee, isn’t that fun to admit—he really shouldn’t waste them. Still… he doesn’t know if he can stand sitting here alone while the other diners shoot him sympathetic looks.
There’s one couple in particular, two tables away, that’s really making him squirm. They’re probably in their mid-twenties, and very cute together. Unfortunately, cute couples are the last thing Derek wants to see right now. The girl has dark hair braided loosely over one shoulder, with fair skin and big, brown eyes. The guy is tan and muscular, with brown hair that flops just a little over his forehead. The most noticeable thing, though, is the sad glances he keeps shooting Derek. He looks positively puppy-like, and every time Derek accidentally catches his eye, he gives him a small, encouraging smile. It doesn’t make him feel as good as the guy probably thinks it does.
Ten minutes later, Matt comes back out, sporting a snooty, I-knew-it look when he sees Derek’s still sitting alone.
“May I take your order, sir?”
Derek feels the last of his dignity drain away when he places an order for two lobsters, and a bottle of wine. He could probably sadness-eat both lobsters by himself, at this point.
Luckily, Matt has enough self-preservation skills not to comment.
By eight o’clock, Derek has begun playing on his phone, because really, who could judge him harder at this point? Besides, it’s better than exchanging looks with Puppy Dog Eyes.
He’s just leveled up in Candy Crush when someone practically bursts in through the front doors.
“Oh my gosh,” the man says loudly. It’s not enough to silence the restaurant, but it does make most of the patrons glance over. “I am so sorry. I’m here for dinner with Mr. Hale,” he tells the maître d’, and that certainly catches Derek’s attention. “The reservation should be in his name. Is he even here still?”
“Erm, yes, Mr…” the man behind the desk says, and Derek can easily picture his disapproving frown.
“Stilinski.”
Mr. Stilinski? As in, Stiles Stilinski? As in, the son of Derek’s boss?
What the hell?
“Ah. Yes, well… he’s right this way.”
“Oh, thank god,” Stiles breathes, sounding for all the world like his life depended on it.
The maître d’ steps out from behind his desk and leads Stiles to Derek’s table, watching them not so secretively, along with the rest of the restaurant, as he backs away.
“God, Derek, I’m so sorry,” Stiles continues loudly, sticking out a hand. Derek shakes it numbly, still staring at him. “This is gonna sound so crazy, but my father had an emergency down at the station, so I had to hang back for a while, and I kept trying to text you, but I absolutely could not get reception.”
“Don’t worry, Stiles,” Derek says, not sure what the hell they’re doing, but more than willing to play along. “I knew you’d be here. In fact, I already ordered us dinner. Lobster.”
“Sounds amazing,” Stiles says, sliding into the chair across from Derek.
He takes a sip of the water—room temperature by now, probably—and most of the other patrons go back to their meals, apparently content with the knowledge that the dressed up loser’s date had, in fact, bothered to show.
He and Stiles make casual small talk for a while, from the weather to the supposed ‘incident’ at the station, before Derek feels confident that no one’s listening.
“What are you doing here?” he whispers.
“Scott texted me that you got stoo- that your date didn’t look like she was coming. And um, my dad mentioned in passing once that you and Deputy Parrish used to date a few years ago, before he got transferred to New York, so I figured you wouldn’t mind that much if a guy showed up to, y’know, pretend to be your date.”
There are several things Derek could say, like that sounds like something you’d have to specifically ask your father about, or wow, that’s really nice of you, or thanks for making me look like less of an idiot.
Instead, what comes out is, “Who the hell is Scott?”
“Oh,” Stiles laughs, seemingly unperturbed by his bluntness. “My best bud. He’s sitting right there. And that’s his girlfriend, Allison.”
Derek points at Puppy Dog Eyes—Scott, apparently—who was clearly side-eyeing them, and he and his date wave.
Derek waves back, a little stunted from his surprise.
He’s only seen Stiles a handful of times around the station, because since coming back from college and picking up a full time job, he only stops by once in a blue moon to drop a healthy lunch off for his father.
“How did he even know who I was?” Derek asks. “And why text you?”
Stiles shrugs, but it’s not very convincing.
“He heard one of the waiters call you Mr. Hale, and I guess my father’s mentioned you once or twice? Guy’s a total gossip.”
He laughs nervously, and his heartrate speeds just a little, but Derek writes it off.
The thing is, sure, normally he would be more than a little annoyed about strangers prying into his personal life. But… well, Stiles is cute. He’s got bright, whiskey eyes, and there are little moles dotting his face and neck. He didn’t show up looking like a bum, either—he’s got a suit jacket on, and he’s clean-shaven despite the late hour, and Derek kind of appreciates it. Really appreciates it, honestly, because while it’s a little more than embarrassing that Scott, Allison, and Stiles know about Derek’s situation, he doesn’t need the whole restaurant to know, too.
“If you want me to go, I totally will,” Stiles says, jarring Derek from his thoughts. “I told Scott it would kinda be an intrusion, so-”
“It’s fine,” Derek interrupts. “It’s good. You’re- good. Here.”
Dear god, no wonder Jennifer didn’t want to come.
“Awesome,” Stiles says, his genuine grin tamping down on any awkwardness. “’Cause to be fair, I was kinda promised a lobster.”
He laughs, and Derek joins him, and suddenly Jennifer is the last thing on his mind.
They have a good time. Like, really good.
Stiles tell Derek about his new teaching job, and Derek tells him what it’s like on the police force. Between swapping stories about his father—Stiles is downright gleeful upon hearing about the time John fell asleep on a stack of new paperwork, and ended up with the word ‘closed’ stamped backwards across his forehead all day, because no one had the guts to tell him—and Stiles’ seventh graders—an age where kids are apparently just as ruthless as Derek remembers—Derek realizes he not just glad for the company, but he’s glad that the company is Stiles.
He’s lively, and funny, and Derek would be lying if he said he wasn’t his type.
Plus, the look on Matt’s face when Stiles gave him an overly friendly greeting, apologizing for his lateness, was priceless.
By the time they’re done eating, and Scott and Allison have smilingly left, Derek is almost sad to see their own ‘date’ is ending, too.
When Matt sets their bill on the table, Stiles swoops in to pick it up before Derek gets a chance, and pulls out his wallet.
“What are you doing?” Derek asks.
“Paying my half,” Stiles says, passing him the bill.
It’s less than Derek expected, really, because they’d skipped over appetizers, but it’s still ridiculously overpriced.
“You’re not paying half,” Derek says, reaching across the table to nudge Stiles’ wallet. “They’re my reservations.”
“Which I barged in on.”
“You barged in and pick up the very last of my dignity,” Derek says, and Stiles rolls his eyes, but it’s almost a fond look.
“I barged in, ate a lobster, some fancy French pastry dessert thing, and drank expensive wine. I think I can cover my share.”
He pulls bills out of his wallet, and tries to pass them to Derek, who refuses to take them.
“Dude,” Stiles huffs. “Don’t make me call my dad.”
“And what? Have me arrested for buying myself dinner?”
“Worse—I’ll have him lecture you,” he says, wiggling his fingers for dramatic effect, like John is a ghost instead of a soon-to-retire sheriff.
Derek smirks.
“Call him,” he challenges lightly. “I’d love to hear how the me-and-Jordan story came up.”
“That is-” Stiles says, pointing a finger at him, and there’s an undeniable blush creeping up his cheeks. “That is low.”
“Then let me pay.”
“How about-” a woman in a sleek black dress seems to appear out of nowhere, and sets a hand on Stiles’ shoulder “-this one’s on the house.”
“Aw, you don’t have to do that, Lyds,” Stiles says.
“You know the owners?” Derek asks, surprised.
“My husband and I went to high school with him,” Lydia says, turning her sweet, but somehow menacing smile on Derek. “And it’s been a while since he’s gotten any action-” “Lydia!” “-and I’m more than happy to cover the tab to commemorate the occasion.”
Derek would feel bad, considering he and Stiles aren’t actually dating, but something about Lydia screams omnipotence, and he thinks she probably already knows.
“Well, tell Jackson thank you,” Stiles says, rising from the table.
Apparently being called out eliminates any of his qualms about the free meal.
“Of course,” Lydia says easily. She pulls him in for a quick hug, and Derek’s enhanced hearing makes her whispered, “He’s cute, Stiles, make a move,” come across loud and clear.
“Thank you,” Derek says, reaching out to shake her hand, but she pulls him in for a hug, too. “This is really nice of you.”
Luckily, there are no vague threats whispered in his ear.
“No problem. Well, I’ll see you two around,” Lydia says, still smiling, and making her implication perfectly clear.
When she’s gone, they both just stand there for a moment, looking at each other.
Finally, Stiles gives a little cough, and says, “Well, guess we should head out then. Walk me to my car?”
He winks at Derek suggestively, and it’s hard to tell if it’s meant for him, or the benefit of the few diners still straggling behind.
“Sure,” Derek agrees, because either way, he’d like that.
They step into the cool night air, walking together in comfortable—well, mildly tense—silence, till they reach a blue Jeep.
“Well, here’s my ride,” Stiles says.
He sounds almost… disappointed?
Derek’s about to wish him goodnight, maybe thank him a dozen more times, when words practically spill from Stiles’ mouth.
“So, um, I had a really good time tonight. And like, I know we don’t really know each other, but you seemed to kinda be having fun too? And I don’t want to just be a rebound or something, but it sounds like whoever stood a guy like you up is a real jerk, and I thought maybe we could go on another date sometime? Maybe. Not if you don’t want to, of course, or-”
Derek leans in and presses a quick, chaste kiss to Stiles’ lips, effectively silencing him.
“I want to.”
Stiles is still staring at him, wide-eyed, so Derek adds, “Uh, was that okay, or-”
“No! I mean- Yeah. Yes. More than okay. Definitely. We should definitely do that again sometime. Or, well, more than that, but- but I’m gonna shut up now. Was that a yes on dinner?” Stiles asks, voice an octave higher than before.
Derek laughs, and smiles at him warmly.
The amazing blush creeps back up Stiles’ cheeks.
“That,” Derek says, “was definitely a yes on dinner.”