Chapter Text
Westbrook, Connecticut
Stiles is late. His flight was delayed and then he spent a ridiculous amount of time waiting to pick up his stuff at the baggage claim. By the time he hails a cab to take him to Bumfuck, Connecticut, he is tired, hungry and not at all prepared for the neck-wringing Lydia is sure to give him when he gets there.
The scenery outside the smudged taxi window is all rundown ocean-side town. It’s nostalgic and lazy, with its abundance of seafood bar & grills and rusty old trucks. He should get some fresh crab while he’s in the area. He’s not a big seafood guy but crab is pretty safe and probably delicious here. Maybe he’ll get crab cakes, just in case. Stiles’ phone buzzes. He flips it open without looking at the number—it’s one of three people and he’s got a very good idea who would be pissed and impatient enough to call him right now.
“I’m almost there,” he sighs, forgoing a greeting. He pulls his beanie down farther over his head. He’s only a little insecure about the new buzzcut. It’s too much like the look he used to go for back in high school. Also, Stiles will stand by the fact that he has a weird shaped forehead. Maybe if he could experiment with some facial hair it would tone down the whole overgrown toddler thing he has going on, but clean shaven was a direct order from The Boss. At least he’s not being forced to go blond again. Boy, was that the most traumatizing eleven months of his life.
“I figured you’d say that.” It’s Scott, which is a relief. That means Lydia probably isn’t angry enough yet to resort to pestering him herself. Only angry enough to get Scott to do it for her.
“Buy an ice cream for me, I’ve had a nightmare of a day.”
“As if. I bet you slept the whole flight.” It was worth a shot. Stiles is nothing if not an opportunist.
“Whatever. Just tell Lyds to relax. She’ll give herself wrinkles, and then where would we be.”
“Probably dead, weighed down by cinderblocks in the middle of the Atlantic.”
“Old age has made you cynical, Scotty boy.”
“Just get here, dude. And toss the phone. We’re getting new burners.” The line goes dead, which. Rude. Stiles rolls his eyes and breaks the flip phone in half with a satisfying snap, ignoring the way the driver looks at him in the rearview mirror. When they pull up to the Dairy Queen, Stiles shoves a fat wad of cash right into his hand and grabs his bags from the trunk himself.
Lydia and Deaton are already seated at the farthest picnic table, glaring and calmly biting into a chocolate dipped cone, respectively. Stiles drags his suitcase through the rocky parking lot and takes a deep breath. They must only be about a quarter mile from the shore—it smells salty and clean. It’s almost reminiscent of home. Or California, rather. Stiles hasn’t lived in California in a long time.
“You couldn’t have let me drop my bags off first?” he whines when he’s within a reasonable distance. He would have screamed it across the parking lot if they weren’t trying to lay low. Undercover, secret identities and all that. They can’t be surprised about the comment—Stiles is at his best when he’s complaining. He’s got a room booked at a nice ass beach hotel nearby until his apartment in the city is ready. He’ll be damned if he’s not gonna milk that for all it’s worth. That means sleeping in, sun bathing, pigging out on all the junk foods.
“You couldn’t have been on time for once in your life?” Lydia shoots back, sharp as ever. She’s not wearing any makeup today and she’s dressed more casual than Stiles has ever seen, a flowy white blouse and jeans. Stiles stumbles, which interrupts his staring. There was a rock in his way, he swears. A very unfortunately placed rock.
“Very smooth,” Deaton comments through a mouthful of ice cream.
Stiles parks his bags off to the side and takes a seat. The table creaks ominously and the dirty umbrella above them wobbles. Stiles doesn’t know who picks these meetup spots, but he wants a word with them.
“Heard you had to cut off your precious locks,” Lydia smirks, eyeing his beanie with interest. She looks far too much like she would love to snatch it off his head, so Stiles puts a wary hand over it. He’s sweating already with the afternoon sun hot on his shoulders, but he’ll sweat through his entire shirt before he lets Lydia mock him for his hair. She seems to have claimed the only spot at the table that is getting any shade. Go figure.
“Yeah, yeah. You’ll just have to wait to see my new look, won’t you,” Stiles says, eyes locking on Deaton’s melty ice cream with only a little bit of jealousy. Okay, maybe a medium amount of jealousy. Overpriced airport trail mix can only fill you up for so long.
Scott drops into the seat next to him, a Blizzard in each hand. Stiles only has to stare at him pleadingly for a few seconds before he caves and slides one over with a fond smile.
“Love you,” Stiles swoons through a mouthful. It’s Oreo, yum.
“Hello to you too, man,” Scott jokes, taking his own oversized bite. This is why Scott is Stiles’ favorite.
“Alright, can we speed this up, please. I’ve got a two-hour drive back to New York after this,” Lydia presses, lips pursing in that strict way that only she can pull off. Stiles really doesn’t understand how she can be so hot and scary at the same time.
Deaton hums and pulls a stack of folders out from his bag, dealing them out to everyone. Stiles’ folder is heavy, and he fumbles a bit to avoid spilling ice cream on it. He flips it open to a page with a high-quality photo and a short profile underneath.
“This our mark?” Stiles asks, finger tracing the page. The guy in the photo is undeniably handsome—bold brows, thick lashes framing light greenish eyes, neatly trimmed scruff and a smirk, just barely visible on the corner of his mouth. Damn, maybe this’ll be fun.
“Derek Hale,” Deaton nods, taking a quick lick of his cone before skimming to an already highlighted page in his own folder, “CEO of the family-owned Hale Advertising Company, which has a revenue of about 10 billion a year.” Scott lets out a low whistle at that, eyes still scanning the paper.
“This is a big one, then?” Stiles asks, stuck on the picture of Derek Hale still. He has nervously started picking at the peeling grey paint on the wooden table they’re seated at. It comes off in a satisfying thick strip that he balls up and smushes between his forefinger and thumb.
“Yeah, apparently Hale is a notorious bachelor. He has never been seen seriously dating. But The Boss doesn’t think it’ll be too difficult for you,” Deaton juts his chin out in a little nod of recognition. Stiles sighs, flicks the ball of paint off into the gravel.
“Right.”
Stiles flips through a few more pages. There’s info on the company, backstories for Stiles, Lydia, Scott and Deaton, a fake driver’s license, social security card, and other necessary paperwork. A big envelope in the back has a new iPhone and burner phone, plus a few keys for his apartment. There’s another envelope full of cash and a credit card with his new alias on it. Stiles will never not be impressed with the attention to detail.
“Simon Hayes, huh?” he mutters, thumbing over the name next to his face on the license. He takes another peek inside the folder, “Wait a minute. You two get to keep your first names? How did you manage that?”
Stiles points an accusing finger at Scott and Deaton, eyes bugging dramatically. He’s never mastered the art of responding to an alias as flawlessly as he would respond to his own name. Sue him if he’s a little envious.
“Believe me, if I had any control over the aliases and backstories, I would be more concerned with the fact that you are supposedly my godson,” Deaton teases, smiling serenely from behind what’s left of his cone.
“Ha, hilarious. I’d probably focus on the fact that you’re a fucking veterinarian, though.”
“This is mostly going to be an inside job, though. Getting Hale to really trust you, and all that,” Scott interrupts, shoulder knocking gently into Stiles’ with an encouraging grin, “You shouldn’t even have to bother with us that much.”
“I think he should bother with you two, though,” Lydia speaks up, “I’ve been the assistant for the general manager at Hale Co for almost six months now, and I’ve seen what Derek Hale’s like. There’s no way he’ll fall for anything superficial. He’s too cautious. You need a solid backstory with real people in it. It needs to be as close to genuine as possible.”
“Wait, you’ve interacted with him? Like face-to-face? In person?” Stiles shouldn’t be surprised. He knew Lydia had been canvasing the past few months. Building rapport and setting up the framework for Stiles to come in.
“Only a few times. I’m the assistant for one of the main guys on Hale’s team—Isaac Lahey. I’ve seen what he’s like, though. You’ll need to be more than just a pretty face to catch his interest, Stiles.”
“Why, Lydia, are you calling me pretty?” Stiles flutters his eyelashes and shovels the last of his ice cream into his mouth. It earns him a painful kick to his shin, but he was expecting it. If any of them notice that he’s only trying to mask his nerves, they don’t comment.
-
The beach by his hotel doesn’t get a great view of the sunset, but Stiles still watches the sky turn a burnt orangey pink color from his perch on a pile of rocks. The rocks go out into the water a bit, far enough that a man has sat down at the end with a fishing pole. Stiles is debating whether or not he should take his shoes off and dip his feet in the water. The sun took all the dry heat away and the breeze is already making him shiver, so he isn’t sure.
Someone makes the trek onto the rocks and hovers behind him. Stiles knows that Lydia is probably already back in New York by now, and he watched Scott get on a bus to go do whatever it is he does, so he thinks he knows who it is. He tips his head back until Deaton is visible, standing and staring out into the open water. Stiles studies his upside-down expression for a moment.
“You’re not gonna tell me I should be getting to work, right?” Stiles says, head dropping forward again. He makes an impulsive decision to stick his feet in the water after all.
“I didn’t say anything,” Deaton says, managing to smoothly seat himself on a rock next to Stiles. He’s still looking to the distance.
“Because I read through the file three times. I memorized all my info. I even took notes on the Advertising for Dummies and Marketing for Dummies eBooks I rented.” The water is colder than he thought it’d be. He drops a sock in and has to fish it out before the waves carry it off.
“I didn’t say anything,” Deaton says again. It makes Stiles feel antsy. More antsy than usual, that is.
“Too bad there isn’t a Veterinary Science for Dummies eBook. Or maybe there is. Huh, you should look into that. That would probably help you out a lot. Those books have saved my life too many times, man.”
“I did go to medical school, you know.” They sky is turning into a rich purple now, the color bleeding against the ocean so the horizon almost disappears. It looks endless, and calm.
“No,” Stiles drags his toe against a mossy rock, “I didn’t know that.” Stiles doesn’t know anything about any of them. Not really.
Deaton doesn’t say anything, and Stiles is feeling anxious enough to allow the silence. It’s not like he hasn’t led a job like this before. It’s just that this one is big. Like really big. Full-scale and intricate, with complex backstories and months of set-up. Stiles might be Simon Hayes for over a year and a half before he is even able to make an attempt at accessing any accounts. And that’s only if he can get on Derek Hale’s good side.
Stiles almost wants to dig out the burner and call Lydia, force her to reassure him that he can do this and it’ll all work out and Stiles can stop staring at the ocean like some sad old widow. Lydia would never lie to him. But she’s already in New York, which means she’s back to being Lily Whittemore. Lily Whittemore, who is assistant to the general manager at Hale Co and was nice enough to recommend her dear college friend Simon Hayes for an open position on the team. Lily Whittemore, who is probably organized and meticulous and perfect in all the ways that Lydia is, but who Stiles really doesn’t trust not to lie to him. Not the way he trusts Lydia.
“We leave in two days for the big city,” Deaton slips a reassuring hand on Stiles’ shoulder as he stands, “Just take some time to relax, unwind before your interview.”
He takes half a step back, eyes on the sky even still. Deaton has always slipped into other personas like they’re a pair of warm socks, like they are more home to him than his own name and history. He’ll probably never understand the way it terrifies Stiles, the way it makes him more scared than anything of losing himself. Deaton must not have much to lose. Stiles appreciates his sympathy either way. He nods, silent.
Deaton looks at him, then. He’s silhouetted against the darkening sky, sturdy and unruffled in the way that Stiles has always known him to be. “You’re good at what you do, Stiles,” he says. It’s a quiet little statement, but it really is true. It’s nice to be reminded sometimes.
“Thank you,” it comes out sounding surprised, “You—you are too, you know.”
Deaton smiles, walks away. Stiles watches him leave, then he watches the stars come out. He drops his sock in the water again and he lets it go this time.
-
New York, New York
Hale Advertising Company is gigantic and all glass, at least from the outside. It’s probably really impressive on its own, but surrounded on all sides by even taller, shiner buildings, it almost goes unnoticed. Well, Stiles definitely doesn’t notice it. Until the second time he walks by.
The whole thing is pretty on par with how the rest of his morning has been going, what with the very confusing subway ride and the crowds of people he’s had to squeeze past. Stepping into the quiet lobby has him feeling like a sigh of relief personified. Simon is from fucking Minnesota. Any natural overwhelmed expressions that cross Stiles’ face can only help his case, probably.
He checks in at the front desk and sticks his cute little visitor sticker on his new tailored suit, resume and necessary paperwork tucked under his arm. The rest of his work clothes closet is secondhand or very discounted, as to be expected from a struggling post-grad guy. Everything was carefully selected and altered himself, with the help of YouTube and a cheap sewing kit. Stiles is good at his job all right.
He follows the directions given from the security guard, riding up the elevator and into another small lobby area. The woman at the desk there tells him to have a seat. The entire building is sleek and cool, with modern finishes and huge windows. There is a quick, familiar clicking of heels rounding the corner that Stiles pretends not to hear.
“Simon!” Lydia calls, red lips stretching into a pretty smile. Her pencil skirt barely slows her down as she hurries to pull him into a hug. Stiles lets himself sink into it, the only thing in this room that he knows.
“Lils,” he sighs fondly when they pull away from each other, “Don’t you look all grown up.”
She smiles even harder, and for a moment she looks like a shark. Stiles lets her drag him deeper into the building, smiling back over his shoulder when she throws out a “thanks, Kira!” to the woman at the desk. This floor looks like mostly high-quality cubicles, a wall of windows on one side and a few empty conference rooms on the other. Towards the back is a big office, made entirely of glass but with all the shades drawn, the door firmly shut.
“Mr. Lahey,” Lydia steps up to a cubicle on the far side. It’s a young guy, all lanky limbs and curly hair. He’s dressed like he’s a manager and he knows it, but when Lydia calls his name he looks up with a kind smile, “This is my friend Simon Hayes, the one who I thought would be a great fit for the spot on the team that Mr. Hale is hoping to fill. Simon, this is Isaac Lahey.”
They shake hands and chat meaninglessly. Stiles pulls out all the stops, going for charming and quick but softening it with a bit of youth. He’s a pro at small talk. Stiles could probably talk himself into or out of just about anything. When he finds out Isaac is a college football fan, he almost sighs in relief. Now that is a subject he could argue about for hours. Stiles and his dad used to bet their buttered rolls on the game every Thanksgiving.
He’s just started to really let his mouth go, teasing Isaac about his love of the University of Nevada in a way that’s probably almost too far, but the guy’s eyes just light up more with each passing second. A tap on his shoulder cuts him off, and Stiles turns to face a pretty blonde woman. She’s clearly pregnant, but still managing to balance in four-inch heels. Lydia is gone, probably bored of the conversation and desperate to update her Google Calendar.
“Simon Hayes, right?” the woman asks, a faintly evil smirk on her face that says she was probably listening to that entire conversation and will either kick Stiles to the curb or embrace him fully into the Hale Co family.
“That’s me,” Stiles smiles, intentionally naïve. This haircut must really be on his side.
“I assumed,” she muses, studying him closely. Stiles thinks she’ll be more difficult than Isaac was.
“Sorry,” he laughs a little, self-deprecating, “Lily set me loose and I tend not to stop talking even on my good days. Feel free to tell me to shut up anytime.”
“Nonsense,” she pushes him toward a group of armchairs in the corner, “Mr. Hale is almost ready for you, please have a seat. I’m Erica, if you need anything.”
He nods a thank you and settles into the chair, eyeing the others at the cubicles. There’s a pretty moderate number of directors or managers who lead certain departments throughout the company, and a few assistants for all of them.
“Sit down, Erica,” Isaac calls out just as she’s turning away from Stiles, “You’re supposed to be taking it easy.”
“I’m not even that pregnant, Lahey. Give it another three months,” she snarks back, swaying her hips dramatically.
“She could probably order me around the entire office wearing eight inch heels no matter how far along she is,” Stiles adds, just because he loves the sound of his own voice. It gets a wicked cackle out of Erica, though, which is amazing.
It gets quiet then, just the occasional phone ringing or soft mumbling or keys tapping. It’s definitely not Stiles’ scene—the discreet office space. While aesthetically pleasing, it leaves a lot to be desired in terms of external stimuli. Whatever, Stiles can just buy a new pair of headphones and jam out every day. The door to the office opens and stays that way. No one comes out, but there is an expectant call of “Erica.”
She stands from her desk in a nearby cubicle and makes eye contact with Stiles, sending him a smile that’s all smirk but still a little comforting. He must look uneasy. “Mr. Hale is ready for you now, Mr. Hayes.”
“Thank you,” Stiles says, standing and pulling sharply at the hem of his suit jacket until it straightens out. He readjusts his paperwork in the crook of his arm and walks through the open door. Derek Hale is seated behind a large desk, all polished wood and virtually no clutter on top. There’s a closed MacBook, a couple of stiff looking armchairs across from the desk, a couch and a coffee table off to the side, a full bookshelf and a plant—sad and wilting.
The man himself is almost too much to look at. He’s like the photo Stiles had seen, but worse. Worse in so many ways. The photo really couldn’t capture how absolutely brooding his glare is. His eyes are just as green, but they give nothing away. His hair is dark, shiny and carelessly pushed back. The beard seems a little longer, as if he hasn’t trimmed it in a while. It really is intimidating to be in the presence of someone this hot.
“Close the door,” Derek orders as soon as Stiles has approached one of the armchairs. He does an awkward spin so he can backtrack and push it closed. Another spin and he’s facing the desk again, so he holds out a hand steadily.
“Mr. Hale, I’m Simon Hayes.”
Derek doesn’t move to take his hand. He doesn’t even look at it, really. He’s looking at Stiles, eyebrows pulling down and lips pursing in a way that makes Stiles think that the smirk he thought he saw in that photograph was just a camera glitch or something. This guy doesn’t look like he ever smiles. Stiles doesn’t put down his hand, though. He holds it there, hovering between them. He wonders for just a second if he should break the eye contact, but forces himself not to, forces himself to keep up a polite expression. Derek Hale isn’t gonna want just another guy who’ll bow down to his intimidation tactics. He needs someone to challenge him. Hopefully. At least that’s what Stiles has decided, as of twenty seconds ago. He hears Lydia’s voice in his head, You’ll need to be more than just a pretty face to catch his interest, Stiles.
He wonders if he should speak but thinks not. His hand is still out there, arm starting to ache a bit, going sore on his bicep. Stiles thinks about what he knows about Derek from the file, and what he knows about him from this office and the people he hires and the short amount of time he’s been in his presence.
His heart is speeding up from nerves and he feels the prickle of underarm sweat. Derek hasn’t moved. He doesn’t even look real. Stiles holds the eye contact, hoping with his whole chest that he’s not fucking this up. Stiles wonders what would break Derek.
He makes himself smile, just a bit. Let’s his lips turn up on the sides until it softens, becomes something natural. He’s smiling and Derek is glaring, and he’s actually so impressed with himself that it shocks him when Derek suddenly takes his hand.
It’s an awkward angle, because Derek doesn’t stand. He just leans forward a bit and slides his dry palm against Stiles’, shakes it firmly. Stiles’ smile grows and he doesn’t even have to try.
“Sit down,” Derek mumbles gruffly. Stiles does.
Derek is not at all what Stiles was expecting. He is definitely a man of few words. He seems content with letting Stiles ramble on about his internship experience and blatant enthusiasm for the future of the company. Stiles tries different things. When biting his lip doesn’t get much of a response, he tries tilting his head to bare his neck while he gestures wildly with his hands. Derek’s eyes snap down to his throat, and then back up again. Stiles rubs a finger against his bottom lip and trails off, lets himself appreciate the literal perfection of the man in front of him for a moment. Then he quickly straightens, as if he’s forgotten himself, and folds his hands up in his lap. He quirks his lips and lamely finishes whatever he had been saying with a “so yeah.”
Derek averts his eyes and clears his throat, studying Simon Hayes’ resume in front of him. Stiles can’t tell if that’s a step forward or not. He wishes Derek were easier to read.
“Well, your resume isn’t unimpressive,” Derek grudgingly admits, as if it is the most difficult thing he’s ever said in his life.
“Thank you, sir.”
“The position I’m looking to fill is to head our Marketing Research and Strategy department. You don’t seem to have much experi—”
“If I may interrupt, sir, I’m assuming you’re gonna make a comment about my age or the fact that I’m fresh out of college. With all due respect—you are perfectly entitled to disagree; this is your company after all—but I think a new set of eyes is exactly what this place needs. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been watching Hale Advertising Company for years. Like, literally years. Since before you even took over for your uncle. Throughout college I kept an eye on several different organizations and I think Hale Co is by far the most impressive. You’re—you’re innovative. And smart. You don’t just tell people what they wanna hear, you convince them that what you’re saying is actually what they wanted to hear in the first place. If that…even makes any sense. Anyways, I think my youth could only benefit you and your team,” Stiles is on a roll. The careless rambling is a bit of a shot in the dark, and Derek’s eyebrows are slowly lowering. It’s ominous so Stiles tries the neck thing again, but Derek’s jaw is clenched, and his eyes don’t leave Stiles’.
“You’re implying that my guys out there are a bunch of old fogies,” Derek juts his chin at the closed office door to indicate the cluster of cubicles out there. Stiles almost wants to make a run for it at his expression alone.
“No, of course not, sir, they’re just…set in their ways, probably. I—” Stiles bites his lip and drops his eyes. He can’t stop the anxious tapping of his fingers against his knees. Maybe what Derek wants is subservience. Like all the guys out there, who will do what they’re told and answer phones and never challenge him at all. Stiles can do that, he really can. He just could’ve sworn this was something different. He watches Derek’s thumb rub at one corner of the resume. There is no way that Stiles won’t get this job. Deaton hacked into the system to find the rest of the applicants and has slowly been leaking deal breaking information or photos to ensure they won’t be hired. Lydia has been doing her thing here to find out exactly what they want, exactly what Stiles needs to be. Simon Hayes is squeaky clean and perfect. He’s not real, but he’s perfect.
It’s a quiet couple of minutes. Stiles keeps his eyes down, thinking hard. He hasn’t ruined it yet; he’s just discovered a few unexpected obstacles. No biggie. When he looks up again, he meets Derek’s eye. He’s been looking at Stiles the whole time.
“The position would require leading and communicating effectively with a large group of people,” Derek finally speaks, casually leaning back in his chair. Stile’s heart speeds up at both the visual and the blatant olive branch.
“Yes, sir. I was the president of the Student Marketing Association in school, so I’ve got a bit of experience leading a group in a business-related setting,” Stiles cuts himself off after that and holds his smile.
“You would also be expected to collaborate with a team of other department heads,” Derek adds, tilting his head like he’s waiting for something.
“Yes, sir,” Stiles nods, literally biting his tongue to keep himself from saying more.
Derek looks faintly amused, if that expression is even possible on his face. He doesn’t smile exactly, but his eyes go sly and twinkly, “That’s all?”
“Sorry?” Stiles asks, a bit distracted by Derek’s eyes doing anything that isn’t an irritated squint.
“That’s all you’re going to say?” his eyebrows go up in mock-shock, like he’s teasing. Stiles takes a breath and opens his mouth, fully prepared to respond. After a second, he lets the breath back out with a little huffing laugh. He thinks his cheeks go pink, which is just awesome.
“I was, uh, censoring myself. After I kinda put my foot in my mouth there,” he explains, doing his best to look self-conscious and not having to try very hard. Derek watches him for a moment like he’s looking at a complicated math problem. His eyes drop to Stiles’ throat without him even having to do the neck thing. Stiles swallows impulsively.
“I get the feeling that your mouth is pretty used to the taste of your foot,” Derek deadpans, never blinking. It’s a joke, which is the very last thing Stiles ever expected. He laughs loudly, the sound bursting out of him in an uncontrollable bark. Derek’s face never changes, but he leans forward slightly.
“Yeah, that is definitely a correct assumption,” Stiles admits, smiling wide and feeling all of twelve years old with how relieved he is at just a dumb joke. Derek stares, then purses his lips. It’s not a negative purse, it’s just a little thoughtful. He shrugs too, slipping Simon’s resume into a folder and tapping the folder on the surface of the desk before nonchalantly putting it in one of the drawers.
“I guess I’ll just have to get used to it.”
It takes Stiles a minute to let the words soak in. Derek is fixing his cufflinks, standing from his chair as if that settles everything. When Stiles can actually form thoughts he stands as well, body a flailing mass of excitement, “Oh my god, are you serious?!”
Derek sighs and rounds the desk so he can open the door. Stiles follows him, nearly bouncing on his toes. Derek holds the door so Stiles can go past, but Stiles stops at the threshold instead, smiling wide and right in Derek’s face. Stiles is a little shorter, but he makes up for the lost inch with pure enthusiasm.
“Thank you, sir. I know I can do great work here. I—just, thank you,” Stiles can feel the eyes of the whole floor on them. He sticks a hand out again so he can show them all that he taught Derek Hale to shake. Derek takes it after only a few seconds of hesitation, pumping firmly. There’s a good boy. Stiles even thinks he hears a gasp from behind him.
“Erica can get all the paperwork sorted. You’ll start on Monday,” Derek says, nodding over Stiles’ shoulder. His eyebrows go into serious-boss-mode.
“Excellent,” Stiles exclaims, finally stepping backwards out of the office and turning wildly to face the others. He sees Lydia’s indulgently fond expression and shoots her an excited thumbs up. A few other faces are watching him, so he plays it up. He freezes mid-step towards Erica and spins around again, pointing a finger at a startled looking Derek, “Oh—I almost forgot, you should water your plant!”
Derek looks vaguely confused, glancing into his office and then back out, but Stiles has already spun back around and retreated. He does a little shimmy, listens for the sound of the office door closing behind him and doesn’t hear a thing.