Work Text:
Stiles is generally not a blame-placer. But. In this one case, the fault lies squarely on the jeep.
He loves the jeep. He cares for the jeep. He tucks her in at night and whispers sweet nothings into her side-mirrors. But. In this one case ––
“Duuude. You are fuuucked.”
“Thanks, asshole,” Stiles grumbles. He kicks aimlessly at the asphalt and really wishes he had a time-turner, because there is no way Mrs. Peterson won’t notice the giant fucking dent in her new Prius. The worst part? Stiles had literally nothing to do with it. He put the car into park. He put on the parking brake.
And the jeep just rolled.
“What do I do?” Stiles moans. He can’t afford the repairs on the jeep, let alone the Prius. Scott just shrugs, because he is a useless, useless excuse for a best friend. So Stiles calls his dad. Who has rather more specific instructions.
“Get a job?” he cries, incensed. “I can’t get a job, I have responsibilities, I have ––”
John Stilinski just hums.
Stiles gets a job.
Burt’s Grocery needs a stock boy, so that’s where he ends up. They give him this hideous blue polo and a pair of khaki pants that basically cuts off blood flow to his ass. He complains to Burt. Burt says, “Lose weight.”
That fucker.
But he’s making more than minimum wage, so. The Stiles abides.
He finds he doesn’t actually hate the work. Burt’s a decent dude, and when he has time he helps Stiles clean up and stuff and they debate the varying merits of Assassin’s Creed: Unity versus Rogue. Burt is really enthusiastic, and you have no idea how surreal it is for Stiles to say that about someone who is not Stiles. Burt’s wife, Mary Bee, runs the checkout and keeps the books. Sometimes she invites him over for dinner after closing. Stiles never says no, because Mary Bee makes a mean tuna-noodle casserole.
After a few months he’s made enough to cover the repairs, so he could theoretically quit. But he doesn’t, because a) Stiles has discovered that –– surprise! –– he enjoys having money, and b) Burt asks him not to and offers a substantial raise, because Stiles is apparently good for business. Which … actual surprise? That is, Stiles has noticed a gradual uptick in the number of customers, but he hadn’t realized it was so substantial. Profits are up forty-five percent.
It’s all these little old ladies, too. Not that normal people don’t shop at Burt’s. Not that little old ladies aren’t normal people. But. They come in bunches, with their walkers and canes and handbags and pastel felt hats. And they all want Stiles to help them. Does Stiles happen to know where the sugar is? Sure thing, Mrs. Janeweck. Could Stiles reach down to the bottom shelf for that box of couscous? Right on it, Mrs. Reynolds.
Sometimes they pat his bottom. Which. Is pretty disturbing. Do they do this to their grandchildren? Stiles wonders. Because it feels oddly sexual and why do Burt and Mary Bee keep smirking.
One Sunday morning he hears Mrs. Vickers, who has never missed a day of church in her life, mumble something about “If I were sixty years younger.”
Stiles decides he doesn’t want to know. Really.
Lydia keeps following him.
Lydia has crazy eyes, and Stiles wonders how he never noticed that before.
“How long are we going to do this?” he asks, fixing a display of oranges.
“Until I get what I came for,” she says, and that isn’t creepy at all. Stiles just shrugs and goes with it. He will never understand Lydia. Lydia the Great. Lydia the Great and Terrible. Which is A-ok. He has a feeling that he’s somehow better off that way.
“Stiles!” a voice calls from across the shop. It’s Charlotte from his math class. “Could you help me for a minute?”
She wants him to grab a bag of rice for her. “My hands are full,” she says, apologetically displaying the items she’s already holding. They’re called baskets, Stiles wants to say. Instead he bends down and grabs the rice, proffering it to Charlotte with a flourish. She smiles beatifically. Then she sets down every item she has in her hands, takes the rice, and heads for checkout. Stiles’s jaw drops. He turns to Lydia to grouse ––
But she’s already gone.
What.
She comes back. With reinforcements. It’s terrifying.
“Mm,” says Erica, prowling in a circle around him. She pokes his butt. He yelps, and she laughs. At his pain.
“Not cool,” he says, scowling.
Allison just stands there with an eyebrow raised. She smiles angelically when he glares at her. “I’m disappointed in you,” Stiles announces.
“I’m not,” Erica says.
Gah.
She’s just evil.
Isaac drops by. Smirks. Is an ass. Vintage Isaac, what can you say? Stiles refuses to engage –– he learned his lesson with Erica. And if his ears burn red when Isaac wolf-whistles, well, no one ever has to know.
Danny. Boyd. Cora. Peter Hale, for Christ’s sake. What the hell is going on? Why does the universe hate him? Why do Burt and Mary Bee keep smirking?
He tells Scott. Scott says, “It’s your butt.”
The hell?
That’s what he says. “The hell, man?”
The werewolf’s ears flush. “I’m just trying to help. You asked me why little old ladies are creeping on you. Have you looked in a mirror?”
Ah, no. So he does.
Well, now.
When Derek finally comes into the shop Stiles says gleefully, “You’re here to look at my butt!”
And Derek just stares.
The shop is dead quiet, and then someone sniggers. Stiles begins to feel a bit awkward. “Or … to buy groceries, which people also come here for?”
Derek turns around and leaves.
“Huh,” says Stiles.
The sniggerer sniggers again. “Shut up, Isaac,” Lydia snaps.
Afterwards Lydia, Allison, and Erica sit him down for a chat.
“Huh,” Stiles says again.
That’s how Stiles ends up on Derek’s doorstep with an apology cupcake and a bag full of movies.
“Hey,” he says when the door opens and Grumpy Wolf stares unamusedly down at him. “So. Lydia says you actually were looking at my ass.”
Derek’s face gets even scowlier. He tries to slam the door, but Stiles gets his foot in the crack. He winces, ‘cause it hurts, but. Necessary casualties. So he takes a deep breath and he says, “Because if you were I wouldn’t mind.” He licks his chapped lips nervously. “Actually, I’d like it.”
Stiles has never, ever seen Derek look so stupid. It’s like he’s been hit with a cartoon frying pan. Stiles wants to laugh, but he knows Derek would probably take that the wrong way. So he holds it in. Delicate operation, this.
He thrusts the cupcake forward.
Derek takes it like he thinks there’s a bomb inside.
“Chocolate raspberry,” Stiles says. Then he takes the leap. Actually a step. Into Derek’s apartment. The door swings shut behind them, and there’s silence.
And then there’s kissing, which is a definite improvement. Stiles doesn’t know who initiates it, but when they finally break apart he’s breathless and pink. “I brought movies,” he says, his hand still on Derek’s chest. “I thought maybe we could watch Love, Actually?”
Derek actually growls. Then he grabs Stiles and throws him on the couch and begins tickling, that monster.
“Fine!” Stiles yelps. “Fine! I also brought Sky Captain. Happy?”
Whatever Derek says is kind of muffled because he has his nose buried in Stiles’s shoulder. Stiles tentatively pats his –– boyfriend’s? –– head. And Derek ––
“Are you purring?” Stiles says delightedly. “Wolves don’t purr.”
“Shut up,” Derek mumbles.
The purring continues.
Stiles quits his job when he starts college, but he keeps the pants.
And occasionally tries them on.
And bends over.