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“No,” Derek says resolutely once Laura has finished. “No, absolutely not.”
“Come on, Derek, it will be fun.”
“No, it won’t. Not for me, at least, and I don’t need you spending your night laughing at me,” he says darkly, and then feels like an asshole when Laura’s face falls.
“I wouldn’t –“
“Yeah, you would,” he sighs. He probably wouldn’t even be mad at her for laughing; having fun at his expense is sort of in her job description as The Big Sister, and he’s gotten used to it in most cases, but he really doesn’t need her interfering with and/or commenting on his love life. “Laura, you want me to queue up in the metaphorical production line of Possible Dating Material and strike up conversations every five minutes with a bunch of horny strangers who will do nothing but objectify me throughout the entire evening. What part of this exactly strikes you as a good idea?”
Laura looks at him with her serious and sad face; Derek hates that expression, because it always makes him feel like he has disappointed her. He knows he does it all the time, which doesn’t make things easier. What he said is nothing but the truth, though. He’s not anti-social per se, but he has valid reasons from withdrawing from the dating business for a while and he often isn’t completely comfortable talking to strangers. He has a hard time trusting people after everything that’s happened, which means it takes him some time to warm up to people, to open up to them, and frankly, he is horrible at small talk, which makes Speed Dating the absolute worst idea Laura could’ve come up with to get him back into the world.
“I worry about you,” Laura confesses, which is nothing new, she always worries about him. “Derek, I just want you to be happy, okay? I want you to stop blaming yourself and learn how to love again. I want you to find someone who makes you happy and who holds you when things get rough again and who looks after you when I’m not around. I want you to not exile yourself from the world, to not always be alone.”
Derek groans. “I’m not going to find my true love during Speed Dating. No one does, you total sap.”
“I know that, idiot. Think of it as a means of easing back into the game? I don’t know, maybe it’ll be a completely waste of time, or maybe you’ll find someone interesting enough to spend Valentine’s Day with. Come on, it’s only, like, ten people per circle, that means you’ll be in there for fifty minutes. An hour, tops. Just...give it a shot? For me?”
Derek sighs and scans the room for the people filling in the registration forms. He’s willing to bet a hundred bucks that the events aren’t usually that busy, but it’s close to Valentine’s Day and, just like every year, everyone who’s single seems to be freaking out about it just as much as the people who are in relationships and stressing about what to get their significant other. Derek doesn’t really get it; it’s just another stupid day. Thankfully, the madness will be over in three days, and maybe Laura will leave him alone then. Seriously, she’s got the worst timing in the history of bad timings; the place is crowded, and Derek promptly dismisses most of them as way too desperate. Some of them seem to be buzzing with anticipation, like they are fiercely resolved to snag a date for Valentine’s Day, if only to brag about it. Others look more resigned, their hopefulness subdued. Neither helps to make this idea more appealing to Derek in any way. If he’s being honest with himself, he’d rather smash his head against the nearest brick wall until he cracks his skull, but he can’t tell Laura that, and he’s never been able to refuse her anything, really.
One hour, he thinks. He can pretend to be sociable, for one hour. For her sake. “Fine,” he agrees. “I’ll do it.”
Laura squeals and flings her arms around him, hugging him so tightly that he swears he can hear a rib crack before she takes pity on him and releases her death grip, only to shove a piece of paper into his hand. “I already filled in all the information, you only need to sign.”
He narrows his eyes at her. Later, he promises himself, he will have a very serious talk with her about not using her puppy eyes to manipulate him, but for now he’ll play the obedient little brother. He skims the page – and his brain screeches to a halt. “What the fuck is that,” he says, pointing at the offending little black box.
“What, that?” Laura asks innocently. “You know you’re not supposed to give everyone here your true name, right? So I put in an alias.”
“Miguel?” Derek puts as much judgement into the two syllables as he can. He prides himself on being rather good at expressing his distaste with few words; it’s one of his better qualities, if he may say so.
“What? You could be a hot-blooded Spaniard,” Laura says defensively.
Derek stares, and wonders what he did in his past life to deserve this. “I am disavowing every family tie,” he says solemnly. “You are no longer my sister.”
“Yes, yes, and you’ll hate me for all eternity.” Laura makes a shooing gesture. “Now go and have fun.”
“Have fun, she says. It will be great, she says,” Derek grumbles under his breath as he makes his way to the bar where the registration sheets are collected. “Can I borrow a pen?” he asks the lady at the counter and tries to not get too annoyed by the way she practically swoons on her feet and takes a whole five seconds to blatantly ogle him before holding out a pen with shaking hands. Her creeper factor is raised drastically by the fact that she is old enough to be his mother. Luckily, he’s saved from being hit on before the entire ordeal has even begun, so he quickly signs the paper and resolutely crosses out the stupid nickname several times.
He’d feel so much better if he could dump a vial of acid on it, because he seriously did not need the psychological scarring that came with Laura’s comment. Ugh.
“Excuse me, Mister....Hale,” the woman says tentatively after he’s thrust the sheet at her, “but you’ll need to fill in the-“
“I really don’t care,” he cuts her off and stalks away to brood in a corner until the torture begins.
∞
Derek generally thinks that his family’s death and being screwed over in more ways than one by Kate Argent have prepared him for every possible crippling situation that he may ever encounter in life, because nothing could possibly be as bad as the guilt that comes with your girlfriend almost burning your entire family alive.
This, however, might actually turn out to be #2 on his list of Horrifically Scarring Life Experiences.
Okay, he’s exaggerating. But it’s actually really, really bad. Never before has he anticipated the shrill sounds of Call Me Maybe reaching his ears (also, he thinks someone should tell the organisers that it is not funny at all). He fumbles his way through stilted five minute conversations with women who usually either just sort of stare at him with a dreamy glint in their eyes, look like they’re about three seconds away from jumping his bones and taking him right there on the small dinner table, or instantly start planning how many children they should have. One of them spends four of the five allotted minutes rhapsodising about his cheekbones and how they would have the prettiest children in the world.
The only thing that keeps him from jumping up and running away in horror is that he knows that Laura is watching and that he wants to maintain the last shreds of his dignity. She’d never let him live it down if he ran away from a relatively harmless woman like a frightened preschooler.
On the plus side, it turns out that he barely has to do any talking besides giving his name and telling them that he is working on his PhD in Comparative Literature and jobbing as a TA. Boom, just like that, they go on an information spree that covers everything from their childhood to their current occupation and their favourite meals.
Derek mostly tunes them out, which is probably rude, but so much better for his sanity, and not so surreptitiously ticks the Not Interested box on his list once he changes tables.
(He’s pretty sure that he saw every single woman so far make a cross in the Very Interested box, despite the fact that he never got a word in edgewise and they don’t know a thing about him. It’s the blessing and the curse that comes with a pretty face and a cared-for body. It’s easy to pick up one night stands and people generally put up with a lot more shit than they would with any other person, but he has also found out the hard way that most of them don’t really care about his personality. Granted, that might be a good thing considering it’s less than stellar, but Derek doesn’t want anyone who can’t deal with his rough edges.)
Derek heaves a pained sigh and glances longingly at the wall at the far end of the room. Two more candidates and then he’ll finally be done and able to drown his misery in alcohol. Seriously, he’s going to make Laura buy him so many drinks for this. He’s completely lost in the train of thought, trying to figure out the most elaborate plan of paying Laura back for this that he doesn’t notice who is sitting in front of him until he’s sliding into the next chair, and he sort of freezes with his ass hovering just over the leather seating.
Because the person across him is definitely not a woman.
“Uh,” he says intelligently, and wonders whether he has accidentally left the inner circle. A quick look assures him that he hasn’t.
What.
“Um,” the guy fidgets nervously. “Sorry about that. I was here to morally support my friend, but she told me she had to go to the bathroom, like, half a minute ago and then wrestled me into this chair. Trust me, Lydia is scary. I know this is not- well.” He sounds apologetic and almost a little wistful about giving Derek an out, and maybe that’s what suddenly has Derek intrigued, has him pull the chair closer and sit his ass down.
“It’s fine,” he says, and offers a tentative smile to diffuse the tension. It’s probably more of a grimace, but maybe he gets brownie points for trying. “I don’t mind.”
The guy opposite him is a young man, probably in his early twenties, with artfully ruffled brown hair, bright eyes the colour of whiskey and a mouth that was made to induce fantasies of being put to use for dirty, dirty things. His pale skin is spotted with moles, and Derek fights down the sudden image of the lithe body lying next to him in the soft morning light, writhing beneath him as he plays connect the dots with his tongue.
Derek watches in rapt fascination as his eyes widen in surprise and his pupils dilate as he gives Derek a quick once-over, biting his lip. It’s not the first time this evening that Derek’s appearance has evoked this reaction, but it’s the first time that it makes Derek want to reach over the table, cover the man’s mouth with his own and just take.
“Right.” The guy clears his throat. “I’m Stiles.”
Derek snorts. “Did she bully you into picking a ridiculous name, too?”
Stiles gives him an indignant look. “It’s my real name actually. Well, not my real name real name,” he amends when Derek raises a judgmental eyebrow. “But trust me, you don’t want to know my legal first name. Over twenty years and my Dad still can’t pronounce it correctly. Hell, I’m not even sure I can pronounce it correctly, it’s a fucking monstrosity. Also, Miguel, you don’t have much room to talk, because I’m pretty sure you’re not actually of Spanish descent.”
Derek pauses, puzzled. “My name is Derek.”
Stiles grins. “That’s not what it says here,” he replies, waving the sheet of paper around.
“I –“ Derek frowns, then groans and drops his head in his hands. “I’m going to kill her.”
“Who?”
“My sister. She forced me to do this. And apparently made them put down that name again after I’d already crossed it out.”
“I feel you, buddy,” Stiles says, like it isn’t weird to bond over the women in their lives having them completely whipped. “But I don’t think homicide is the answer.”
“It’s very tempting, though.”
“Just don’t come to me for tips on how to hide the body. I’d have to arrest you.”
Derek looks up again. “You’re a cop?”
“Studying criminal justice at Berkeley, actually.” Stiles says and shrugs. “I do have some handcuffs at home, though, and not the sexy kind. Sheriff’s kid.” He learns forward, braces his chin on his intertwined hands. “So what do you do when you’re not obeying your terrifying and clearly vile sister?”
“She’s not vile,” Derek protests out of reflex, although Stiles’ tone had been nothing but gentle mockery. Defending and protecting his sister is just something that’s been burnt into his bones. “She’s just...well, she’s worried about me. I haven’t done this,” he makes an all-compassing gesture, “in a while. Not...Speed Dating. Dating in general.”
“It’s cool,” Stiles reassures him. “I’d say I find that hard to believe with...all that, but it actually explains why you were looking so constipated the entire evening.”
Derek narrows his eyes at him. “You’ve been watching me?” he asks.
“Uhm.” Stiles fidgets again. “Will you plot to kill me too if I say yes?”
He’s not sure whether that’s creepy or flattering but ultimately decides that Stiles’ mixture of embarrassment and contrition outweighs the creepiness and amp up the cuteness factor. Or maybe he’s just feeling particularly forgiving because it’s the first time he’s enjoying himself since he entered this damn bar. “Saving unnecessary effort,” Derek replies, pretending to be thoughtful. “I’d only have to dig a grave once.”
“I’d totally compliment you on your healthy pragmatism except I don’t wanna encourage your career as a criminal.”
“I think you’re good,” Derek says dryly. “The most illegal thing I’ve ever done was throw my copy of Great Expectations out of my window because it was giving me a headache.”
“I don’t think that’s violating any laws, except for the unwritten one that says ‘honour the classics’,” Stiles points out, lips twitching in amusement.
“The window may have been closed at the time,” Derek admits, and pauses a beat. “The book may also have hit someone on the head.”
Stiles bursts out laughing, his voice ringing loud and clear over the multiple conversations going on in the room. It earns him a couple of disapproving looks, but he doesn’t seem to care. Neither does Derek, for that matter, because Stiles is leaning back in his chair and throwing his head back, exposing the long, pale skin of his neck, and Derek has to physically restrain himself to not get his mouth all over it.
“Oh God,” Stiles wheezes, “tell me you hit an elderly lady and got shouted at and almost sued by her until she decided to let you off the hook after she listened to you explaining your desperately unstable emotional state caused by nineteenth century authors to the police if you only agreed come visit her to feed her cat and listen to her stories once a week.”
Derek takes a moment to untangle that sentence, then says, “I don’t think your brain works correctly.”
He doesn’t admit that the scenario Stiles came up with is frighteningly close to the truth. He still goes to see Mrs Taylor on Sunday afternoons. Mostly because she bakes the best cookies, but partly also because he still feels guilty.
Stiles opens his mouth, no doubt to fire off a witty retort, but is interrupted by another round of the speakers blasting Call Me Maybe and Derek realises with faint horror that their five minutes are up. Their five minutes are up and he actually enjoyed himself and he still doesn’t know a thing about Stiles. Well, not nearly enough, anyway.
He frowns at the slip of paper in front of him. When the rounds had started he’d resolved to mark a big, fat X in every Not Interested checkbox, if only to get Laura to back off. But now.
“Uh, Derek,” Stiles begins.
“If I tick the Very Interested box they’ll give my contact details to your friend, not you,” Derek blurts out.
Stiles stares. “Pardon?”
“You’re not allowed to contact any of the participants outside of this event unless their answers match and they give you the contact information,” Derek rushes to explain. “But my number won’t even get to you.”
“I don’t think you’re supposed to tell the dates whether or not you’d be interested in seeing them again,” Stiles says, before doing a double take. “Wait, you’d be interested-“
“Of course he’s interested, Stilinski, don’t be such an idiot,” an unfamiliar, annoyed voice pipes up behind him. Derek half-turns to see an admittedly beautiful redhead in a classy designer dress and heels that could be used as a murder weapon, hands on her hips and rolling her eyes. “And now get out of my chair, I already sacrificed one of my dates for you, you’re not gonna prevent me from checking out that last guy just because you’re too busy drooling.”
Stiles snaps his mouth shut. “I’m not drooling,” he protests. “Wait did you just say-“
The woman – Lydia, Derek assumes – huffs out an annoyed breath. “You’ve been pining from afar all evening, it’s pathetic. You owe me big time. Now stop making moon eyes at each other; I swear I’ll pass on his number in case they only send it to me, but since you’re technically not a participant you should be fine anyway. I doubt they’ll drag you out by your balls if you talk later. I, on the other hand, will drag you out of this chair by your balls if you’re not out of in three seconds.”
Stiles meeps, flails his arms around like a windmill and scrambles to get out of the chair.
Derek should not find his lack of coordination that adorable.
“Well?” Lydia snaps and sits down. “What are you still waiting for?”
“We must never let her and Laura meet,” he tells Stiles seriously. “The world would end.”
Stiles giggles and slinks back out of the circle of tables and into the shadows. Derek ignores Laura’s triumphant and smug look and the thumbs up she gives him, instead focussing on where he can spot the outline of Stiles leaning against the nearest wall.
He doesn’t hear a word of what his last date tells him and almost ends up with a glass of water dumped on him, but he figures it’s worth it.