Chapter Text
“Uh, do you have a book on Golems?”
Stiles looks up from his stock chart, grinning brightly, “I assume you’re talking about the Golem of Jewish folklore, and not the Golem of Lord of the Rings?”
The girl stares at him blankly, “What?”
“Y’know,” Stiles screws up his face in an appropriately smeagol-esque fashion, “My Precious?” he hisses, somewhat helpfully. The girl backs away, seemingly alarmed at what may have admittedly been a creepy sight. Stiles falters slightly, “Over there, under the stack of red journals, it’s got a sticky label with ‘G’, but you might wanna be careful, since the stack with ‘C’ on it looks a whole—you know what? I’ll show you.”
Stiles weaves through the piles of books, sidestepping overflowing boxes and doing a weird kind of jump-step over a heap of aged encyclopaedias. He reaches the ‘G’ stack and tugs out a thick, glossy book. The girl arches an eyebrow as a few books tumble from the top of the stack, clearly unimpressed by Stiles’ organisational skills. He admits the shop could do with a few more shelves or something--although they’d hardly fit in the tiny store--but everything’s a kind of organised chaos. Or so Stiles assures himself.
“Here you are,” Stiles hands the book over for the girl to flick through. She scans the pages briefly and whips out her phone, snapping a picture of a few select paragraphs.
“Thanks,” she says, shoving the book back into Stiles’ arms. “I just needed a page to cite for a research project.”
And then she walks out of the shop.
“This isn’t a library!” Stiles calls after her, wedging the book back into the pile.
Look Book in Time isn’t exactly a big money maker, then again most mom and pop bookshops nowadays aren’t. The internet is the go-to source for information on Mythology and folklore for most people, but Stiles feels so strongly attached to his crowded, dilapidated little shop that the thought of closing up makes his stomach clench painfully. Plus, his apartment is the floor above and he doesn’t really want to move.
The bell jangles and a guy saunters into the shop. Usually Stiles is pretty pleased to see a customer since, hey, money, but this guy is like—something else.
He’s hot. Like. Sun God Hot.
Stiles tweaks at the collar of his shirt and runs a hand through his hair, attempting to bring about some sense of decency. The man paces through the shelves, occasionally tugging a book off a shelf and flicking through it, frowning to himself. He looks familiar, but Stiles knows he’d remember that face if he’d ever seen it before and probably, shamelessly, commit it to the spank bank.
“Hi,” Stiles cranks up the Stilinski charm, leans on the desk and then promptly slips and punches himself in the face.
Working out his jaw he asks, “Can I help you, sir?” hoping to god his face wasn’t matching the red mark on his chin.
The man looks up from the shelf he’d been perusing. “Is there any kind of order to this store?” he asks bluntly. Of course he’s an asshole. Stiles quashes the flicker of disappointment and continues with his cheery shop owner façade.
“Totally! Everything’s just, you know, kinda Higgeldy-Piggeldy.”
“Higg - ?” the man questions, face clouding in mild confusion. Stiles shrugs.
“Higgeldy-Piggeldy. It’s my phrase of the week.”
The guy’s eyebrows flatten out, “Right. Do you have any books on werewolves?”
“Uh,” Stiles ducks under a low beam a heads straight for a rickety, paint-peeled shelf. “What kind of book are you looking for?”
The man shrugs, ducking under the beam also. “One that’s very informative. But brief.”
Stiles quashes the urge to hit him with the nearest encyclopaedia. After all, it would kind of be a crime to ruin that gorgeous face.
“Do you want something on the origins of the myth? Or folklore? Or children’s stories?”
The man blinks slowly, mulling over Stiles’ question with a look of deep contemplation, “The origins,” he says eventually.
“Right,” Stiles drags off three books, and as an afterthought, a fourth and fifth. “These are all about the origins. This one is really in depth, but is totally worth the read if you want a good understanding. I haven’t read this one, but books from this author tend to be brief, but good for overall - ”
“I’ll take them.”
It’s Stiles’ turn to gawp mindlessly. “Sorry?”
“The books. I’ll take them.”
“Which one?” Stiles fumbles through the stack in his hands and the man sighs through his nose, sounding impatient.
“All of them.”
“Uh,” Stiles staggers over to the counter. “Okie dokie then.”
Damn. This’ll be the biggest sale of the month. Not to mention the two hardbacks are pricey as fuck.
“So,” Stiles rings the purchases up, resisting the urge to jump for joy at the total. “What are these for?”
“Research,” the man says, handing over the cash, barely batting an eyelid over the price.
“Well I guessed that.”
The man frowns. “Then why did you ask?”
“Just interest, man. So, what are you researching?”
The man holds up the thickest of the books, “Werewolves,” he drawls with deliberate slowness. He’s not frowning anymore. It’s more of a cocky smirk. Bastard.
“Right,” Stiles snatches the book back and slides it into a bag. “Awesome. Thanks for your purchase.”
The man raises an eyebrow and then saunters away. Stiles may or may not watch him leave.
The rain sluices down, pounding the window with heavy force. Stiles sighs. No customers ever venture to this part of town in weather like this. It’s not worth the visit.
“Why do you have that?”
The only other employee of Look Book in Time (and Stiles’ roommate) Isaac flicks idly through a glossy gossip rag magazine. He looks up at Stiles’ accusatory tone and shrugs.
“It’s something to read, I guess.”
Apparently Isaac has difficulty finding something to read in a bookstore. Go figure. Stiles leaves Isaac immersed in an intriguing article entitled ‘my mom is marrying my boyfriend – but I’m pregnant with his baby!’ and begins dusting off thick copies of Egyptian afterlife textbooks. After another hour of absolutely zero customers and an increase in the rainfall, Stiles sighs in defeat.
“You might as well take off the rest of the day.”
Isaac visibly perks up, “Seriously?”
“Yeah, man.”
Isaac grins, grabs his bag and shoves on his jacket almost simultaneously. “Awesome. I can go met Danny from the office.”
Stiles salutes him, “Have fun.”
Isaac beams and practically skips from the store, the pouring rain doing nothing to dispel the happy glow radiating from him. Stiles shakes his head fondly--Isaac and Danny are literally the only people in the world who could challenge Allison and Scott’s title of Most-Sickeningly-Adorable-Couple. And Stiles is talking the ‘no, you hang up first’ type of sickeningly adorable.
Okay, so maybe that’s more sickening than adorable, but whatever. The two are totally Disney Princes.
Stiles takes a place at the counter and, for lack of something better to do, skims through the magazine. Crap. Crap. Pointless Crap. Seriously, why do people even read these--
Oh, wow. That guy is seriously hot. Stiles scrutinises the image and feels his jaw drop.
It’s him. Mystery grump guy. In full. Shirtless. Glory. The article seems to be about the ‘Hollywood Hotties’ and their ‘Yum ratings’ (honest to God words – what kind of journalistic crap is this?).
Derek Hale – a solid ten out of ten Yums.
So the guy who’d sauntered into Stiles’ innocuous little store was Derek Hale: Hollywood hunk and apparently, star of an up and coming action movie Wolfstrike. Right. Stiles probably should’ve recognised him on account of the fact that he’s been in every shoot ‘em up action flick these past three years.
Damnit, Stiles should’ve called the paparazzi or something. It would’ve have been awesome publicity for his shop (and don’t they pay for information like that? How does somebody even notify the paparazzi, is it like a Bat Signal type deal, or is there a hotline? Stiles makes a mental note to research that).
Derek stares moodily out from the page and Stiles huffs, pointedly snapping the magazine shut and tossing Derek Hale and his yum rating into the trash.
“There you go, thanks for your purchase!”
The woman flashes him a smile and braves it out into the street, her headscarf barely shielding her from the torrential rain. It had been pouring it down for the past three days and Stiles was beginning to hope against hope for the weather to let up. His store really needed to get some customers in it and fast.
The door jangles (and if that isn’t the fucking definition of serendipity). Stiles looks up.
Derek Hale, Hollywood Hottie extraordinaire etc. etc., stands dripping in the doorway.
“Hello again,” Stiles says faintly.
“Nowhere else is open apart from Starbucks.” Derek says in lieu of a normal person, polite greeting. “People will recognise me in Starbucks.” He adds, disgruntled. “Do you mind if I wait here for my driver?”
Of course he has a driver. People like Derek Hale wouldn’t dream of walking anywhere, or driving themselves. Unthinkable.
“I usually close up in like, half an hour.” Why are you saying these things, Stilinski? Stop it! Stop it right now! You need his grumpy, grizzled business!
Derek shoots him a withering glare, “Then I’ll leave in half an hour.”
“Uh.” Far be it from Stiles to protest about crazy hot guys loitering in his store, but – but …
What exactly is his problem with Derek hanging around, again? Aside from the minor issue of his personality the guy was hot and loaded. As Stiles pondered this, watching Derek pace around the store, a particularly vicious gust of wind rattled through and bust the door open. Stiles shrieks as his stock is tossed up in a whirlwind frenzy, pages flitting here and there. Derek suddenly lurches forward, slamming the door shut with a small grunt. Sheets and files meekly flutter back down, landed on the floor in a snowstorm of historical fact and fiction.
“Um,” Stiles surveys the damage, his heart sinking. “You mind lending a hand?”
Derek glares, removing his weight from the door, “I’ve already helped,” he insists, sounding somewhat offended.
“Oh and I’m totally grateful dude. Real Class A citizen stuff right there but,” Stiles splays his hands, “it’s kind of a mess.”
“It was a mess before.”
“Yeah, but now there’s no order to the mess. It’s just a messy mess as opposed to an organised mess of mess.”
Stiles can almost see the cogs in Derek’s brain crunching and groaning to process the comment. Eventually, he nods and stoops down, gathering up fistfuls of Naiad sketches, “where do I put it?” he asks blankly.
“Just on the desk – woah, careful there you’re kind of dripping all over my stock – uh, hey - dude, don’t you have a jacket or anything, ‘cause you’re wet and stuff - ”
Derek’s Henley is soaked through, damp fabric clinging to his chest. It’s a kind of Hunk-of-the-Month calendar image. Stiles will forever be impressed at how he refrains from ogling and manages to guide Derek through the stacks and shelves to a stool behind the till.
“I gave my jacket to a homeless guy.” Derek replies, wringing out his shirt and cringing at the water trickling onto his already damp jeans.
“Why?” Stiles asks incredulously, rescuing a few ancient tomes on Faeries from Derek’s dripping form.
“Because it’s raining,” Derek says slowly, “and he’s homeless.”
“So you make a habit of giving your clothes to homeless people?”
Derek shrugs and little drop of water slithers from his hair. “I was part of this help the homeless project last year. Few things stuck with me.”
“Like stripping in the streets?”
Derek scowls again and Stiles barely bites back the urge to make a comment about his face getting stuck that way if the wind changes. Instead, he leans on the desk and grins brightly.
“So did you really like the store so much that you had to come back?”
“No. I got lost,” Derek mutters sulkily. “I left an interview, thought I could get a cab back instead of calling out a driver, but I must’ve copied down the wrong hotel address and I ended up in this street.”
“For what it’s worth, you could probably have walked around and found the right hotel instead of admitting defeat,” Stiles shrugs, “there’s not much to it. Take an hour or so to walk around town and you’ll know it like the back of your hand.”
“I can’t just walk around,” Derek says, sounding disgusted. Stiles laughs.
“Why?”
“Because I get mobbed by people asking me for autographs and pictures.”
“Isn’t that the price of being famous?”
“Having my personal space invaded by total strangers at every opportunity? Not being able to have dinner with friends without being interrupted before we’ve even had an appetizer?”
“Well, no. But people are excited to meet you, they’re gonna want your autograph. Suck it up and don’t be such an asshole.”
At some point, Stiles decided that he was entitled to dole out less that flattering advice to people he’d just met. In retrospect, this was kind of dick move. To give Derek credit, he doesn’t Hulk out and punch Stiles in the face for such a disservice to his personality, he simply huffs and says, “I’m stuck in this crappy bookstore because I gave my clothes away. You can’t call me an asshole.”
“Forgive me for not fawning over the rich guy who occasionally hands out a jacket or two.”
“So an action is only truly selfless and altruistic if the doer is worse off afterwards? You want me to contract hypothermia - ”
“Can’t ‘contract’ hypothermia,” Stiles corrects quickly.
“Whatever. You want me to lose a couple of fingers to frostbite before you take back that ‘asshole’ comment?”
“No,” Stiles admits. “I’m just pissed off because you’ve called my baby crappy.”
“Your baby?”
Christ. Derek is actually looking around the shop as if he’s trying to spot a bassinet or a small child chilling amongst the aging articles.
“My store. My store is my baby.”
“Oh,” Derek shivers minutely. “Right.”
After a few minutes of Derek’s trembling, Stiles relents. “My roommate’s boyfriend is kinda your size. There’s probably a few of his shirts in the laundry pile.”
Stiles dodges off into the side door which leads up into his and Isaac’s shared apartment. He heads for the neatly folded pile of clothes abandoned on the kitchen table and grabs the first item which looks big enough and, as an afterthought, a pair of sweatpants and a towel. He returns to find Derek skimming through the crappy magazine, eyebrow raised incredulously.
“Hope you like the Lakers.”
Stiles chucks the hoodie to Derek, who catches it deftly. Stiles doesn’t even have the time to turn around and give Derek a little privacy--Derek just peels off his soaked jeans, uses the towel to swipe the worst of the wetness and shimmies into the pants.
Damn. He has nice legs. Like, really muscular, sexy legs that look like they’d be even nicer wrapped around something. Like a waist.
Wait, what?
“I’ll just give you a little privacy--” Stiles backs away as Derek wriggles out of his wet Henley. His abs are even better in real life. He is a definite 10/10 Yums. Whatever that means.
“Why.” Derek grunts, shoving on the sweatshirt.
“’cause – well, you’re stripping dude and I know random homeless guys might enjoy the little shows you put on, but - ”
“I’m dressed now,” Derek says flatly.
“That’s good.” Stiles nods. “I’m glad you accomplished such a feat by yourself.”
Derek’s face doesn’t even twitch from the permanent pissed off expression.
“So when does your driver get here?”
“When he gets here.”
“Right.”
A slightly awkward silence passes over them, punctuated by Stiles’ humming and the howling of the wind outside. Derek shifts in his seat.
“I thought we were clearing up?” Derek blurts suddenly. Stiles jumps to attention, seizing the opportunity for something to do.
“Right! So, um, if I gather everything up and you organise it into piles. Everything has a little letter in the right hand corner of the page, so if you just put A with A and B with B and so on. You got that?”
“I think I’ll manage,” Derek says dryly.
Okay, so maybe Stiles was being a little patronising. He hides the sudden embarrassment by gathering up sheathes of paper that have blustered around the store, depositing them on his desk carefully. Derek dutifully sifts through them, placing the paper into neat piles across the desktop, completely obscuring all beneath it, including the magazine. It was then that it struck Stiles how bizarre this situation was - The Derek Hale, sitting prettily in Stiles' store, painstakingly peeling his way through slightly damp paper and stacking it tidily. Stiles represses the giddy desire to laugh and deposits the last of the papers on his desk.
“So,” he says cheerfully. “What brings you to this part of town? Aside from misguided cab drivers?”
Derek briefly glances up, eyelashes fanning over his vision, “I’m doing a few press events here. Before I started filming Wolfstrike, I did a little background research on werewolves and just wanted to refresh my memory before doing the more in depth interviews. So I found the nearest book store on mythology,” he says, gesturing around him.
“Why not Google it? Not that I’m against having your business but…internet, dude, internet.”
Derek shrugs, “I prefer books.” He pauses. “Also, the name kind of grabbed my attention.”
“What? Look Book in Time?”
“Yeah.” Derek seems to contemplate the utter awesomeness of the name for a while and then completely dispels that illusion by saying, “was it intentionally that terrible of a pun, or--?”
Stiles draws back, stung, “I’ll have you know that people find the name to be whimsical and clever!” he insists hotly. Derek doesn’t seem to be fooled and Stiles falters slightly.
“Well, initially it was a printing error, but it seemed to fit so,” he shrugs, “it stuck.”
“So the store’s name was originally ‘Look Back in Time’ and you decided that cramming the word book in there was a good marketing strategy?”
“I--well, it really--Isaac liked it --Yeah.”
Stiles had just blurted out the verbal equivalent of a keymash, so he wasn’t surprised by Derek’s brief concerned look.
“How do you even get customers?”
The sad thing is, Stiles is pretty sure Derek doesn’t know he’s being rude.
“Listen, this is kind of a niche market. People buy from here when they have to, not because they’ve had a sudden hankering for the condensed retelling of the Labours of Hercules. Google may be a good friend of mine, but it’s beat the shit out of my business prospects.”
“Oh.” Derek suddenly looks abashed, fumbling with the hem of Danny’s hoodie.
Who knew superstars were so socially awkward and who knew it was so goddamn endearing. Stiles decides to throw the poor guy a bone, “You want to help me put this stuff back?” He gestures to the piles of paper. “Just find the shelf with the corresponding letter, A with A--”
“This again,” Derek rolls his eyes. “Don’t worry, I understand your deeply complex filing system.”
“And that’s stellar, dude. Unfortunately, I’m fresh out of gold stars so you’re just going to have to accept a high five.”
Stiles holds up his hand expectantly. Derek stares at it and then pointedly walks past, depositing the first stack of papers onto the shelf. Defeated, Stiles lets his hand drop down.
“Fine then. No high five for you,” he snatches up the nearest stack of papers, “do you want to do A through to M and I’ll do the rest?”
Derek nods, wordlessly shuffling papers around until they all fit on the rickety shelf. They carry on in silence for a while, until Derek stumbles on a box of Norse God printed notebooks. The contents spill out and Derek shoves them back in with surprising neatness considering the speed he seems to be moving around the shop with. Once the notebooks have been put back, he elegantly steps over the box and snatches up another stack of papers,
And then Stiles realizes.
The little bastard is having a private competition to see if he can put away all his papers before Stiles. That’s … adorable.
Stiles grins wickedly, not one to be bested. He grabs another pile of papers and vaults across the shop floor, cramming them as neatly as possible on the W shelf. An essay on the origins of Wendigos flutters down, but Stiles quickly grabs it back up and shoves it onto the shelf. He risks a quick glance over his shoulder to see Derek staring, smiling. He’s caught on. Stiles pokes his tongue out and seizes another stack and races towards the X shelf, hearing Derek skitter behind him. He swears that he catches a small, muffled bark of laughter. They end up racing back and forth, trading smirks and grins as they frantically shove the papers away.
“Ha!” Stiles crows triumphantly, having tidied away the last of the Z stack. He spins on his heel to face Derek and bask in his glorious victory –
- only to find Derek seated at the desk, legs propped up and nose firmly buried in a book about Eros. Stiles clears his throat and Derek looks up, grinning lazily.
“You’ve finally finished, then?”
Judging from the way Derek’s panting, he wasn’t that far behind. Stiles pokes his tongue out. Derek smirks and winks.
Oh Crap.
Stiles’ stomach flutters and it’s very bad not good, because he cannot and will not have a ridiculous crush on a movie star.
“Can I buy this?” Derek asks, holding the book up. Stiles tuts and brushes past him, headed for the till.
“Well, duh.”
“You’re so polite; it truly is a wonder you don’t have more customers,” Derek says sweetly. Stiles laughs reluctantly.
“Shut up dude, you know that was an obvious question.”
“Yeah,” Derek concedes. “But I’m the customer and I’m always right.”
“Doesn’t mean that you can’t be a dumbass.”
“Do you want me to buy the book or not?!”
“Gimme,” Stiles runs a quick price check and hands it back. “Would you like a bag, sir?” he asks politely. Derek snorts.
“I’m good, thanks.” His phone chirrups and he checks it absently. Some strange expression quickly flits across his face and he looks up, “my car’s here.”
“That’s … good,” Stiles says, his throat suddenly tight. He helps Derek gather up the still sodden clothes and nods towards Danny’s hoodie and the sweatpants, “uh, you can keep those for now.”
Hopefully Danny wouldn’t notice the hoodie’s disappearance, though Stiles doubts he’d protest much if he knew who was wearing it.
"Thank you - " Derek freezes suddenly and his cheeks flush a rather sweet shade of pink. He clears his throat, "I didn't catch your name," he admits. After Stiles done admonishing himself for fawning over a celebrity who doesn't even know his name and most likely won't give him a second thought once he leaves the store, he’ll probably take a moment to coo over how bashful Derek sounds.
"I'm Stiles," Stiles says, smiling despite the pounding inner turmoil.
“Stiles,” Derek repeats softly, “thanks.”
And then he leans forward, right into Stiles' personal space, hands splaying across Stiles' waist and kisses him. It’s not a passionate kiss, just a gentle press of mouths, his stubble scratching, lips dry but warm, briefly lingering before breaking off.
And then Derek smiles, ducks out into the rain, and is gone.