[AO3 Crosspost] Add a violin quartet, and the scene is complete

[terresdebrume]

✗ TECHNICAL DETAILS

FANDOM: Teen Wolf
SERIES: -
RATING: General
WORDCOUNT: 1 102
PAIRING(S): -
CHARACTER(S): Stile Stilinski, Derek Hale, Scott McCall, Allison Argent, Lydia Martin, Isaac Lahey
GENRE: Fluff
TRIGGER WARNING(S): -
SUMMARY: Nothing good is supposed to come out of Valentine’s day parties organized by your workplace… except when somehow, it does.
DEDICATION(S): For teazzle


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“I swear,” Hale stutters with a panicked look on his face, “I didn’t do anything!”

Stiles is pretty sure he can taste blood in his mouth from how hard he’s biting the inside of his cheek and trying not to laugh… people as grumpy as Derek Hale shouldn’t be allowed to look this flustered ever.

Meanwhile, Isaac from accounting is quietly panicking on the other side of the hearts-filled room, Scott and Allison fussing over him like mother hens worrying about their baby or something -Stiles was never good with animals.

“Don’t worry,” he tells Hale after he manages to get some semblance of control back over his face, “he’s just shy.”

“All I did is say hi and he’s having a panic attack!” Hale hisses -there is a red cup full of pink punch in his hand, and the plastic is starting to whine under the pressure of his fingers.

Stiles leans around Hale’s superhuman abs to take a look at Isaac, who somehow looks more flustered now than he did a minute ago, although Stiles can’t tell if it’s because of Allison’s hand in his hair or the way Scott’s rubbing his back. Either way, the red of his cheek doesn’t really look like panic anymore, and Stiles sighs.

“Nah,” he says as he straightens up, “In a few week he’s going to come to term with his feelings, he’s going to get into a threesome with Scott and Allison and they’ll buy him a cute little leash and cuddle with him happily ever after. Just ride the wave man.”

Stiles regrets winking about as soon as he does it -winking never got him anywhere except maybe trouble-ville, Scott can testify. But, for whatever reason he still winked and Hale, who has to be drunker than he looks, barely even blinks.

“Did you just manage to work threesomes and animal play in the first five sentences you ever said to me?”

Stiles face grows hotter than the hood of his jeep after he left it a whole summer day in the sun -which if you live in California, really means something- and he can feel about a dozen nervous habits he thought he’d gotten under control come back to life as his fingers itch for something to fiddle with before settling for the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Er –Has it really been less than five sentences?” he asks, bouncing on the ball of his feet, “I’m sure we talked before.”

The music shifts from that one song from a movie with Hugh Grant and Drew Barrymore in it to something about being a heart breaker just in time for Hale and his stupid management-issued costume to reveal fucking dimples, and Stiles comes to the logical conclusion that Lydia somehow bribed the DJ… because yes, Stiles does remember the night he got drunk and listened to that song on repeat for four hours while ranting about his gigantic crush.

(Lydia made sure he did, anyway.)

“We talked twice,” Hale insists, “Just now, and then once where you were so high on cold medicine you told me your father should arrest me for being too hot and then passed out on your desk.”

“Oh my God!” Stiles exclaims, memories slamming back with the force of hardwood floor greeting you when you flail out of bed, “I though that was a weird dream!”

“Well, the weird part is accurate,” Hale says, crossing his arms on his chest -Stiles hands are practically going mental over his belt buckle and his hair, but at this point it’s not even in the top ten of things worrying him. “But it’s just as well you didn’t dream it. I liked the compliment.”

Little paper hearts start falling from the ceiling, a feature Stiles is now regretting bitterly -in his defense, it seemed funny, at the time, to try and see who could have the most ridiculous idea out of Scott and himself, and he never actually thought Lydia would really use them… but of course, that was discounting how much she hate working for Gerard Argent and the entire concept of Valentine’s day.

Derek Hale doesn’t seem overly concerned by the confetti getting lost in his hair and on his shoulders, or at least he’s got enough self control not to squirm as soon as they land… he’s smiling, even, and it’s probably the pink lights having a weird effect on Stiles’ vision but it almost looks –

“Is that a blush I see under all this facial hair?”

For some reason, the face Hale pulls at this moment reminds Stiles of sitting in a police car with his father and listening to police frequencies, but the fact remains that it looks fond -annoyed, yes, but fondly so, and that’s better than Stiles ever expected from Mr. gorgeous McGrumpypants.

The previous song has stopped and the room fills with white noise before a suave voice announces percussions, strings, winds, and then words -and Stiles turns away from Hale to send a glare in the DJ’s general direction -he’s pretty sure Lydia is there anyway.

Stiles’ phone vibrates in his pocket and he checks to see if Hale is still there -the answer is yes, amazingly enough- before he checks the text:

DO IT.

In the next ten seconds, Stiles considers several options, including bashing his head against the wall until he blacks out, walk up to the DJ platform and pay him to unearth that one advert for cereals Lydia did when she was seven, and jumping out of the window ninja-style never to be seen again, except maybe by Scott.

Before he finds an acceptable solution to his current predicament, however, Stiles feels a hand on his shoulder and turns around to discover Derek Hale can apparently extend his palette of facial expression to slightly cautious concern.

“Are you alright?” He all but yells over the music.

“Yeah,” Stiles breathes, pocketing his phone as fast as he can, “Just not a big fan of office parties.”

“Well how about we get out then? I’m pretty sure ten-thirty is already half an hour too late to leave your coworkers on a Friday night.”

Stiles takes ten seconds -okay, more like a minute- to gape, shakes himself out of his trance and agrees with a little more enthusiasm than he should. Scott gives him the thumbs up when they leave, and Stiles generously decides he’s not going to murder Lydia just yet.

(He’s fairly certain his opinion will change when she grills him about his evening next Monday, but for now that doesn’t matter too much.)