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tamingthemuseTitle: hey, what’s up? hello [1/1]
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Prompt: 478 - slow suicide
Warnings: High school and human AU. Derek/Stiles.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 930
Summary: There are few things Derek dreads more than open mic night at Hale House Coffee.
Disclaimer: It’s all lies and I own nothing.
A/N: Title from Fetty Wap's "Trap Queen."
-- = --
There are few things Derek dreads more than open mic night at Hale House Coffee—except, maybe, opening with Laura on Sunday mornings—and tonight is no exception. First of all, ‘open mic night’ is such a 90s teen movie cliche. Or some concept brainstormed by a group of TV writers for a teen dramedy meet-cute. It’s just not something that should exist in real life. Yet, he’s behind the counter at his family’s coffeeshop listening to a thirteen-year-old Taylor Swift wannabe brutally massacre a cover of “Let It Go” while strumming a poorly tuned guitar.
Derek just grits his teeth and imagines all the ways he’d rather spend his Friday night and serves up another three Spiced Pumpkin lattes (Laura’s very unoriginal recipe to compete with the Starbucks Beacon Hills doesn’t have). There’s a polite smattering of applause from the other gathered teens as not-Taylor finally stops singing and steps down from the stage. The next act to grace them with a performance is a trio of freshman boys that do an a cappella cover of what Derek thinks might be a One Direction song—as obsessed as Cora is with Liam, he hears a lot of One Direction through the wall between their bedrooms.
There’s a blessed break before the next performer takes the stage and Derek’s attention is immediately focused on the front of the shop when he hears the voice that filters through the speakers. “Uh, hey. I’m Stiles and, uh, I’ve never done this before. Performed in front of people, I mean. So hopefully I don’t suck. Please don’t boo me. And I cleaned this up as much as I could. Considering.” Derek watches the loud and borderline-obnoxious kid from his English and AP bio classes adjust the guitar strap over his shoulder before starting to sing, “I’m like ‘Hey, what’s up? Hello.’ Seen your pretty face soon as you came in the door.” Then he starts tapping on the soundboard of his scuffed-up acoustic and launches into a surprisingly awesome rendition of Fetty Wap’s “Trap Queen,” using the guitar’s body like a drum.
Stiles doesn’t do the whole song, but Derek is fixated on him for the whole three minutes he’s on the stage. There’s a long couple of moments after he stops that nobody reacts, obviously in the same awe-boat as Derek. Then the group of sophomore girls piled onto the couch pushed up right in front of the stage start clapping a cheering, setting off the rest of the kids gathered. Stiles, for his part, instantly goes pink in the face, even as he grins widely. “Thanks,” he says with a shy wave before climbing off the stage. One of the girls leaves the huddle of her group to boldly approach Stiles and they have a brief conversation while he puts his guitar away in its case and she walks away with a little less bounce in her step.
Derek watches Stiles sling the strap for his guitar case over his shoulder then talk to a couple other students. Derek watches him out of the corner of his eye while he and Isaac fill the next few orders. When Derek turns around to slide a grande, extra-hot, non-fat, soy latte across the counter to a woman dressed in yoga pants and a sweatshirt with a gym bag dangling from her elbow, Stiles is in line behind her. They kind of stare at each other for a second before Stiles smiles and glances away. “Hey, what’s up? Hello,” he says, smile going crooked. “Can I get a grande caramel macchiato with a triple shot?”
“Triple?” Derek repeats. “Trying to kill yourself?”
“World’s slowest suicide,” Stiles comments. “Nah. Just need the caffeine. Harris is making me rewrite that research paper, but on a topic of his choosing. Jackhole seems to think I plagiarized mine.”
“Harris is a dick,” Derek automatically replies.
Stiles barks out a shocked laugh. “Yeah, he is.”
Isaac sets Stiles’ coffee down next to Derek’s hand on the counter and backs away with raised eyebrows. Derek slides the cup across to Stiles and accepts the money he’s handed, quickly making change, letting his fingertips graze Stiles’ palm when he hands drops the coins into it. “Good luck.”
“Oh, uh, yeah,” Stiles says with a nod, picking up his cup and nodding, ears going red. “Thanks. You, too. Or, um, see you Monday.” With that, he practically bolts out of the shop.
Isaac leans back against the counter beside Derek, arms crossed over his chest. “So. That happened. So much awkward.”
Derek smacks Isaac’s arm with the back of his hand. “Don’t you have work to do?”
“Probably. But making fun of you is a lot more fun.”
“Uh huh,” Derek says, straightening the donation canisters on the counter so they’re all facing out.
“Wait till I tell Laura,” Isaac nearly guffaws. “Oh my god. She’s going to die.”
“You’re going to die,” Derek tells Isaac, chucking a pen at him as he retreats.
Derek listens to Isaac laughing like an idiot and waits for another customer and thinks maybe open mic night isn’t the worst idea his parents have ever had—that’s probably hiring Isaac, the jerk—because, if not for the dumb, cliched teen activity, he’d never have really met Stiles. And he wouldn’t be looking forward to school on Monday. Maybe there’s something to those ridiculous 90s movies and TV shows and their cheesy meet-cutes after all.
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Prompt: 478 - slow suicide
Warnings: High school and human AU. Derek/Stiles.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 930
Summary: There are few things Derek dreads more than open mic night at Hale House Coffee.
Disclaimer: It’s all lies and I own nothing.
A/N: Title from Fetty Wap's "Trap Queen."
There are few things Derek dreads more than open mic night at Hale House Coffee—except, maybe, opening with Laura on Sunday mornings—and tonight is no exception. First of all, ‘open mic night’ is such a 90s teen movie cliche. Or some concept brainstormed by a group of TV writers for a teen dramedy meet-cute. It’s just not something that should exist in real life. Yet, he’s behind the counter at his family’s coffeeshop listening to a thirteen-year-old Taylor Swift wannabe brutally massacre a cover of “Let It Go” while strumming a poorly tuned guitar.
Derek just grits his teeth and imagines all the ways he’d rather spend his Friday night and serves up another three Spiced Pumpkin lattes (Laura’s very unoriginal recipe to compete with the Starbucks Beacon Hills doesn’t have). There’s a polite smattering of applause from the other gathered teens as not-Taylor finally stops singing and steps down from the stage. The next act to grace them with a performance is a trio of freshman boys that do an a cappella cover of what Derek thinks might be a One Direction song—as obsessed as Cora is with Liam, he hears a lot of One Direction through the wall between their bedrooms.
There’s a blessed break before the next performer takes the stage and Derek’s attention is immediately focused on the front of the shop when he hears the voice that filters through the speakers. “Uh, hey. I’m Stiles and, uh, I’ve never done this before. Performed in front of people, I mean. So hopefully I don’t suck. Please don’t boo me. And I cleaned this up as much as I could. Considering.” Derek watches the loud and borderline-obnoxious kid from his English and AP bio classes adjust the guitar strap over his shoulder before starting to sing, “I’m like ‘Hey, what’s up? Hello.’ Seen your pretty face soon as you came in the door.” Then he starts tapping on the soundboard of his scuffed-up acoustic and launches into a surprisingly awesome rendition of Fetty Wap’s “Trap Queen,” using the guitar’s body like a drum.
Stiles doesn’t do the whole song, but Derek is fixated on him for the whole three minutes he’s on the stage. There’s a long couple of moments after he stops that nobody reacts, obviously in the same awe-boat as Derek. Then the group of sophomore girls piled onto the couch pushed up right in front of the stage start clapping a cheering, setting off the rest of the kids gathered. Stiles, for his part, instantly goes pink in the face, even as he grins widely. “Thanks,” he says with a shy wave before climbing off the stage. One of the girls leaves the huddle of her group to boldly approach Stiles and they have a brief conversation while he puts his guitar away in its case and she walks away with a little less bounce in her step.
Derek watches Stiles sling the strap for his guitar case over his shoulder then talk to a couple other students. Derek watches him out of the corner of his eye while he and Isaac fill the next few orders. When Derek turns around to slide a grande, extra-hot, non-fat, soy latte across the counter to a woman dressed in yoga pants and a sweatshirt with a gym bag dangling from her elbow, Stiles is in line behind her. They kind of stare at each other for a second before Stiles smiles and glances away. “Hey, what’s up? Hello,” he says, smile going crooked. “Can I get a grande caramel macchiato with a triple shot?”
“Triple?” Derek repeats. “Trying to kill yourself?”
“World’s slowest suicide,” Stiles comments. “Nah. Just need the caffeine. Harris is making me rewrite that research paper, but on a topic of his choosing. Jackhole seems to think I plagiarized mine.”
“Harris is a dick,” Derek automatically replies.
Stiles barks out a shocked laugh. “Yeah, he is.”
Isaac sets Stiles’ coffee down next to Derek’s hand on the counter and backs away with raised eyebrows. Derek slides the cup across to Stiles and accepts the money he’s handed, quickly making change, letting his fingertips graze Stiles’ palm when he hands drops the coins into it. “Good luck.”
“Oh, uh, yeah,” Stiles says with a nod, picking up his cup and nodding, ears going red. “Thanks. You, too. Or, um, see you Monday.” With that, he practically bolts out of the shop.
Isaac leans back against the counter beside Derek, arms crossed over his chest. “So. That happened. So much awkward.”
Derek smacks Isaac’s arm with the back of his hand. “Don’t you have work to do?”
“Probably. But making fun of you is a lot more fun.”
“Uh huh,” Derek says, straightening the donation canisters on the counter so they’re all facing out.
“Wait till I tell Laura,” Isaac nearly guffaws. “Oh my god. She’s going to die.”
“You’re going to die,” Derek tells Isaac, chucking a pen at him as he retreats.
Derek listens to Isaac laughing like an idiot and waits for another customer and thinks maybe open mic night isn’t the worst idea his parents have ever had—that’s probably hiring Isaac, the jerk—because, if not for the dumb, cliched teen activity, he’d never have really met Stiles. And he wouldn’t be looking forward to school on Monday. Maybe there’s something to those ridiculous 90s movies and TV shows and their cheesy meet-cutes after all.
