Speeding Along
So here I was, watching the YouTube, and this prompt just landed in my lap and I couldn’t not do anything with it. C’mon.
“A friend once set me up on a blind date. I wasn’t in a great mood because I had received a traffic ticket a few hours before. My day got worse when my blind date turned out to be the cop who gave me the ticket. #WorstFirstDate”
Stiles always thought he was given the worst luck in the world, sucking out all the misfortune out of his friends and family so he could suffer for them. At least, that’s how he decided to view it for the entirety of his twenty-four years. The past week had been fine, bearable. That only meant some serious shit was going to go down and he didn’t know when.
He checked his messages before climbing into his jeep. The office building towered over him, casting a looming shadow over him as though he didn’t already have enough dread pooling between his shoulders.
Turning on the car, it was immediately flooded with the strumming of Stay Home by Self. The irony of the universe was never so careless. Maybe he should just camp out in his office. It wouldn’t be the first time.
He was barely getting onto the freeway when the shrieking ring of his Bluetooth stereo signaled a call. It took a moment for the system to shift, displaying the slow rolling familiar digits of the only woman he would never not answer.
“You’re going. That’s final.”
Stiles restrained himself from rolling his eyes. Whenever he did, the woman always had the uncanny ability to tell that he was doing it. “Hello, Lydia. I’m great. How are you?”
“Hi, Stiles,” she huffed. Like her, Stiles could tell whenever she flipped her hair when she was frustrated. “You never answered my texts.”
“I figured my silence was enough of an answer.”
“Stiles!” The stereo did not like the idea of his name being shrieked through the cheap system, rattling and warping the sound out of proportion before settling back with the soft rippling of static from Lydia’s surroundings. “You’re going out.”
The man sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose to relieve the pressure there. It never helped, but the habit stuck after watching it on tv when he was young. Stupid television idols.
Lydia had gotten into the frame of mind that Stiles had become Single-Desperate-and-Alone. And his only defense was that he was not desperate — just tired of looking and waiting. He’d been on several blind dates, ranging from no good to awkward to very, very bad. The last date ended with being sneezed in the face after suggesting that they should not go on another date. Now, he was afraid of getting within arm’s distance of any human being.
“What if I don’t even like the guy?” What if he doesn’t like me? What if he’s a couch slob? What if all he has to wear is a single pair of acid washed jeans and mesh tee that had THE MAN bedazzled onto the back? “I don’t think I could deal with that kind of rejection.”
“Stop being melodramatic.”
Stiles pulled off of the Interstate and onto one of the side roads that lead to the main road back into town. It was supposed to be a secret short-cut around the interstate traffic, but now all navigation directed people towards this road. Damn internet. “Will it get me out of this date?”
“No.”
“Then I won’t stop.”
“This is ridiculous. If you don’t like him — and I’m sure you will —” Stiles sighed. That’s what she’d said about the others as well. “Then this will be the last time I meddle.”
“No more meddling in my love life?” A soft grunt came through the speakers. “I need to hear it.”
“Yes.” Stiles turned onto the main road, familiar trees flanking him on either side. The town sign should be nearby, closer if he pushed the limits.
“Meddling being any kind of date, blind or otherwise…”
“Yes.”
Welcome to Beacon Hills, the main said read as Stiles passed it, though the words were blurred. He just wanted to go home and get this to-be-horrible-date over with.
“Or mysteriously running into someone in the street because someone pushed them…”
“That was one time. Fine.”
“Then we have an agreement.” Then, as though striking a match into light, red and blue lights alternated behind him. “Fuck. Fuck! Fuckity-Fuck-Shit-Dammit—”
“Stiles?”
“I’ll call you back.” He hung up on her, pulling over onto the side of the road, then turned off the car. Another string of swears bubbled up in his throat and stayed there as the officer approached.
He rested his head back against the seat, cool and collected. This was not his first time being pulled over, not even one of the first dozen. By now, Stiles had perfected the art of ticket skimming.
The officer approached his passenger window, to avoid the onslaught of traffic feeding into the town at this time — none. Stiles, begrudgingly, rolled down the window in question as the man bent over just slightly to accommodate his height. Jesus. “You were going 54 in a 40. Do you have anything to say?”
All Stiles could process was the fact that the man was the epitome of dirty, sexy cop: fitted uniform, dark everything — scruff, hair, eyebrows that peaked out from the equally dark reflective ray bands — “I’m dyslexic?”
“Oh?” That stupid eyebrow on his stupid face crooked upwards in nothing other than pure amusement. Shit. “So you think you were going 45 in a 40.”
“... Yes.” No.
“That’s still speeding. License and registration.”
Mentally, his eyes narrowed. He dug through the black hole of a glove box and pulled out his registration that he tucked into what he called the Jeep Bible (key: manual). Then ruffled through his wallet for his license. The man took the items as Stiles found them, walking back to his car as Stiles tried to make him explode with his mind. If only.
It didn’t take long, which was also a bad sign. He had gotten tickets before that took longer because the officer was lenient enough to grant other, lesser offenses than the whopping three-hundred-plus speeding ticket. This man was testing his perfected art.
The ticket was stated as the regular three-hundred and sixty and his wallet tensed at the idea of being emptied. Again. The officer went through the readings like he was supposed to: memorized, mechanical, and purely professional. Then, the man said his goodbyes and left.
“Thanks, asshole,” he muttered, taking a glance at the signed name at the bottom of the ticket. He’d burn the name into his memory if it meant never having to see the man again. Knowing his audience, he took his time to pull off the side of the road and cautiously — it was tempting not to just peel out of there — drive back to his apartment.
Deputy Hale. Stiles hated him.
Once he got back to his apartment, he had all of ten seconds alone before his phone burst out into a blaze of chirps and rings. Lydia Martin.
He picked up, despite the dampened mood. “What?”
“What? What, he asks.” The roar of traffic picked up in the background. She was traveling somewhere. He could even hear the click of her heels. “How about you tell me what just happened?”
“I got a ticket for speeding. No big deal.”
A horn honked, and Stiles couldn’t tell if it was from the phone or from outside. “Good! I hear that going out is the perfect thing to fix that.”
“Listen, Lyds. I’m not in the mood for a date, certainly not now.” A knock sounded on the door. Add another tally to the series of bad timings, Universe. “Hold on.”
Stiles opened the door, ready to unleash the fear of God onto the person who would even dare approach his door despite the No Solicitor sign — and Lydia stood at the door with one hand on her hip and the other hanging up the phone call.
“Don’t call me Lyds,” she snapped, then let herself in.
“Come in, why don’t you.”
She stopped in the living room, spinning on her heel to rake her eyes over his body. “The shirt needs to go. The pants might work, with the right top. The shoes can stay.”
“I’m not going out.”
“We made a deal.” Lydia, ever the Goddess, crossed her hands over her chest. It was all business then. “I suppose that means I can continue to meddle in your life. Your neighbor isn’t seeing anyone lately, maybe they can —”
“How do you even — Fine. Fine!” That was all she needed. She flew into his bedroom and pulled a shirt he didn’t even know existed and threw it in his face. Whatever made her stay out of his love life, it was worth a dinner.
Stiles couldn’t sit still for the life of him. He rearranged the silverware before readjusting the positions of the cups and finally gave up. He buried himself in the sea of dished on the menu.
There were thirteen ways to get out of the restaurant. The first would be to go out the front door, but that would run the risk of potentially showing his blind date that he was trying to sneak out. The windows were not an option because they were beginning to draw the drapes shut and getting through that thick of fabric was a no go in any capacity. The kitchens would be open, but the number of sharp objects that could get in the way were higher than his chances of getting out without being banned —
“I’m looking for table 19,” someone asked the front table. That was Stiles’ table. His blind date. A familiar voice.
Stiles looked up from his menu and nearly choked on a lung, burying his head back behind the plastic before the man saw him. “Fuck me.”
The footsteps grew closer and closer, and Stiles’ was able to make out the size of the shoe — no longer the department-issued boots — “Do you need help reading those numbers, or are you fine?”
Motherfucker. Stiles looked up and met Deputy Hale’s mischievous green eyes. “Is that how this is going to go?”
The man slid effortlessly into the chair opposite him. It was a jarring difference, seeing him in both his uniform and street clothes in a manner of hours. Something in Stiles wanted to relax, but his undeniable grudge didn’t.
“Did you really think that was going to work?”
Stiles lowered his gaze back to the menu, none of the words meaning anything to him. “Yeah, actually.”
The man made a low snort, as though biting back a smile — or laugh — that would no doubt make Stiles threw out any poor judgment he’d made in the past few hours.
Silence settled between them, and Stiles, ever the conversationalist — according to his date with Jensen — didn’t know what to do with it. He fumbled with the straw left in his drink and finally bit the bullet.
“I’m not sure I can go out with a man who knows my driving record.”
The man smirked, leaning his arms on the table but not to divide the space between them. “You’re welcome to see mine, but there’s nothing there.”
“Wow,” Stiles drawled, and the Deputy held out his hands like what-can-you-do? “Wow!”
Finally, he laughed. Stiles couldn’t help joining in. The sound of it was infectious, necessary. Despite the poor start, he’d never felt so light.
“Let’s start over.” A hand crossed over the open space of the table between them. “Derek. Hale.”
“Stiles, not — yeah.” Derek’s eyebrow rose. No doubt he had read his legal name and thought to not issue the ticket — it had worked all of four times before — and yet, here they were. Derek Hale was an enigma. He met his hand with his own. “Stiles Stilinski. It’s nice to meet you.”
The waitress came over not long after their restart. It was easy. To fill the silence. Their conversations blended seamlessly through various stages and recounts of their youth. It was a blessing that neither of them had brought up the —
“You may want to slow down.” Stiles paused, the fork full of food just within his mouth’s grip. Derek was smirking, the bastard, and he knew what he was going to say before he even said it. “I wouldn’t want to give you another ticket.”
Stiles narrowed his eyes and ate the damn food anyways. “Ha. Ha. Very funny. I don’t go speeding through everything, you know. You were just… lucky.”
“Oh?” Derek leaned forward again, and Stiles leaned slightly to meet him. “You’ll have to show me then.”
“What?”
“Something you don’t go speeding through.”
Jesus Christ. Stiles was eating. He leaned back, his face no doubt the same shade as the spaghetti he was rather enjoying and now the meatballs were just taunting him — He relaxed. “Maybe later.”
Derek took his water, meeting Stiles’ gaze over the rim. “I look forward to it.”
When Stiles let himself back into his apartment, Lydia had made herself very comfortable by the size of the blanket nest built to accommodate his four-person couch. It was rather impressive.
The screen froze, paused. She turned away from the screen, the light illuminating in a way that would only describe her as having a halo. “How’d it go?”
He shrugged. She opened her mouth to go off, probably to say something about the inability of men to get their head out of their ass — Jason was never a good fit for Stiles anyways — but Stiles stopped her. “We made another date.”
“Oh,” she drew out, settling back into her nest with nothing other than content and satisfaction in her everything. “Told you so.”
“Mmm. Move over.” She obliged, but only barely. He was only granted a fraction of the comfort she had made for herself, clearly raiding everything from the linen cupboard to his own bed. “What are we watching?”
She rolled her eyes, turning on the show with no additional information or even the title. He stayed quiet, watching and waiting for silence to ask his questions. It didn’t matter. An officer walked into the scene, trying to solve a murder of some kind, and he only saw a dark-haired beauty with green eyes.
He pulled out his phone and sent a single message: See you soon.
Derek Hale: See you.
