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prompt: stiles and lydia are on their first date... where they run into sheriff and natalie who are also on tHEIR first date
Snail Wars
ao3 | ff
AN: this feels sloppy BUT! here you are
He can’t choose between the polyester pullover and thepinstripe button-down.
The button-down says fancy restaurant, whichhappens to be where he’s going this evening. The pullover sayssophisticated, laid back, ready to eat weird food and watch StarWars, which, coincidentally, also happens to be what he’s doingthis evening.
And, like, usually Stiles wouldn’t care what he’swearing so much, but tonight is different. Tonight, he’s going on adate. Tonight, he’s going on a date with Lydia Martin.
So, you know, he wants to look decent, at thevery least.
Tugging the pullover over his head, Stiles examineshimself in his mirror; he turns sideways, fusses with the hem, rollsup the sleeves, rolls them back down.
Does he look good? He thinks so. He doesn’t know,but he thinks so. A second opinion would come in handy right aboutnow. Stiles would usually ask his two best friends what they thought,but Scott is busy studying for AP Bio, not to be disturbed unlesssomeone is dying, and Stiles thinks it would ruin the element ofsurprise if he asked Lydia for fashion advice for a date she would begoing on with him.
So.
The only other option, it seems, is to ask his dad. Hisdad, whose favorite outfit is his police uniform and who has no senseof style whatsoever.
Walking down the hall, swinging his father’s bedroomdoor open with no forewarning, he stops in his tracks when his eyessettle on Papa Stilinski, dressed…far too formally. He’s wearing asimilar button-down to the one laid across the foot of Stiles’ bed,buckling a belt looped through freshly ironed pants. The scent ofaftershave lingers in the air.
“Uh,” Stiles says in way of greeting.
Stilinski blinks at him, then smiles, turning to facehis son completely. “How do I look?” he asks.
Stiles draws the muscles of his face together, frowningin confusion. “Mm, where you going?”
“You didn’t answer my question,” Stilinski tellshim.
Stiles shakes his head. “Right,” he says. “Whereare you going?”
His father rolls his eyes. He sighs. “Out. Itold you I was going outtonight.”
“Uh, yeah,” says Stiles, “but, like, I thought youmeant you were going out to, I don’t know, buy orthopedic sneakers orburn money at the OTB.”
Stilinski sticks his tongue in his cheek. Stiles has afeeling his dad is not amused. “Quit while you’re ahead, kid.”
Stiles can think of only one reason why his dad is alldressed up: he’s going on a date too. It doesn’t botherStiles. At all. He’s been urging his father to get himself back inthe game for years now, actually. What irks Stiles is his dad didn’tthink to even mention anything about a date. Nothing as to whowith, what they would be doing, when they would be doing it, where,why, how. Stiles isn’t sure he would ever know if he hadn’tjust caught his father in the act of dolling up.
“Okay,” he says. He waves his hand up and down,motioning along the length of his father. “Okay, well, what are youdressed up for, then? Clearly you won’t be betting on Seabiscuit.”
Stilinski shoots Stiles an exasperated glance. “I’mgoing on a date.” He reaches for a tie on his dresser, slides itbeneath his collar. Stiles doesn’t have the heart to tell him itdoesn’t match his shirt whatsoever.
“A date?” Stiles scratches behind his ear. “Withwho? Do I, uh – do I know her?”
Stilinski shakes his head. “If it goes well, I’ll tellyou who it is.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
Stilinski shrugs on a sports jacket which, again,doesn’t go with what he’s wearing. “Then you won’t have to worryabout it. How do I look?”
He looks…well, he looks charming, if Stiles is beinghonest. His complete lack of style results in a mismatchedmasterpiece; one which Stiles knows Lydia would smile fondly at andcall endearing.
He can’t stop the smirk pulling at the corners of hislips. “Good,” he says. He’s nodding his head in approval. “Reallygood, Dad.”
Stilinski grins. He claps Stiles on the shoulder, thenseems to remember himself. “Did you want something?” he asks.
“Oh!” Stiles takes a step back. He holds out hisarms like a noodley, gangly scarecrow. “How do I look? Good?Bad? Passably appropriate for expensive food and Stormtroopers?”
Stilinski regards him confusedly, then emits a surprisedhum of approval. “Hot date?” he asks.
“Extremely.”
“Well you look great,” Stilinski tells him, and thenbegins to make his way out of his bedroom.
“Hey, uh, Dad?” Stiles calls after him. Stilinskiturns around. He waits for Stiles to go on. “I’m happy for you,”he says. “Really. I am.”
Stilinski’s smile is melancholy. It’s grateful, too. “Soam I.”
Stiles is having trouble keeping his eyes on the road.Has been since he picked up Lydia from her house. Because, well, shelooks beautiful, alright? Not that she ever doesn’t – she alwaysdoes – but tonight she looks exceptionally gorgeous.
She’s wearing a pretty green sundress; the kind whichfalls in waves above the knee and spins around you when you twirl.The color matches her eyes and stands in contrast with her hair. Herhair which, Stiles notices, is braided in an intricate dutch twistacross her scalp, falling in soft curls across her shoulders.
Stiles shouldn’t be so taken by her. He sees herpractically everyday, in all her glory, and he always manages to keephis sights set on what’s important. The highway is prettyimportant when you’re driving down it in a jeep with an unreliableengine and Lydia Martin in the passenger seat, but Stiles hasn’ttaken his aderall, and Lydia is all dolled up to go out with him,so sue him if his attention is being pulled in the wrong direction.
“What?” Lydia snaps. She’s caught himglancing at her for, well, maybe the millionth time in the last halfhour.
Stiles opens his jaw to speak, shuts it closed, gapeslike a fish until Lydia growls, “Stiles.”
“You just look nice,” he blurts out. “I mean, youalways do, but. You look date-nice. Fancy-restaurant-nice.You know what I mean?”“Vaguely,” says Lydia.
They smile at each other across the console.
“I was going to wear something else,” Lydia tellshim. She fingers the gauzy material of her dress between her fingers.“My mom was wearing something similar to it, though. She’s going ona date too.”
Stiles frowns. He glances at Lydia from the corner ofhis eye, trying desperately to force his gaze ahead of him andfailing, for the most part. “A date? Tonight?” he asks.
Lydia concurs with a hum.
“So is my dad,” Stiles grumbles. A feeling of uneasesettles in his stomach.
“Really?” Lydia forces a smile. “Wouldn’t it befunny if they were going on a date together?” she jokes, but it’spainfully halfhearted.
“Funny? It wouldn’t be funny,” Stiles insists. “Itwould be detrimental to our relationship. They’d go out and becomeserious and get married and then we’d be siblings, and this,”Stiles wags a furious finger in the space between him and Lydia,“would be incestuous.”
Lydia blinks wildly and shakes her head as though she’sridding herself of impure thoughts. “Oh my god.”
“Oh my god indeed. I’m glad we’re on the same page.”
“We are sonot on the same page,” Lydia argues.
Stiles guffaws. “You don’t think it would beweird?”“Weird? Yes. Incestuous? I don’t think you understandthe definition of the word.”
“Oh, I understand the definition, Lydia!”
She clenches her jaw, closes her eyes, and breathes.When she exhales, she rests a hand on Stiles’ forearm. “You’reworked up for no reason,” she tells him. “What are the odds ofour parents going on a date together? The same night as us, no less.”
Stiles jiggles his leg. He shifts his attention betweenthe highway and Lydia with a frown. “You tell me. You’re themathematician.”
“The odds are low,” Lydia assures him. “Ourparents are not going on a date.”
“You may want toretake a course on statistical probability,” says Stiles. He andLydia are seated in the new five-star French restaurant she’s beengoing on about for weeks. Funnily enough, their parents are theretoo. Together. Sittingon the other side of the room. “Because, evidently,the odds aren’t as low as you predicted!”
Lydia glowers at Stiles over the top of her menu. He’sslouched all the way down in his seat, menu hiding his face, his headpoking up every few seconds to spy on his dad and Lydia’s mom.
“The odds arelow,” Lydia hisses at him. “I thought your dad would be with, Idon’t know, Melissa, maybe. Not mymom.”
Stiles tears his gaze from their parents. He considersLydia curiously. “You did?”
Lydia shrugs, her eyes focused hard on her menu so shedoesn’t turn around to look at her mother and the Sheriff. “Yes.They’re close.”
The idea hascrossed Stiles’ mind before – setting up his dad and Scott’s mom.Lydia is right, after all. The Sheriff and Melissa areclose. They’re great friends. Their chemistry is natural. Plus, ifthey got married, Scott would be Stiles’ brother by more than justtheir pack. And, yeah, Melissa is also the closest thing Stiles hashad to a mother figure in a really long time. He loves her. So he cansee more than his dad and Melissa working out; he can see theirentire family workingwonderfully.
That dream, however, is being dashed right before hiseyes, replaced by the nightmare of being his potential girlfriend’spotential step-brother.
Stiles knows better than to say this to Lydia, however,so he sticks with shifty eyes and a simple, “I guess,” thenreturns his attention to the couple across the room.
When the waiter arrivesto take their order, Stiles has hardly glanced at the menu. Lydiaasks for an appetizer of escargot (“Just try it,Stiles!”), something whichsounds a lot like Patty Fruits Tumorfor herself, and, when Stiles finally notices his menu is meant forreading and not concealing his face, she orders something for himtoo.
The waiter leaves them, and Stiles smiles at Lydiaapologetically. “Thank you,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
Lydia sighs. She returns his smile with a moreexasperated one of her own. “I just wish you weren’t so hung up onthem.” She jabs her thumb over her shoulder, at their parents.
“It’s hard not to be,” Stiles tells her.
“I know. Trust me.”
Stiles reaches acrossthe table then. Nowthey are on the same page. Lydia reaches across too, and she slipsher hand into his. Together, they smile shyly, blush brightly. WhenLydia ducks her head, Stiles’ eyes drift to his dad and Natalie ontheir own accord. His dad is gesticulating wildly, a grin plasteredacross his face, and Natalie’s head is thrown back with hystericallaughter.
“It’s just, like-”Stiles squeezes Lydia’s hand, wraps it against the table with hisown. He feels her stiffen when he says, “Do they not know about us?Have we not made it blatantly obvious to everyone, including ourfamily, that we’re interested in each other? Why would theycompromise us?”
Lydia tugs her hand out of his and folds it in her lap.Stiles doesn’t notice her eyes bulging or nostrils flaring or teethgrinding. He does notice, though, how his dad offers one of hisportobello mushrooms to Natalie.
“Stiles, can you forget about it?” Lydia lashes.“Just for now? So we can spend one evening together when we aren’tbeing hunted down or possessed by demons or worrying about who isdating who?”
Stiles shoots his arms forward, shaking them madly,wiggling his fingers in the direction of their parents. “Your momcould be my mom and my dad could be your dad, and not in the in-lawkind of way!” he exclaims.
“Are you kidding me?”
“I don’t know, Lydia. Do you get a chuckle out ofincest?” he asks her. “Is our impending siblinghood funny toyou?”
The waiter arrives at their table with their meals, andLydia is forced to sit with baited breathe and fisted hands until shecan respond to Stiles. He thinks she’s gone purple with the effort tohold her rage in by the time they’re left alone again.
Through clenched teeth,Lydia says, “Like I said before, that is not how incest works. Ifour parents were to marry one another, we would not be siblings byblood; we would be step-siblingsthrough marriage. Okay?”
Stiles blinks at her. He nods.
“And,” Lydiacontinues, “as usual, you are overreacting. This is a date.Their first and only, if I’m assuming correctly. Theyare not engaged, weare not doing anything wrong, and Ido not know why I’m justifying any of what you’ve been theorizingwith an answer.”
She finishes with a stab of her fork into her dish.Stiles is unsure of what to say, so he doesn’t say anything at all.He shamefully lowers his gaze to the food in front of him with agulp.
He’s totally ruined this date. He’s ruined any possibleromance between him and Lydia, too. He’s probably even ruined theirfriendship, once and for all. Emotional tether, her ass.
Cutting into the meat on his plate, Stiles chances alook at Lydia who is twirling linguini around her fork with aninscrutable expression. He takes a bite, still watching her, and hegags on his food viciously. Lydia is smiling innocently when he spitsit into a napkin.
“Is that pork?” he asks.
“Yes,” she answers.
“With an orangey sauce?”
“Mhm.”
“I hate pork,”Stiles tells her, “andoranges.”
Lydia lifts her fork to her mouth. “I know,” sheadmits. She eats.
Stiles makes it a point not to spare a glance at theirparents through the rest of their dinner. He makes sure all of hisattention is directed at Lydia, like it usually tends to be. Still,when their meal is over and Lydia suggests they skip desert so theydon’t miss the 8:30 showing of Star Wars: Episode VII, Stiles offersto take her home instead.
“What?” she balks. “Why would you do that?”
Stiles digs his hands into his pockets and shrugs,hunching his shoulders forward. “Because I’ve been a huge dick eversince I picked you up. And you don’t even like Star Wars that much. Idon’t wanna ruin your night completely.”
Lydia purses her lipsirritably. Cutely. When she gets out of her seat, she offers her handto Stiles, pulling him up beside her. “So what if I don’t like StarWars? You don’t like French food.” She threads their fingerstogether, squeezes gently. “But I like you.”
Stiles tucks his head into his chest to hide the goofygrin spreading across his face.
They don’t let go of each others’ hands, even oncethey’ve reached the theater.
Even when Stiles sees their parents sit three rows aheadof them, closer to the screen.
The lights dim, the previews start, and Stiles isbolting up straight in his seat. “You’ve gotta be shitting me.”
Lydia strokes her thumb over his, quietly shushing him.“Previews,” she whispers.
“You have gotto be shitting me,”he repeats.
Lydia jerks her headtoward him, away from the screen. “Stiles,”she hisses.
He glances between herand their parents, his focus divided between the two, then leanstoward Lydia and says, “They’re here.”
Lydia’s mouth falls open, her eyes widening inrealization. “Who…?” she asks, cautious.
“Who do you think?”Stiles responds. “Yourmom. My dad. Thistheater.”
He lifts his arm, pointing angrily in their direction,glaring at the backs of their heads. Someone shouts at him to stopblocking the screen. Lydia grabs Stiles’ elbow and lowers his arm forhim when he doesn’t listen.
“Okay, Stiles,listen,” Lydia soothes, “don’t let them ruin this for you. We’reseeing Star Wars,”she reminds him. “You’ve been waiting forever for The ForceAwakens. So forget about them, alright?”
Stiles nods, but he continues to scowl at the pair whoseem intent on disrupting his evening with Lydia. He only startlesback to reality when she cups his cheek in her hand, forcing hisattention back to her. “Alright?” she asks again.
This time he answers with a smile. “If you insist.”
He still ends up watching more of his dad’s head thanthe movie.
They’re in the parking lot, leaning against the jeep,watching as Stiles’ dad holds the passenger door open for Lydia’s mombefore hopping in and driving off.
Stiles groans, rubbing his hands tiredly over his face.
“I assume we’ll need to re-watch the movie withoutsurprise parental intervention in order to capture the fullexperience,” Lydia remarks.
Stiles bangs his head back against the jeep. “Noneed,” he says. “Star Wars is ruined.”
“Don’t be dramatic.”“Ruined forever.”
“Stiles,” Lydia warns.
He sighs with his entire body, then turns so they’refacing each other completely. “I’m sorry,” he says. “This isofficially the worst date ever.”
“Not the worst,”Lydia assures him. She grins when Stiles tsks at her disbelievingly.“It’s weird for me too, you know. But so is everything about us,right? This is the first time we haven’t had to worry aboutwerewolves or kanimas or kitsunes or chimeras in weeks.” Lydiasteps closer to him so she has to tilt her head up to meet his eyes.“I expected the supernatural to interfere tonight, if anything.That would be…normal.”They both laugh at how ridiculous it sounds. “Our parents, though?It’s weird for me too.”
Stiles can’t help but stare down at her with pureadoration. He admires the slight frizz settling over her hair, thefaint blush across her cheeks, the pink tint of her lipstick. Hewonders at her humor, her knowledge, her sass, understanding, andkindness. He knows if he were in her shoes tonight, he would have upand left his raving, rambling ass – best friend or not.
Stiles thinks, maybe, Lydia Martin might possibly likehim enough to put up with him at his absolute worst. It’s notsomething many people can manage.
“Is it too soon to tell you I’m madly in like withyou?” Stiles teases. He knows Lydia is smart enough to know he’smore than mostly serious.
“We’re slow-burn, Stiles,” Lydia replies. “Ifanything, it’s too late.”
They move at the same time; Lydia stands on her tiptoes,winding her arms around Stiles’ neck, and Stiles leans down, cradlingLydia’s face in his hands. He captures her top lip between his,moving his lips against hers softly, slowly, as if they have all thetime in the world.
It’s not their first kiss or second or third or tenth orfiftieth, but Stiles feels like it’s the one kiss that matters –the one which seals the deal.
He moves his hands from Lydia’s face, winding his armsaround her waist. She slides her fingers into his hair, tugging himcloser. Stiles pushes Lydia back against the jeep, deepening thekiss, and there is no doubt in his mind he can go on like thisforever. They break apart only when a rowdy group of kids zip by themhollering, “WHOOP! GET IT, STILINSKI, YEAH!”
Stiles leans his forehead against Lydia’s, and theylaugh quietly together, fanning their breath across each others’faces.
“Ready to head home, sis?”
Lydia smacks Stilesagainst the chest. “I’m starting to think you wantus to be related, weirdo.”
In Lydia’s driveway, they’re hunched over in theirseats, elbows on the dashboard, watching Papa Stilinski and MamaMartin chat animatedly at the Martin’s doorstep.
“What, are they teenagers? That should be us!”Stiles jabs his finger against his car horn for emphasis, and thejeep honks angrily. Stiles jumps away from the steering wheel,sliding down his seat, reaching for Lydia’s hand and trying to tugher down with him.
“What are you – Stiles!” Lydia wriggles herhand from his grasp. She whacks him against the knee, frowning. “Whyare you hiding?” she asks. “They saw the jeep pull up! They knowwe see them!”
“They saw the jeep!” exclaims Stiles. Heraises his index finger in the air as if doing so will make hisreasoning more reasonable. “They didn’t see us. This couldbe anyone’s car.”
“Your logic is unflappable,” Lydia deadpans.
There’s a sturdy knock on the driver’s side window.Stiles jumps, scrambling in his seat, straightening his posture,rolling down the window.
His father stands there with crossed arms and a smile.“Stiles,” he greets.
“Uh, hi, yes, hey,” Stiles responds. “What are youdoing here? At Lydia’s house? When you should be on a date? Withsomeone who is not Lydia or her mother?”
Stilinski’s shoulders shake with silent laughter. Heignores Stiles and asks, “How’d you enjoy the French place, Lydia?”
Stiles swivels around to look at his date who looksequally as confounded as he feels.
“It was delicious,” she replies.
“That snail stuff wasn’t as bad as I thought it wouldbe,” Stilinski says. He furrows his brow when he returns hisattention to his son. “I didn’t understand a single minute of thatStar Wars, though. I don’t know how you watch it.”
Stiles rolls his eyes exaggeratedly, slaps his handsinto his lap, throws his head against the back of his seat. “Idon’t get it!”
“You don’t get how Natalie and I noticed the two ofyou following us?” Stilinski prompts.
“I don’t get how you don’t like Star Wars,”clarifies Stiles. Then, he realizes what his dad said. “Hey, holdup, wait a minute. Just for the record, we weren’tfollowing you. Your paternal intuition must have led youto my general vicinity.”
Stilinski nods his head, humoring Stiles when he says,“That would be the only logical explanation.”
Lydia sighs, defeated.
Stilinskis pats the hood of the jeep twice. “Well,”he drawls, “let me know when you get home, kid.” Then, to Lydia,“You look beautiful, by the way.”
She cocks her head cheekily, smiling knowingly at theSheriff. “I bet you say that to all the Martin women.”
“Only the redheads.”
Under his breath, Stiles corrects him: “Strawberryblondes…”
His dad rolls his eyes and turns away, making his way tohis own car. Over his shoulder he yells, “Be good!”
“You too!” Stiles calls after him.
He wonders what it means that he meant it more seriouslythan his father.
Turning to Lydia, Stiles regards her incredulously.“Were we not discreet?” he asks.
Lydia’s face is blank of emotion when she tells him,“No.”
Stiles scratches his chin, lips pressed thin. “Well,”he says, “I hope we’re more tactful about the werewolf thing.”
