The above is all that remains of a prompt that Blecca Bby gave me to write for her birthday. Here it is, about 2 years late and probably lacking around 30k.
Happy super late Bday Blecca! (+1)
--------------------
Derek is not having a good day.
He pushes the glasses back up the ridge of his nose and glares.
The new guy is laughing, sitting on the edge of his desk with his long legs crossed in front of him. He’s taking up way more space than he has a right to.
Derek needs to get to this guy's computer and set up his network access and login, so that he can return back to the server room and systems monitoring.
Also known as, the real job that they actually pay him for.
But the crowd of people surrounding him, plus his daddy long legs are blocking Derek's access.
The new guy looks up and notices Derek, gives him a grin and then, what is that? Did he just waggle his eyebrows at Derek?
Discomfited, Derek shoves his glasses up again and shifts his weight from his left foot to his right foot.
He glares at the new guy and then pointedly looks towards his computer.
"Oh hey guys, I think we're blocking the I.T. dude," the new guy says, and slides in a long movement off of his desk and makes shooing motions at his adoring throng.
If his eyebrows descend any lower, Derek's afraid they're going to fall off or something. He's not a fucking 'I.T. dude', he's a systems analyst for Christ's sake. The new system could be on the verge of crashing right now, and no one would even know, because apparently the entire (actual) I.T. team is out with the Flu. At the same time.
The small crowd around new guy's desk parts a little bit and Derek stands there for a minute more before it becomes obvious that they're not going to disperse, he's going to have to walk in front of people.
He takes a breath and trudges through the midst of them, feeling like every eye in the world is focused on him-the whole building watching him walk over behind new guy's desk and they're all judging his shoes and how he walks and what his hair looks like. Derek knows his face is flushing and he holds himself rigid to keep his hands from shaking as he sits in new guy's chair and tries to focus on the computer. He logs in under administrator and gets to it, hypersensitivity slowly backing off and allowing him to focus on his work.
Until new guy sits back on his desk, this time on the inside right next to Derek. And then he starts talking to Derek. If Derek hunches down any further in on himself, he's going to turn into a turtle.
"So, hey, do I get to choose my username?"
Derek forgets all about turtles and turns to New Guy. "Wha?" He asks, nonplussed.
"'Cause I'm thinking I'll go with, 'Stiles-is-wiles' ha get it, get it?"
All Derek can do is stare at him, his fingers lying still on the keyboard.
"Stiles' wiles, it's a pun it's like, a great pun," He grins at Derek and does that - that eyebrow waggle thing again.
"No," Derek says, "you may not choose your own username."
"Please?"
"No." Derek says choking back a laugh at the ridiculousness of this situation. Derek's talking to this guy, Derek doesn’t talk to people, and certainly not about puns and - what - is the new guy wearing?
The slacks and loafers and nice blazer he's got on lull the viewer into a false sense of security apparently, because Derek doesn't know how he missed that bright blue t-shirt he has on underneath the blazer. It says 'awkward' and there's a picture of a green wriggling turtle below it, what even is that?
"What even is that?" Derek is horrified to hear himself ask. He also can't stop himself from staring at the t-shirt in sick fascination.
For some reason, the new guy contorts himself oddly just to look down at his clothing. "You like it?" He grins and looks delighted.
No Derek doesn't like it, what is that? That's not company policy, Derek is quite sure. Instead of answering, Derek sort of shakes himself out of this strange stupor he's fallen into (a stupor in which he interacts with inappropriately garbed new employees) and turns back to the computer.
“So we’ve established that I’m Stiles,” Stiles (apparently) jerks a thumb at himself and grins, “who’re you?”
Derek pretends that running a systems check requires every ounce of his concentration.
Then Derek finds himself making a sort of scandalized noise as Stiles contorts himself, curling around Derek’s back and shoulders to stick his head practically underneath Derek’s nose and - what - is he doing? Derek goes rigid and he takes in a breath through his nose despite himself.
Stiles smells really nice.
“Derek,” Stiles says, his contortions apparently paying off as he reads off of Derek’s security badge, pinned appropriately to his breast pocket, as is laid out in the company OPP.
Traitor, he thinks at the badge.
“Hi Derek,” Stiles says cheerfully, still lodged up around in Derek’s space. Derek glares at the computer screen. This is all the fault of technology. It has betrayed him. Being a computer genius is supposed to keep him from situations like this, not throw him into them.
“Hellooo,” Stiles calls, right in Derek’s face and does some sort of complicated maneuver with his arms and hands that Derek can’t discern the purpose of. And then he hears ‘Whoa-oh’ from Stiles and the next thing he knows, Stiles has fallen into his lap.
Part of Derek’s brain is going through its normal runtimes in situations like this, sounding like ‘warning warning warning, human contact, alert, human contact, abort abort abort.’ Another, completely new part is sounding something like, ‘Ooo yeah, baby, sit in Derek’s lap.’
No, no, Derek is not having a good day, not at all.
“Um, oops, and also, hi again,” Stiles says breathlessly from his new position, splayed out in Derek’s lap, which is having a field day, despite the consternation in Derek’s brain.
After a moment, Derek is able to grit out a noncommittal, “Hi,” back.
“Stilinski!”
The commanding tones of Vice President Martin cut through the air.
“Get off my systems analyst, now.”
Stiles utters a sound not unlike an ‘eep’ and scrambles off of Derek’s lap, leaving him with some problems, and not all of them are of the cognitive variety (though there is a head involved). But thank God for Lydia Martin, Derek is not going to go with the standard fruitbasket this Christmas, no sir, this year he’s going to put in some effort.
“What exactly do you think you’re doing?” Lydia asks, voice icy.
“Um making friends?” Stiles answers.
The two of them have a low-voiced, intense conversation that Derek tunes out in a flurry of productivity, desperate to set up network access for this workstation and flee back into his cave-that is, he means-the server room.
With a sigh of relief Derek restarts the computer, writes down Stiles’ username and temporary password on a sticky note next to the keyboard, and stands up, ready to escape-withdraw-from this situation.
With a dawning mix of terror and exhilaration, Derek turns to see President Martin drawn off to the side to take a phone call and sign a few hundred papers. The authoritative barrier between him and social interaction is gone, and Stiles stands between him and his exit route. Derek shifts nervously from side to side, and resists with all his might to cross his arms defensively in front of his chest.
Laura always laughs at him when he does that, ‘Trying to protect the virtue of your man-boobs,’ she always snorts. And they’re not-they’re pectorals-for Christ’s sake, working out is therapeutic-and Derek blinks out of his train of thought.
He’s crossed his arms in front of his chest.
Stiles is right in front of him, smiling brightly.
“What?” Derek asks.
“Lunch? You wanna?” Stiles must be repeating himself because there’s a bit of a laugh in his voice.
“I’m awkward.” Derek did not mean to say that.
“And anti-social.” Derek did not mean to say that either.
“I don’t date or flirt or even smile much.” Derek pauses half to see if he can get himself to shut the fuck up, half an to apprehensively gauge Stiles’ reaction.
Stiles just blinks and smiles encouragingly at him.
“But you smell nice and my lap like having you in it so, yes, we can do lunch. In my cave-server room. I have to monitor. In the server room.”
“Excellent.” Stiles says, with an enormous grin. “I love caves, let me tell you about the time my best friend Scott fell into one and almost got eaten by wolves.”
“Okay,” Derek says slowly, entering into completely unknown territory, “okay.”
He uncrosses his arms from his chest, and tries to think of a way of telling Laura he’s having lunch with someone without her expiring from glee over it.
There is none.
He glowers at Stiles, who just smiles all the more brightly at him.
“This way,” Derek grunts, “I’ll show you the cafeteria.”
“Excellent,” Stiles says, rubbing his palms together, “first food, and then the cave of wonders-I mean, your workstation. Server room. Place. Thing. Where you monitor.”
Oh dear. What if today turns out to be a good day?
Strangely, controversially, Derek is okay with that.
