eeyore9990:

Stiles sticks his earbuds in his ears and leans his head back against the window, allowing his eyes to fall nearly closed – but not all the way because this is New York and he’s not a fucking idiot. The earbuds are as much for show as his half-closed eyes.

He’s definitely not muting one of his senses on the subway, even if the car is nearly empty this time of morning.

Which is why his senses go on alert when he hears a female voice let out a giggle before sighing out high and breathy, “Hey, cutie. Is this seat taken?”

His gaze zeroes in on where an older woman in obvious ‘I’ve been out all night clubbing and I’m dragging myself home at 4:30 am to get a few hours of sleep before my 8 am accounting job starts’ clothes is creepily licking her lips and swaying rather exaggeratedly into the personal space of a guy Stiles noticed on his initial sweep of the subway car.

The seated guy is somewhere in his late twenties or early thirties, black hair gelled into a fairly standard style, facial hair just long enough to not be termed stubble anymore but not quite long enough to call a beard. He’s wearing a gray henley and dark jeans with beat up runners on his feet.

He’s also got both arms wrapped around himself with his chin tucked to his chest and a rucksack trapped between his feet, giving off serious ‘don’t touch me’ vibes.

His eyes, which had been at the same ‘alert without being obvious’ half-mast Stiles is sporting, dart around the car before his shoulders hunch. He obviously wants to say something about the frankly unusual number of open seats on this car, but just then it jolts into motion and the older woman – literally against the laws of physics, due to how she’s standing – stumbles forward so that she’s half-splayed across the younger guy’s lap, leopard-print panties showing when her tight, short black leather skirt rides up.

Stiles sits up, a frown already pulling at his lips.

“Oops,” she titters again, in a sound that’s quickly becoming the most annoying thing Stiles has ever heard. Veiny hands land on the young guy’s chest and the cougar squeezes handfuls of the guy’s pecs. “Oh my, aren’t you a big, strapping boy.”

Stiles pukes in his mouth a little before setting his jaw and pulling his earbuds out. “Hey, excuse me?” he calls, just loud enough for Creepy to hear him, but not enough to call attention from the other three riders. “In case you weren’t aware, sexual harrassment is cause for removal from the subway. Permanently.”

Creepy Old Cougar stiffens before whipping around – still on Uncomfortable Young Guy’s lap, for fuck’s sake – and snaps, “Hey asshole, no one asked you. Mind your own business. I’m just being friendly.”

Stiles lifts his eyebrows and flicks his gaze down to the guy’s, which is kinda difficult because the guy is starting to look a bit like a turtle with how far he’s managed to curve his shoulders around his ears. “Yeah?” Stiles asks, his voice gentling when he adds, “Were you looking for a friend?” He directs the words at the guy, but Creepy doesn’t seem to get the point.

“Everyone’s looking for a friend. Isn’t that right, sweetie?” She slides her long nails into the short hairs at the back of the guy’s head, scritching them loudly against his scalp.

Stiles shudders in sympathy.

“Please stop,” the guy says, the words soft and pleading, and that’s all Stiles needs to hear.

He gives the Creepy Cougar three seconds to vacate before he stands up and pulls out the chain his badge hangs from out from under his shirt. “Ma’am,” he says, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist you remove yourself from this man’s person before I am forced to use force to remove you myself.”

And, of course, because this just was not his night, the woman starts screeching and hurling abuse at him, threatening to call her personal friend in the Mayor’s office and report him for sexual harrassment.

Stiles just sighs and reaches into his back pocket for his handcuffs. “You have the right to remain silent,” he says, barely breaking out of his monotone recital of her Miranda rights when she flies across the space between them to slap him across the face. He mentally adds assaulting a police officer to the initial charges of sexual assault and possible drunk and disorderly . He cuffs her easily, bodily hauling her to the empty seat near the emergency phone box and using it to call ahead for an officer from the local precinct to meet the carriage at the next stop.

In all the commotion, he barely remembers to ask the guy to get off the subway with them to give a brief statement. It doesn’t take long for them to reach the next stop, and they only have to wait about ten minutes – with the woman barely shutting up long enough to take breaths in the interim (so much for her right to remain silent) – for a public safety officer to show up and take their statements before removing the vile woman to the nearest precinct.

In the mostly deserted tunnel, Stiles turns to the guy he now knows is named Derek Hale to say, “I’m sorry you had to be delayed for this. I’ll see about getting your fare reimbused, if nothing else.”

Derek stares at him, head still tucked down a little warily, but he unbends enough to mutter, “Thanks. Most people wouldn’t…” His voice trails off and he shrugs, dropping his gaze.

“Hey, no problem,” Stiles says, shrugging. “I mean. It’s kinda literally my job.”

“Yeah.” Derek’s eyes flick up again and his mouth twists. “Are you–?” He gestures toward his own cheek.

Stiles lifts a hand, rolling his eyes as he presses two fingers near where the woman slapped him, sure the outline of her hand is still there. He bruises like a peach. “I’m fine. Tougher than I look. Not that that’s hard to accomplish.” He gestures ruefully at his scrawny frame, knowing that he looks anything but tough.

Derek drops his gaze again, grunting, but his ears are a little red near the tips. “Thanks again,” he finally says, and the words sound as awkward as the guy looks.

“Seriously, it was–” Stiles starts to say, only to be interrupted by a low whisper.

“Most people wouldn’t. Help, I mean. They see…” He lifts a shoulder, but the look in his eyes makes Stiles’ chest clench.

He looks resigned. Like just because he’s a well-built, good-looking guy, Derek’s supposed to be okay with people invading his personal space.

“Well,” Stiles says finally, because he can’t handle the silence that fell when Derek’s words trailed off. “People are assholes.”

The next train going their ways pulls in just then and Stiles shoots a half-grin at Derek before boarding. This car is a little more full than the one they’d been riding, but there are still plenty of seats available, so Stiles is surprised when Derek eases down into the seat beside him.

“Sorry,” he says at Stiles’ wide-eyed look, already standing back up. “I’ll–”

“No, it’s fine, dude,” Stiles rushes to say. “Have a seat.”

Derek hovers for a second before thumping into the seat when the car takes off. “Sorry,” he mutters again, shoving his bag between his feet and dropping his hands into his lap, eyes trained on them.

“Please tell me you’re aware,” Stiles says, voice pitched low, “that literally nothing that happened this morning was your fault.”

Derek shrugs, his fingers clenching around each other.

Stiles gently bumps their shoulders together, waiting for Derek to look up before he repeats, “Not. Your. Fault. Remember what I said about people?”

Derek’s lips twitch, just a little. “They’re assholes.”

Stiles settles back in his seat, nodding emphatically. “Hell yeah they are.”

They’re nearly to Stiles’ stop, having ridden almost to the end of the line without either of them moving at any of the previous stops, before Derek mutters, “Coffee.”

Stiles, eyes half-closed due to pure exhaustion at this point, forces his eyes open. “Wassat?”

“Do you want some? Coffee?”

“Aww, man, you don’t have to–”

“Please?” Derek squeezes out through his teeth, and he looks so uncomfortable that Stiles doesn’t know the right answer.

“As long as you don’t make fun of me for drinking a non fat vanilla latte,” he finally says, injecting just enough self deprecating humor into his tone that Derek’s lips twitch again.

“I like hot chocolate,” he says softly before ducking his head again.

By the time Stiles gets home – two hours later than normal – he’s got a bit of a foam mustache, Derek’s number, and a text asking him to dinner on Friday.

It may not have been his night, but it’s sure shaping up to be his morning.

–

@drgrlfriend (and in case it’s not glaringly obvious, I know nothing about NYC OR the NY subway system)