So I read halffizzbin’s post and this happened. I do not even know.
Stiles groans and lets his forehead hit the table a few times to work out his frustration. Scott pats him on the shoulder idly as he scans the list of candidates.
'We've still got one more, dude. You never know, he could be great!'
'You've said that about every candidate so far,' Isaac says, sprawled more attractively than should be possible on a plastic folding chair. Stiles hates him sometimes. Most times. Always. Ugh.
He turns back to Scott and fixes him with some grade-A uncut Stilinski Bitchface. ‘Let’s review. So far, we have a bad whiteboy wannabe breakdancer, the most rhythmically challenged freshman in existence, a fucking ballet dancer, and Greenburg. Lydia is going to kill me.’
Danny looks up from his phone for the first time in forty minutes. ‘The ballet dancer was hot.’
Boyd rolls his eyes. ‘The fuck-me eyes you were giving him didn’t give that away at all. Oh, wait.’
‘Guys!’ Stiles snaps. ‘Can we focus on my impending death by redhead Cheer Captain here?’
Scott hums, fiddling with his pen and trying to look optimistic. He’s failing, but by god he’s trying. ‘Lydia can’t get mad at you for the fact that the candidates suck.’
'Ha! Ha ha. Oh Scott. You are so wrong. She can and will, if we don’t find a replacement that can learn our routine by regionals. You know what beating Jennifer Blake means to her.’
Stiles’s head is full of visions of the screaming fit that will ensue when he reports back to Lydia empty handed whenl the next candidate wanders into the gym. Saunters, really. If a gait could be classified as sullen, this would be. The guy is wearing a henley and jeans, for crying out loud, and apparently has a grudge against any colour not in the spectrum of greys.
Stiles’s judgmental once over is brought to a screeching halt when he reaches the guy’s face. Holy. Jesus. The guy looks like he’d rather be having an enema than be here, but Stiles never knew constipated fury could look so damn hot.
Danny shifts in his chair, perking up, and even Isaac and Boyd look intrigued. Scott’s enthusiasm levels are unchanged being as they are permanently at ‘I believe in you and I just knowyou won’t disappoint me’.
‘Derek Hale?’ Scott asks, and Stiles knows which name he’ll be biting into his pillow come bedtime. Heh. Come.
Derek just nods and thrusts an application form at Boyd’s face.
‘Great!’ Stiles says. ‘That’s awesome, really, super duper-’ God just kill him now ‘-uh, welcome to Beacon Hills, man.’
Isaac saves him from completely eradicating what was left of his dignity by interrupting to say, ‘We need to see a standing back tuck. It’s standard procedure.’
Derek doesn’t even nod, just pulls his keys and wallet out of his pocket and steps back from the table. He executes the jump perfectly, though the look on his face is more ‘kill me now’ than the whole ‘hamsters on meth’ that Lydia demands from her squad.
Stiles glances around at his teammates and turns back to Derek. ‘Okay, great. Let’s try a cheer now, I’ve got a golden oldie circa ‘98 - awesome, oh wow! LiketotallyfreakmeoutImeanrighton! Cyclones sure are number one!’
Derek’s frown deepens before the creepiest, fakest, most unnatural smile Stiles has ever seen in his nightmares spreads over that handsome face. Derek jerks his neck and arms in what on anyone else would be jaunty and belts out the worst cheer in the history of cheers.
‘I transferred from New York City, your school has no gymnastics team, this is a last resort!’
Stiles needs a moment to process this, because bunny teeth.