He can't choose between the polyester pullover and the pinstripe button-down.
The button-down says fancy restaurant, which happens to be where he's going this evening. The pullover says sophisticated, laid back, ready to eat weird food and watch Star Wars, which, coincidentally, also happens to be what he's doing this evening.
And, like, usually Stiles wouldn't care what he's wearing so much, but tonight is different. Tonight, he's going on a date. Tonight, he's going on a date with Lydia Martin.
So, you know, he wants to look decent, at the very least.
Tugging the pullover over his head, Stiles examines himself in his mirror; he turns sideways, fusses with the hem, rolls up 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 about now. Stiles would usually ask his two best friends what they thought, but Scott is busy studying for AP Bio, not to be disturbed unless someone is dying, and Stiles thinks it would ruin the element of surprise if he asked Lydia for fashion advice for a date she would be going on with him.
So.
The only other option, it seems, is to ask his dad. His dad, whose favorite outfit is his police uniform and who has no sense of style whatsoever.
Walking down the hall, swinging his father's bedroom door open with no forewarning, he stops in his tracks when his eyes settle on Papa Stilinski, dressed...far too formally. He's wearing a similar button-down to the one laid across the foot of Stiles' bed, buckling a belt looped through freshly ironed pants. The scent of aftershave lingers in the air.
"Uh," Stiles says in way of greeting.
Stilinski blinks at him, then smiles, turning to face his son completely. "How do I look?" he asks.
Stiles draws the muscles of his face together, frowning in confusion. "Mm, where you going?"
"You didn't answer my question," Stilinski tells him.
Stiles shakes his head. "Right," he says. "Where are you going?"
His father rolls his eyes. He sighs. "Out. I told you I was going out tonight."
"Uh, yeah," says Stiles, "but, like, I thought you meant you were going out to, I don't know, buy orthopedic sneakers or burn money at the OTB."
Stilinski sticks his tongue in his cheek. Stiles has a feeling his dad is not amused. "Quit while you're ahead, kid."
Stiles can think of only one reason why his dad is all dressed up: he's going on a date too. It doesn't bother Stiles. At all. He's been urging his father to get himself back in the game for years now, actually. What irks Stiles is his dad didn't think to even mention anything about a date. Nothing as to who with, 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't just 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 you dressed up for, then? Clearly you won't be betting on Seabiscuit."
Stilinski shoots Stiles an exasperated glance. "I'm going on a date." He reaches for a tie on his dresser, slides it beneath his collar. Stiles doesn't have the heart to tell him it doesn't match his shirt whatsoever.
"A date?" Stiles scratches behind his ear. "With who? Do I, uh – do I know her?"
Stilinski shakes his head. "If it goes well, I'll tell you 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 worry about it. How do I look?"
He looks...well, he looks charming, if Stiles is being honest. His complete lack of style results in a mismatched masterpiece; one which Stiles knows Lydia would smile fondly at and call endearing.
He can't stop the smirk pulling at the corners of his lips. "Good," he says. He's nodding his head in approval. "Really good, Dad."
Stilinski grins. He claps Stiles on the shoulder, then seems to remember himself. "Did you want something?" he asks.
"Oh!" Stiles takes a step back. He holds out his arms 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 surprised hum of approval. "Hot date?" he asks.
"Extremely."
"Well you look great," Stilinski tells him, and then begins to make his way out of his bedroom.
"Hey, uh, Dad?" Stiles calls after him. Stilinski turns 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. "So am I."
–
Stiles is having trouble keeping his eyes on the road. Has been since he picked up Lydia from her house. Because, well, she looks beautiful, alright? Not that she ever doesn't – she always does – but tonight she looks exceptionally gorgeous.
She's wearing a pretty green sundress; the kind which falls in waves above the knee and spins around you when you twirl. The color matches her eyes and stands in contrast with her hair. Her hair which, Stiles notices, is braided in an intricate dutch twist across her scalp, falling in soft curls across her shoulders.
Stiles shouldn't be so taken by her. He sees her practically everyday, in all her glory, and he always manages to keep his sights set on what's important. The highway is pretty important when you're driving down it in a jeep with an unreliable engine and Lydia Martin in the passenger seat, but Stiles hasn't taken 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 him glancing at her for, well, maybe the millionth time in the last half hour.
Stiles opens his jaw to speak, shuts it closed, gapes like a fish until Lydia growls, "Stiles."
"You just look nice," he blurts out. "I mean, you always 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 tells him. She fingers the gauzy material of her dress between her fingers. "My mom was wearing something similar to it, though. She's going on a date too."
Stiles frowns. He glances at Lydia from the corner of his eye, trying desperately to force his gaze ahead of him and failing, for the most part. "A date? Tonight?" he asks.
Lydia concurs with a hum.
"So is my dad," Stiles grumbles. A feeling of unease settles in his stomach.
"Really?" Lydia forces a smile. "Wouldn't it be funny if they were going on a date together?" she jokes, but it's painfully halfhearted.
"Funny? It wouldn't be funny," Stiles insists. "It would be detrimental to our relationship. They'd go out and become serious 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's ridding herself of impure thoughts. "Oh my god."
"Oh my god indeed. I'm glad we're on the same page."
"We are so not on the same page," Lydia argues.
Stiles guffaws. "You don't think it would be weird?"
"Weird? Yes. Incestuous? I don't think you understand the 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're worked up for no reason," she tells him. "What are the odds of our parents going on a date together? The same night as us, no less."
Stiles jiggles his leg. He shifts his attention between the highway and Lydia with a frown. "You tell me. You're the mathematician."
"The odds are low," Lydia assures him. "Our parents are not going on a date."
–
"You may want to retake a course on statistical probability," says Stiles. He and Lydia are seated in the new five-star French restaurant she's been going on about for weeks. Funnily enough, their parents are there too. Together. Sitting on 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's slouched all the way down in his seat, menu hiding his face, his head poking up every few seconds to spy on his dad and Lydia's mom.
"The odds are low," Lydia hisses at him. "I thought your dad would be with, I don't know, Melissa, maybe. Not my mom."
Stiles tears his gaze from their parents. He considers Lydia curiously. "You did?"
Lydia shrugs, her eyes focused hard on her menu so she doesn't turn around to look at her mother and the Sheriff. "Yes. They're close."
The idea has crossed Stiles' mind before – setting up his dad and Scott's mom. Lydia is right, after all. The Sheriff and Melissa are close. They're great friends. Their chemistry is natural. Plus, if they got married, Scott would be Stiles' brother by more than just their pack. And, yeah, Melissa is also the closest thing Stiles has had to a mother figure in a really long time. He loves her. So he can see more than his dad and Melissa working out; he can see their entire family working wonderfully.
That dream, however, is being dashed right before his eyes, replaced by the nightmare of being his potential girlfriend's potential step-brother.
Stiles knows better than to say this to Lydia, however, so he sticks with shifty eyes and a simple, "I guess," then returns his attention to the couple across the room.
When the waiter arrives to take their order, Stiles has hardly glanced at the menu. Lydia asks for an appetizer of escargot ("Just try it, Stiles!"), something which sounds a lot like Patty Fruits Tumor for herself, and, when Stiles finally notices his menu is meant for reading and not concealing his face, she orders something for him too.
The waiter leaves them, and Stiles smiles at Lydia apologetically. "Thank you," he says. "I'm sorry."
Lydia sighs. She returns his smile with a more exasperated one of her own. "I just wish you weren't so hung up on them." 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 across the table then. Now they are on the same page. Lydia reaches across too, and she slips her hand into his. Together, they smile shyly, blush brightly. When Lydia ducks her head, Stiles' eyes drift to his dad and Natalie on their own accord. His dad is gesticulating wildly, a grin plastered across his face, and Natalie's head is thrown back with hysterical laughter.
"It's just, like-" Stiles squeezes Lydia's hand, wraps it against the table with his own. He feels her stiffen when he says, "Do they not know about us? Have we not made it blatantly obvious to everyone, including our family, that we're interested in each other? Why would they compromise 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 teeth grinding. He does notice, though, how his dad offers one of his portobello mushrooms to Natalie.
"Stiles, can you forget about it?" Lydia lashes. "Just for now? So we can spend one evening together when we aren't being hunted down or possessed by demons or worrying about who is dating who?"
Stiles shoots his arms forward, shaking them madly, wiggling his fingers in the direction of their parents. "Your mom could be my mom and my dad could be your dad, and not in the in-law kind of way!" he exclaims.
"Are you kidding me?"
"I don't know, Lydia. Do you get a chuckle out of incest?" he asks her. "Is our impending siblinghood funny to you?"
The waiter arrives at their table with their meals, and Lydia is forced to sit with baited breathe and fisted hands until she can respond to Stiles. He thinks she's gone purple with the effort to hold 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. If our parents were to marry one another, we would not be siblings by blood; we would be step-siblings through marriage. Okay?"
Stiles blinks at her. He nods.
"And," Lydia continues, "as usual, you are overreacting. This is a date. Their first and only, if I'm assuming correctly. They are not engaged, we are not doing anything wrong, and I do not know why I'm justifying any of what you've been theorizing with 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 a gulp.
He's totally ruined this date. He's ruined any possible romance between him and Lydia, too. He's probably even ruined their friendship, once and for all. Emotional tether, her ass.
Cutting into the meat on his plate, Stiles chances a look at Lydia who is twirling linguini around her fork with an inscrutable expression. He takes a bite, still watching her, and he gags on his food viciously. Lydia is smiling innocently when he spits it into a napkin.
"Is that pork?" he asks.
"Yes," she answers.
"With an orangey sauce?"
"Mhm."
"I hate pork," Stiles tells her, "and oranges."
Lydia lifts her fork to her mouth. "I know," she admits. She eats.
–
Stiles makes it a point not to spare a glance at their parents through the rest of their dinner. He makes sure all of his attention is directed at Lydia, like it usually tends to be. Still, when their meal is over and Lydia suggests they skip desert so they don't miss the 8:30 showing of Star Wars: Episode VII, Stiles offers to 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 ever since I picked you up. And you don't even like Star Wars that much. I don't wanna ruin your night completely."
Lydia purses her lips irritably. Cutely. When she gets out of her seat, she offers her hand to Stiles, pulling him up beside her. "So what if I don't like Star Wars? You don't like French food." She threads their fingers together, squeezes gently. "But I like you."
Stiles tucks his head into his chest to hide the goofy grin spreading across his face.
They don't let go of each others' hands, even once they've reached the theater.
Even when Stiles sees their parents sit three rows ahead of them, closer to the screen.
The lights dim, the previews start, and Stiles is bolting 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 got to be shitting me," he repeats.
Lydia jerks her head toward him, away from the screen. "Stiles," she hisses.
He glances between her and their parents, his focus divided between the two, then leans toward Lydia and says, "They're here."
Lydia's mouth falls open, her eyes widening in realization. "Who...?" she asks, cautious.
"Who do you think?" Stiles responds. "Your mom. My dad. This theater."
He lifts his arm, pointing angrily in their direction, glaring at the backs of their heads. Someone shouts at him to stop blocking the screen. Lydia grabs Stiles' elbow and lowers his arm for him when he doesn't listen.
"Okay, Stiles, listen," Lydia soothes, "don't let them ruin this for you. We're seeing Star Wars," she reminds him. "You've been waiting forever for The Force Awakens. So forget about them, alright?"
Stiles nods, but he continues to scowl at the pair who seem intent on disrupting his evening with Lydia. He only startles back to reality when she cups his cheek in her hand, forcing his attention 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 than the movie.
–
They're in the parking lot, leaning against the jeep, watching as Stiles' dad holds the passenger door open for Lydia's mom before hopping in and driving off.
Stiles groans, rubbing his hands tiredly over his face.
"I assume we'll need to re-watch the movie without surprise parental intervention in order to capture the full experience," Lydia remarks.
Stiles bangs his head back against the jeep. "No need," 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're facing each other completely. "I'm sorry," he says. "This is officially 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 about werewolves or kanimas or kitsunes or chimeras in weeks." Lydia steps 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 pure adoration. He admires the slight frizz settling over her hair, the faint blush across her cheeks, the pink tint of her lipstick. He wonders at her humor, her knowledge, her sass, understanding, and kindness. He knows if he were in her shoes tonight, he would have up and left his raving, rambling ass – best friend or not.
Stiles thinks, maybe, Lydia Martin might possibly like him enough to put up with him at his absolute worst. It's not something many people can manage.
"Is it too soon to tell you I'm madly in like with you?" Stiles teases. He knows Lydia is smart enough to know he's more than mostly serious.
"We're slow-burn, Stiles," Lydia replies. "If anything, 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, cradling Lydia's face in his hands. He captures her top lip between his, moving his lips against hers softly, slowly, as if they have all the time in the world.
It's not their first kiss or second or third or tenth or fiftieth, 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 arms around her waist. She slides her fingers into his hair, tugging him closer. Stiles pushes Lydia back against the jeep, deepening the kiss, and there is no doubt in his mind he can go on like this forever. They break apart only when a rowdy group of kids zip by them hollering, "WHOOP! GET IT, STILINSKI, YEAH!"
Stiles leans his forehead against Lydia's, and they laugh quietly together, fanning their breath across each others' faces.
"Ready to head home, sis?"
Lydia smacks Stiles against the chest. "I'm starting to think you want us to be related, weirdo."
–
In Lydia's driveway, they're hunched over in their seats, elbows on the dashboard, watching Papa Stilinski and Mama Martin 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 the jeep honks angrily. Stiles jumps away from the steering wheel, sliding down his seat, reaching for Lydia's hand and trying to tug her down with him.
"What are you – Stiles!" Lydia wriggles her hand from his grasp. She whacks him against the knee, frowning. "Why are you hiding?" she asks. "They saw the jeep pull up! They know we see them!"
"They saw the jeep!" exclaims Stiles. He raises his index finger in the air as if doing so will make his reasoning more reasonable. "They didn't see us. This could be 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 you doing here? At Lydia's house? When you should be on a date? With someone who is not Lydia or her mother?"
Stilinski's shoulders shake with silent laughter. He ignores Stiles and asks, "How'd you enjoy the French place, Lydia?"
Stiles swivels around to look at his date who looks equally as confounded as he feels.
"It was delicious," she replies.
"That snail stuff wasn't as bad as I thought it would be," Stilinski says. He furrows his brow when he returns his attention to his son. "I didn't understand a single minute of that Star Wars, though. I don't know how you watch it."
Stiles rolls his eyes exaggeratedly, slaps his hands into his lap, throws his head against the back of his seat. "I don't get it!"
"You don't get how Natalie and I noticed the two of you 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, hold up, wait a minute. Just for the record, we weren't following you. Your paternal intuition must have led you to 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 the Sheriff. "I bet you say that to all the Martin women."
"Only the redheads."
Under his breath, Stiles corrects him: "Strawberry blondes..."
His dad rolls his eyes and turns away, making his way to his 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 seriously than 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."