The leather bound book sat forlorn on the tabletop, surrounded by dirty plates and empty glasses. Stiles paused, and picked up the book. He recognized it instantly, having seen it many times before. It belonged to Derek Hale.
Lydia Martin, and Derek Hale were regulars at the diner, a sweet couple that bought lunch nearly every day. They sat in the very back of the room, often studying, or typing on Lydia's laptop. Derek nearly always carried a certain worn-looking leather bound notebook with him. A few times, Stiles had seen Lydia sketching some of the customers. She was really good, in his opinion, good enough to sell in an exhibit somewhere. Lydia kept most of them tucked in between the pages of her textbooks, but sometimes, she'd give the drawings away.
Derek was more withdrawn than Lydia – he'd rarely said a word to Stiles in the four months that they'd started going to the diner. Normally, he'd let Lydia do all the talking, as he'd sit quietly across from her. The man was gorgeous, with his green brooding eyes, and his shock of black hair. He was a tall, muscular man who constantly glared at the world from behind his large eyebrows. Derek often wore tight t-shirts that showed off his amazing arms, and torso. He'd earned the nickname Grumpy Cat due to his intense glares. Stiles rarely referred to the man by that name, mostly it was the line cook and Deidre. Not that anyone in the kitchen staff would ever have the balls to use the moniker in front of Derek. He had a fair amount of stubble on his chin and neck. Derek's rabbit-like teeth stuck out when he smiled. Stiles thought they were kind of endearing.
The first thing Stiles had noticed about Lydia was her strawberry blonde hair. He loved the way it sometimes looked blonde, but usually had that intriguing coppery red colour. Also, her amazing eyes. Her long legs looked great in every outfit she wore, and quite often, Lydia wore bright red lipstick that distracted Stiles when he went to take their order. All in all, they were both a magnificent pair, who managed to make Stiles stammer and blush whenever he tried to talk to either one.
He quickly cleared the dirty dishes off the table. Stiles propped the book against the metal salt and pepper shakers so he could clean off the rest of the table. He picked up the bottle of cleaner, and sprayed the tabletop. He wiped it down with his rag, doing a rush job, as he thought about his DVR recordings. He couldn't wait to get home, and curl up on the couch. He picked up the book, and tucked it under his arm as he carried the dirty dishes to the kitchen.
"What you got there?" Deidre, his boss asked as Stiles placed the worn book into the dusty lost and found box.
"Someone left it at the table four," He told her, standing up. "I'm almost done cleaning up, then I'll lock up," he told her, grabbing the broom.
"Okay, I'll see you tomorrow," She told him, as Stiles hung up his apron, and slung on his blue winter jacket.
Stiles picked up the sketchbook, and stared at the leather-bound cover. It had a large strap on the front, with a metal buckle. The edges of the book were worn, the spine cracked from overuse. Stiles wanted desperately to skim through the book, it was beckoning to him. He'd always been insanely curious as to the contents. Was it a personal diary? Artwork? The next great American novel? Some of Lydia's mathematical equations, perhaps? He had to know.
Stiles carefully pried open the metal buckle in front of the book. He opened to the first page. There was a flowery inscription written with a fountain pen:
Derek,
Hope you can find good use with this sketchbook. I love you forever.
Lydia Martin
Stiles smiled, lightly touching the black ink with his index finger. How romantic, he thought. He could easily imagine the amazingly beautiful redhead writing the short-but-sweet message for Derek. He wondered how much the sketchbook had cost. It looked expensive, but the intrinsic value of the thing meant nothing to him. Simply the fact that it belonged to Derek was enough for him to treasure it.
Grinning idiotically in the empty diner, Stiles rubbed the spine, noting how cracked it was from overuse. The edges of the book were frayed, and he touched it, feeling its' texture. He imagined Derek's calloused hands opening the sketchbook all those thousands of times.
When he turned the page, Stiles recognized the sketch as downtown Beacon Hills. He marvelled at the incredibly minute details on the brick buildings, the rusted streetlamps giving off weak, yellow light onto the empty street. There were no cars, or people in the drawing- it looked like Derek had drawn it in the early morning hours.
"Huh," Stiles thought, turning the page. His mouth opened in astonishment. The page was filled with a sketch of two diners sitting at the table, sharing a meal. It was simplistic, and yet – it was so beautiful. He sat down, and set the book on the table. He turned a few more pages, looking at the sketches of birds, deer, people eating a picnic, a woman eating an apple.
On the next page, was a charcoal drawing of Lydia, lying in bed, the blanket pulled up above her breasts. Stiles smiled as he looked at the mischievous smile on her face, and her beckoning hand. Her wavy hair fanned out around her head, catching the light from the window behind her. Stiles blushed, realizing he was seeing Lydia, his customer, in a way more intimate way than he should. Common sense told him to shut the book now, and just give it back to Derek when he saw him tomorrow. Stiles ignored his common sense, and continued to skim through the book. It thrilled him to feel the creamy, white paper, the tiny smudges on the edges where Derek had carefully held its' masterpieces.
Stiles turned the page, and audibly gasped as he stared at the sketch in shock. His face, carefully constructed with smudged charcoal stared back at him. Stiles was unnerved; It was like staring at his own reflection in the mirror. His golden eyes, heavy black lashes, the corner of his mouth upturned in a sarcastic smirk. Stiles' long fingers resting on the countertop, he was wearing his work shirt and his favourite red jeans. Every mole and freckle that dotted Stiles' pale skin was in place. It was remarkable. He turned the page, surprised to see another artistic rendering staring back at him. This time, a crosshatched drawing of him and Scott sitting in a booth. Their hot chocolates raised to their lips. There was a photograph attached with a red paperclip, a photo of Stiles leaning against the cash register, his eyes closed. He wondered when the photo was taken. Stiles guessed it was probably a few months ago, judging by the length of his hair. Stiles had gone back to his old look of buzzcut two months ago, and this picture he still had his long, scraggly hair.
Why did Derek have a photograph of him in his book? He felt both creeped out, and intrigued. He snapped the book shut, and checked his watch. It was nearly midnight. He should've been home an hour ago.
Stiles considered leaving the book in the lost and found box. It was filled with mismatched mittens, and two broken umbrellas, and two detective novels a customer had left behind over the summer. The thought of a work of art like this being left to rot in the mouldy-smelling cardboard box, was a crime. Stiles picked it up, and smiled down at the dark brown cover. He tucked it under one arm, as he locked up the diner.