"You could smile when you see me," Stiles pouted as he leaned across the metal counter of the bar. The visual, his ass up in the air, his back arched, was completely lost on Derek the bartender. The gazes from guys behind him, however, would have made it all worth while if Stiles was paying any attention to them. "It's good customer service."

Derek rolled his eyes and smirked. "You come in here every night, you don't even know my name," he replied in that gravely voice of his, "I help you get trashed, you go home. You barely tip. Why should I smile?"

"Long night already?" Stiles frowned, "Okay. Okay." He slid back so his feet were planted on the floor again. "What's your name, Derek?"

The bartender growled. That was obviously not the part of that he'd hoped Stiles would pay the most attention to, and he didn't seem particularly excited to be proven wrong on that point.

Stiles stuck out his hand to shake. "I'm Stiles. It's nice to meet you, Derek."

Derek didn't accept the extended hand. Instead, he planted a glass on the counter in front of the customer. "The usual?"

Stiles pouted. Next tactic, then. "Let me think…" He brought his right hand to his face, trailing one long finger across his bottom lip, jutted out ever so slightly.

For a moment, Derek seemed entranced, his eyes fixated on Stiles' mouth. "Right. I'll come back to you then." He turned away to help another customer.

It only took a few seconds for another bartender to come over. "Hey, cutie. Can I get you something?"

It wasn't that this guy wasn't attractive – he had muscles in all the right places, he was about the same height as Stiles, and he had a bright, eager, genuine smile. But there was something he was missing that Derek had in abundance. Maybe it was scruff. Maybe it was the scowl. Stiles couldn't quite put his finger on what it was that Derek had… but oh, did he want to. "No, Derek's helping me," Stiles lied.

The bartender cast a sideway glance at Derek and just shook his head. "Alright."

A couple minutes later and Derek stepped back towards Stiles. Before he could make any effort to get Stiles a drink, and away from the bar, another customer sidled in beside him. Stiles recognized him instantly.

"'ello! May I get a dark'n'stormy?" the guy said, his voice thick with a British accent.

"Sure thing," Derek smiled, "You visiting from the UK? First time at Splash?"

The customer nodded. "Oh, aye."

Derek smiled and again, and turned to fix the drink. The customer smiled at Stiles and winked. "I'm not really," he added, his accent completely gone, "Just for hot guys like that."

"I know, Matt," Stiles scowled, "You're from Beacon Hills. Same as me."

It took Matt a minute but then he grinned. "Stiles Stilinski! Imagine that."

"Imagine," Stiles repeated dripping sarcasm.

"So, end of the night, you and I could always come back to my place and reminisce," Matt suggested, winking again, "I'd say here, but we're a little old to be hiding in bathroom stalls now."

"Oh, sounds swell," Stiles quipped, "And then you can tell Jackson what a fag I am afterwards, just like old times."

Matt's face fell, if only for a second. "Look, Stiles, we were just kids…"

"Didn't you say you were visiting from the UK?" Derek's voice cut in, as he slid the brown drink across the counter, "Maybe you should go back early. Your accent could use a refresher."

Matt was frozen for a moment. "How much for the drink?" he finally managed.

Derek narrowed his eyes. "On the house if you get away from my bar and leave my customers alone."

Matt tossed a twenty-dollar bill on the counter, grabbed his glass and muttered, "Keep the change."

"I'd still recommend not coming back," Derek warned, taking the bill off the counter and turning to Stiles. "Decide anything yet?"

"Thanks for that," Stiles said weakly.

"I hate boys that play games," Derek shook his head, "What do you want to drink?"

Stiles smiled sheepishly. "I don't know, whatever you feel like making?"

Derek rolled his eyes, but this time his smirk seemed somehow more amused than irritated. "Give me a minute."

Stiles could happily watch Derek make drinks all day. Even just shaking things in a shaker, muscles rippled under his gray beater. Most nights – it was a little early yet – Derek would eventually take the beater off and he would gleam with sweat (and glitter shed on him by gogo dancers) while he made the drinks. It was really no wonder Stiles found himself completely faded at the end of every night since his friends Scott and Allison had brought him here for his 21st birthday.

"Try it," Derek said, snapping Stiles back to reality. Before him was a wide mouth glass was a brownish-green drink, which appeared to be the consistency of a Slushie, with an upside down bottle of Corona in it. "I call it a Sour Wolf."

"That's a Mexican Bulldog," Stiles corrected.

Derek shook his head, resting his arms on the bar and leaning forward. "I made it and I'm calling it a Sour Wolf. So it is."

"Are you sure you're not a sour wolf?" Derek glared. Stiles wasn't going to argue about it any more. He leaned in, one hand clasped to the Corona bottle the other under the glass, and sipped gently from the glass. "Okay, fine. That's a Sour Wolf. And it's delicious."

"Good," Derek said. He didn't smile, but he didn't scowl either.

Stiles reached into his back pocket for his wallet. "How much?"

"Oh, your British friend paid for it," Derek smirked, "Don't thank him."

"Let me tip you, at least," Stiles withdrew a five dollar bill from his wallet and placed it on the counter.

Derek stared at it for a moment. "Are you growing as a person or something?"

"Something," Stiles shrugged. He began examining his drink – he had to find a way to get it away from the bar, without spilling everything everywhere. Stiles had never be exceptionally graceful. This seemed like an unfair test of his abilities.

"Just stay here to drink it," Derek suggested, as if reading Stiles' mind, "You're skinny enough I think it won't be a problem."

Stiles jutted out his jaw defiantly. "I'm not that skinny." Well, he was pretty… slender. That was such a better word. Slender.

"You're a cute little twink, own it," Derek advised, turning to take care of another customer.

"Cute," Stiles rolled the word around in his mouth a bit. He wasn't sure he liked it.

It was ten minutes later before Derek had a chance to pay any attention to him, but as soon as it happened, Stiles grinned from ear to ear. He guessed the tequila in his drink had something to do with that. Or, he would have except…

"You've hardly drank any of that," Derek observed, "You don't like it?"

Stiles was hasty to dispel that delusion. "No, no. I've just been… y'know, nursing it." Because he was spending most of his time watching Derek make drinks in a fascinated stupor, honestly. "Can I tell you something and you won't get mad?"

Derek stared at Stiles, hard. "No promises."

"I haven't been tipping you," Stiles admitted.

"I noticed," Derek nodded, "But you did tonight."

Stiles continued, "It's not because I didn't know to or didn't have the money. I, uh, I did it so you'd notice me."

Derek rolled his eyes. And there was that scowl again. "I have bartended for a long time and that's the dumbest thing I have ever heard."

"No, because, and… alright," Stiles stammered, "Look. It's just… you're kind of intimidating. And I thought… even if you hated me, at least you'd know who I was." He smiled sheepishly at Derek for a second, and then hurriedly focused himself on his drink.

Derek raised an eyebrow at this and leaned across the bar. "You're kind of an idiot," he perceived, "Have you like… seen your face?"

Stiles met Derek's green eyes. This seemed like some kind of trick question. Or maybe a joke. "No?" he guessed.

Derek scrunched his eyebrows up quizzically. "You don't own a mirror?"

Stiles' jaw worked silently for a minute while his brain struggled to figure out what had just happened. "I mean, I do," he finally managed, "But I thought you meant… I don't know."

Derek's mouth twitched into a smile. "You're lucky you're cute, because this might be sad otherwise." He cast his eyes across the rest of the bar – it was beginning to get busy. "Look. I usually grab a pizza after we close. Stick around, don't get too drunk, and if you buy… you can explain."

Stiles nodded and smiled. He was slender enough – and it was a slow enough night – that he didn't get in the way too much just by staying at the bar. As it was, no one asked him to move. A few guys asked if they could buy him drinks, but he shook his head and stuck to Red Bulls after he finished his "Sour Wolf".

The night flew by, especially after Derek took off his shirt. Stiles was simply entranced by his movements. Occasionally Derek would look over and smile, and all the air in the room seemed to collect right in Stiles' throat. He didn't know why the idea of hanging out with Derek was so frightening – other than how intimidating he was – and he wasn't sure why the bartender was smiling given that their relationship thus far consisted of Stiles underpaying him for his drink-mixing services and some of the most uncomfortable conversations Stiles could ever recall.

When the music stopped and the lights flickered on – the "ugly lights" as Stiles had taken to calling them – he left a bit of cash on the counter for his Red Bulls, and for a tip, and turned to go. His hand had barely left the surface when a much larger hand engulfed it and pulled it back. "Where are you going?" Derek's voice asked.

Stiles didn't turn but answered over his shoulder, "I was gonna wait for you outside."

"Just relax," Derek commanded gently, "Let me close up, and we'll go."

Stiles leaned against the bar, doing his best to look away from Derek while still appearing relaxed.

Derek just squinted at him. "Is something wrong?"

"No," Stiles muttered, "Just… y'know… lights…"

Derek couldn't help himself. He actually laughed. Well, it came out as something between a snort and a chuckle, but it was definitely a happy sound. Stiles couldn't help but grin when he heard it. "Look at me," Derek said.

Stiles obeyed hesitantly.

"You look the same," Derek observed, "Which is good because the pizza place will probably have all the lights on too."

"Ugh," the other bartender groaned, "Derek… just go. I'm gagging over here. I will finish cleaning up. Get out."

Derek didn't need to be told twice. He didn't even pretend to feel bad about it, or double check to make sure he really wasn't needed. In less than five minutes, he had his shirt back on, his tips counted and collected, and he was out the door, Stiles beside him.

"So, where is this place?" Stiles inquired after a few minutes of silence as they walked. Derek, it seemed, was not much of a talker when he was out from behind the bar.

"'Bout a block," Derek replied shortly.

Stiles was beginning to wonder if he'd gotten the wrong impression of this whole event, if maybe this was just Derek's way of trying to make up for the tips he felt he'd lost and Stiles' wishful thinking had filled in anything else he thought may have been happening.

And then their hands brushed. At first it seemed accidental, but it happened again – but this time Derek's hand lingered, the back of their hands touching for what seemed like an eternity. But eventually the hand swung forward again. With the casual, full-bodied saunter of Derek's walk, it was hard to believe their hands had met for that long at all while he was still moving forward.

Stiles grabbed Derek's upper arm. He hardly even knew he was doing it until his hand was wrapped around the bicep – or as close to around it as his fingers would go. Derek stopped moving the instant he felt the hand on him.

Stiles bit his bottom lip nervously. Had he been reading into things again? But Derek turned his head to look at him and the faintest beginning of a smile was dancing on his lips. He wasn't pulling away. Stiles smiled back at him, some of his nerves dissipating at last.

The rest of the walk went by much too quickly, the two of them strolling the remaining half a block looking like a perfect, genuine couple. Derek pushed open the door to the pizzeria when they reached it and led Stiles inside.

The first, most obvious thing Stiles noticed was the overwhelming, delicious aroma of the pizzas. The second thing was that the walls were absolutely covered in mirrors.

As if he knew what Stiles was thinking, Derek leaned in and whispered, "I thought we'd eat pizza and I'd point out all the reasons I could never forget this face of yours."

"I've, uhm, I have actually seen my face," Stiles pointed out, blood rushing to his cheeks.

Derek shook his head. "I don't think you've seen it like I have."

Stiles couldn't think of anything to say to that. His stomach suddenly felt like it was doing cartwheels or somersaults or… some other kind of gymnastics. In his momentary distraction, he completely missed noticing Derek's face – mostly his lips – coming towards him until they pressed against his mouth. The butterflies in his stomach vanished. The room faded away. There was nothing else but this surprise kiss. Derek's lips were softer than he expected – so was his scruff, which tickled in a way that made Stiles smile even more than just the kiss itself would have.

When Derek pulled away, he too was smiling. "No more games, though," he said breathlessly.

"Naked twister?" Stiles suggested.

Derek made his adorable stifled chuckling-snorting noise again. "Okay. Some games."

"But I promise I'll tip," Stiles offered, "If you promise to smile when you see me."

Derek leaned in for another kiss. "Like I could help myself now."