· 1st Time They Really Touch Its Accidentally – Because Stiles Doesn't Know What The Definition Of 'Footsie' Is
After studying together for a couple of weeks;
Lydia still replied "that's funny." Or she scoffed lightly if she found something amusing, and Stiles never let on how much that irked him, although he tended to talk faster when annoyed.
Stiles still kept bringing files and anxiously sliding them over, instead of saying "Hi" or "Hello." But rarely did Lydia's anxious foot tapping under the table start to wind up like a spring.
"What the-?" Stiles shot upright, then clamped a hand over his mouth.
Looking startled Lydia sat further back at attention. After looking around, and glaring at others to look away she glared toward him, "what is your problem?"
"Your foot," he said, sounding scandalized.
"I kicked you? I didn't realize. Sorry," she sounded noncommittal. Blinkingly she resettled and scooted herself back toward the table.
"I have felt you kick me before," he leaned forward, jabbed a finger at her in accusation. "That was not a kick."
Nonchalantly, she folded her hands over her notes and narrowed her gaze at him critically. "If I kicked your leg, I'm sorry. But I tap my foot when I'm thinking-"
"When you're anxious," he accused.
"When I'm focused on something. You just happen to be in close proximity," she shrugged frankly. "It was bound to happen eventually."
"You tap your foot a lot when you're upset or anxious," he corrected her, ticking examples off on each finger. "So, why did I end up in the crossfire?"
After a long pause, she glared hard at him and he realized his demand was overstepping.
"Fine, I'm sorry I misunderstood." He sat back, arms spread out across the table and said with a sigh, "you can play footsie with me whenever you want."
"I am not upset. I am not anxious and that is not how you play footsie," she started out grating and ended up trying not to laugh.
"Well, I think there's something going on," he said obstinately, crossing his arms and leaning onto the table.
"Something, like what?" she leaned onto her upturn palm, intent on hearing out his reasoning.
"Wait. No," he backpedaled trying to think of a way to clear his thought process, "I just mean if you're feeling anxious and want to talk about it, you can talk about it. I understand there is value in 'tapping'. It can rewire brain chemistry, stress-levels, hormones, blood sugar-"
"How do you know all this?"
"What? We're in a library, I read up on it. The point is," breathing in deep Stiles dove in, tapping on the table for emphasis. "You could just talk to me. I'm right here."
"I'd rather kick you," she said with a smirk and no meanness in her voice.
"You said that wasn't a kick."
"It wasn't playing footsie either," she looked confused, then after a moment of consideration pursed her lips. "Haven't you played footsie before?"
"No!" his alarm seemed panicked although quiet. "I'm not like- I don't exactly- you might know, but I just-" his wavering hands started to speak for him.
"What are you implying?" her eyes narrowed further and her voice lowered.
Stiles cleared his throat thoroughly, then spoke at an even tone "I'm not saying anything. If it makes you feel more comfortable, fine. Put your feet all over me."
At that comment, Lydia struggled to keep her feet still and then she outright grinned, "Look, if I wanted to take off my shoe and run my toes along your inseams, you won't mistake it for a kick. And maybe it would or wouldn't be because of anxiety but you definitely wouldn't be left confused about it."
Slowly, at a stretch Stiles sat back with a wondrous 'oh' of acknowledgment on his lips. Smiling Lydia looked over at him and waited for a reply. He looked around, left and right, to see if anyone in their scope noticed a change in barometric pressure.
"Well, if that's what a guy has to deal with to make a girl less anxious," he said, laughing lightly. At that Lydia did kick him. He grabbed at his shin and hissed in pain, "Or that. That too."