Sterek One Shots (boyxboy)

Espresso Yourself

Espresso Yourself by fuchs
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Stiles makes a startled noise when he gets slapped in the face with an umbrella. It could possibly, technically, if you squinted, be classified as a squeal, but Stiles challenges anyone to not squeal as they're splashed with frigid rain water. The person who umbrella-maimed him continues walking without a backwards glance, as if this is their personal sidewalk and anyone who gets in their way is fair game. Which is true, essentially. It's New York.

He's only just recovered when a bus trundles past and sprays dirty gutter water all over his legs.

Stiles wants to cry. He could probably get away with it too because he's soaked to the bone, shiver-inducing droplets sliding down his spine, hair plastered to his forehead, and what's a little more water to a drowned rat?

Thunder rumbles overhead and Stiles officially gives up on today.

He should be hauling ass to campus, but he isn't used to this okay, he's used to warm, dry, Californian weather, so he's claiming a mental health day and going back to bed.

He makes it half a block back in the direction he came from before his fingers turn numb and he ducks under the closest awning to avoid frostbite. It's possible he's being slightly overdramatic but Stiles has heard the horror stories, the tales of people becoming too cold to carry on, of falling unconscious outside and dying of hypothermia before anyone can find them sprawled there in the street, and he's not taking any chances.

Granted, those stories took place in Canada. But New York's pretty close to Canada!

Stiles shakes himself off and takes in his surroundings. He's standing just outside what looks like a coffee shop. It's a tiny, hole-in-the-wall, blink and you'll miss it sort of place, with soft lighting and dark wood furnishings. It looks cozy and comfortable and Stiles is almost getting high of the smell of freshly ground beans just standing in the doorway. It's a no-brainer, really.

He floats inside on a coffee-scented cloud like he's ascending to heaven above.

There's a dark-haired girl, or woman, really, arranging muffins behind the counter and she looks up and smiles at Stiles, like an angel welcoming him through the pearly gates. A really, really hot angel, possibly a Charlie's Angel, judging from those heavy black motorcycle boots, but an angel nonetheless.

The smile Stiles gives her in return is probably relieved, or possibly deranged. Stiles doesn't know, he can't feel his face anymore.

There's a clatter and Stiles looks over the girl's shoulder to find a guy standing behind her. He's wearing an apron, dark to match the rest of the shop, darker still all down the middle where there's a coffee stain spreading rapidly. He's staring at Stiles with wide blue-green eyes, and when Stiles meets his gaze he opens his mouth, closes his mouth, and then turns tail and disappears into what Stiles assumes is the kitchen.

Which is a little weird.

It's not exactly the first time anyone has purposefully avoided him, but Stiles usually knows those people and they usually have a good excuse. This guy? Stiles doesn't recognise this guy from Adam. Although he certainly wouldn't mind roleplaying Steve.

The girl turns back from watching the guy flee and lifts her shoulders in a shrug, seemingly as perplexed as Stiles.

"Take a seat, sweetie, we do table service. I'll be with you in a minute," she says.

"Th-Thanks," Stiles chatters at her, and turns to face the rest of the shop.

He'd love to set him self up at one of the tables along the wall with the padded bench seats, to curl up around a cushion and chase the cold away. But he's sopping, literally dripping, and he doesn't really have the money to pay for any soft-furnishings he ruins. So he heads over to the back corner where there's a study little table for two next to an old, polished copper boiler. It's purely for decorative purposes and won't actually keep him warm, but he can imagine.