Sterek One Shots (boyxboy)

They Call Me Stuart

They Call Me Stuart (That's Not My Name) by KuriKuri
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Stiles is practically dead on his feet by the time he manages to stagger through the coffee shop door and to the front counter. Really, he should be used to getting up at six am, but apparently summer has completely undone all of the hard work he's put into his college sleep schedule. Well, at least he's feeling better than he did freshman year, when he was under the impression that he could stay up until three am partying and still be functional for his eight am organic chemistry lecture. (Hint: He couldn't.)

"You're not on something, are you?" he hears someone grumble, reminding him that he's spent the last few moments zoning out instead of placing his order.

Stiles shoots the blond, douche-y looking guy a glare. He's just tired, not high.

"I'll have a, uh, medium mocha," Stiles finally says, squinting up at the drink menu on the back wall.

"Name?" Douche-y blond guy asks, picking up a disposable paper cup.

"Stiles," Stiles replies, grimacing as he watches the guy scribble down 'Stuart' on the side of the cup. Whatever. It's not worth the trouble of trying to get him to change it.

He pays and tries not to get too annoyed when the guy puts his change down on the counter instead of directly into his hand, but it's fairly difficult. He supposes there's a reason why this guy got stuck with the very early morning shift. Stiles sighs and makes his way down to the drink pick-up area, leaning up against the counter and pulling his phone out of his pocket.

He blinks blearily down at the screen before letting out a little groan and shoving it back into his pocket. He's too tired to focus on much of anything right now. Instead, he finds himself glancing over the counter at where the barista is making his drink - and hello gorgeous.

Stiles decides that it's way too early in the morning to deal with a shoulder to waist ratio that perfect. Or eyes that multi-colored. Or, you know, all of this guy.

"Mocha for Stuart?" the barista says, glancing over at Stiles, and it's all he can do not to start drooling.

The barista frowns and squints down at the name scribbled on the side of the cup before looking around at the pretty much empty coffee shop again. Jesus, Stiles is pretty sure he's going to turn completely to mush once he hears the guy call out his name to -

Oh. Wait.

"Shit, um, that's me!" Stiles blurts out, his cheeks heating. "I'm kind of useless without caffeine, so. Yeah. Sorry."

"Right," Hot Barista - Derek, according to his nametag - says, eyeing him skeptically. He hands over the coffee, though.

"Thanks, man," Stiles replies, smiling weakly. Cleary Derek already thinks he's a weirdo.

"Have a nice day," Derek answers, his voice gruff, but it seems at least a little bit sincere. A little bit.

"You too," Stiles says before hightailing it out of there. He's pretty sure every minute he spends in the guy's presence is equal to another embarrassing thing that comes out of his mouth. He's practically a volcano of awkwardness. It's a problem.

"Well, there's another coffee shop I'm never going to again," Stiles mutters to himself once he's safely out of the building.

Really, he's a hopeless case.

---

He goes back the next morning. Lydia's right - he's horrible at knowing when to give up and cut his losses. Maybe he has some sort of humiliation kink, which, yeah, he probably shouldn't be examining too closely when hot-as-fuck barista Derek is standing less than ten feet away.