With a Red Right Hand

Tell You That You've Been a Good Boy

By Stiles' count, it takes 47 seconds for the handsome stranger to follow him inside.

As soon as Stiles walks into the restroom he starts counting, checking his reflection in the mirror quickly as he times the man. Then he kicks open each stall door to make sure nobody will be getting a front-row porcelain throne to what's about to happen.

It's either going to be a fight or a fuck—hopefully both—and while Stiles may indulge himself in a few kinks, exhibitionism isn't really one of them.

He's just finished kicking in the final stall door when he hears the faint squeak of the door opening and closing.

And then the click of a deadbolt latching into place.

Goddamn, Stiles is about to get it.

He feels adrenaline start to course through his body at the sound of steadily approaching footsteps. Stiles pivots slowly in the cubicle's doorway, relaxing his shoulder against the stall's frame as he turns to face the man.

Holy mother of Captain Crunch, he's even more beautiful up close. Stiles can see every little detail now, and he is not disappointed. Everything that made him sexy as hell from a distance just makes him breathtaking in HD. His scruff is darker, his suit is crisper, his hair seems more meticulously parted.

Even his eyes seem sharper, cutting through Stiles in a way he's never felt before. His head is tilted in a curious angle and his skin seems more tan than it did under the terminal's harsh lighting. The man's got one hand resting in his trouser pocket and the other...

Well, the other is casually holding a shiny SIG Sauer.

Huh.

He's cocky enough to bring a metal gun to an international airport.

Stiles thinks this might be love.

It also answers the question of whether the suit was able to spot Stiles as Stiles spotted him.

That would be a firm yes.

"Assignment number and designation."

Oh. That's more of a hell yes.

Guh, that voice. Stiles has to hold back a shiver at the man's smooth baritone.

When Stiles just smiles at him and doesn't say anything, the guy lets out a quiet huff of annoyance. "Assignment number and designation."

Stiles peeks up at the man from under the dark fringe of his lashes, eyes wide and innocent. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Mister."

The man frowns, taking out a suppressor from the inside of his jacket and slowly screwing it onto the muzzle of his pistol. He tuts at Stiles. "My, my, that's quite the predicament we've found ourselves in. You see, if you did know what I was talking about," he gestures between them with his gun, "then that would mean we're on the same team, as it were. But now that I know you're not..." the man shrugs, unapologetic. "Well, that just means you're an outlier."

He rakes his gaze over Stiles from head to toe. "A dangerous one, by my estimation." The man's eyes hover a little too long on Stiles' mouth, and Stiles can just make out the man's whispered, "Very dangerous."

Oh, baby, yes.

They stare at each other for a few more seconds before Stiles lets his Bambi act drop. He grins at the man wickedly. "You have no idea what game we're playing, do you?"

The gorgeous devil's brow furrows a little, but he waves off Stiles' question. "This is your last chance. Be a good boy and tell me what I need to know."