[ Derek is about as capable of friends as he is of having a secret handshake with Stiles, so the deadpan stare, the combative eyebrow raise and the sarcastic tilt of his head are all back in full force. He... really doesn't want to sit down with Stiles and eat, but he's dedicating himself to this, so when he finally relaxes enough to relent, he does so with the slightest, sliiiightest nod of his head. More of a quick dip of his chin, if anything. Barely even there.
He starts walking without telling Stiles that's what he's about to do, just putting his boots back to concrete and heading away from the post office they'd been loitering against. He's silent the whole walk, not bothering to look back at Stiles as he heads to a diner he knows a few blocks away, and the only time he stops staring dead ahead into the distance is when he whips out his phone to send his friend a text to make sure the cat gets fed. It is... an uncomfortable trip.
It's over in a few minutes, though, thank god, the retro diner Derek found for them all red leather booths and glowing neon signs so stark against the bland cream buildings surrounding it. He's been here enough times to be recognized the second he steps through the swinging door to a bell that signals his entrance, some dowdy old woman cheerfully welcoming him - ah, Miguel, you're back! it's been a while! - before ushering him to his regular seat in the furthest corner. He doesn't take the time to explain the name.
He shifts uncomfortably once his ass is in his seat, back to the wall and side to the window, and he orders something - a burger and a milkshake, in true 50s Americana fashion - mumbling his intention to pay after Stiles adds what he wants. Derek's tired, already rubbing at his temple and struggling with the weight of where to start as the waitress leaves them alone. He figures he'll go with something simple. ]
no subject
He starts walking without telling Stiles that's what he's about to do, just putting his boots back to concrete and heading away from the post office they'd been loitering against. He's silent the whole walk, not bothering to look back at Stiles as he heads to a diner he knows a few blocks away, and the only time he stops staring dead ahead into the distance is when he whips out his phone to send his friend a text to make sure the cat gets fed. It is... an uncomfortable trip.
It's over in a few minutes, though, thank god, the retro diner Derek found for them all red leather booths and glowing neon signs so stark against the bland cream buildings surrounding it. He's been here enough times to be recognized the second he steps through the swinging door to a bell that signals his entrance, some dowdy old woman cheerfully welcoming him - ah, Miguel, you're back! it's been a while! - before ushering him to his regular seat in the furthest corner. He doesn't take the time to explain the name.
He shifts uncomfortably once his ass is in his seat, back to the wall and side to the window, and he orders something - a burger and a milkshake, in true 50s Americana fashion - mumbling his intention to pay after Stiles adds what he wants. Derek's tired, already rubbing at his temple and struggling with the weight of where to start as the waitress leaves them alone. He figures he'll go with something simple. ]
How long ago was the Peter thing, for you?