sterek au: record hale. stiles sees a help wanted sign in the window of the record shop derek owns.
happy birthday to my tumblr bff, foreverblue-navy! you are the best and deserve all the awards for putting up with my fandom whining and ranting and flailing, and all my real life stuff too. thanks for being my cheerleader and my friend <3 since this is one of many sterek aus i’ve promised to write you, i thought i’d give you a taste of your “derek owns a record store” idea until i have time to turn it into a proper fic :D
Stiles is walking towards the coffee shop on the corner, counting the change in his pocket and hoping he has enough for even the smallest cup of coffee. But he’s distracted when the hand-written HELP WANTED sign in the nearby window catches his eye. The script is messy, written in a thick black marker. The store sign painted on the window simply reads Records. Plain. Understated.
Stiles looks at the change in his palm, fifty cents short of a basic cup of black coffee, and enters the store. How hard could the job be? Nobody even listens to records anymore.
The store is small and cluttered, but in a homey sort of way. Shelves upon shelves of vinyl lined the walls, and crates were sitting randomly in the floor. There is a guy on the floor with huge headphones plugged into a turntable, listening to a record and bobbing his head. A couple of girls are browsing through the shelves.
As Stiles makes his way towards the back, he catches sight of a display of cassette tapes, and is that – omg 8tracks. Stiles leans on the counter, taking it all in while he waits for someone to notice he’s there. The song playing overhead is familiar. Some seventies rock song he thinks his mom used to listen to.
He’s combing through his internal music database when an extremely hot guy walks out from the back. He’s wearing a black Johnny Cash t-shirt, a loose grey cardigan pushed up to his elbows, and tight jeans. Stiles tries not to slip in his drool. It’s no better when he raises his eyes and sees dark stubble and black, thick-rimmed glasses. He has to work here, his sex life demands it.
“Can I help you?” The man sounds more angry than helpful, and Stiles wonders if trying to apply for a job in a tiny, hipster record shop while wearing his lego Spiderman t-shirt was the best idea.
The man is still glaring, so Stiles stupidly blurts out, “Is this America?”
The guy’s eyebrows furrow as he looks at Stiles like he’s an idiot. “I mean, the song, not the country. I mean, duh, I know we live in America. ‘Ventura Highway,’ I think?” The man nods, but says nothing else. Stiles can’t stop from staring at his eyes, so bright and odd behind the spectacles. After a few awkward, silent moments, the main raises his eyebrows in question. Stiles is pretty sure he has spoken more with his eyebrows in the last few minutes than with words. “I was here to apply for the job.”
“It’s yours.” The man turns and starts back inside the back room. “Be here tomorrow at 11.”
“Wait!” Stiles yells, and the man halts in the doorway and glances over his shoulder. “That’s it? I just get it like that? No application, no interview, no social security number and references and tedious work history?”
“Do you want the job or not?” the man asks, exasperated.
“Yes!” Stiles exclaims, and the man looks like he’s already regretting his decision. “But why?”
The man shrugs and points to the ceiling. “America. You’re the first person who came in here who recognized my music and didn’t wax poetically about how shit like Bruno Mars and Katy Perry is actually fucking music or try to impress me by mentioning some hipster bullshit like Radiohead, LCD Soundsystem, or goddamn Lana del Rey.”
The man disappears into the back, and Stiles is left there, mouth agape.