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The Leap Year

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Stiles has spent more money on that small boat that got him through hellish ocean waters than the round LAX-DUB trip overall. He still had to walk through damp sand and get soaked to the bones to reach some sort of civilization, though.

So of course, once he’s in the little town he can’t even remember the name of, he enters the first place he finds open, which turns out to be a decrepit looking pub called The Hale.

“Hello,” he greets once inside to the small group of middle aged men drinking their pints quietly. “My name is Stiles and I’m from California. Long story short, my flight to Dublin got diverted because of the weather and I was wondering if you could help me whichever public transportation to go to Dublin from here?” 

“Oh dear,” one of the men says. “The train hasn’t stopped in Dingle for years. The next bus leaves in a week, though.” The man gives Stiles a semi toothless smile.

“A week? I can’t wait that long,” Stiles looks around, decided to find a solution.

That’s when he notices the bartender and pauses. Well, damn. No one told him bartenders looked like that across the ocean.

“Excuse me, hi,” he waves awkwardly, smiling nervously. All that hotness is a bit intimidating. 

“Do you know if there is a taxi service in town?” he asks then, noticing how ridiculously tanned the bartender is considering he lives in a place where eighty percent of the time it’s raining or cloudy. Also, he’s got insane eyes. Is that hazel? Are they Leprechaun magic eyes? Stiles has no idea, but they are blazing in contrast with the tanned, unbelievably huge and well-toned muscles. Aaaand he’s digressing.

The bartender regards him for a moment and then he offers Stiles a business card without speaking.

“Thanks, man,” Stiles salutes with the card and moves quickly to the public phone right in front of him, before he ends up making an utter ass out of himself in front of the Adonis-like, yet grumpy looking bartender.

After three tones, someone picks up. 

“Hello?” Stiles answers quickly. “I need a taxi to take me to Dublin, is that possible in this weather?”

“Sure is, we just don’t drive American spazzes,” the voice through the receiver says.

“What do you mean you don’t dri- How do you know-” But Stiles never finishes the sentence because the bartender appears in front of him, holding a phone and giving him a lopsided grin.

“Har, har, hilarious,” Stiles leaves the phone booth and claps a few times. “You’re the bartender and the taxi driver. Nice. Well, then. I need you to drive me to Dublin.”

“And why is that?” The grumpy bartender asks.

“I need to be there by the 29th, I have an important appointment,” Stiles decides to say. He’s never been shy about expressing his undying love for Lydia Martin, but somehow telling this stranger feels oddly inappropriate. Stiles blames the sullenness of the Irish hottie and his own self-preservation instincts.

“Well, Stiles from California, let me tell you something about Dublin. I wouldn’t take you to that place even if you paid me 500 euros.”

Stiles rounds his eyes and wonders if the hottie is crazy. “Alright…” he trails off. Not wanting to find out, he decides to change topics. “It’s late and still pouring outside, where can I find a place to stay the night then?”

Grumpy Hottie opens his arms wide and grins sardonically.

“Don't tell me," Stiles points at him. "You run the bar, the taxi service and the town's hotel. Anything else I should know?”

“B&B, not hotel. And you’re lucky, we’ve got a room left.” He moves around the bar and indicates Stiles to follow him.

Once Stiles gets a better look at the place, he realizes this B&B is in serious need of being restored. Some walls are black, like a fire took place long ago and no one had bothered yet to even paint them. It's decrepit and creeping. Just what Stiles needed to wrap a disastrous day.

“What’s your name?” Stiles decides to fill in the silence as they walk through dark corridors.

“Derek Hale,” the bartender / owner / taxi driver / hopefully no psycho / who knows what else really, says.

“The Hale, right! Nice to meet you,” Stiles grins, even when he’s wet in all the itchy places and so is his Louis Vuitton bag, a present from his lovely Lydia.

“I saw a menu in the bar?” he ventures to say when they reach the second floor.

“It’s closed,” Derek grunts out.

“Closed, of course…” Stiles licks his lips nervously. “But what about the famous Irish hospitality?”

Derek pauses in front of a door, seems to falter for a moment and then he opens it to a small room and says, “I’ll hang you a sandwich,” before leaving.

'Hang you'? Stiles shakes his head; the usage of the English language in this side of the Atlantic, man.

Once alone in the room, Stiles makes a mental list of priorities and, not so surprisingly, decides that the top one is charging his phone. He'll need it tomorrow to call his (hopefully) future fiancée and surprise her.

He inspects the small and cramped room, thankful it's not burned, until he finds an old looking plug behind the bed. 

He tries to reach it but it doesn't seem possible with the bed there, so he pulls it aside, tearing the drapes with the movement, which knocks the lamp off the bedside table, too. Stiles squeaks when the bed hits the wardrobe at the bottom and its doors fly open before it falls, spilling its content all over the bed.

Stiles stays still for a second, regarding the disaster he just created.  On the bright side, he finally has access to that plug. 

He decides to make the best of it, and puts in his charger before fixing the mess, which creates a short circuit that kills the electricity. 

Stiles curses. Just his effing luck. 

The light from outside reflects on a frame that fell from inside the wardrobe and he grabs it out of curiosity. He is looking at a picture of grumpy hotel manager with what looks like his family, when Derek appears with a sandwich.

“That’s personal,” he says as he exchanges the frame for the plate. “What are you doing?”

“Uh, plugging something in?” Stiles smells the sandwich to make sure it's edible. “You fried my blackberry, by the way.”

“You fried the whole village, you idiot!” Derek snaps, leaving and taking the framed picture with him.

Well, it could be worse. 

Stiles believes he can still convince Grumpy McHottie Hale to take him to Dublin in time for the leap year.