Chapter Text
Derek should have known the guy was trouble from the beginning. Should have known when he walked in, saw the guy’s hat twisted backwards bro-style and heard him yell, “Dude! Am I glad to see you!” like Derek was a frat brother he hadn’t seen since the last rave. Derek actually looked over his shoulder to see who the hell Frat Bro was talking to. He could’ve just turned around. Could’ve just taken a hint and backed away slowly, never to return. But no. Derek was, after all, a glutton for punishment.
His premise was innocent enough; all he wanted was a reprieve from all the confused, hormone-drenched new freshmen that were coming into Beacon Hills U this year. As he tried to bang out his dissertation they invaded his favorite Starbucks like cockroaches; crawling on everything, shouting at unnecessary volumes, spreading germs, thinking with their genitals instead of their brains. Derek had curled his lip at them all. Typical.
He was a man who valued his peace and quiet, so he finally decided enough was enough. The place he’d discovered, a convenient distance away, was a new cafe in a weathered old strip mall called “Cool Beans”.
It was tiny but not in a cramped way, more in a cozy and homey way. There were bright splashes of color everywhere, like a five-year-old had been commissioned to paint with watercolors. There were lava lamps and a few scattered beanbag chairs among the tables and candles that smelled suspiciously like weed, and even a bottle of hemp lotion on the counter.
It should have been obvious that a fucking weirdo would work there.
Maybe the general tomfoolery of it all accounted for why it was so quiet on a day like today when it should have been packed. But was Derek complaining? Absolutely not. He and backwards-hat-wearing-guy appeared to be the only ones on the entire property. If only he would go away, then everything would be perfect. Derek looked forward to the day coffee made itself.
Not that the idiot was a pain to look at. No, quite the opposite. If Derek was being honest, his eyes softened when he took him in. Smooth skin, big brown doe eyes and a wide grin, perfect teeth, a cute upturned nose. Trim with wide shoulders. Yeah, he was just Derek’s speed. Until he opened his mouth.
“It’s been dead in here all day. I need something to do sooooooo bad. My ADD has been going nuts! For a second there I thought I might even have to resort to actual cleaning,” his eyes widened and he stuttered, “Don’t get me wrong, I clean. We clean. Everything’s spic and span. We break out the purple stuff. No need for any inspections here. Yup. Or should I say, nope?” Clearly an expert at putting his foot in his mouth. Derek’s brow furrowed in disapproval. If not for the evident smell of cleanliness, he would have strode out without another word. But hell, he was here now, and he wanted his coffee.
“So uh, what’s your poison? Right, not the smartest thing to say after I implied the health department should be called on us.”
Very professional, Derek thought sarcastically and lowered his eyebrows into a scowl. The idiot was apparently a clairvoyant idiot, because he rolled his eyes and twisted his hat so it faced the correct way. It displayed an animated coffee bean on stick legs with little sunglasses with its little stick arms crossed. Cool Beans. Right.
”Okay, let's try that again. Welcome to Cool Beans, my good sir, how may I be of service?” He gave an exaggerated bow. Just when Derek didn’t think his scowl could deepen any further. The guy shrugged. ”Hey, that's the best I got.”
Stiles hadn't been lying when he said he was glad to see the angry stranger come striding in their bead-fringed door. He was especially glad in his fuckin’ pants. The dude was everything out of his "unattainable but probably a mass-murderer anyway” dreams. He was dressed like he was both nocturnal and colorblind, his jet hair cut short and perfectly styled, his 5 o'clock shadow looking like it would do an excellent job prickling Stiles’ butt cheeks. Under his caterpillar eyebrows were his shocking green eyes, clear like a forest stream to get all Robert Frost with it, softening his otherwise perfectly chiseled features. Also, his body. Good God. It was clear he had some surprises waiting for whoever could get under that black leather jacket and black V-neck shirt.
It was because of all this that Stiles was expecting him to growl, “Black. Large.” for his coffee order and let that be the end of it. But no. The corners of Stiles’ mouth turned down as Hot Stranger rattled off a grocery list of shit he wanted in this elaborate coffee of his. Lots of words flew around, words like non-fat, soy, steam, various pumps of vanilla and caramel (ha ha, pumps). It was all entirely too specific and it did nothing for his image.
Keeping his mouth shut at opportune times had never been Stiles’ strong suit so he blurted, ”Man, seriously? That's what you want?” The stranger’s glare turned into a look of hatred, and his lips curled back into a snarl. Welp, now he’s gonna rip my head off and display it right next to the parfaits, Stiles thought with an audible gulp.
Why was this beautiful dunce getting under his skin like this? Granted, Derek’s default level of anger was pretty high, but this was ludicrous. He glowered hot enough to set the barista on fire. He didn’t see how it should matter what he got. The barista was just supposed to make it. Derek slapped his cash down on the purple paisley countertop. The guy must have heard Derek’s angry mental rant because he threw his hands up like he was under arrest.
”Okay, Okay, that's what you like, that's what you get. My bad, Big Guy.” He rang Derek up, still yammering, “you’re right, that's what my job is, not to pass judgment or anything. I’m just supposed to make the coffee. So, uh, no judgement here. From me, the person making your coffee. Nope.” As he turned away he mumbled, “That doesn’t reflect on your manhood at all.”
“What?”
“Nothing,” he squeaked, lowering his head.
Derek stalked off, finding the furthest table he could. As fate would have it, it was in a comfy chair (no fucking beanbags for him), next to a tiny little woodburning fireplace. It also allowed him to look out over the rest of the tiny garish shop, or keep his face completely hidden from view and focused on the corner, if he so chose to skootch the chair. It might have made the place a little less nightmarish for him. Maybe.
In the most predictable move in the world, Stiles had put his foot in his mouth and made himself look like a total idiot in front of the hottest piece of man candy he’d ever had the pleasure of laying eyes on. As penance he whipped the guy up the best damn Stiles-esque coffee the world has ever seen and will ever see again, and walked it over to him himself. Hey, it's not like he had a whole hell of a lot to do.
“Here you go, Oscar, enjoy,” He said, aiming for polite. He gave Derek what might have been a shy smile. Cue a brow-furrow and head-tilt of confusion. “The grouch,” Stiles clarified.
Of course. Derek simply blinked, not prepared to entertain American Pie over here. American Pie didn’t get the hint. “I’m Stiles, by the way.” He held out his hand to shake and Derek simply looked at it, then looked back up at him, brows aloft. Stiles brought the offending hand up to rub at his hair. You know, ‘cause he’s smooth like that. “Okay, let’s pretend that never happened.” Derek averted his eyes. Conversation (if you could call it that) over.
“Okay." Stiles held up his hands again and backed away like Derek was a cornered wild animal. He sort of was.
Derek’s eyes burned holes in his table as he tried to ignore the guy long enough to get him to leave. It worked, eventually. He took a sip of his coffee and it was so damn good he had to pull his head back and look at it in surprise. A slight whiff of Dudebro’s scent floated in the air, cutting through the scent of the candles like a cool breeze. Derek’s nose lifted of its own accord, suddenly determined to follow it. It was surprisingly…alluring. It made his wolf curious and attentive in a way he couldn’t quite put his claw on.
Over the next few hours he did his work and nursed his drink. A few other customers trickled in and out, and the barista’s annoying laugh rang out through the place a couple times, but other than that it was just the peace that Derek needed. He managed to get five whole pages typed out. This was undoubtedly better than going to the campus coffee shop, and he would consider coming back. As he packed up he saw the barista look away suddenly, pretending he hadn’t been staring. He was a smooth operator, no doubt about that.
Part of Derek’s decision to return hinged on whether or not he could get the annoying, beautiful barista to shut up around him permanently.
As he walked out of the door he heard, “Bye, Oscar. Really looking forward to seeing you again. Don’t be a stranger.” He wasn’t sure how many parts politeness and how many parts sarcasm he heard. He took another pull of his coffee instead of answering. Damn. It was still good.
Stiles sighed as he watched scowly-but-insultingly-attractive-girly-coffee-drinking guy leave.
“I tried to be charming,” he said aloud to no one, “Really, I did. He’s just so…sour.” because apparently the ghosts in the cafe were skeptical about that. He didn’t have a snowflake’s chance in hell with that guy, but maybe they could at least have a nice customer-barista relationship. That is, if Stiles hadn’t scared him off for good.
Clean crisp air energized Derek when he stepped out of the shop, but he automatically noted the absence of the unique scent. Derek found it to be pleasing, the way clean clothes smell fresh out of the drier, or like bread straight out of the oven. It smelled…like honesty and loyalty and openness. All things Derek could use more of in his life. It was oddly comforting, with a hint of something that made Derek’s blood run hot.
Maybe, in the end, that’s what brought him back.
The next time Derek skulked in, the guy (Stiles, he said his name was. What kind of damn name was that?) saw him coming. Stiles shook his head and shooed him away with both hands. Derek was about to get worked up (not that it took a lot) until the guy said, “Just sit, I got it.” So Derek sat, back in the cozy corner facing out to survey his environment. Moments later Stiles brought out his drink, perfectly made and just as delicious as the first time. “On the house.” His hair wasn’t gelled today, so it fell down on his forehead in gentle ringlets that Derek definitely did not want to gently brush back. Instead, he narrowed his eyes, looking a question at Stiles. His scent wafted over, and Derek blinked slowly as he took it in, feeling placated enough to exercise some patience.
“I’m the managing barista here for a reason,” Stiles said, tapping his temple, looking very pleased with himself.You’re the only barista here, Derek thought, but instead took a sip of his coffee, his glorious, magical coffee. “I know what you're thinking, I'm the only barista here.” Okay, so maybe the guy wasn't a complete idiot. "Besides, your whole thing you got going on here,” Stiles waved his hands wildly over his head, “pretty hard to forget.” Derek lifted a brow.Thing? “You know, the ‘really angry underwear model who likes really specific frou-frou drinks.” Derek growled at him. Stiles flinched. “Okay, okay, leaving you alone now.” He beat a hasty retreat.
Underwear model, huh? Derek supposed he couldn’t complain about that part. As he turned the coffee in circles he happened to glance down at it. A scribble caught his eye. It said “Oscar” on his cup. In spite of himself, Derek’s mouth quirked up a bit at the corner. He’d never admit it, though.
Cool Beans won out again and again. Derek turned up a couple more times that week, and Stiles was just as annoying and hyper and motormouthed as he was the first couple of times. He was also overly friendly. Go figure. Still, he was better than dozens of freshmen, especially when Derek pretended the sound of his voice was white noise.
It turned out to be a handy skill because before Derek knew it, Stiles was inviting himself to sit. And talk. And talk. And talk. He figured it wouldn’t be long before he knew Stiles’ entire life history, and that of his entire bloodline. Example; he learned Stiles’ dad was the sheriff, that he was born and raised in Beacon Hills, and that he played intramural lacrosse at BHU because he sucked but still loved the game. “Also, I’m 21, I love puppies and I’m a Sagittarius,” he said it while suggestively lifting his eyebrows up and down, quickly.
Christ.
He powered right on through Derek’s eye roll. “I’m an engineering major. I’m working here just getting myself through college.” Derek snorted. Stiles shrugged. “I know, not exactly a resume booster. But I like it here. Great boss, good money,” He looked at Derek but cut his eyes away quickly when he said, a little lower, ”great customers.” Derek wondered if he imagined it when the corners of Stiles’ mouth gave a slight upward tug. “What about you?”
“BHU. Sociology,” came the reply, his voice box like a bag of rusty nails from disuse.
“You’re kidding.” Stiles threw his head back and laughed. “That’s a knee-slapper. Oh my God. Imagine that, you and the study of being social!” Derek’s expression only darkened.
“Working on it right now,” He replied, an edge to his voice.
“Wow, you weren’t-you weren’t kidding. Okay, I’m just gonna go.” Sobered and cowed, Stiles pointed an index finger at the counter and smiled awkwardly.
Irony, Stiles thought as he got out of the way of Derek’s red hot glare, the world is filled with it. He did manage to have an actual exchange with Oscar the Sexy Grouch today though, so he counted that as a victory. It made him crave hate sex, all the hate sex. And angry cuddles. Lots of those, too. And if he was being honest, it was even kind of fun to give him a hard time. It was so easy Stiles couldn’t say no. If he wasn't mistaken, he was starting to chip away at that gorgeous veneer.
The next day, when Derek was facing the dirt brown-burnt orange walls of his favorite corner in an effort to help himself concentrate, he had no idea Stiles was looking over his shoulder until he started reading out loud.
“The Packless Alpha: Social Behaviors of Isolated Dominant Wolves.”
This, this was why he liked to face the door. Derek bristled and moved to cover the screen. “Dissertation,” he ground out, voice sounding like it had barely survived a mortar and pestle.
“You’re a wolf. That explains a lot. The growling. And the furriness.” Derek grunted. “Are you isolated?” Are you lonely? is what he wanted to ask.
“No!” Derek snapped with a little more anger than he meant to. It always hurt to be reminded, no matter how much time had passed.
“I see.” Stiles was clearly skeptical, “But you don’t have a pack?”
“I have betas,” He said matter-of-factly, nothing more than an indignant child.
“Ah. So you rebuilt.”
Derek flipped his laptop closed and glared at Stiles over his shoulder, miffed at being laid bare. Stiles took a couple of steps back. “I’m just gonna…” he jerked his thumb towards the counter.
So he was a wolf who’d lost his pack. His original pack. Who the hell were these new clowns who put up with his attitude? They must be masochists.
Yet and still, Stiles rubbed subconsciously at the center of his chest. His heart ached for Oscar. No wonder he was so angry and alone all the time. Who could stand to be in the presence of others when everyone you loved went away? Why continue to fight that fight? Stiles understood this feeling. Yes indeed.
He had a light-bulb moment. Clearly Oscar needed more human interaction, needed an actual friend. A friend in a Stiles-shaped package. He could do that, he could be that. He had zero intention of letting this go. He was going to get Oscar to at least tolerate him. It was his new pet project. If he could do that, the sky was the limit. What he really wanted was to figure out a way to pump Oscar out some angry wolfie babies. They’d be hateful and have ADD, but they’d be smart and beautiful. He tried not to sigh like a lovelorn eighth grader as he watched Oscar from the corner of his eye.
Derek had always been an early riser. He liked to beat the sun out of bed. When he walked into Cool Beans first thing on a cool Saturday morning, as quiet as he usually was, he was greeted by the scent of pastries baking and the sight of Stiles getting set up. He had his back turned to Derek; he was singing to himself, and not well. In reality his back wasn’t even visible because he was bent all the way over. He was doing heaven only knew what; Derek decided to just peep the scenery.
Stiles did a little dance, his narrow hips switching back and forth, giving Derek a full view of that tight little ass. He was gripped with the sudden urge to walk up behind Stiles and slap his jimmy right in between those asscheeks. Was that…arousal he was feeling? He shifted from one leg to the other when he felt a twitch in his dark wash jeans.
He stared for a moment more partially in appreciation and partially in amusement. He had to resist the urge to laugh out loud. Then Stiles started singing loud, and he had to resist the urge to weep.
"I don't want to wait for our liiiiiiiiives to be over-“ twitch, twitch “-I want to know right now what will it beeeeeeee-“
“Stiles."
“Aaaaahh!" Stiles jumped nearly a foot into the air, flailing as always, juggling the metal pieces of the coffee maker and making them clang and ring loudly in his hands, filling the otherwise silent coffee shop with the cacophony.
“Jesus, could you warn a guy? For once in your life try not to be so creepy, Creepster.”
Stiles realized he’d been bent all the way over, twerking it for the world (read: Oscar) to see. There was no better way to look like he was, well, advertising. He should have had a sign across his ass that said, “pound me now, Sullen Sexy Wolfman” or “Mysterious coffee loving Alphas enter here.”
Derek just stared at him coolly and took a deep breath through his nose. Cue the sexual tension. Ever the one to pass the buck, Stiles accused him of being the aroused one.
“Eying the merchandise, were you?”
Derek stifled a smirk and sidestepped the question. “Paula Cole, really?”
“What? I watched a lot of Dawson.”
“Shaking your ass and singing teenage angst ballads, but you called my masculinity into question?”
“Holy shit, did you just utter an entire sentence?” Derek immediately clamped his mouth shut. He pressed his lips together and strolled away, heading for his table. “Nope, it’s too late!” Stiles’ voice chased him. “I got you to say a sentence! Next thing we know, you’ll actually be cracking a smile!” Stiles thought he might explode. His plan was working, even when he was making an ass of himself. Pun intended.
“Never,” Derek growled over his shoulder, even as he hid the smile.
Ah, fuck. The first thing Derek noticed was the ridiculous line. It was all of three people but still, for a place like Cool Beans, it was like the not-VIP line at a nightclub. A few people even came in to line up behind him. Never one for patience, he simply walked up to the counter.
“Hiya, Oscar. How’s it goin’?” Stiles’ handsome face and fresh scent was an instant balm, soothing him.
“It’s going.” He answered simply, slapping his money down so he could sit in his spot for the wait. He’d been coming in for several weeks now and it was their routine. Derek set cash down and sat, with Stiles understanding that the change was his tip. He’d never bothered to correct Stiles about his name.
“Just adds to your mystique, right?” Stiles had quipped. Besides, Derek liked having a nickname- well, liked that Stiles had given him a nickname. But anyone who knew that would have to die.
There were other people actually sitting in the cafe today. Quite a few, actually. The nerve. Derek looked over to see his favorite spot occupied; that in and of itself was enough to make his eyes flash Alpha Red, but he reminded himself that he didn’t own anything there and sat in a different spot. It just wasn’t the same. Especially since he was relegated to an actual fucking beanbag chair.
Looking around at all the new patrons, he realized how busy Stiles must be with the volume of people. There were a few laughing and joking with him. Did that mean he wasn’t going to be able to bring Derek’s coffee over? He sulked, and realized that he might be a bit spoiled. But so what? He put up with how Stiles would invite himself to sit and bump his gums. Grumbling, he had to admit to himself that he wanted that, too. Stiles running his mouth was a part of it, even if Derek only grunted in response and pretended to be irritated. He didn’t like other people taking up Stiles’ aggravating attention. He felt something annoyingly similar to a pang of jealousy.
Moodily he decided that he didn’t like this time of day and he would take his drink to go and get today’s work done at home. He stood and waited at the counter until Stiles plopped his cup down, already out of breath and wearing a slight sheen of sweat across his hairline beneath his silly hat, which he had facing forward for once.
“Sorry it took so long.” Derek just nodded his understanding and headed for the door.
“Oscar!” Stiles called as he slipped under the counter to rush up behind him, “Why are you leaving, Dude?” He sounded disappointed, maybe even wounded.
“Too crowded,” Derek was brusque. Maybe a bit too brusque.
Stiles worried at the hem of his t-shirt. “Sorry. Business has been picking up lately. Good for the cafe, not so good for me when I want to tell you how I beat the record for number of hot dogs I can fit in my mouth.” His eyes went wide. “Oh shit, that didn’t sound right-“
“Excuse me, but can I put my order in?” They were calling him. Damn customers, ripping Stiles’ attention away. Just when the story was getting good.
“Shit, I gotta- I’ll see you soon, though, right?” Derek said nothing. What did it matter? He was just another customer to Stiles, right? He left without a word.
If he stayed away for a few days, it was not because he was pouting. If he stayed away for a few days, it was not because he wanted Stiles to miss him and feel bad and magically make it so he was the only customer to ever come to Cool Beans. He’d thought the Starbucks was bad before; now it made him want to simultaneous hurl and murder. He took to brewing coffee at home, but everybody and their brother knows you can’t make coffee at home the way they do it at your favorite shop.
Satisfied that he’d made his absence felt, and missing his favorite barista and his perfect coffee, Derek finally returned one torturous week later. He could tell from the lot that it was nice and quiet, just the way he liked it. He didn’t see Stiles’ Jeep, though (he knew what Stiles drove because it was permeated in that amazing scent of his, not because Derek was a stalker, alright?). He walked in to find a lovely dark-skinned young woman behind the counter. He was totally perplexed, as this had never happened before. He didn’t even know there were other employees. He planned to ignore his mounting distress at Stiles’ absence (it was as if Derek’s behavior had chased him away) and coolly place his order with this new barista and pretend nothing was amiss.
Instead he very eloquently said, “Stiles?”
It took the woman no time to reply, “Ah, you must be Oscar. Stiles isn’t here today, but if you want to sit, I’ll get your order ready for you.” She looked him up and down, sizing him up. “He wasn’t kidding when he said you were model-hot.”
Stiles was telling people he thought he was hot? Derek tried not to show how furiously embarrassed that made him. He went to sit without another word. When he reached the corner he paused. On “his” special table stood a handmade sign that might have been the work of a kindergartener. It was maybe six inches tall and the top read, in bold red letters, “reserved”. Beneath that was a drawing of Oscar the Grouch in his trash can, waving his balled-up green fist. Derek tried not to, but despite himself he grinned wide. He turned his face toward the wall to hide it. This whole “trying not to smile because of something Stiles did” was becoming a recurring theme for him, and he was failing miserably. Or happily?
The young woman -Braeden, her name tag read- brought his coffee to him and gave him a knowing look that he couldn’t quite interpret.
“Here you go, Oscar.” The intonation when she said his moniker made her sound like she knew something he didn’t. A secret of sorts.
The coffee was spot on, although it didn’t taste as good as when Stiles made it (or maybe he was just being extra grumpy because it wasn’t made by Stiles’ hands). He tipped Braeden a little extra for putting up with his shenanigans. “Thanks,” he told her gruffly.
“It’s a pleasure. You know, Stiles talks about you all the time. He wanted me to make sure his favorite customer was well taken care of,” she gave him that knowing look again, and winked. The fuzzy feeling Derek got wasn’t just from the hot coffee.
Sometimes Derek would come on days in which other people actually showed up, as much as he hated to see them, but the sign would always be there waiting for him. He would look over and see Stiles casting his face down to hide a grin.
Every once and a while, other patrons would snark about how a little table in a teensy coffee shop could be reserved. It was the most ridiculous feeling in the world, but Derek couldn't help but feel a little special. Yet another thing he’d never admit to, especially not to Stiles.
“How do you always know when I’m gonna be here?” He finally asked one Sunday when the clouds were high and rolling fast, causing shadows to dance on the knotty pine floor of the already eclectic coffee shop.
Stiles scratched nervously at the back of his neck, unable to meet Derek’s eye. “I don’t,” he replied sheepishly, looking up from beneath the curl of his hair. It had grown a bit longer now, and Derek found he liked it, even when Stiles turned his damn hat backwards and let a shock of the chocolate strands flow over the velcro strap at the back. So, the sign never officially left the table.
“Well, you know, you’re my favorite customer, I have to make sure you’re taken care of.” This was the second time he’d heard that. This time from Stiles’ own mouth, which gave him a warm feeling all over that he couldn’t quite interpret.
Stiles rushed back behind his cash register where it was safe. He needed to get the hell away from Derek before he heard the unnatural quickening of his heart, or smelled the nerves on him. Damn Derek and his wolf senses, able to detect his crush. He’d played the fool before, he wasn’t prepared to do it again.
At least, not unless Derek was willing to also play a fool in a mutually foolish relationship. But he never would. So.
It was the anniversary. It also made him think about Laura. His pack knew what day it was, and they gave him a wide berth. He’d shut them down savagely when they’d tried to be there for him before, so nowadays they just gave it a rest.
He wasn’t sure why he ended up at Cool Beans. Really he wasn’t even sure how. He just jumped in the Camaro to clear his head and when he looked up he was pulling into the lot, right next to that POS Jeep. If anyone could distract him with useless yammering, it was Stiles.
He lifted his chin at Stiles in greeting on his way in. Stiles waved back, smile spread across his face. It wasn’t long before he dropped down across from Derek, coffee in hand, mouth at full speed.
“Okay, so we got this new industrial fucking strength coffee press in today, and I swear the thing is already my archenemy and this is my villain origin story-“ he trailed off when he saw Derek’s lowered chin. “What’s wrong?”
He received an eyebrow furrow.
“Well, not only are you facing the corner today, your glare isn’t as solder-hot as it usually is, only lukewarm today. So I know something’s wrong.” Derek frowned, his mouth twisted in a stubborn pout. “Dude, don’t try to deny it.” Finally Derek just looked away, his expression heavy and tired. Stiles’ eyes softened.
“Be right back.”
A plate materialized from thin air, coming over Derek’s shoulder to rest on the table in front of him. Stiles’ weight crushed gently on his back, the warmth of his flat abs radiating through his clothes onto the nape of Derek’s exposed neck. On the shiny porcelain plate was an artisan prosciutto and egg sandwich, along with a thick slice of blueberry pound cake. His favorite things, besides the coffee.
“It’s not much, but they’re a couple of your frou frou favs…”
Derek’s tension dissipated under Stiles’ strong hand on his shoulder. It lingered there, the heat melting into the sweet spot where neck met shoulder, calming him. If he wasn't mistaken, he felt the light brush of Stiles’ thumb as he stroked it over the thick dark hair at the base of Derek’s skull.
He took more comfort from Stiles’ touch than he should have. It was more comfort than he’d allowed himself in a what seemed like eons. Suddenly he was grateful Stiles couldn’t see his face. Normally he kept it so carefully sculpted as if from stone, but in that moment the stone threatened to crumble.
Stiles could be an obnoxious little fuck at times, but he knew how to make inferences. Angry, emotionally closed off Alpha writing about being alone. Today more closed off than usual, but also less angry, which meant he was hiding sadness. It wasn’t hard to see the look of a person who's lost someone. Or several someones, judging by the subject of his dissertation.
“Whatever it is, if you ever want to say full sentences about it, hell, even paragraphs, I’m here. I got your back.”
Derek sighed and just breathed him in as Stiles smoothed his hand gently up and down the aforementioned back.
Stiles felt Derek sigh and pulled back like Derek’s skin was a lit match. As much as he loved how malleable the heavy muscle of Derek’s shoulder was under his fingers, the last thing he wanted was to push past boundaries. He turned to give Derek some space. It came as a surprise to most, but he also knew when not to flipping pry. Derek felt the tiniest twinge of devastation when Stiles took his hand away. He hadn’t meant to make him feel uncomfortable.
“I, uh, It’s Derek,” Derek found himself blurting. He just didn’t want Stiles to walk away quite yet. Not yet. “Derek Hale.”
“What is?” Stiles head did an inquisitive-puppy tilt.
“My name.” The way Stiles’ face lit up make Derek feel a happy buzz all over. You would have thought it was Christmas, watching Stiles jump up in the air, fists pumping.
“I got a name! Your actual name! Unbelievable! I deserve a prize or something. Scotland Yard should hire me. MI-5. I’m the next Bond.”
“Easy, Tiger. It’s not the winning Powerball numbers,” Derek couldn’t help but half-smirk and roll his eyes. Only because his guard was down.
“Half a smile too? This is a special freakin’ day. We should mark this on our calendars!” Derek gave him a “you’re hopeless” look. “You know what?” Stiles held open his arms, inclining his head with a knowing smirk. “I’m a hugger. Are you a hugger?”
“No.”
“We gotta hug it out, Dude. We gotta. This is a monumental moment in our relationship.”
“What relationship?” Don’t tell anybody, but Derek really liked the sound of that.
“Bring it in, Big Guy.”
“Stiles, no-“ He went stiff as a board as Stiles embraced him, tight, pinning his arms to his sides. Derek made zero attempt to return the hug, which Stiles completely ignored. Now was the time for pushing past boundaries. Derek wasn’t running for the hills; Stiles considered himself victorious.
Although Derek sighed like his time was being wasted, as mule-stubborn as ever, it was possible he relented a bit, relaxed in Stiles' sinewy arms just a tad. He kinda loved how Stiles didn’t hold back, and didn’t give a damn about Derek’s uptight-osity. The scent he usually only enjoyed from a distance was mainlined directly into his nostrils from millimeters away. Derek could make out all the things that made him who he was; Irish Spring soap and cheap cologne, exotic coffee beans, various scone ingredients, leather and a hint of sweat and simple Stiles, his own scent markers that no one else would have. Like a fingerprint. Derek inhaled him deeply, committing the scent to memory. Maybe he even thought about hugging Stiles back.
“I love that we’re friends now.“ Stiles murmured into his shoulder. He still hadn’t let him go.
"Can it really be considered a friendship if one party is being held hostage?” Came Derek’s dry retort.
"Wait a minute, are you giving me sarcasm? Is that sass that I hear?” All he got was a snort. “Come on. Admit that we’re friends. I wanna hear you say it!” He poked Derek in the side, which caused him to have to suppress a giggle because little-known fact; he was ridiculously ticklish. Stiles was unrelenting as a tickle monster, and in seconds Derek broke out in a full-on one hundred watt smile.
“Woooooow.” Stiles stared at him like he was from outer space.
Derek was quick to compose himself. “What?” Shame and bashfulness colored his face, but he hadn't felt this shade of giddy since he was a teenager, and to be honest he hadn't realized he missed the feeling so much.
Stiles shook his head in wonder. “That smile.” He couldn’t believe the sour wolf denied the world such greatness. Stiles wanted to press the back of his hand to his forehead and swoon like a Southern Belle in the summer heat. The man did things to him.
Derek made a show of straightening out his im-a-badass jacket and was much too loud when he cleared his throat. “I’ll give you reluctant acquaintance.”
“Well hey, there’s a start.” Stiles balled up his fist and knuckled into Derek’s shoulder, pushing off gently. Derek didn’t even try to behead him for that.
In the short walk back behind the cash register a buzzing started in Stiles’ head; the mindless, relentless, pastel-colored haze of falling in love.
His name. What a ridiculously perfect name, too. Speaking of ridiculously perfect; that blasted smile. If he wasn’t completely gone off this man before, well. He should buy a pink notebook with cats on it so he could scribble “Stiles hearts Derek” in it a million times. Or maybe “Mr. Stiles Stilinski-Hale.” Yeah. ‘Cause he’s a hyphenator. He snatched a piece of receipt tape and went to town.
When Stiles couldn’t see his face, Derek smiled again, a bright, miles-wide smile that hurt his stubbly cheeks.
He hadn’t smiled this hard, especially on this day, in a long time.
Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to consider him an un-reluctant acquaintance.