TW Fic: Unspoken (Derek/Stiles)
Title: Unspoken
Teen Wolf; Derek/Stiles
7,000 words; PG
You can also read this here at AO3.
Thanks to strokeof-genie for beta! All remaining mistakes are my own.
Summary: Billy was Stiles second roommate, but he’s hardly worth mentioning because he was there less than four hours. Unfortunately for him, he moved in on the Derek’s third visit to campus. It didn’t go well for either Billy or Stiles.
Unspoken
By Sori
Stiles is stuck with a Saturday night shift at the library, which means he’s watching a mostly empty library while screwing around on his computer. If anyone asked, Stiles could help with the whole financial collapse of the college system by reminding them that they could send home the librarians, turn off the lights, and lock up the doors of the library from Friday till Monday.
Cash in the pocket, and it’s not like anyone would notice.
Instead, he’s sitting here cashing in his $9 an hour work-study job while looking up some weird Romania book translated into English about a gypsy tribe of werewolves that some paranoid asshole in the country has “discovered”. He’s deep into the intricate social hierarchy of the alpha wolf and his four mates when he gets a strange tingle up his spine and it’s so familiar that he doesn’t even need to look up. That’s the creeper tingle right there; he’s gotten good at recognizing it the last few months.
“Fact or fiction: gypsy werewolves practice polygamy? Because I’m telling you, from what I’m reading, these Romanian gypsy wolves are kinky assholes,” Stiles says to the source of his creeper vibe.
No answer forthcoming, Stiles looks up and sees Derek leaning against the information desk, eyes closed, breathing deeply.
“Whoa. You okay? You look like shit.” Stiles takes a closer look at Derek. It’s a little disturbing to see his skin paler than normal and his eyes bloodshot and glazed over; he looks like he’s already been on a weekend bender even though it’s only Friday.
Derek ignores him. He just keeps up a constant in-and-out breathing motion. In through the nose, out through the mouth, head slightly tilted back and....oh.
“Thought you’d be used to the college stench by now.” Stiles slides his bottle of water toward Derek. “Drink up; it’ll help cover the smell.” He admits that water probably won’t do much for wolf senses, but it’s not like there’s anything bad about watching Derek chug down some water.
“Shut up, Stiles.” It comes out more of a growl, but Derek’s eyes are closed and his breathing is starting to slow down. Things must not be too serious since his fingers are loosening their grip on the edge of the table and his shoulders seem to be sinking down slow and steady, the tension draining out in little bits and pieces that Stiles can actually see.
That weird tingle is in his lower back this time, sort of an odd collection of tension and muscle cramping that doesn’t feel uncomfortable as much as just different from the norm. Possibly he’s been cutting back on the Adderall too much.
“So, gypsy werewolves. What do you know?” Stiles digs out a candy bar from the backpack at his feet and slides it over next to the water. “Eat, moron. You look like you’re about to fall over.”
Derek snorts and Stiles can’t help a little smile. The smile spreads wider when Derek tears open the candy bar wrapper and breaks the candy in half. He passes the smaller half back to Stiles with a nod.
“Why do you assume I’d know anything?” Derek asks around a mouthful of candy. He’s already looking better than when he showed up a few minutes ago.
Stiles rolls his eyes at Derek in answer.
“Don’t think I’ve ever met a gypsy werewolf. Especially not one from-” Derek says, as he leans all the way across the counter and peers at Stile’s laptop screen. “Romania. And people usually are kinky, being a werewolf is just incidental.”
Derek leans a little closer, staring at the screen intently, his head next to Stile’s shoulder. The heat from Derek’s body is rolling off in waves strong enough that Stiles could track Derek’s motions by the temperature changes he can feel moving across his own skin.
“Most wolves are monogamous, though,” Derek says.
He’s so close that Stiles can feel the words against his cheek as Derek speaks.
Stiles clear his throat. “One wolf kind of people, huh? Okay, I can work with that.” Stiles starts to close out the tabs open in his browser, looking at the clock and realizing he’s got 15 minutes until Julie shows up to relieve him.
“For the right person, yeah.”
“Huh. So, Scott and Allison and their disgusting little love fest....not unusual?”
There’s no answer to that apparently, so Derek just shrugs his shoulders and then rests his forearms on the desk. He’s practically draped across the desk now, eyes closed, slowly taking a bite of chocolate bar and looking like there’s nothing in this world he’d rather be doing.
It’s weird even by Beacon Hills' standards.
***
Beginning of senior year, Derek had pulled the pack aside and gave them The Talk. A year later, Stiles was still capitalizing the conversation in his head. If he could, he’d italicize it and bold it and put it in size 18 font because the conversation actually had been that important.
Derek, in all his wisdom, started the conversation with, “You can’t leave the area.”
Stiles didn’t need a magic eight ball to figure how well that was going to go over with this particular group. Scott was the first one to argue; probably because those words caused a deep and mortifying fear.
“But Allyson’s thinking of applying to Berkeley-” he started. He stopped suddenly when Derek clapped a hand onto his shoulder hard.
“Good for Allison. You can write her long letters because you’ll still be in Beacon Hills,” Derek said. “We stay together. There’s strength in numbers.” He’d gotten good at the Alpha voice over the last year. It was a tone that pretty much dared anyone to question his word.
Stiles could see Scott start to argue, but even Scott had figured out that he should shut his mouth when Derek pulled that voice out. It had to be hard since this was Allyson and usually Scott was fairly willing to argue anything Allyson related. Still, it didn’t take long before Jackson, Scott and Lydia were all nodding their heads in agreement.
“Pack first.” Derek said and then stared them down until they bowed their heads in submission.
That was that.
By that time, Stiles had already sent his application into Humboldt State. It had seemed like the obvious choice since it was close to home, just a quick 45 minute drive, and he’d be around for his dad. Before The Talk, he’d thought it was the perfect answer to everything.
After The Talk, though, he spent a lot of hours figuring out all the things he could do at Beacon Hills Community College. He wasn’t about to haul ass out of town and leave them all to their own stupidity. After all, he had a place in their pack, Stiles thought.
Maybe Scott didn’t understand, but Stiles did. You don’t desert your pack.
When his acceptance letter came, he pushed it under his stack of research books on the corner of the desk and didn’t give it another thought. At least not until he came home one night to see Derek sitting in his desk chair, acceptance letter in hand, staring intently at the wall of Stiles’ bedroom.
“You tell your dad?” Derek asked, shaking the letter in his hand.
Stiles shook his head. “No point. He’ll be happy to keep me around.”
“No,” Derek said in that voice that commanded obedience. This wasn’t a request. He carefully held Stiles’ gaze. “Send this off tomorrow. And talk to your dad.”
He hopped out of Stiles’ open window, as quickly and quietly as he had entered and Stiles was left standing at the crescent moon hanging dreary outside his window.
When Stiles looked down the Yes, I will be attending Chico State University box was already checked.
Maybe he’d overestimated his part in this little thing of theirs. He’s wasn’t pack, at least not in any way that Derek considered pack.
It felt final in a way that the previous conversation hadn’t.
Stiles sent in the acceptance letter the next day. His dad was thrilled.
***
Stiles watches as Derek methodically makes his way through his half of the candy. Bite, chew, swallow, lick his lips, repeat. He knows he should look away, knows he should pack up his backpack, clean up the desk area, do anything except stare like his own brand of creeper as Derek eats. Still, he can’t bring himself to look away.
Probably a werewolf thing, Stiles decides. No one gets to look good with chocolate smeared around their lips, except Derek Hale apparently.
“Saturday night, seriously, what were they thinking scheduling me on a Saturday night?” Stiles hears as the library door softly whooshes open and closed.
Looking up, he sees Julie walking in the front entrance of the library, leather bag slung over her shoulder, a to-go cup of coffee from the stand in the next quad over in her hand. He can tell the exact moment she spots Derek. Her steps slow, her hips start a slow, pronounced sway, and she takes a moment to lick her lips and adjust her tight tee shirt down an extra inch.
It’s kind of incredible to watch. Any other time, Stiles is pretty sure that he’d be enjoying the show. Not so much right now.
He waves his hand half-heartedly and starts packing up his laptop.
She glides all the way over to where their standing and leans low across the desk, close
enough that if she moves more than a couple of inches she’ll be nuzzling into Derek’s chest.
Stiles' fingers clench tightly around the strap of his backpack.
It’s obvious from the angle that she’s got a red bra on today, a bit of lace lining the edges of the cups. It’s also obvious that’s the whole point of her position. Stiles can’t help but notice that it’s a pretty good view as far as views go, but he’d rather she pull up her shirt and step back a little.
“Mmmm...Stiles,” Julie draws out his name, her voice lower than usual, as she just barely nudges up against Derek’s chest. “Who’s your friend?”
And if he didn’t hate her a little already, he’d be hating her now. She’s got just the right inflection on the word friend that it somehow communicates unbelievable sarcasm in the face of Stiles having a friend like Derek Hale. With a certain tone, it could sound like a compliment (good boy making friends with the bad boy and all that shit), but it doesn't take a genius to figure out that’s not what she means at all.
“Julie, Derek,” he says, nodding his head toward them as he slips into his sweatshirt. “And now that we all know each other...” Stiles says, but he’s interrupted when Julie leans even closer into Derek, looking him carefully up and down, eyes tracing the lines of his shoulders under his jacket, and wandering slowly all the way down.
And, wow. No, really, really wow. If she was a man someone would be screaming about sexual harassment because her look is all invitation and oh yeah and oh my god, now please wrapped up into one expression.
“Derek,” she says, rolling the word across her tongue. Like she needed that one word to get her point across.
And finally, that’s what gets Derek to stand up straight and open his eyes. Stiles sighs because, of course, this is his life.
“Alright, boys and girls, I’m taking off. You two,” Stiles waves his hand, “enjoy your thing.” He tosses the backpack on his shoulder and heads for the door.
“Stiles.”
Derek’s voice stops him before he even makes it two steps, and he’s surprised and possibly relieved when he feels Derek’s arm brush up against him. They’re standing just that much too close right in front of the door. Stiles can’t help but notice that their entire bodies are angling toward each other.
Stiles shuffles back half a step and looks from Derek to Julie. No one can ever say that he’s a cockblock.
Derek’s face curls down into a frown and he takes a step toward Stiles, bringing them closer than they were before. “Where to?” He asks keeping his eyes focused on Stiles.
“Uh,” Stiles says, wincing when he catches Julie’s glare out of the corner of his eye. But honestly, her glare is pretty much near the bottom of his list of things to be concerned about. Right now, Derek is topping that list because the pinched off, tired expression is back on his face.
There’s something going on here that Stiles hasn’t quite figured out.
“Where?” Derek asks again, and he’s shoving his shoulder hard into Stiles, pushing them toward the door.
“Dorm?” Stiles says, completely unsure if it’s a trick question. “Or...food, maybe? Haven’t eaten yet.” And maybe his voice is a little hopeful there, but who could blame him. Lunch was a long, long time ago and it’s not like he’d complain about getting another chance to sit across from Derek for a meal. It’s become sort of a tradition of sorts.
And that right there might be a little surprising. Stiles hadn’t realized that Derek’s actually been visiting enough for them to have traditions. It was all strangely normal when Stiles thinks about the fact he’s got a dinner tradition with a werewolf that would have gladly killed him not too long ago.
“Food works. Let’s go to that place over on Fourth Street with the hot wings.” Derek speeds Stiles up, using his body to hurry Stiles toward the east campus exit, the one closest to the visitors’ parking lot.
“Wings. Oh, fuck. Let’s go.” Stiles can feel his stomach grumbling and suddenly, he’s starving. That weird tingling in his stomach has eased up and maybe it was hunger, like those hunger pains he used to get as a kid when he skipped his after school snack and had to wait until dinner to eat. He’s feeling good, great in fact, despite the hunger. Good enough to reach out and grab a hold of the arm of Derek’s jacket and tug him toward the parking lot at a faster pace.
“Hurry up,” he says, tugging a little harder, and he thinks that maybe he hears Derek’s quiet snort of laughter.
***
Stiles had been on campus exactly three days the first time Derek showed up. It was out of the blue, no phone call or email or text. Scott hadn’t even warned him and, seriously, what the hell kind of friendship was that?
He’d opened the door to his dorm room expecting to see his douche bag new roommate, Shaun, screwing around with whatever stuff he spent his days screwing around with. Probably a new bong or maybe detailed plans on how to be an ass to anyone not pledging every frat on campus.
Instead, he walked in to find Derek on Stiles’ bed and Shaun sitting across from him in his own computer chair. They were having a nice little chat that involved Derek staring and growling, and possibly making threatening hand motions.
Shaun looked two seconds away from peeing himself.
It was completely awesome.
“Making friends, are we?” Stiles asked, flopping down on his bed next to Derek, close enough that he could feel Derek’s body pressed against him. He watched in fascination as Derek’s shoulders relaxed just a little and he could feel Derek’s hands slowly start to unclench[J2] , loosening up into a normal hands instead of the ‘about to sprout claws’ white knuckle grip that Stiles had gotten to know pretty well over the last few years.
“Yeah, I think...I’ll just....” Shaun stood up, the chair clattering over behind him as he bolted out of the room, his cell phone out and already pressed to his ear.
“Wow. Alright. Think he’ll ever come back?” Stiles closed his eyes and rested more carefully into the bed. It’d been a long few days and he wasn’t used to the bed yet because he’d slept like crap. It had to be the bed. He wasn’t going to admit to homesickness, not for anything.
“Probably not,” Derek said and there was an edge of smug to the tone. But the smugness sort of got lost because he was leaning over, resting his forearms on his knees and just sort of breathing nice and easy, like maybe he was just enjoying the moment.
Werewolf nirvana, thought Stiles. Creepy.
He could feel his eyes start to drift closed and he let it happen, nice and slow. He probably should ask about Scott and how things were going, and about what ever messed up shit was going on back home, but he didn’t have the energy. Mostly, he was just going to spend a moment being all blissed out that finally, after three days of college and two days of moving and five not-quite teary phone calls from his dad, he felt like he was someplace close to home.
***
At the restaurant, they grab their normal spot in the back corner of the room. Stiles always sits with his back to the wall. It’s become some sort of weird, freakish obsession with Derek over the last few months.
Derek’s a surprisingly effective whiner.
But more often than not when the two of them eat out, Derek just hangs his back out there for the world to shoot. He’s got to have his reasons; whatever they are, but he never shares. Instead, he just sits down with his back to the door and glares until Stiles remembers that this is what they always do and sits down in his nice, safe little corner.
He admits that he doesn’t have a clue what’s going on in Derek’s crazy brain, but it’s obviously some sort of thing. It seems counter-intuitive for a werewolf to voluntarily put his back toward the danger, but whatever. Stiles can roll with weird.
Besides, it’s actually hilariously easy to mess with him every single they walk in someplace. It’s a guaranteed five minutes of amusement with almost zero effort. Shocking, though, Derek Hale is a surprisingly effective whiner.
The waitress nods at them from across the room. A few minutes later, she shows up at their table with a Miller for Derek and Sprite for Stiles. She’s already got her order pad out and is writing down their order before asking, “The usual right? Two buckets of wings and fries?”
And that right there makes Stiles think about how often they must eat here to have a usual order and, apparently, a usual waitress. Yeah, they’ve eaten here a few times, maybe every other time Derek shows up on campus, so...a couple times a week. Stiles has to think about whether that is considered a usual or just a favorite place to eat.
“And pie,” Stiles finally says, slightly desperate to escape the thought of being so completely predictable. He ignores Derek’s raised eyebrow. “Pie. Cherry and pumpkin because variety’s the spice of life, right?” He wiggles his eyes at the waitress, crazy enough until she laughs. “But no apple. He hates apple,” Stiles says, poking his finger in Derek’s direction, grinning when the waitress winks at him.
“No apple, got it. Extra whip though, right?” She directs this question to Derek, who stares at her blankly.
Like the asshole doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Stiles kicks him in the shin under the table.
“Extra whip on his,” Derek says finally. His voice sounds gruff, like he’s forcing out the words.
Seriously, like talking about pie is too much effort for him. It must somehow charm the waitress, though, at least a little, because she pushes Derek’s beer a little closer to his hand and smiles at him before walking away.
Derek is sitting quietly, watching Stiles intently.
Finally, out of desperation to break the silence, Stiles asks, “What’s happening back home? Scott and Jackson doing okay?” He pushes his straw around inside his glass of soda using it to lift out an ice cube and suck it into his mouth with his fingers. “Lydia?”
Derek’s hands slap down hard against the table. “All fine,” he says.
Stiles is expecting something more than ‘all fine’. Usually there’s at least one story of something dumb that Scott did and Jackson is pretty much always a sure fire tale of stupidness, but tonight Derek just sits there staring at Stiles, blinking slowly every now and then, like the whole point of dinner is staring at Stiles.
“Right. I can see how all fine it is. That’s why you’re being weirder than normal, right?” Stiles asks, tossing his straw wrapper at Derek and watching in shocked awe as it thumps against his forehead before falling to the table.
Derek keeps staring.
Not fine at all. Huh.
***
Billy was Stiles second roommate, but he’s hardly worth mentioning because he was there less than four hours. Unfortunately for him, he moved in on the Derek’s third visit to campus. It didn’t go well for either Billy or Stiles.
It must have worked out pretty well for Derek, though. He’d seemed incredibly pleased with the whole turn of events.
Stiles is still a little fuzzy on the details.
***
The wings are just as amazing as always. Hot and spicy, and perfect in every way. Before they kill off both platters of wings, they’ve gone through three of the little containers of blue cheese. It’s the kind of easy truce that’s developed between them over time. For a while, Stiles thought they may be something approaching friends.
He’s figured out that’s not quite what they are. Derek’s always saying that friends outside the pack don’t work; he even had reasons and relevant threats about exposure and dangerous situations. It was all shockingly reasonable. In fact, all that logic coming from Derek would have been amusing if Stiles hadn’t learned the hard way that he’s not considered pack.
He’s something else entirely. Eventually, he’ll figure out a word to describe it.
Friends or not, though, they’ve got a rhythm between them. There’s stories and actual conversation and Derek’s expressions have increased from pissy and grim to pissy, grim, and some random expression that basically means ‘with Stiles’. It doesn’t seem like it’s an entirely bad expression. Maybe they are close to something resembling casual friends.
Which seems like the joke of the universe because Derek’s mouth is, as always, mesmerizing.
Maybe that’s one of the reasons Stiles wants so badly to be a part of the one thing he knows he can’t.
Derek’s got a little sauce at the corner of his lips and he’s smiling, a small, real smile that winds up past his mouth and moves towards his eyes, smoothing out the wrinkles that came with his new responsibility. Between them, they’ve left a small heap of destroyed napkins in the middle of the table, red sauce all smeared all over them, small pieces torn off and littering the table.
“I found this article about Romanian werewolves and their polygamous ranking system,” Stiles says. He’s interested and maybe Derek has the answers. “Is that normal for packs? I mean, I don’t see Scott sharing Allyson with you even if you’re...well, you, but still. For other packs. Packs that aren’t yours.”
Derek wipes his fingers on another napkin and tosses it into the pile on the table. He’s stalling for time, stacking his silver ware on the plate, brushing off the table, pushing the empty bucket stacked with bones to the edge of the table. He’s not usually one to beat around the hard truths; Stiles thinks there must be something about this truth that’s got him messed up.
“Fuck. You don’t plan on making Scott share Allyson, right?”
“What the hell, Stiles.” Derek is staring straight at him, fingers finally still and resting against the table top.
“That’d be wrong and just...Derek, not cool. You can’t-.”
Derek’s hand grabs onto Stiles arm and stills his movement. “Stiles.”
Stiles leans back into the chair and breathes, one gulping breath after another. There are ribs in the air, the fatty aroma of chicken skin and deep fry and hot sauce. If pressed, and without any sort of super nose, he could pick out the yeasty smell of beer and the kind of dirty odor of sweat and people.
It’s a mostly normal smell, except for that vague hint of something that lingers around him. But that’s less a smell and more of a pervasive feeling that’s pressing against all of his senses.
“What...?” He takes a deep breath and tries to figure it out. He’s distracted by that thing in his back and stomach. It’s obviously not hunger since he’s killed off a coop of chickens with this dinner, but something that feels not quite right. It’s just there, right out of reach, and if he can pay attention, he’ll figure it out.
“Stiles,” Derek says again, squeezing his arm a. It’s not until that moment that Stiles realizes that Derek is still holding his arm.
The touch burns.
***
Kyle had been roommate number three. He’d lasted six weeks.
For anyone else, it’d probably be a little bizarre to remember his roommates by how long they were actually his roommate, but it’s a method. Whatever works.
In fact, Kyle was a good guy. A little on the dumb side, sort of mind numbingly boring, but otherwise not too bad. He cleaned up his side of the room, didn’t steal Stiles’ sodas from the mini-frig and was mostly able to withstand Derek’s visits by turning and running at the first sign of him.
It’s possible that Stiles had even grown fond of him. He was normal and most of Stiles’ life wasn’t. It wasn’t until one day, six weeks to the day after Kyle moved in that Stiles got home from his shift at the library to discover Derek helping Kyle pack up his belongings.
Clothes were going in one duffel bag and everything else was getting tossed out the door and into the hallway. As far as methods went, it wasn’t careful, but it was effective.
It was all shockingly normal in Stiles’ world. A perfectly average day in the way that Derek showed up and everything went to shit, but hey, after two years, Stiles had learned to roll with it.
His room stayed a single after that. It wasn’t a bad deal.
***
“I already told you that most werewolves are monogamous. We have a mating instinct.”
Stiles swallows. “Mating instinct?”
“We already had this conversation.” Derek stares at him, a hint of accusation hanging between them.
“I thought...well, you told me I had to figure it out myself. That was right after...right after Scott and Allison and the whole thing with Peter. I asked and you didn’t really give me an answer.” Stiles stacks and restacks the silverware on the table. Anything to keep his hands busy; anything to avoid looking at Derek and feeling like he’s failed at something important.
“I gave you an answer. It just didn’t involve the mating instincts of kinky, polygamist werewolves in Romania.” Derek kicks at Stiles’ feet. “Some researcher.”
“But you said-.”
“I said to figure it out for yourself. Did you consider that there was a reason I needed you to do that?”
“How would I have figured it out? By reading articles on Romanian werewolves? Because yeah, that’s worked so well.”
Derek breathes out, shaking his head. His fingers tapping a steady beat on the table. “Okay, yeah. Ask me.”
“Ask?” Stiles asks, stilling his fingers and looking up to meet Derek’s eyes.
“Ask me about the mating instinct.”
“And you’ll answer?”
Derek nods his head. “If you want to know.”
“Right.” Stiles feels like he’s taking a test. The importance of the moment seems to hang in the air, a noticeable presence between them. He’s curious, sure, but there’s a healthy dose of fear also. Derek doesn’t keep secrets just for fun; his secrets are secrets for a reason. Stiles’ isn’t sure if he’s ready for whatever he’s about to find out.
“So, werewolves mate?” The words stumble out of Stiles’ mouth, awkward even in theory.
“Yes.”
“Okay, like, the having sex kind of mating or more like that...supernatural marriage type of mating?” Stiles bites his lip to get from snickering. Inappropriate for the conversation, but seriously, he’s talking about mating instincts.
Derek rolls his eyes, the wrinkles in his shirt rippling his across his chest as he shrugs. He looks relaxed, but Stiles can see the tension in the lines of his forearms.
“Is it like in werewolf movies? One mate forever and ever, claimed beneath the full moon on the second cycle of the lunar chart?” Stiles has to fight to keep from laughing when he hears Derek growl, low and irritated.
“Sorry, sorry. Right. I need to figure it out.” Stiles picks up his straw, spinning it around between his fingers. Werewolves, mating, focus. “Werewolves mate and it’s one wolf with one wolf,” he pauses when he sees Derek lift an eyebrow.
“Okay, one wolf and one person. Scott and Allyson, right? They’re mates. That’s why Allyson’s voice can bring Scott out of his transformation. Her voice calms him. He...hears it in his head? Psychic bond?” Stiles couldn’t quite keep the hopeful lilt out of his voice.
“He hears it with his ears, moron.” But despite the words, Derek is nodding and waving his hands, urging Stiles on.
There’s a point to this, Stiles knows. Something specific that Derek wants - no, needs - him to understand. Stiles just has to find the connection.
“Is it just Allyson’s voice?” The straw is moving steadily in and out of fingers, winding around and twitching from hand to hand. He’s always thought better with movement and since he can’t pace or spin his chair around, the straw will have to do.
“No idea. Every wolf has one sense that they rely on more than others. It’s individual,” Derek answers, his eyes fixed on Stiles fingers, tracking their movements carefully.
“And yours is?” Stiles asks, but he thinks maybe the puzzle is starting to slow form itself into an answer. Pieces slotting together, little details falling into place and snapping into focus.
Scott hears trouble first, always has. Derek...Derek always -
“It’s smell,” Stiles answers his own question. It feels right, absolutely and completely right as the knowledge settles somewhere deep inside. “You’d smell your mate and that’d calm you down.”
“Doesn’t always calm,” Derek says. He’s not hiding, not really, not with the way he’s staring at Stiles intently, but he’s also not volunteering any information, either. It’s aggravating.
“Calm, excite, relax, arouse - whatever. It’s all smell based, right?” Stiles stops and thinks about the possibilities. Just being close to that person, or in the same area, that’s all it’d take. “Dude, that’s awesome.”
“It’s not bad. I usually like it well enough,” Derek says as he reaches across the table and wipes his thumb across the corner of Stiles’ mouth, his touch lingering for a second too long. “Sauce.” He holds his thumb up for Stiles’ to see, before licking it off.
“You’re, um, okay. Wait. You have a mate?” Stiles swallows hard enough that it hurts. It takes a minute for him to remember the point. His muscles are so tense that he swears he can feel knots forming as he sits here.
Closing his eyes, Derek lifts his head before taking a long, slow, deep breath in. Scenting the air, Stiles realizes. He’s seen the movement enough to know. When Derek finally opens his eyes, he’s smiling, just a little, and his eyes look slightly dazed.
Derek nods his head. “I do.”
***
Two months into college life, Derek’s become a pretty regular visitor. Stiles didn’t quite get the reasons, but he wasn’t going to complain. A piece of his old life (a piece of home, he tried not to admit) that parked in the visitors’ lot and forgot to pay for a parking permit. Stiles finally bought him a pass with his student ID because that many tickets was bound to cause trouble.
Every few days, he’d show up in Stiles’ dorm room or hang around the information desk at the library. Occasionally, he’d pull out all the stops and just lurk around campus like the big old creeper he was.
It was like having a werewolf stalker, but only in the ways that weren’t too bad. He’d buy Stiles dinner and they’d hit a movie. Sometimes Stiles wouldn’t even have to beg, plead, and annoy for more than an hour before Derek would cave to the movie idea. Occasionally, they’d walk the campus or sometimes, they’d stay in Stiles’ room and Derek would flip randomly through whatever was sitting around while Stiles did his homework.
Basically, too much time is spent thinking about Derek when Derek is not there. And even though he’s there all the damn time, there are a lot of hours between when he leaves and when he returns. Hours that Stiles doesn’t think about why he’s getting visits at all or why it’s the near silent conversation with Derek that mean more than an hour on the phone with Scott.
Eventually, people on the floor of his dorm had stopped reporting Derek to the campus police by the end of the first month of school. He still showed up and tucked himself into corners, but the girls have decided he wasn’t so much creepy as just mysterious.
Mysterious was apparently a good thing.
He can’t walk down the hall anymore without some girl stuffing her phone number into his pocket. “Give it to Derek, would you?” She’d say and smile a little smile like she was letting Stiles in on some big secret.
Maybe it was weird, and possibly it was annoying, and he was getting really sick of jealously burning pits of fire into his stomach, but otherwise, it felt good. Like even if he wasn’t pack, he also wasn’t quite other.
Stiles was grateful enough that he didn’t question it too closely.
***
“Let’s go,” Derek says, tugging on Stiles’ arm. He’s still not letting go, his fingers wrapped all the way around Stiles’ wrist. Derek drops a few bills on the table, enough for dinner and a tip, and tugs hard until Stiles’ follows him away from the table and out the door.
“Okay, so, you’re being weird. Weirder than normal, at least,” Stiles says casually. He swings his arm a little, testing out how dedicated Derek is to the whole arm holding thing.
Apparently the arm holding thing isn’t going to last because Derek’s grip loosens from around his wrist. Stiles’ arm feels cold, even through his sweatshirt. But Derek doesn’t release Stiles all the way; he only slides his hand down Stiles’ arm in a slow imitation of a caress, before winding their fingers together with little tugs and pulls.
Okay, very weird. Not bad, just...unexpected.
Or at least mostly unexpected.
Okay, maybe partially unexpected.
Stiles has got some serious butterflies going on his stomach, but he can’t threading his fingers tighter against Derek’s. If this is some sort of weird werewolf thing that will only happen once because Derek smells trouble or something, then Stiles is going to take full advantage.
They walk along, hands twined together, heading back towards Stiles’ dorm. There’s probably something that needs to be said, but Stiles doesn’t even have a clue. Derek’s not tense at all; his hands aren’t trembling and there’s no white knuckled grip. Stiles can’t see any of the usual signs that indicate trouble.
Instead, Derek’s hands are loose around Stiles’ fingers and his thumb is slowly brushing back and forth along the top of Stiles’ hand. Derek’s sporting a grin so small that even Stiles would have probably missed it if he wasn’t paying careful attention to the craziness taking place.
Stiles is carefully being tugged back toward the walkway leading into the wooded area that edges the campus. He hasn’t explored the area much, he’s got too much experience with bad things that go bump in dark areas, but Derek seems to know where he’s going. It makes Stiles wonder what Derek was up to all those days he spent waiting for Stiles.
Strangely, it gives Stiles the courage to point out the obvious.
“Hand holding, that’s new,” Stiles says, tugging on Derek’s hand.
Derek’s fingers squeeze his hand even harder in warning. “Shut up, Stiles.”
“Right, shut up, because that’s what I’m going to do when you’re holding my hand.” Stiles nudges Derek with his shoulder.
Stiles is pretty sure that Derek’s growl is not nearly as intimidating when there’s hand holding going on. It’s hard to think that some one’s going to be caressing your hand one minute and then ripping your face off the next. It’s amusing in a vaguely twisted sort of way.
“Stiles,” Derek says, tugging Stiles in closer. “Really. Shut. Up.”
“Yeah, but...,” Stiles says, holding up their hands. He knows exactly where this is going, but at the same time, he’s not quite sure how to get them all the way there. Not after all this time.
Derek rolls his eyes, but he’s lips are turned up at the corners, just a little, and his eyes are blazing blue in the dusk. He’s not wolfing out; he’s something else entirely. It’s kind of awesome actually.
“Okay, look, it’s probably got something to do with the whole mating instinct and whatever else you have going on. And I don’t know what the deal is, but you actually do have to try to talk because I’ve got nothing, Derek. Nothing. At all. Not a -.”
The wind rushes out of Stiles lungs as Derek pushes him up against a tree. Derek’s body is surrounding him, pinning him to the wood. When Stiles tries to move, just a little, just enough to get the bark to stop scraping uncomfortably against his back, Derek growls low and slow in his throat.
It’s a different kind of sound than usual. There’s something dark and heady in the noise. It’s not a warning sound at all, it’s more like need and desire and possibly, submission to whatever force is laying taunt between them.
Derek presses his nose against Stiles’ throat, taking short, uneven breaths, almost frantic. Stiles winds his hands into Derek’s hands and scratches harshly along his scalp.
Something settles inside of Stiles, something that he hadn’t realized he was missing until right at this moment.
“Fucking finally,” he says, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the tree. All the looks and little touches and the nights and days of visits are coming to a head, and Stiles is starting to get an idea of exactly what his place in the pack is going to be.
Stiles knees are going a little weak with the effort of holding himself up because Derek’s moved on from scenting to marking his neck with small bites, gentle nips of teeth that stretch from his collarbone to his ear. He’s moving his way steadily up and the bites are becoming just a little harder.
Stiles moans and he feels Derek shudder against him.
“Derek,” he groans, tugging, and pulling, and wiggling until he can reach Derek’s mouth. He bites at Derek’s lips, just hard enough that Derek hums, low and deep, and opens himself up to Stiles’ kiss.
Stiles knows it’s not going to last, but Derek’s given him enough control of this moment, that he can press forward into the kiss, guiding Derek, brushing his tongue across Derek’s lips, opening his mouth and demanding entrance.
A second, maybe two, is all he gets, before Derek is pushing up against him hard, forcing his head back and licking into his mouth with hard, quick thrusts of his tongue. There’s nothing gentle, no permission requested, just hungry desire and pounding need.
Stiles winds his fingers into the belt loops of Derek’s pants and pulls him in closer.
***
College life goes like this: Scott calls him once a week and they have a five minute conversation. They text every couple of days and while it’s not great, it’s enough. His Dad’s a little harder because it’s a constant sort of worry that bubbles up when they miss each other during week long games of phone tag.
He goes to class and studies too little and he makes a few friends. He thinks about what it’d be like to be at college and hit on an endless parade of girls then he realizes what he has is so much better. He doesn’t drink enough to worry his dad and he’s polite to his professors and he manages to not spend his entire monthly allowance before his next paycheck.
It’s restless nights, followed nights of amazing sleep on the days and nights Derek visits; it’s research on werewolves and emails with attachments to Scott asking him to find out about this and find out about that.
It’s just like Beacon Hills life, except without daily doses of dad and Scott. There’s no front row seat to the Scott and Allison romantic angst fest of the week which is worth celebrating all on its own.
Instead, there’s sex, and love, and mating practices, and more possibilities that Stiles ever really considered. There’s knowing that he has a place - a home - in a pack that is his as much Derek’s as his.
It’s life. Stiles is generally okay with it.
Teen Wolf; Derek/Stiles
7,000 words; PG
You can also read this here at AO3.
Thanks to strokeof-genie for beta! All remaining mistakes are my own.
Summary: Billy was Stiles second roommate, but he’s hardly worth mentioning because he was there less than four hours. Unfortunately for him, he moved in on the Derek’s third visit to campus. It didn’t go well for either Billy or Stiles.
Unspoken
By Sori
Stiles is stuck with a Saturday night shift at the library, which means he’s watching a mostly empty library while screwing around on his computer. If anyone asked, Stiles could help with the whole financial collapse of the college system by reminding them that they could send home the librarians, turn off the lights, and lock up the doors of the library from Friday till Monday.
Cash in the pocket, and it’s not like anyone would notice.
Instead, he’s sitting here cashing in his $9 an hour work-study job while looking up some weird Romania book translated into English about a gypsy tribe of werewolves that some paranoid asshole in the country has “discovered”. He’s deep into the intricate social hierarchy of the alpha wolf and his four mates when he gets a strange tingle up his spine and it’s so familiar that he doesn’t even need to look up. That’s the creeper tingle right there; he’s gotten good at recognizing it the last few months.
“Fact or fiction: gypsy werewolves practice polygamy? Because I’m telling you, from what I’m reading, these Romanian gypsy wolves are kinky assholes,” Stiles says to the source of his creeper vibe.
No answer forthcoming, Stiles looks up and sees Derek leaning against the information desk, eyes closed, breathing deeply.
“Whoa. You okay? You look like shit.” Stiles takes a closer look at Derek. It’s a little disturbing to see his skin paler than normal and his eyes bloodshot and glazed over; he looks like he’s already been on a weekend bender even though it’s only Friday.
Derek ignores him. He just keeps up a constant in-and-out breathing motion. In through the nose, out through the mouth, head slightly tilted back and....oh.
“Thought you’d be used to the college stench by now.” Stiles slides his bottle of water toward Derek. “Drink up; it’ll help cover the smell.” He admits that water probably won’t do much for wolf senses, but it’s not like there’s anything bad about watching Derek chug down some water.
“Shut up, Stiles.” It comes out more of a growl, but Derek’s eyes are closed and his breathing is starting to slow down. Things must not be too serious since his fingers are loosening their grip on the edge of the table and his shoulders seem to be sinking down slow and steady, the tension draining out in little bits and pieces that Stiles can actually see.
That weird tingle is in his lower back this time, sort of an odd collection of tension and muscle cramping that doesn’t feel uncomfortable as much as just different from the norm. Possibly he’s been cutting back on the Adderall too much.
“So, gypsy werewolves. What do you know?” Stiles digs out a candy bar from the backpack at his feet and slides it over next to the water. “Eat, moron. You look like you’re about to fall over.”
Derek snorts and Stiles can’t help a little smile. The smile spreads wider when Derek tears open the candy bar wrapper and breaks the candy in half. He passes the smaller half back to Stiles with a nod.
“Why do you assume I’d know anything?” Derek asks around a mouthful of candy. He’s already looking better than when he showed up a few minutes ago.
Stiles rolls his eyes at Derek in answer.
“Don’t think I’ve ever met a gypsy werewolf. Especially not one from-” Derek says, as he leans all the way across the counter and peers at Stile’s laptop screen. “Romania. And people usually are kinky, being a werewolf is just incidental.”
Derek leans a little closer, staring at the screen intently, his head next to Stile’s shoulder. The heat from Derek’s body is rolling off in waves strong enough that Stiles could track Derek’s motions by the temperature changes he can feel moving across his own skin.
“Most wolves are monogamous, though,” Derek says.
He’s so close that Stiles can feel the words against his cheek as Derek speaks.
Stiles clear his throat. “One wolf kind of people, huh? Okay, I can work with that.” Stiles starts to close out the tabs open in his browser, looking at the clock and realizing he’s got 15 minutes until Julie shows up to relieve him.
“For the right person, yeah.”
“Huh. So, Scott and Allison and their disgusting little love fest....not unusual?”
There’s no answer to that apparently, so Derek just shrugs his shoulders and then rests his forearms on the desk. He’s practically draped across the desk now, eyes closed, slowly taking a bite of chocolate bar and looking like there’s nothing in this world he’d rather be doing.
It’s weird even by Beacon Hills' standards.
***
Beginning of senior year, Derek had pulled the pack aside and gave them The Talk. A year later, Stiles was still capitalizing the conversation in his head. If he could, he’d italicize it and bold it and put it in size 18 font because the conversation actually had been that important.
Derek, in all his wisdom, started the conversation with, “You can’t leave the area.”
Stiles didn’t need a magic eight ball to figure how well that was going to go over with this particular group. Scott was the first one to argue; probably because those words caused a deep and mortifying fear.
“But Allyson’s thinking of applying to Berkeley-” he started. He stopped suddenly when Derek clapped a hand onto his shoulder hard.
“Good for Allison. You can write her long letters because you’ll still be in Beacon Hills,” Derek said. “We stay together. There’s strength in numbers.” He’d gotten good at the Alpha voice over the last year. It was a tone that pretty much dared anyone to question his word.
Stiles could see Scott start to argue, but even Scott had figured out that he should shut his mouth when Derek pulled that voice out. It had to be hard since this was Allyson and usually Scott was fairly willing to argue anything Allyson related. Still, it didn’t take long before Jackson, Scott and Lydia were all nodding their heads in agreement.
“Pack first.” Derek said and then stared them down until they bowed their heads in submission.
That was that.
By that time, Stiles had already sent his application into Humboldt State. It had seemed like the obvious choice since it was close to home, just a quick 45 minute drive, and he’d be around for his dad. Before The Talk, he’d thought it was the perfect answer to everything.
After The Talk, though, he spent a lot of hours figuring out all the things he could do at Beacon Hills Community College. He wasn’t about to haul ass out of town and leave them all to their own stupidity. After all, he had a place in their pack, Stiles thought.
Maybe Scott didn’t understand, but Stiles did. You don’t desert your pack.
When his acceptance letter came, he pushed it under his stack of research books on the corner of the desk and didn’t give it another thought. At least not until he came home one night to see Derek sitting in his desk chair, acceptance letter in hand, staring intently at the wall of Stiles’ bedroom.
“You tell your dad?” Derek asked, shaking the letter in his hand.
Stiles shook his head. “No point. He’ll be happy to keep me around.”
“No,” Derek said in that voice that commanded obedience. This wasn’t a request. He carefully held Stiles’ gaze. “Send this off tomorrow. And talk to your dad.”
He hopped out of Stiles’ open window, as quickly and quietly as he had entered and Stiles was left standing at the crescent moon hanging dreary outside his window.
When Stiles looked down the Yes, I will be attending Chico State University box was already checked.
Maybe he’d overestimated his part in this little thing of theirs. He’s wasn’t pack, at least not in any way that Derek considered pack.
It felt final in a way that the previous conversation hadn’t.
Stiles sent in the acceptance letter the next day. His dad was thrilled.
***
Stiles watches as Derek methodically makes his way through his half of the candy. Bite, chew, swallow, lick his lips, repeat. He knows he should look away, knows he should pack up his backpack, clean up the desk area, do anything except stare like his own brand of creeper as Derek eats. Still, he can’t bring himself to look away.
Probably a werewolf thing, Stiles decides. No one gets to look good with chocolate smeared around their lips, except Derek Hale apparently.
“Saturday night, seriously, what were they thinking scheduling me on a Saturday night?” Stiles hears as the library door softly whooshes open and closed.
Looking up, he sees Julie walking in the front entrance of the library, leather bag slung over her shoulder, a to-go cup of coffee from the stand in the next quad over in her hand. He can tell the exact moment she spots Derek. Her steps slow, her hips start a slow, pronounced sway, and she takes a moment to lick her lips and adjust her tight tee shirt down an extra inch.
It’s kind of incredible to watch. Any other time, Stiles is pretty sure that he’d be enjoying the show. Not so much right now.
He waves his hand half-heartedly and starts packing up his laptop.
She glides all the way over to where their standing and leans low across the desk, close
enough that if she moves more than a couple of inches she’ll be nuzzling into Derek’s chest.
Stiles' fingers clench tightly around the strap of his backpack.
It’s obvious from the angle that she’s got a red bra on today, a bit of lace lining the edges of the cups. It’s also obvious that’s the whole point of her position. Stiles can’t help but notice that it’s a pretty good view as far as views go, but he’d rather she pull up her shirt and step back a little.
“Mmmm...Stiles,” Julie draws out his name, her voice lower than usual, as she just barely nudges up against Derek’s chest. “Who’s your friend?”
And if he didn’t hate her a little already, he’d be hating her now. She’s got just the right inflection on the word friend that it somehow communicates unbelievable sarcasm in the face of Stiles having a friend like Derek Hale. With a certain tone, it could sound like a compliment (good boy making friends with the bad boy and all that shit), but it doesn't take a genius to figure out that’s not what she means at all.
“Julie, Derek,” he says, nodding his head toward them as he slips into his sweatshirt. “And now that we all know each other...” Stiles says, but he’s interrupted when Julie leans even closer into Derek, looking him carefully up and down, eyes tracing the lines of his shoulders under his jacket, and wandering slowly all the way down.
And, wow. No, really, really wow. If she was a man someone would be screaming about sexual harassment because her look is all invitation and oh yeah and oh my god, now please wrapped up into one expression.
“Derek,” she says, rolling the word across her tongue. Like she needed that one word to get her point across.
And finally, that’s what gets Derek to stand up straight and open his eyes. Stiles sighs because, of course, this is his life.
“Alright, boys and girls, I’m taking off. You two,” Stiles waves his hand, “enjoy your thing.” He tosses the backpack on his shoulder and heads for the door.
“Stiles.”
Derek’s voice stops him before he even makes it two steps, and he’s surprised and possibly relieved when he feels Derek’s arm brush up against him. They’re standing just that much too close right in front of the door. Stiles can’t help but notice that their entire bodies are angling toward each other.
Stiles shuffles back half a step and looks from Derek to Julie. No one can ever say that he’s a cockblock.
Derek’s face curls down into a frown and he takes a step toward Stiles, bringing them closer than they were before. “Where to?” He asks keeping his eyes focused on Stiles.
“Uh,” Stiles says, wincing when he catches Julie’s glare out of the corner of his eye. But honestly, her glare is pretty much near the bottom of his list of things to be concerned about. Right now, Derek is topping that list because the pinched off, tired expression is back on his face.
There’s something going on here that Stiles hasn’t quite figured out.
“Where?” Derek asks again, and he’s shoving his shoulder hard into Stiles, pushing them toward the door.
“Dorm?” Stiles says, completely unsure if it’s a trick question. “Or...food, maybe? Haven’t eaten yet.” And maybe his voice is a little hopeful there, but who could blame him. Lunch was a long, long time ago and it’s not like he’d complain about getting another chance to sit across from Derek for a meal. It’s become sort of a tradition of sorts.
And that right there might be a little surprising. Stiles hadn’t realized that Derek’s actually been visiting enough for them to have traditions. It was all strangely normal when Stiles thinks about the fact he’s got a dinner tradition with a werewolf that would have gladly killed him not too long ago.
“Food works. Let’s go to that place over on Fourth Street with the hot wings.” Derek speeds Stiles up, using his body to hurry Stiles toward the east campus exit, the one closest to the visitors’ parking lot.
“Wings. Oh, fuck. Let’s go.” Stiles can feel his stomach grumbling and suddenly, he’s starving. That weird tingling in his stomach has eased up and maybe it was hunger, like those hunger pains he used to get as a kid when he skipped his after school snack and had to wait until dinner to eat. He’s feeling good, great in fact, despite the hunger. Good enough to reach out and grab a hold of the arm of Derek’s jacket and tug him toward the parking lot at a faster pace.
“Hurry up,” he says, tugging a little harder, and he thinks that maybe he hears Derek’s quiet snort of laughter.
***
Stiles had been on campus exactly three days the first time Derek showed up. It was out of the blue, no phone call or email or text. Scott hadn’t even warned him and, seriously, what the hell kind of friendship was that?
He’d opened the door to his dorm room expecting to see his douche bag new roommate, Shaun, screwing around with whatever stuff he spent his days screwing around with. Probably a new bong or maybe detailed plans on how to be an ass to anyone not pledging every frat on campus.
Instead, he walked in to find Derek on Stiles’ bed and Shaun sitting across from him in his own computer chair. They were having a nice little chat that involved Derek staring and growling, and possibly making threatening hand motions.
Shaun looked two seconds away from peeing himself.
It was completely awesome.
“Making friends, are we?” Stiles asked, flopping down on his bed next to Derek, close enough that he could feel Derek’s body pressed against him. He watched in fascination as Derek’s shoulders relaxed just a little and he could feel Derek’s hands slowly start to unclench[J2] , loosening up into a normal hands instead of the ‘about to sprout claws’ white knuckle grip that Stiles had gotten to know pretty well over the last few years.
“Yeah, I think...I’ll just....” Shaun stood up, the chair clattering over behind him as he bolted out of the room, his cell phone out and already pressed to his ear.
“Wow. Alright. Think he’ll ever come back?” Stiles closed his eyes and rested more carefully into the bed. It’d been a long few days and he wasn’t used to the bed yet because he’d slept like crap. It had to be the bed. He wasn’t going to admit to homesickness, not for anything.
“Probably not,” Derek said and there was an edge of smug to the tone. But the smugness sort of got lost because he was leaning over, resting his forearms on his knees and just sort of breathing nice and easy, like maybe he was just enjoying the moment.
Werewolf nirvana, thought Stiles. Creepy.
He could feel his eyes start to drift closed and he let it happen, nice and slow. He probably should ask about Scott and how things were going, and about what ever messed up shit was going on back home, but he didn’t have the energy. Mostly, he was just going to spend a moment being all blissed out that finally, after three days of college and two days of moving and five not-quite teary phone calls from his dad, he felt like he was someplace close to home.
***
At the restaurant, they grab their normal spot in the back corner of the room. Stiles always sits with his back to the wall. It’s become some sort of weird, freakish obsession with Derek over the last few months.
Derek’s a surprisingly effective whiner.
But more often than not when the two of them eat out, Derek just hangs his back out there for the world to shoot. He’s got to have his reasons; whatever they are, but he never shares. Instead, he just sits down with his back to the door and glares until Stiles remembers that this is what they always do and sits down in his nice, safe little corner.
He admits that he doesn’t have a clue what’s going on in Derek’s crazy brain, but it’s obviously some sort of thing. It seems counter-intuitive for a werewolf to voluntarily put his back toward the danger, but whatever. Stiles can roll with weird.
Besides, it’s actually hilariously easy to mess with him every single they walk in someplace. It’s a guaranteed five minutes of amusement with almost zero effort. Shocking, though, Derek Hale is a surprisingly effective whiner.
The waitress nods at them from across the room. A few minutes later, she shows up at their table with a Miller for Derek and Sprite for Stiles. She’s already got her order pad out and is writing down their order before asking, “The usual right? Two buckets of wings and fries?”
And that right there makes Stiles think about how often they must eat here to have a usual order and, apparently, a usual waitress. Yeah, they’ve eaten here a few times, maybe every other time Derek shows up on campus, so...a couple times a week. Stiles has to think about whether that is considered a usual or just a favorite place to eat.
“And pie,” Stiles finally says, slightly desperate to escape the thought of being so completely predictable. He ignores Derek’s raised eyebrow. “Pie. Cherry and pumpkin because variety’s the spice of life, right?” He wiggles his eyes at the waitress, crazy enough until she laughs. “But no apple. He hates apple,” Stiles says, poking his finger in Derek’s direction, grinning when the waitress winks at him.
“No apple, got it. Extra whip though, right?” She directs this question to Derek, who stares at her blankly.
Like the asshole doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Stiles kicks him in the shin under the table.
“Extra whip on his,” Derek says finally. His voice sounds gruff, like he’s forcing out the words.
Seriously, like talking about pie is too much effort for him. It must somehow charm the waitress, though, at least a little, because she pushes Derek’s beer a little closer to his hand and smiles at him before walking away.
Derek is sitting quietly, watching Stiles intently.
Finally, out of desperation to break the silence, Stiles asks, “What’s happening back home? Scott and Jackson doing okay?” He pushes his straw around inside his glass of soda using it to lift out an ice cube and suck it into his mouth with his fingers. “Lydia?”
Derek’s hands slap down hard against the table. “All fine,” he says.
Stiles is expecting something more than ‘all fine’. Usually there’s at least one story of something dumb that Scott did and Jackson is pretty much always a sure fire tale of stupidness, but tonight Derek just sits there staring at Stiles, blinking slowly every now and then, like the whole point of dinner is staring at Stiles.
“Right. I can see how all fine it is. That’s why you’re being weirder than normal, right?” Stiles asks, tossing his straw wrapper at Derek and watching in shocked awe as it thumps against his forehead before falling to the table.
Derek keeps staring.
Not fine at all. Huh.
***
Billy was Stiles second roommate, but he’s hardly worth mentioning because he was there less than four hours. Unfortunately for him, he moved in on the Derek’s third visit to campus. It didn’t go well for either Billy or Stiles.
It must have worked out pretty well for Derek, though. He’d seemed incredibly pleased with the whole turn of events.
Stiles is still a little fuzzy on the details.
***
The wings are just as amazing as always. Hot and spicy, and perfect in every way. Before they kill off both platters of wings, they’ve gone through three of the little containers of blue cheese. It’s the kind of easy truce that’s developed between them over time. For a while, Stiles thought they may be something approaching friends.
He’s figured out that’s not quite what they are. Derek’s always saying that friends outside the pack don’t work; he even had reasons and relevant threats about exposure and dangerous situations. It was all shockingly reasonable. In fact, all that logic coming from Derek would have been amusing if Stiles hadn’t learned the hard way that he’s not considered pack.
He’s something else entirely. Eventually, he’ll figure out a word to describe it.
Friends or not, though, they’ve got a rhythm between them. There’s stories and actual conversation and Derek’s expressions have increased from pissy and grim to pissy, grim, and some random expression that basically means ‘with Stiles’. It doesn’t seem like it’s an entirely bad expression. Maybe they are close to something resembling casual friends.
Which seems like the joke of the universe because Derek’s mouth is, as always, mesmerizing.
Maybe that’s one of the reasons Stiles wants so badly to be a part of the one thing he knows he can’t.
Derek’s got a little sauce at the corner of his lips and he’s smiling, a small, real smile that winds up past his mouth and moves towards his eyes, smoothing out the wrinkles that came with his new responsibility. Between them, they’ve left a small heap of destroyed napkins in the middle of the table, red sauce all smeared all over them, small pieces torn off and littering the table.
“I found this article about Romanian werewolves and their polygamous ranking system,” Stiles says. He’s interested and maybe Derek has the answers. “Is that normal for packs? I mean, I don’t see Scott sharing Allyson with you even if you’re...well, you, but still. For other packs. Packs that aren’t yours.”
Derek wipes his fingers on another napkin and tosses it into the pile on the table. He’s stalling for time, stacking his silver ware on the plate, brushing off the table, pushing the empty bucket stacked with bones to the edge of the table. He’s not usually one to beat around the hard truths; Stiles thinks there must be something about this truth that’s got him messed up.
“Fuck. You don’t plan on making Scott share Allyson, right?”
“What the hell, Stiles.” Derek is staring straight at him, fingers finally still and resting against the table top.
“That’d be wrong and just...Derek, not cool. You can’t-.”
Derek’s hand grabs onto Stiles arm and stills his movement. “Stiles.”
Stiles leans back into the chair and breathes, one gulping breath after another. There are ribs in the air, the fatty aroma of chicken skin and deep fry and hot sauce. If pressed, and without any sort of super nose, he could pick out the yeasty smell of beer and the kind of dirty odor of sweat and people.
It’s a mostly normal smell, except for that vague hint of something that lingers around him. But that’s less a smell and more of a pervasive feeling that’s pressing against all of his senses.
“What...?” He takes a deep breath and tries to figure it out. He’s distracted by that thing in his back and stomach. It’s obviously not hunger since he’s killed off a coop of chickens with this dinner, but something that feels not quite right. It’s just there, right out of reach, and if he can pay attention, he’ll figure it out.
“Stiles,” Derek says again, squeezing his arm a. It’s not until that moment that Stiles realizes that Derek is still holding his arm.
The touch burns.
***
Kyle had been roommate number three. He’d lasted six weeks.
For anyone else, it’d probably be a little bizarre to remember his roommates by how long they were actually his roommate, but it’s a method. Whatever works.
In fact, Kyle was a good guy. A little on the dumb side, sort of mind numbingly boring, but otherwise not too bad. He cleaned up his side of the room, didn’t steal Stiles’ sodas from the mini-frig and was mostly able to withstand Derek’s visits by turning and running at the first sign of him.
It’s possible that Stiles had even grown fond of him. He was normal and most of Stiles’ life wasn’t. It wasn’t until one day, six weeks to the day after Kyle moved in that Stiles got home from his shift at the library to discover Derek helping Kyle pack up his belongings.
Clothes were going in one duffel bag and everything else was getting tossed out the door and into the hallway. As far as methods went, it wasn’t careful, but it was effective.
It was all shockingly normal in Stiles’ world. A perfectly average day in the way that Derek showed up and everything went to shit, but hey, after two years, Stiles had learned to roll with it.
His room stayed a single after that. It wasn’t a bad deal.
***
“I already told you that most werewolves are monogamous. We have a mating instinct.”
Stiles swallows. “Mating instinct?”
“We already had this conversation.” Derek stares at him, a hint of accusation hanging between them.
“I thought...well, you told me I had to figure it out myself. That was right after...right after Scott and Allison and the whole thing with Peter. I asked and you didn’t really give me an answer.” Stiles stacks and restacks the silverware on the table. Anything to keep his hands busy; anything to avoid looking at Derek and feeling like he’s failed at something important.
“I gave you an answer. It just didn’t involve the mating instincts of kinky, polygamist werewolves in Romania.” Derek kicks at Stiles’ feet. “Some researcher.”
“But you said-.”
“I said to figure it out for yourself. Did you consider that there was a reason I needed you to do that?”
“How would I have figured it out? By reading articles on Romanian werewolves? Because yeah, that’s worked so well.”
Derek breathes out, shaking his head. His fingers tapping a steady beat on the table. “Okay, yeah. Ask me.”
“Ask?” Stiles asks, stilling his fingers and looking up to meet Derek’s eyes.
“Ask me about the mating instinct.”
“And you’ll answer?”
Derek nods his head. “If you want to know.”
“Right.” Stiles feels like he’s taking a test. The importance of the moment seems to hang in the air, a noticeable presence between them. He’s curious, sure, but there’s a healthy dose of fear also. Derek doesn’t keep secrets just for fun; his secrets are secrets for a reason. Stiles’ isn’t sure if he’s ready for whatever he’s about to find out.
“So, werewolves mate?” The words stumble out of Stiles’ mouth, awkward even in theory.
“Yes.”
“Okay, like, the having sex kind of mating or more like that...supernatural marriage type of mating?” Stiles bites his lip to get from snickering. Inappropriate for the conversation, but seriously, he’s talking about mating instincts.
Derek rolls his eyes, the wrinkles in his shirt rippling his across his chest as he shrugs. He looks relaxed, but Stiles can see the tension in the lines of his forearms.
“Is it like in werewolf movies? One mate forever and ever, claimed beneath the full moon on the second cycle of the lunar chart?” Stiles has to fight to keep from laughing when he hears Derek growl, low and irritated.
“Sorry, sorry. Right. I need to figure it out.” Stiles picks up his straw, spinning it around between his fingers. Werewolves, mating, focus. “Werewolves mate and it’s one wolf with one wolf,” he pauses when he sees Derek lift an eyebrow.
“Okay, one wolf and one person. Scott and Allyson, right? They’re mates. That’s why Allyson’s voice can bring Scott out of his transformation. Her voice calms him. He...hears it in his head? Psychic bond?” Stiles couldn’t quite keep the hopeful lilt out of his voice.
“He hears it with his ears, moron.” But despite the words, Derek is nodding and waving his hands, urging Stiles on.
There’s a point to this, Stiles knows. Something specific that Derek wants - no, needs - him to understand. Stiles just has to find the connection.
“Is it just Allyson’s voice?” The straw is moving steadily in and out of fingers, winding around and twitching from hand to hand. He’s always thought better with movement and since he can’t pace or spin his chair around, the straw will have to do.
“No idea. Every wolf has one sense that they rely on more than others. It’s individual,” Derek answers, his eyes fixed on Stiles fingers, tracking their movements carefully.
“And yours is?” Stiles asks, but he thinks maybe the puzzle is starting to slow form itself into an answer. Pieces slotting together, little details falling into place and snapping into focus.
Scott hears trouble first, always has. Derek...Derek always -
“It’s smell,” Stiles answers his own question. It feels right, absolutely and completely right as the knowledge settles somewhere deep inside. “You’d smell your mate and that’d calm you down.”
“Doesn’t always calm,” Derek says. He’s not hiding, not really, not with the way he’s staring at Stiles intently, but he’s also not volunteering any information, either. It’s aggravating.
“Calm, excite, relax, arouse - whatever. It’s all smell based, right?” Stiles stops and thinks about the possibilities. Just being close to that person, or in the same area, that’s all it’d take. “Dude, that’s awesome.”
“It’s not bad. I usually like it well enough,” Derek says as he reaches across the table and wipes his thumb across the corner of Stiles’ mouth, his touch lingering for a second too long. “Sauce.” He holds his thumb up for Stiles’ to see, before licking it off.
“You’re, um, okay. Wait. You have a mate?” Stiles swallows hard enough that it hurts. It takes a minute for him to remember the point. His muscles are so tense that he swears he can feel knots forming as he sits here.
Closing his eyes, Derek lifts his head before taking a long, slow, deep breath in. Scenting the air, Stiles realizes. He’s seen the movement enough to know. When Derek finally opens his eyes, he’s smiling, just a little, and his eyes look slightly dazed.
Derek nods his head. “I do.”
***
Two months into college life, Derek’s become a pretty regular visitor. Stiles didn’t quite get the reasons, but he wasn’t going to complain. A piece of his old life (a piece of home, he tried not to admit) that parked in the visitors’ lot and forgot to pay for a parking permit. Stiles finally bought him a pass with his student ID because that many tickets was bound to cause trouble.
Every few days, he’d show up in Stiles’ dorm room or hang around the information desk at the library. Occasionally, he’d pull out all the stops and just lurk around campus like the big old creeper he was.
It was like having a werewolf stalker, but only in the ways that weren’t too bad. He’d buy Stiles dinner and they’d hit a movie. Sometimes Stiles wouldn’t even have to beg, plead, and annoy for more than an hour before Derek would cave to the movie idea. Occasionally, they’d walk the campus or sometimes, they’d stay in Stiles’ room and Derek would flip randomly through whatever was sitting around while Stiles did his homework.
Basically, too much time is spent thinking about Derek when Derek is not there. And even though he’s there all the damn time, there are a lot of hours between when he leaves and when he returns. Hours that Stiles doesn’t think about why he’s getting visits at all or why it’s the near silent conversation with Derek that mean more than an hour on the phone with Scott.
Eventually, people on the floor of his dorm had stopped reporting Derek to the campus police by the end of the first month of school. He still showed up and tucked himself into corners, but the girls have decided he wasn’t so much creepy as just mysterious.
Mysterious was apparently a good thing.
He can’t walk down the hall anymore without some girl stuffing her phone number into his pocket. “Give it to Derek, would you?” She’d say and smile a little smile like she was letting Stiles in on some big secret.
Maybe it was weird, and possibly it was annoying, and he was getting really sick of jealously burning pits of fire into his stomach, but otherwise, it felt good. Like even if he wasn’t pack, he also wasn’t quite other.
Stiles was grateful enough that he didn’t question it too closely.
***
“Let’s go,” Derek says, tugging on Stiles’ arm. He’s still not letting go, his fingers wrapped all the way around Stiles’ wrist. Derek drops a few bills on the table, enough for dinner and a tip, and tugs hard until Stiles’ follows him away from the table and out the door.
“Okay, so, you’re being weird. Weirder than normal, at least,” Stiles says casually. He swings his arm a little, testing out how dedicated Derek is to the whole arm holding thing.
Apparently the arm holding thing isn’t going to last because Derek’s grip loosens from around his wrist. Stiles’ arm feels cold, even through his sweatshirt. But Derek doesn’t release Stiles all the way; he only slides his hand down Stiles’ arm in a slow imitation of a caress, before winding their fingers together with little tugs and pulls.
Okay, very weird. Not bad, just...unexpected.
Or at least mostly unexpected.
Okay, maybe partially unexpected.
Stiles has got some serious butterflies going on his stomach, but he can’t threading his fingers tighter against Derek’s. If this is some sort of weird werewolf thing that will only happen once because Derek smells trouble or something, then Stiles is going to take full advantage.
They walk along, hands twined together, heading back towards Stiles’ dorm. There’s probably something that needs to be said, but Stiles doesn’t even have a clue. Derek’s not tense at all; his hands aren’t trembling and there’s no white knuckled grip. Stiles can’t see any of the usual signs that indicate trouble.
Instead, Derek’s hands are loose around Stiles’ fingers and his thumb is slowly brushing back and forth along the top of Stiles’ hand. Derek’s sporting a grin so small that even Stiles would have probably missed it if he wasn’t paying careful attention to the craziness taking place.
Stiles is carefully being tugged back toward the walkway leading into the wooded area that edges the campus. He hasn’t explored the area much, he’s got too much experience with bad things that go bump in dark areas, but Derek seems to know where he’s going. It makes Stiles wonder what Derek was up to all those days he spent waiting for Stiles.
Strangely, it gives Stiles the courage to point out the obvious.
“Hand holding, that’s new,” Stiles says, tugging on Derek’s hand.
Derek’s fingers squeeze his hand even harder in warning. “Shut up, Stiles.”
“Right, shut up, because that’s what I’m going to do when you’re holding my hand.” Stiles nudges Derek with his shoulder.
Stiles is pretty sure that Derek’s growl is not nearly as intimidating when there’s hand holding going on. It’s hard to think that some one’s going to be caressing your hand one minute and then ripping your face off the next. It’s amusing in a vaguely twisted sort of way.
“Stiles,” Derek says, tugging Stiles in closer. “Really. Shut. Up.”
“Yeah, but...,” Stiles says, holding up their hands. He knows exactly where this is going, but at the same time, he’s not quite sure how to get them all the way there. Not after all this time.
Derek rolls his eyes, but he’s lips are turned up at the corners, just a little, and his eyes are blazing blue in the dusk. He’s not wolfing out; he’s something else entirely. It’s kind of awesome actually.
“Okay, look, it’s probably got something to do with the whole mating instinct and whatever else you have going on. And I don’t know what the deal is, but you actually do have to try to talk because I’ve got nothing, Derek. Nothing. At all. Not a -.”
The wind rushes out of Stiles lungs as Derek pushes him up against a tree. Derek’s body is surrounding him, pinning him to the wood. When Stiles tries to move, just a little, just enough to get the bark to stop scraping uncomfortably against his back, Derek growls low and slow in his throat.
It’s a different kind of sound than usual. There’s something dark and heady in the noise. It’s not a warning sound at all, it’s more like need and desire and possibly, submission to whatever force is laying taunt between them.
Derek presses his nose against Stiles’ throat, taking short, uneven breaths, almost frantic. Stiles winds his hands into Derek’s hands and scratches harshly along his scalp.
Something settles inside of Stiles, something that he hadn’t realized he was missing until right at this moment.
“Fucking finally,” he says, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the tree. All the looks and little touches and the nights and days of visits are coming to a head, and Stiles is starting to get an idea of exactly what his place in the pack is going to be.
Stiles knees are going a little weak with the effort of holding himself up because Derek’s moved on from scenting to marking his neck with small bites, gentle nips of teeth that stretch from his collarbone to his ear. He’s moving his way steadily up and the bites are becoming just a little harder.
Stiles moans and he feels Derek shudder against him.
“Derek,” he groans, tugging, and pulling, and wiggling until he can reach Derek’s mouth. He bites at Derek’s lips, just hard enough that Derek hums, low and deep, and opens himself up to Stiles’ kiss.
Stiles knows it’s not going to last, but Derek’s given him enough control of this moment, that he can press forward into the kiss, guiding Derek, brushing his tongue across Derek’s lips, opening his mouth and demanding entrance.
A second, maybe two, is all he gets, before Derek is pushing up against him hard, forcing his head back and licking into his mouth with hard, quick thrusts of his tongue. There’s nothing gentle, no permission requested, just hungry desire and pounding need.
Stiles winds his fingers into the belt loops of Derek’s pants and pulls him in closer.
***
College life goes like this: Scott calls him once a week and they have a five minute conversation. They text every couple of days and while it’s not great, it’s enough. His Dad’s a little harder because it’s a constant sort of worry that bubbles up when they miss each other during week long games of phone tag.
He goes to class and studies too little and he makes a few friends. He thinks about what it’d be like to be at college and hit on an endless parade of girls then he realizes what he has is so much better. He doesn’t drink enough to worry his dad and he’s polite to his professors and he manages to not spend his entire monthly allowance before his next paycheck.
It’s restless nights, followed nights of amazing sleep on the days and nights Derek visits; it’s research on werewolves and emails with attachments to Scott asking him to find out about this and find out about that.
It’s just like Beacon Hills life, except without daily doses of dad and Scott. There’s no front row seat to the Scott and Allison romantic angst fest of the week which is worth celebrating all on its own.
Instead, there’s sex, and love, and mating practices, and more possibilities that Stiles ever really considered. There’s knowing that he has a place - a home - in a pack that is his as much Derek’s as his.
It’s life. Stiles is generally okay with it.