I’m sure it’s been done before, but the 6A finale got me to thinking (yes, I still watch TW, it’s unfortunate, I know, but Stiles). I know they implied Stiles is going to the FBI prep university or whatever, but I pitch to you this. Derek Hale, after two years of radio silence, is teaching at his university.
Stiles doesn’t really know how it happened. The history elective he was supposed to take was cancelled due to lack of attendance (which, why aren’t more people excited about the indigenous history of this country, honestly?) He’s been so pissed that his class had been moved not only halfway across campus, but a half-hour earlier too, that he hadn’t even bothered to read the professor’s name, let alone the “helpfully” emailed syllabus.Â
As he barreled into the lecture hall twenty minutes late, however, he regretted the decision.
Even more than that, he regretted his decision to save time by pulling on a hat and whatever shirt was closest instead of taking a shower and putting on clothes that he knew to actually be clean.
Because standing at the front of the room, in front of an honest to god chalkboard, wearing a white button down and a fitted charcoal vest to match his sinfully tight slacks was Derek. Fucking. Hale.
Scratch that
Fucking. Professor. Derek. Fucking. Hale.
Stiles stood there like a deer in headlights for a solid fifteen seconds until Derek’s nose twitches and he does a subtle full-body tense before relaxing again and pausing in his lecture to face Stiles directly. Even after years of no contact, Stiles is well enough versed in eyebrow to know that Derek is judging him profoundly at the moment.
“Fuck.”
He doesn’t bother to whisper. Derek would hear it anyway.
The werewolf’s eyes glint with mirth and though the settled happiness is new, Stiles would be a fool not to notice how well Derek wore it.
“Mr. Stilinski. How nice of you to join us? Perhaps you’d like to find a seat? I believe the entirety of the fifth row arrived after the hour, so you should feel right at home there.”
To his right, everyone seated in said row sinks an approximate five inches further into their chairs. Stiles can relate to the desire to make himself as small as possible in an embarrassing situation, but this is Derek.
So instead, he narrows his eyes, straightens his posture and strides all the way to the back. The only other people sitting there are hungover or already asleep and it isn’t hard to find room enough to spread his things out adequately. He would have preferred the front row, but that was taken long ago by all of the freshmen who’d taken one look at Derek and decided that staring at his ass was far more important than...Pre-Industrial America and the Colonies.
Yeah, okay, Stiles might agree with them on that one.
But first, he has to figure out how in the hell he missed this version of Derek who, despite being trapped in a room filled with at least thirty freshmen leaking arousal, actually manages to make a history class sound cool and exciting.Â
And don’t even get Stiles started on the vest and slacks. Back when he knew, really knew Derek, the closest to this kind of comfortable they got was a singular sweater with thumbholes. Even then, it was usually covered up by a leather jacket and jeans Stiles tried not to think about whenever he was even remotely close to  Derek and his super sniffer.
Now, Derek  smiles like it’s something he enjoys doing (rather than something that causes him extreme pain) and it only goes even the slightest bit sour when an incredibly forward student attempts to shove both her notebook and her cleavage in his face.
He didn’t have any classes until after lunch, so Stiles took his time packing up. The front-row crowd spent more time than necessary asking Derek questions and Stiles spotted a few more outside the door who had looked in his direction a few times before devolving into whispers. He spent four solid years learning how to avoid people he didn’t want to talk to, however, and kept his face and body steadily devoted to packing up his belongings as methodically as possible. Finally, when he thought he was going to have to resort to packing pencils away individually, the last group started saying their goodbyes.
Derek went back to collecting notes as Stiles traipsed down to the front of the room, his shoulders loosening as the other students left the room.
“So history huh?”Â
Ever the asshole, Stiles had no desire or strength to try and keep the grin off of his face or the mirth out of his words. Derek scowled up at him, and for a moment resembled the alpha Stiles had once known. Then he snorted out a half-laugh and nodded.
“Yeah, History.”
They were silent for another moment or two, oddly comfortable in a way Stiles can’t ever remember being unless they were in some life-or-death situation. Then, just as surprisingly, Derek broke the silence with a question of his own.
“You doing anything for lunch?”
Completely flabergasted, Stiles nearly lost his balance, despite the fact that he was already leaning on the desk.Â
“I uh, yeah no. My lunch plans included heading back to my dorm and attempting to make ramen via a hot water kettle.”
Derek let out another laugh and finished filing his papers into a messenger bag. He grabbed his jacket and Stiles had to snort when he realized it was the same old leather thing - a little more worn around the edges, but definitely the same one. Derek gave him a questioning look, complete with the world’s most judgmental eyebrows. After all, why would he verbally ask Stiles questions when he could get his eyebrows to do it for him.
“Nothing,” Stiles assured him. “I just wasn’t expecting the jacket after three hours of Hot History Prof slacks and vest. I guess I don’t have to worry about you being a pod person now though.”
The werewolf looked like he was torn between laughing and rolling his eyes, but eventually the latter urge won out. Stiles grinned, even though it earned him a punch to the arm.
“Ow, watch the human!”
Derek rolled his eyes again and head for the door.
“Come on, I’ll show you which coffee shop has the best student ID lunch discounts.”
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