written for @sterekbingo square "soulmate au." kind of a new take on soulmate au? at least i haven't seen this particular type (if you have, please link them to me!! <3) also, my card is under the cut! at the very end. the full fic is here, but you can also read it on ao3 (where i'll post it when i get back home) if that's more your style.
The name unfurls on his wrist at the mall, filled with people, a scratch to his bone that goes unnoticed; he always wears full sleeves, a habit borne of shame and fury, fury at himself and his life and at the one who is writing it. He's 27 — older than the average population of those without someone by their side, someone who are made with dust and ashes that together make the perfect star.
He's celebrating his 27th birthday, actually, in this very mall. Friends that appreciate his appreciation for Star Wars, that don't mind him or pity him, who actually care about him — they booked an entire cinema hall for him, pulled certain strings to make it happen, and none of them had to pleaded or begged for it. They just love him.
He doesn't have his soulmate, yet, perhaps never will, but there is this truth as well: he has friends that love him like family, like their own. It might just have to be enough.
That's what he's thinking, the epiphany dredging up his past agony and mulling it over, layering it over with itself, a sort of aftercare that he's giving a try. And he's tired, too, of the heartache and the negativity — his own most of all. And he is tired of the day, muscles aching, and hey. It's a good time for a relaxing shower, now that he's home.
So he smiles at no one in the apartment but at himself in the mirror he's hung in the living room, a sort of statement piece that Lydia insisted on after taking one look at his at the time barely furnished abode, and shrugs.
"You don't need anyone, Stiles."
The words don't sound quite right as he hears them, the meaning of it turned desolate instead of triumphant as his thoughts become intangibly tangible, an epiphany to something he might just have to get used to. Still, he's said it, it's out there, and it's gonna have to do.
He picks the clothes off of himself, hopes the shower will help him pick himself up. Decides a bath would be better — but he's not got that now, has he? Perhaps he should start saving for a house, now. But it's just so much harder with one income only; he could move back to Beacon Hills? San Francisco isn't bad, but the prices of real estate are no joke.
The pros and cons of that potential scenario run through his head, his legs out of the jeans now, his hoodie off of his body next. Huh, he's almost out of toothpaste; he should go to the grocery store tomorrow. He should also see what's in his fridge and what's not but — later.
He's getting ahead of himself.
The t-shirt he's wearing comes off, too, a full-sleeved one, white, that looks rather good on him. Accentuates the lean muscle thing he's got going on from his years at the Track Team in high school and college. There's this scar he has on his left palm from falling once in the middle of a tournament. He turns his hand—
It's not bare, anymore. His wrist — it has a name.
His soulmate's name.
He stares. And stares and stares because what the hell. This has to be a joke, right?
It just has to be.
He has been within 100 metres of this person before multiple times. Has been to his childhood home, to the fucking police station he works at because hello — Derek Hale is one of Sheriff's Deputies, and Stiles is the Sheriff's son.
They've been within 100 metres of each other before.
But this has never happened.
But...
He rushes to his bedroom, naked, panicked, ecstatic. Picks up the phone from where he'd chucked it on the bed, opens the contact of a person he hasn't contacted since the last project they did together in high school.
Cora Hale picks up on fifth ring, when he's about to hang up and try again.
"Stilinski?" She sounds confused. "It's been a while. What's up?" A muffled voice, a male. Cora says, "Are you fucking kidding me? It can't be him — you've known each other for — it's impossible —" She's clearly not speaking to Stiles.
"Is Derek there?"
Cora stops talking.
"Cora, is he — did he get it too?"
Sounds of footsteps, labored breathing. Phone changes hands and then: "Are you Mieczysław Stilinski?"
Stiles stops breathing. It's real.
Derek is asking him the name nobody but his father and the people at the DMV know.
"I don't know any other Stilinski’s. Just your father and you," Derek is saying. He sounds confused, happy, breathless. "And I know your name starts with an M. I saw some papers on the Sheriff's desk once, by mistake but — how is it you?" A pause. "Not — I didn't — I mean like —"
"How is it me when we have been around each other for so long. I have been at your house, you've been working at the BHPD for... fuck, 3 years now?"
"Since I came back from NY, yeah."
"I don't know, Derek, I don't but I... you were at the mall today, right?" He just wants to be sure.
"Yes. Yeah. I was, I was buying a gift for my parent's anniversary."
"And today's my birthday, I was —"
"With your friends watching Star Wars. I know. I saw you and the Sheriff let the whole station know about it yesterday."
Stiles can't fucking believe this. And also... "I'm so fucking cold. I really should wear some clothes."
"What?"
"Long story short — Shower, saw the name, called the one Hale's number I had."
Derek's chuckle is sexy and seriously, how has he never heard it before? It's a crime. And Stiles should be in jail. At least then he would have met his soulmate earlier... but wait, that's a paradox. Isn't it?
"I thought you were short story long kind of person," Derek says, and follows up with, "And if you're free right now... I know it's late but, would you forsake your shower and meet me to figure out why he haven't met before?"
Stiles cuts the call.
Then calls Cora's cell again. Derek picks it up with an exhale that seems very anxious, so Stiles closes his eyes at his stupidity and admits, "That was a yes. My brain just jumped ahead a few steps. Please text me your number so we can let Cora have her phone back," Cora cheers in the background, "And I can end the call so that I can wear my clothes and you can text me whatever address and we can finally meet and I'm sorry for ending the call so abruptly and seriously why haven't we met before? It's so —"
Derek chuckles again, and really, it's such a nice sound. "Stiles, breathe. I don't want you to die just yet."
"I can absolutely do that, yep."
Silence.
"Stiles? Wear your clothes. I promise I'll help you out of them when —"
There's a sudden struggle at the other end, and then it's Cora's voice coming down the line, "Ew! No! Do it on your own phone. Stiles, I'm texing you my brother's number, so go! Now!"
She ends the call.
Stiles lets his own phone fall onto the bed, processes what happened for just a minute, and then smiles goofily when Cora makes good on her statement.
Somehow, even though they haven't interacted in all these years despite all the things connecting them to the same peg on the board, Derek texts Stiles: "Stop dawdling and come meet me at the diner on 5th. Remember to wear your clothes. For now."
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