#theillustriouskid

No one had seen Derek in over a month, if tales told around the pubs at night could be trusted. Not since he went into mourning following the death of his elder sister, the queen Laura, at the hands of an Argent assassin.

Peter inclines his head, and the guards release Stiles’ arms, though they still hang right by his elbows as though ready to take hold of him again at the first sign of trouble.

As though any Hale royal couldn’t defend himself from a commoner, with the blood of wolves running through their veins.

“Personal audience with a prince for petty crime? Seems excessive, don’t you think?”

For the first time since the plaza, one of the guards speaks up. He’s a mountain of muscle, dark skinned with close-cropped hair and a square jaw. He could probably have dragged three Stiles back here all on his own, even if he hadn’t been – as Stiles suspects, and as most of the castle guards are – a werewolf in his own right.

“Are you sure you want this one, Sire? He’s shown little skill so far at keeping quiet.”

Peter rises from his chair with a careless poise that leaves Stiles thinking he’d probably spent days practicing the move in a mirror, and crosses the chamber in slow steps, eyeing Stiles critically.

“You’re a druid, boy?”

And now they’re back to the crime. Stiles rolls his shoulders, still sore from the guards’ rough handling, and smirks.

“That’s what it says on the wagon.”

Peter arches an unimpressed brow before reaching out to grab Stiles’ wrist, lifting it and flicking back his frayed sleeve. The spiraling limbs of the Nemeton, the World Tree, are inked in black all the way from his wrist to his elbow. Stiles tugs his arm back.

“Yes, fine. Born with the Spark, trained briefly under Deaton here at the capital, actually. Though when he retired–” fled to the forests, more like, in grief after the massacre that led to the old queen Talia’s death, “—I was forced to train on my own. Look, I know what I’m doing, and just because I don’t have papers—“

“Forget the papers,” Peter cuts in, killing Stiles’ impassioned rant mid-build. And then, to the guards: “He’ll do.”

It must have meant something to them because suddenly they’re back in “haul the mage” mode, dragging him past Peter and through a set of closed doors, into the shadowed bedchamber. Stiles has time to picture a dozen horrible scenarios in the second before the scent hits him: filth and rot and the coppery tang of old blood.

If Stiles hadn’t been such a frequent patron of the cheapest inns money could buy, he might have gagged.

“What the hell?” he hisses instead, as the guards once again release him and step back to pull the door shut. Peter has followed them into the room, and paces away to sink into a wide, cushioned chair to the left of the door.

Dark curtains along the right wall block most of the light from what must be a set of narrow windows, and Stiles’ eyes struggle to adjust to the sudden darkness. There’s a low, constant rumble coming from one corner, and Stiles’ gaze tracks out after it to discover a pair of dusky blue pinpricks gleaming out at him.

Eyes. Glowing blue eyes.

“Holy shit, you’re going to feed me to your pet werewolf.”

The wolf launches forward so fast Stiles barely has time to trip and land on his back, arms over his chest protectively. When fangs entirely fail to descend on his tender, vulnerable flesh though, he looks up to find it pacing along the floor several feet away from him, loping between two and four legs like it can’t make up its mind which is easier, snarling spittle across the floor through bared fangs and looking like he would like nothing better than to tear into Stiles’ throat, but can’t. Stiles reaches out with his Spark and finds a long line of magic spanning the room between himself and the wolf, like a barrier.

Mountain ash.

A candle flickers to life from the wall where Peter’s sitting, revealing the snarling wolf in all its questionable glory. Dark, greasy hair long enough to hang in waves over his eyes, beard thick and long enough to mask most of his angled features. His claws are coated in what looks like his own blood, if the tattered remnants of his clothes are any indication, and probably worse. And his eyes, still that cold, haunted blue, slide between Peter and Stiles with a gleam of savage intelligence.

“Careful,” Peter sounds far too calm, almost amused. Stiles figures maybe he would too if he had fangs of his own at the ready, and a tasty human treat to distract the raging werebeast with. “I don’t think he enjoys being called pet.”

Stiles’ lip curls, cold disgust writhing through him.

“Oh? Would he prefer prisoner? Torture victim? Experimentally rage-induced foot soldier? I mean, this man is clearly feral, I don’t know if that’s what you were going for when you locked him in here but—“

For the first time, he focuses away from the too-sharp teeth enough to take in the richness of the prisoner’s tattered fabrics: crushed silks and richly oiled leather that had plainly been flawless until it had been torn and battered by its wearer’s own claws. It wasn’t something a prisoner would wear, or even an enemy combatant. And past all that scruff and filth and his half-shifted state, Stiles realizes he’s seen this face before.

Just once, years ago and in passing.

Stiles had been dragged into the castle to bear witness to probably the best kept secret in the country.

“Shit,” he breathes, “That’s Prince Derek.”

The royal heir, the rightful king, Derek Hale has lost his mind.

“He’s been like this for a month.” Peter rises from his seat, a barely visible tension in the set of his shoulders as he moves forward to crouch right across the ash barrier from his nephew. The feral prince shifts, teeth baring, but doesn’t lunge again. Stiles wonders if the man recognizes his uncle at all in this state. “The strain of his sister’s passing, in the wake of past losses and the horrors he faced during the war, were apparently too much for his mind. You can understand why this isn’t public knowledge.”

“Right,” because a mad heir would probably not do great things for the city’s morale. Stiles leans forward, and Derek’s attention shifts to him instantly, nostrils flaring. Stiles lifts a careful hand, holding it just outside the prickle of magic indicating the barrier. Derek looks at it intently for a moment, before dismissing it with a sneeze. “And I’ll tentatively assume you did not bring me in here to act as a chew toy, so…”

“Not quite,” Peter replies, sounding grim. “We need you to reassess his claim to the throne.”

.-

“You’re seriously planning on letting a nobody off the street treat the future king?” Stiles, the nobody in question, stares incredulously between the two princes. Derek stares back blankly. Peter sighs.

“We are short on options,” he replies, tiredly. “Our kind are rarely afflicted with ailments such as these and, as you yourself pointed out, our former emissary has been gone from the court for over half a decade.”

Stiles knows how hard it would have been to replace the man. Once, every werewolf bloodline of any repute had employed their own magical advisors, known as emissaries. But these days, druids with any level of legitimacy are rare in the five kingdoms.

Bloodlines die out, are killed or forced into hiding by “purists” like those from the Silver Kingdom.

Stiles lowers his gaze, scanning the rug-covered floor.

“Well, how did you manage the mountain ash?”

They must have access to a person of some magical skill to create such a strong and lasting barrier. But Peter just waves dismissively.

“Worked into the metal of a baseboard, brought up from the old dungeons.”

Derek seems to lose interest in the conversation, padding away in loping steps and pawing through his shredded bedding until he discovers a half chewed bone to gnaw at. “You want my assessment? He’s feral. I’m pretty sure anyone with a set of eyes is qualified to assess that.”

Stiles hears a disapproving rumble from the doorway – oh right, the guards, who had served under and possibly even been fond of the now-mad prince. Peter’s eyes slide heavenward, as though begging some great lunar deity for patience.

“This is the future king. We need a legitimate assessment, so we can form a plan of action before opening this up to the court of public opinion. Our country’s still in mourning for its queen, our enemies are numerous, and looking for any sign of weakness to strike. Would you rather I call a druid from a rival court to decide our kingdom’s future? You have the legitimacy of a Spark and you trained, however briefly, under our previous emissary. And I can at least be somewhat sure that your motivations won’t be politically poisoned against us.”

Stiles follows Peter’s critical gaze back to his nephew.

“And if I play doctor to your feral prince, I get?”

“Our gratitude.” Peter’s tone makes it clear that not wanting his gratitude would be an incredibly foolish decision. “And I believe there was talk of Practice papers? Stay here, assess the prince. And, whatever the outcome, you will have accreditation enough to work anywhere in the kingdom, and beyond.”

.-

Stiles is left alone after that, with instructions to go no further than the outer chamber, no matter how long the assessment takes.

“The last thing we need is anyone seeing you coming and going from the prince’s chambers at all hours. We can’t afford rumors starting before we know what to tell the public.”

But even the prospect of sharing days trapped in this filthy chamber with a feral werewolf isn’t enough to make Stiles question his decision to stay. Peter has promised Practice papers, whatever decision Stiles comes to. Which means he can stay here a few days, a few weeks, and then repeat his assessment – the prince has lost it, crown the next in line and move on – and head out and onward with some semblance of a future before him. Not to mention that the prospect of a roof over his head, and square meals, is worth any stench or poor company.

If Stiles were a better person he might almost feel bad about feeding into Peter’s clear desperation, but it could take years to earn papers otherwise, if he isn’t imprisoned first for just doing what he knows to earn a living.

After a few hours of comfortable lounging on the cushioned chair (by far the softest, most decadent piece of furniture Stiles has ever had the pleasure of resting on) he decides to try putting a hand across the barrier. He has barely a finger over before Derek is in front of him, snapping and snarling.

Stiles slinks back to the chair and falls asleep to the sound of Derek’s low, continuing growls.

.-

When he blinks awake, hours later, the room is silent. Derek is awake as well, sitting with splayed legs and watching Stiles with an expression of puzzled interest.

Stiles sits up slowly, rubbing sleep from his face.

“Morning, sunshine. Any chance you’re back to normal today?”

Derek tries to push his nose past the ash line and rebounds, sneezing.

“Right,” Stiles sighs. “Too much to ask.”

.-

The next time he risks going past the line, Derek simply lifts his head from his pile of torn bedding and watches him mildly. Stiles waves his hand past the invisible barrier before snatching it back, watching Derek with wary eyes. When the wolf makes no movement, he does it again, before reaching over the line and decisively setting his palm down on the floor on Derek’s side of the territory.

Derek huffs, and drops his head back onto his filthy blankets.

“Ok,” Stiles sighs. “Progress.”

He watches Derek shift and settle for a while longer, and falls asleep on the floor when the lantern burns low.

.-

When he wakes up, Derek has shifted away from his torn mattress to curl next to Stiles on the cold floor. At some point in the night, Stiles’ hand had flailed out over the barrier, and Derek had taken it upon himself to use it as a pillow. There’s a wet line of drool along Stiles’ palm to his wrist, and his hand feels numb from Derek’s frankly ridiculous cheekbone, but he’s still in one piece so he figures he can’t complain.

.-

On the third day, Stiles finally steps over the line. Derek seems actually eager about it at this point, and not in the “yay, dinner!” kind of way. He huffs excitedly as Stiles pushes past the line, then takes to guiding him around the small space, closing behind him to nose at his nape when he fails to move quickly enough to one destination or another.

“Yes, that’s a very nice pile of rotting, half-eaten food. God, you are so socially deprived.”

Which makes sense actually, Stiles realizes. Everyone who knows about Derek’s condition – Peter, and his guards Boyd and Isaac – is a werewolf kept physically out of reach by the same barrier keeping Derek in. He probably hadn’t so much as touched anyone since his sickness presented itself, until Stiles had been brought in.

Which also explains the filthy state of both the room and the prince, himself.

“Alright,” Stiles says, reaching out to pat through Derek’s too-long, greasy hair. “Time to introduce you to my good friends, Mr. Soap and Sponge.”

.-

Derek and soap do not get along, at least at first. When Stiles comes back from the outer chamber with the bucket and bar that the guard on duty had delivered to them, he snaps the soap away and tries to eat it before spitting it out and burying himself under the blankets, letting out faint, betrayed growls.

It takes half an hour of coaxing, threats, and promises of rare steak to lure him out (Stiles is convinced that Derek understands at least some words still, even if he can’t manage to respond to them), and then he whines piteously the whole way through the tedious process of scrubbing a month’s worth of grime from his face, chest, and arms.

In the aftermath, though, he’s in a better mood than Stiles has ever seen him, bounding around bare-chested and rubbing his now-clean beard against Stiles’ cheeks like he’s showing off.

He then proceeds to paw off his trousers and trail around Stiles, snuffing impatiently, until he agrees to clean his legs for him too.

“Actually no amount of gold is worth this,” Stiles grumbles, and flushes when Derek nips at his jaw with a pleased sound before scampering off.

.-

Derek becomes less amenable again when Stiles decides to conduct an overhaul on his side of the chamber. The rotting food stench has gotten to unbearable levels and the mattress and all of the sheets are in such a state it physically pains Stiles to look at Derek curling into them.

And this is from someone who’s spent the last year sleeping in a flea-infested canvas wagon.

“Alright,” Stiles decides, after Derek tries to roll into his sheets and nearly ruins an hour’s worth of washing by tumbling into a stain Stiles doesn’t even want to try to identify. “You ready to see the disaster disappear?”

It’s one of the simpler tricks in his arsenal: shifting matter from one place to another, and bringing something fresh in its place. His weeds-to-roses show at the plaza had consisted entirely of this method. Somewhere out there is a flowerless rose garden piled high with ragweed.

Stiles crouches down in front of the mattress and concentrates, the black mark along his inner elbow heating pleasantly, and with a faint surge of power the mess of filth, rotten food, and soiled sheets is replaced by a clean floor and a fresh feather mattress.

Derek refuses to go near the thing until Stiles pulls off the outer sheet and physically rubs himself with it, layering his own scent into the foreign bedding, and steals several shirts from Derek’s wardrobe and buries them into the sheets.

“You would think you of all people would be happier now that the room smells less,” Stiles says that evening, watching Derek circle dubiously around the unshredded mattress.

Derek sneezes, circles once more, and falls asleep nested into the sheet bearing Stiles’ scent.

(Stiles can’t say he feels too badly when he learns that Derek’s mess had ended up in Prince Peter’s chambers.)

.-

Derek is definitely starved for contact.

“Well, maybe if you didn’t act like you were planning on eating everyone who came near you, you’d get more cuddles. What do you think, buddy? Should we let Erica in for a hug?”

The girl in question – another of the Hale Secret confidantes, it turns out, a turned beta like both Boyd and Isaac – makes a face, carefully nudges the latest lunch tray over the metal ash line, and stalks out of the room without a word.

Derek, splayed out across Stiles’ chest with his nose squished against his collar, grumbles until Stiles throws his arm out just far enough to drag the tray toward them, one finger at a time.

“Royals. I don’t think I was brought in to be your personal pillow, you know.”

Derek huffs, picks up one of the turkey legs in too-sharp teeth, and drops it onto Stiles’ face in offering.

It’s ironically this moment when Stiles comes to the realization that this is not going to be the easy vacation and payday he had planned on.

“Damn it,” he murmurs, shifting to scowl down at the grinning wolf. “I’m going to have to actually help you, aren’t I?”

And so, placing his hands carefully against Derek’s temple and chest, Stiles closes his eyes and Sees.

.-

“Derek didn’t lose his mind,” Stiles says as soon as the door opens, Peter stepping in with Isaac and Boyd at each elbow. “He was poisoned.”

Peter pauses in the entrance, his brows drawing up slowly. The guards stall with faint, shocked sounds that set Derek snuffling anxiously along the edge of the ash line. Peter clears his throat.

“You’re aware that conventional poisons don’t tend to work on our kind.”

“I’m aware that strains of aconite have been known to induce feral behavior. It’s not as commonly used as the deadly strains, obviously, but if someone wanted to discredit the Hales and cause strife in the kingdom… well, why did you go to such lengths to keep Derek’s condition a secret?”

“Murder gives us martyrs,” Peter says, thoughtful. “Strengthens the people’s belief in our cause, if anything. If they thought that Derek was weak or mad, though, the kingdom’s very backbone could crumble.”

“The Argent assassin probably poisoned him the same time he killed Laura.”

Peter finally steps the rest of the way into the chamber, nodding the two guards away. Plainly reluctant, they go, pulling the door shut behind him. Peter waits an extra moment, head tilted as though listening for something Stiles can’t make out, before saying with an edge of accusation:

“You’re more versed in herbology and war tactics than I would have expected from a half-trained street magician.”

Stiles’ teeth flash, but it’s a bitter grin.

“My mother was a healer, sire. She taught me many things about herbs and binding magic before she died. And my father was a general in the war.”

Derek shifts in behind him and nudges his head gently into Stiles’ shoulder. Peter’s surprised gaze shifts to his nephew before landing back squarely on Stiles.

“If you’re certain, we should inform the people immediately. Now that we know Derek’s condition was an attack by the Argents, we need to mount a decisive response.”

“You could.” Stiles says, hearing the smugness in his own tone. “But wouldn’t the people be more inspired if Derek could tell them all this himself?”

Peter visibly startles, stalking forward a step and looking to Derek as though expecting him to start spouting soliloquies here and now.

“Forgive my surprise,” he says, slowly. “To my knowledge, the type of wolfsbane you described has permanent effects if not treated immediately. His behavior could improve given enough time, but to expect even the most basic human speech…”

Stiles snorts.

“Do you think I’m planning on teaching Snarly Wolf his ABCs? I’m a Spark, remember? …Sire?” He adds quickly, although Peter seems to be barely hearing him.

“My nephew,” he says slowly, “the last of my family and the rightful heir to this kingdom, has been lost for nearly two moons. Are you telling me you can bring him back?”

Derek breathes a hot huff into Stiles’ shoulder blade, and it’s almost enough to block out the voice in Stiles’ mind telling him to just cut his losses and move on.

“Just need some ink and a needle,” Stiles says instead.

.-

Now that Stiles has made up his mind to help Derek, the ritual itself is a simple enough process.

Derek’s mind is unsteady; it needs an anchor to moor it. And while Stiles’ own mind has never been described as “steady,” the simple fact of his sanity should prove more than enough to curb Derek’s induced madness.

All it will take is a basic binding of their minds. Child’s play. Practically. Except that Stiles is more or less sentencing himself to a lifetime of being intrinsically bound to feral werewolf royalty, but other than that.

Derek whines and huffs miserably the whole time Stiles lays the ink of the binding into his own chest. He tries to snuff into the fresh spirals of black, pinpricked skin, and snarls for the first time in days when the new tattoo begins to glow a faint, dusky blue.

“Hey, like your eyes,” Stiles says, soothing, while Derek glares down at it miserably.

The ritual is the easy part.

.-

When Stiles comes out of the rushing haze of magic, Derek’s eyes are green.

Well, they’re green and goldish, and maybe a little bit brown and grey at different angles, but they’re decidedly not blue. Stiles hates them a little bit in that moment.

He hates the way they startle wide, before narrowing and walling carefully off. The way they blink heavily and squint around the room that Derek and Stiles have been sharing for over a week now as though he doesn’t know who had pushed the sheets into a nest big enough for two to splay out in (Stiles had abandoned the comfortable chair in exchange for the more comfortable bed days ago, when Derek had started to whine every time Stiles went past the barrier, out of reach), or who had left that collection of turkey bones shoved in the corner behind the cracked mirror as though it were a clever hiding spot (Derek had been wary of leaving his favorite chew toys out ever since Stiles had disappeared the pile of rotting food).

He pushes himself slowly to his feet, his posture all different, more like the practiced poise of Peter’s than the comfortable, almost awkwardly so, slouch he had used in all the time Stiles has known him.

All at once Derek is a stranger – a man Stiles had met in passing once, years ago.

There’s a chasm between them that had never been there before the faint, tingling presence in his arm and in his mind, and Stiles forces a hollow smile.

“Welcome back, Prince Derek.”

.-

“So you two, what? Can hear each other’s thoughts now?”

Stiles snorts at Erica’s question, stuffing a fresh bite of roll into his mouth. Because wouldn’t that be easier?

Across the hall, Derek is in the midst of some strategic discussion with his uncle and several advisors that seems to involve a lot of pointing at different documents and scowling. Derek had taken all of two hours to rest following the ritual before showing up in the great hall with his beard trimmed down to barely more than artful stubble, his long hair pulled back in a loose bun. He is regal and devastatingly gorgeous, and he hasn’t looked Stiles’ way since he’d entered the hall.

Stiles misses the scruffy, unkempt Derek who had played with bones and nosed at Stiles incessantly and used him as a mattress.

He tears his gaze away, and back to Erica.

“It’s not like that. Our minds aren’t connected; they’re just bound. It’s like… if you twisted your ankle. Assuming you could twist your ankle,” he adds, and she smirks. “And you were leaning on me for support, to help you stand.”

“Assuming I would lean on you,” she replies mildly. Stiles decides to sacrifice the rest of his roll for the pleasure of seeing it hit the girl’s smug face. She snatches it out of the air with a bored look and takes a bite.

“Anyway,” Stiles continues, “I don’t feel the pain from your ankle by helping you stand. And our bodies don’t become one or anything.” Erica’s brows dance up pointedly, and he flips her the finger. “I’m just there, adjacent, bracing you. Using my ability to stand to help you keep standing.”

“So you’re keeping Derek sane with your own sanity,” Erica confirms and, when Stiles nods, “God help him, then.”

Stiles lobs another roll at her departing back. When he glances back toward the nobles, he finds Derek watching him with an unreadable look before scowling back down at a parchment.

.-

Derek hangs back while Peter presents Stiles with his Practice papers; more of a formality at this point, since his bond with the prince means he’ll be living in the castle from now on. Two weeks ago he would have been overjoyed at the prospect of abandoning his wagon permanently, and being tentatively described as Beacon Hills’ first court emissary since the war.

Now, Derek’s expression is set in a seemingly permanent scowl, and Stiles’ friendly “doing well, Derek?” is met by an elbow from Isaac and a pointedly hissed “your majesty,” and Stiles wishes he were back on the road.

.-

Stiles is given accommodations at the castle – a fine room, his own bed, and more suits and servants than he could know what to do with.

He spends three sleepless nights twisting on the goose feather mattress before tripping from bed to seek out the prince’s former chambers. No guards stand against the outer door now; there are no secrets to protect, no mad princes to look after. The room has been abandoned since Derek’s recovery, deemed too filthy for him to inhabit now that his mind is his own again.

Which means that the last thing Stiles expects to find when stepping through to the inner chamber is the prince himself, dressed in a simple linen tunic and perched at the edge of the bed, staring down at his hands.

It’s a familiar sight, for all of its inconsistencies, and Stiles feels a surge of warmth in his chest as Derek looks up, eyes curious and puzzled, from across the shadowed chamber.

“Stiles,” he says, and Stiles realizes it’s the first word he’s ever heard Derek speak. His voice is lighter than Stiles had expected, with a gruffness that sounds forced, unnatural. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same. I thought you had moved on to bigger and better.”

Derek shrugs and looks down. His hands are curled into the bed’s outer sheet, and Stiles wonders if the prince’s new mattress had smelled as wrong as Stiles’ own had felt. The idea makes something curl, warm and pleased, in Stiles’ gut.

“Derek,” he says, soft. He steps slowly into the room, past the broken barrier of ash-worked metal.

Derek looks up, catching his gaze, the expression in his green eyes unreadable.

“You have a hard time remembering to call me Your Majesty. No one else in the kingdom seems to have that trouble.”

The reminder that the man before him is essentially a stranger sets Stiles scowling again.

“Well, there is a bit of a disconnect, you know. What with me helping you put on pants last week.”

“You called me majesty then.”

And Stiles freezes at that because oh. After days of being distant and cold, acting as though he only possesses the most cursory knowledge of who Stiles is, here he is just casually admitting that he actually remembers. He had retained the things Stiles said while he was in that state. And Stiles had said things. Things that lesser royalty would have probably had his tongue cut out for… or, at least, washed very thoroughly.

(He had let Derek eat soap, holy shit.)

But Derek’s expression is taking on a smug edge, rather than appearing offended, and he’s acknowledging Stiles for the first time since they’d first left this room together, and it leaves Stiles feeling reckless.

“Well, that was in deference to parts of your anatomy that are no longer on display, sire.”

Derek’s brows crawl up, and when his eyes drop again, he is fighting a smile.

“Again, you forget who you’re speaking to.”

“Oh, I remember.”

He’s speaking to Derek. The Derek he had spent days with and slept next to when he had been at his most vulnerable. And Stiles is beginning to think there’s more of his Derek in this cold, standoffish prince than he’d believed.

Stiles’ hand absently goes to rub at his chest, and Derek’s gaze catches on the movement. He slides to his feet and reaches out, tentative in a way he had never been a week ago, to trace the three spirals Stiles had chosen for the binding tattoo, barely visible at the edge of his loose collar.

“This is…”

“I saw yours,” Stiles says when he trails off, his face heating when he remembers the circumstance under which he’d first seen the triskele inked across Derek’s back. “Sharing a symbol that significant could only strengthen the magic.”

“So your magic comes from these?” Derek still seems transfixed by the tattoo, thumbing continually over Stiles’ collar to drag down the edge of his tunic and trace over the small spirals.

“My magic comes from my Spark,” Stiles corrects. “And my Spark is me.” Impulsively, he catches Derek’s hand and presses his palm fully against the tattooed flesh over his heart. “The markings just… allow me easier access.”

He lets a small burst of power seep out into their bond, just enough to set the bond between them vibrating, and grins as Derek’s eyes flare blue in response.

There he is.

Stiles could feel his mouth opening, jaw dropping slowly but inexorably to the floor. The guy – Derek, his name tag said – was gorgeous. Slicked back, jet black hair, stubble so artfully kempt that Stiles couldn’t decide if he wanted to rake his fingers through it to hear the scratching sound or just completely give in to any and all weird urges he had and simply lick all over it. He would start at Derek’s collarbone, following the swirls and lines of a tattoo that was peeking out underneath his shirt, dragging his tongue up the long and tantalizing neck and—

Derek was staring at him weirdly and for a panicked moment Stiles was afraid if he had actually voiced his fantasy out loud. Unfortunately it wouldn’t be the first time that happened.

“Sorry, I zone out sometimes,” he scrambled for words, “Bad habit. What did you say?”  

He nervously took off his glasses, quickly cleaned them – or tried to – on the hem of his plaid shirt, but to be honest, Derek looked enough of a rockabilly bad boy that Stiles would probably be on his merry way out of this coffee shop by now had he indeed uttered any of his previous thoughts out loud.

“Vanilla.” Derek stated.

“What?” Stiles was confused, which Derek luckily didn’t comment on and instead just rolled his eyes behind black-rimmed glasses and sighed long-sufferingly.

“I asked, if you’d like a pump of vanilla syrup in your coffee? It’s about as fancy as it’ll get here.”

“Oh, that was a question. Your punctuation could use some work, dude.”

“Don’t call me dude.” Derek had raised an unimpressed eyebrow at Stiles, but there was a tiny little smile playing around his lips, as if he couldn’t quite convince his face to keep his usual expression of stoniness. Stiles decided that he liked it. He wanted to see if he could bring a real smile to Derek’s handsome.

“Also nah, Café Latte would be fine. I probably shouldn’t gorge on sugar on top of caffeine anyway. Thanks though.”

“Alright, good choice.” The dry pan tone of Derek’s voice made Stiles smirk as well and he leaned a little closer over the counter.

“You can go sit down if you like, I’ll bring it over in a second. Or did you want this to go?”

“Nah, you’ve got Wi-Fi, right?” Derek nodded.

“Then I’ll be right over there.”

—

After their first encounter it became somewhat of a routine, Stiles hanging out in Derek’s coffee shop studying for his classes when it was empty and therefore quiet enough, otherwise just sticking around and appreciating the view as well as Derek’s taste of music. There was almost always some indie folk band playing in the background and Stiles had come to prefer the cozy little shop with its wide front windows and plush sofas to lounge around on to Starbucks on any given day.

The fact that the Derek’s coffee was heavenly, even more so during the long days Stiles otherwise spent on campus running from class to class or buried beneath books in the library. Over the weeks Stiles had come to enjoy Derek’s company as well – though he wasn’t sure if the feeling was mutual – and he had started to look forward to their easy banter, sarcasm and dry wit going back and forth between them.

He had learned to especially enjoy riling Derek up about the coffee selection. When he met Erica, a fellow student and Derek’s barista on three days of the week, Stiles was filled with almost unholy glee at the realization that Erica had tried to convince Derek to broaden his menu a bit as well. Even if they ganged up on him from now on, Derek wouldn’t budge though.

Stiles was currently sitting sprawled on his favorite lounge chair, almost dozing off over his accounting notes – deep down he knew he shouldn’t have chosen a useful minor, but a fun one – when Derek slammed a cup of something down on the table in front of him, the liquid inside almost sloshing over.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“Drink it.”

“Charming as ever there, Derek. What IS it? Did you give up? Are you trying to poison me? I know my rambling can get annoying sometimes, but seriously dude—“

“I said drink it.”

Stiles just pulled a face at him.

“Oh my god, Stiles.” Derek’s eye roll was massive. Stiles was a little impressed.

“It’s hot chocolate with ginger and cinnamon. Tell me if you like it? Also don’t call me dude.”

“You love it when I call you that.” Stiles had grabbed the cup of hot chocolate, carefully blowing over the brim to cool it off a little. It smelled delicious and tasted even better. Stiles might have moaned at how good it was.

“Wow, this is amazing. How come you serve me fancy shit though?”

When Stiles looked up at Derek, the guy was staring at him even weirder than usual and a slight touch of pink was creeping over his cheeks as if an old great aunt had pinched them and told Derek she couldn’t believe how tall he had gotten.

Derek mumbled something into his beard and since Stiles’ ears were only human he couldn’t make it out. “Come again?”

“I said,” Derek sighed, “that your and Erica’s constant whining over the last few weeks might have made me consider adding some coffees and hot chocolates for the winter season. To, and I quote, bring some variety into my usual vanilla ways.”

Stiles snorted and took another sip of his drink, closing his eyes to properly savor the taste of the mixture of sharp spices and bittersweet chocolate. “This should definitely go on the menu, it’s really good.”

Derek was suddenly squatting down in front of Stiles, hovering right in his personal space and it made Stiles’ heart rate elevate. Stiles gasped, inaudibly he hoped when he reached a hand to gently cup his face, thumb wiping softly over the left corner of Stiles’ mouth.

They stared at each other for a moment and then Derek quickly got up again, clearing his throat.

“Sorry, you had, uhm, there was whipped cream on your face. It was distracting.”

With that he turned around and almost fled behind his counter again, leaving Stiles to stare after him, wondering what the hell just happened.

—

It was two days before winter break, two days before Stiles would drive his battered old jeep back to Beacon Hills to spend Christmas with his Dad and Scott and Scott’s mom and all the other people he had missed for the better part of the last semester. Finals were over and Stiles felt as if he finally had his life back. So naturally he had spent a few days only sleeping or slouching off in his bed, too lazy and too tired to even think about getting up and out. Today was different though. He felt alive after taking a shower and the need for coffee – and Derek’s company if he was being honest – was too strong to ignore.

Derek was staring straight ahead when Stiles entered the coffee shop, ignoring the merry little tinkle of the tiny door bells, looking brooding and a little miserable instead. Stiles could feel his heart sinking, but made his way up to the counter anyway.

“Hey. Dude, what’s up?” he asked, cringing internally at his less than smooth opener. Derek’s head snapped up at his words though, bright hazelgreen…ish eyes focusing on Stiles.

“Stiles.” He exclaimed, sounding almost disbelieving. “I thought you went home for break already.”

“No, I’m going tomorrow. Finals only killed me dead, man. I needed to sleep for, like, a week.”

There was soft and slightly concerned look on Derek’s face that despite himself had Stiles’ hope rising. That maybe he hadn’t been imagining things between them, but that Derek was, in fact, interested in him, too.

“Go sit, I’ll bring you something in a second.” Derek even made some shooing motions with his hands and Stiles smiled thankfully at him before he went to sit in his favorite corner.

Derek joined him on the couch a few minutes later with coffee for both of them in his hands. They talked for over two hours, Derek leaving Erica to tend to the customers as Stiles slowly felt himself finally relax, leaving the stressful weeks behind him. He leaned into Derek’s warmth, feeling a little drowsy but so content and he was sure he didn’t imagine Derek leaning into him as well.

They were chatting about holiday plans, horrible family members, nothing and everything really, when Stiles suddenly blurted “I missed this so much. I missed you, you know. It was only like a week I didn’t come here and I fucking missed you so much.”

Derek stared at him, a look of surprise written all over his face. “I… Stiles, I don’t— ah fuck it.” He leaned in then, gently wrapping a hand around Stiles’ neck and carefully pulling him in.