Chapter Text
“Holy shit,” he breathes, eyes starting to focus on his surroundings. He straightens, and from where he’s sitting he has quite the view of a delicious set of shoulders. Stiles' mouth parts slightly as he admires the hard pull of muscles underneath a navy shirt, eyes trailing over the cream tilt of the guy’s face, hooded by impressive eyebrows.
He’s completely forgotten the essay he’s supposed to be writing and his shoulders want to rattle against the wooden chair, the amount of caffeine Stiles has consumed. He thinks it’s as good a time to give up anyway, throwing his highlighter across the coffee house table so that it clacks against the surface.
The guy’s eyes are cast downwards, his eyelashes swept across his cheeks. A dark shade of stubble spreads around his jaw like flecks of charcoal, and Stiles can’t stop staring. He’s thinking about looking away, aware that this is bordering on too much when the guy darts his startling eyes at Stiles.
It’s almost as if he knows he’s being watched and it takes a second for Stiles to meet his gaze, too busy admiring the man’s arms. A small shiver runs along his spine when light coloured eyes bore into him. Stiles has the decency to blush, and turns his head towards the words on his computer screen.
“Sorry,” he mumbles. He peeks again, ashamed of where his mind is heading and this time the guy looks up and glares. It’s rather impressive, actually, and Stiles’ body feels as if it’s been reduced to a single point.
He deliberates opening his mouth, wondering how far the guy will go in regard to his blatant staring when he hears a dramatic sigh. It sounds like a leaking balloon and Stiles quirks his lip. The guy reaches into his pocket, shifting onto one side to do so and his body gives a slight twist.
Stiles pointedly looks away. A few moments later a soft ball of paper grazes along his cheek, almost catching the corner of his eye. Stiles shoots a the guy a glare but he’s dipped his head down to his book.
Sceptical, his fingers prod open the scrap of paper. There’s a small, dark scribble, smooth and well practiced. It looks like words? Lips curling in curiosity, he leans back on his chair more comfortably and its front feet stray away from the ground.
“Uh, what’s this?” Stiles asks, eyebrows raised.
The guy stills for a moment before glancing up. “My name.”
Stiles looks at the piece of paper again. Now that it’s obvious, the scribble does look like a name. Derek Hale. A brush of familiarity presses on his tongue.
“Nice to know,” says Stiles, incredulousness seeping through him. It’s all just so...odd. What’s a name without a number? “What am I going to do with your name?”
Derek sighs, again, before turning to his book. It doesn’t take much to notice the beginnings of a slight scowl.
“Fine,” he mutters. Two can play at this game.
Stiles pulls a napkin from the dispenser, the edge tearing a little. The only pen he’s got is the pink highlighter and the felt tip drags against the paper as he writes his name in large block letters. With a smirk, he signs it off with a winky face, delighting in the reaction he might get.
He sits smug when the napkin hits Derek straight in the nose. The eyes opposite him narrow and Derek avoids Stiles' gaze like he’d burn his eyes out. Stiles’ heart flutters as rough fingers open the paper hastily, and Derek stares at it like it’s a foreign language. Stiles' nostrils flare in offense.
Derek doesn’t say anything and Stiles is more than a little disappointed. The few seconds he waits is torture, and grudgingly he turns back to the dull glow of his screen. Stiles hears the scraping of the wooden chair against the floor and the guy is gone.
*
He keeps the scrunched up piece of paper. The bin in the coffee house mocks him as his hand hovers over it, and eventually he gives up, scowling as he pockets the reminder he doesn’t quite need of Derek Hale. When he gets home, the paper a burning weight in his pocket, he shoves it between the pages of an old school textbook.
The guy is at the coffee shop the following week, Stiles attempting not to admire the strong surge of legs as Derek enters the warm space. He is sitting with his back to the window, the curve of shoulder blades under Derek’s shirt catching his attention. Stiles licks his lips.
Derek orders a double espresso and the new guy at the counter flails a little bit. Stiles frowns when the barista’s face flushes and gives a stammered enjoy your coffee. A large hand gripped around the top of the cup comes into Stiles’ view as Derek turns, and out of the corner of his eye he sees Derek’s lips press into a thin line.
His feet hesitate at the floor before heading into the seat he was sitting in last week. It’s directly opposite Stiles, two tables down. They’re face on, like two bodies either end of an interrogation table, and the distance between them is infuriating.
Stiles glances up and Derek’s eyeing him. His scrutiny dashes over Stiles’ skin, and he’s probably wondering if Stiles is going to open his mouth and irritate him. A part of him would love to do it; Stiles finding it difficult to let the man drink his coffee in peace.
Trying to impress is a losing battle anyway, the guy is clearly not interested. Stiles leans back in his chair, arms folded, enjoying the way Derek seems to get more irritated the more Stiles settles into his smirk.
His breath almost catches the longer they look at each other; the whole world balancing on the tip of a knife. It’s all very strange, and it eats at him as Derek’s gaze drops over Stiles as if he’s being systematically searched for faults. He doesn’t like the way Derek seems to be expecting a particular reaction from him, eyebrows lifted in preparation for an inevitable act.
“You’re weird,” Stiles says eventually. It’s the only word that comes to mind when a whole series of more complimenting adjectives are strung together in his head.
Derek’s eyes snap up a little. They have a little bronze tickle within the hazel, but his expression is definitely as hard as rock. Derek tilts his neck a little and the muscles strain. “You’re painfully moronic.”
Stiles sniffs and leans forward on his elbow. “What’s a guy like you doing here? Are you visiting town?”
“Yes,” he says curtly. His lip quivers in deliberation for a moment and Stiles tries to ease the words from Derek’s mouth with a slow, encouraging, yet slightly mocking nod. Stiles fiddles with a plastic spoon as he waits but Derek decides not to speak. It accidentally snaps in two between his fingers and the man snorts. Stiles is once again disappointed.
Derek’s phone begins to ring and it’s the scratching static of some song he’s heard on the radio. Stiles winces. Derek peers at the caller ID and ignores the call before turning to his book; shoulders tense and hunched uncomfortably over the table.
“That is a terrible ringtone,” Stiles finds himself saying. The glare he receives pounces on him and Stiles pulls back his hands, fingers spread out and palms facing Derek.
“Your taste is faultless.”
“Thanks,” says Stiles sourly. Perhaps he should get back to writing. He does some work for a while, biting at his lip as he tries to concentrate. The words fade in front of him, a wall around his mind, and he finds he can't do anything. Stiles groans.
Derek glances at him. Oh, look, and now his eyebrow is raised.
“Shut up,” mutters Stiles. It’s bridging on loud enough that now the other half of Derek’s face mimics the amused expression. But without another word, Derek rises from the table and disappears out the door. Stiles hopes he’ll see him again.
*
Maybe Stiles spends a lot more time in that cafe doing a lot more work than he had anticipated. He’s pleasantly surprised when he realises that all the things on his checklist are done, and he’s caught in the limbo between being free and having to sell his soul again once classes start.
Stiles sits back in his chair, hands behind his head, smiling gently at the beach print on the wall. The waves are still, coaxing up on the shore line and for once Stiles feels that way too. That is, until Derek Hale has wandered in again, this time wearing a leather jacket. It sparks a few creative thoughts in Stiles’ head, of motorcycles and grease and rippling muscles.
Derek holds in an irritated breath when he spots Stiles, probably because their eyes catch and Stiles isn’t exactly doing anything but watching. Derek seems to brace himself as he sits in the exact same place, book under his arm.
Stiles can’t bring himself to pack up and orders another coffee. Derek, unfortunately, has the self control not to glance up at Stiles, appearing sufficiently interested in his own book. God, after too much thinking about this one guy and his dark attractiveness, Stiles wants at least a look of acknowledgement.
He notices when the man stills. Almost as if they were tied together, his own lungs refrain from working too. A sweep of deliberation passes over Derek’s face and his shoulders turn towards the counter before turning back again.
“Why do you look so funny?” asks Stiles cheerfully.
Derek gives him a long look, book tipping backwards for a moment. Then Stiles is ignored. A part of him thinks he had it coming, but his tongue itches to spout out even more nonsense. He doesn’t though, and stands straight, ready to pack up all his things.
He must have been abrupt because Derek’s looking at him again, the tip of his teeth showing from his slightly open mouth. “What do you think of the song?” he asks quickly, jerking his chin down to get Stiles to sit again.
Slowly, Stiles’ butt returns to the seat and he turns his ears to the speakers. He’s easily heard the song before; in his jeep, the bookstore, the supermarket. It was even the same as Derek’s ringtone the other day.
He shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s kind of scary.”
For some reason this alarms Derek, but his wide eyes are immediately wiped away to something more sedate. “What do you mean?”
“The guy’s voice is kind of rough and haunting. It’s not bad. Do you like the song?” he asks.
“I guess,” replies Derek gruffly, turning back to his book. He turns the page with such a force Stiles swears he hears the paper tear.
The inconsistency presented in this man makes Stiles frown. Standing again his fingers trail slowly over his belongings, piling them up before gathering them into his arms. His eyes don’t waver from Derek, whose forest coloured irises stay steadfastly attached to the page. The deliberate refusal to look at Stiles makes him mutter under his breath about manners.
*
Stiles does not look Derek Hale up online. It takes a long stretch of self control not to because he doesn’t want to admit that he’s fallen to that kind of territory. He struggles to find things to do now that his assignments are over for the break.
He drives over to the police department to pick his father up for lunch, spends an hour prattling on about school for his father’s benefit and then he’s over to bother Scott while he’s at work.
On the way back home he gets groceries, and the weather’s turning nasty; grey clouds battling each other, the wind a whining dog. On the edge of the road is a car, bonnet stretched up like an open jaw. The car is nice, slick. Expensive.
He doesn’t know what makes him stop. His jeep is way far down on the food chain of moving blocks of metal, but his father taught him to be a good citizen when he wasn’t going around making a nuisance. Pulling over and hearing the tyres skit against the gravel, he exits loftily from his car and knocks on the tinted window.
Stiles settles his hands in his pockets, turning on his heel to awkwardly glance at the surrounding trees. The wind whips at his hair, and half a minute later the sound of glass being rolled down fills his ears. With a bright smile, he faces the driver. Then his face falls.
“Oh it’s you,” Derek Hale says in a dry voice, hand clasped around a phone. He holds a finger up to tell him to wait as he speaks shortly into the phone. “Yes?”
Stiles rolls his eyes, heart beating slightly. “Uh, do you need help? Do you need a jump start?”
Derek stares at him, eyes doing a steely once over. Stiles can’t be bothered leaning over the window anymore, uncomfortable having his face only a couple of feet away from Derek's. “Yes, actually,” he says.
“Great,” says Stiles lightly.
He returns with the jumper leads and Derek has the hood up, leaning casually against its side, his arm raised. The bottom of his shirt has inched upwards and Stiles is far enough away that he can look without being seen at it. The sliver of skin is riveting, the wind pressing Derek’s shirt firmly against his body so that it clings to the curve of his abdomen.
“What’s your name?” asks Derek, his eyes a blanket of scrutiny. He ducks his head, the heavy set of Derek’s eyebrows and the constancy of his look enough to make him think that Derek’s only waiting for him to slip up in some way.
“I already gave you my name,” he mutters in return. Perhaps Derek had already forgotten it.
Derek snorts. “That was your name?”
Stiles cranes his neck up from the engine, giving a scowl. “Don’t give me that. You were the one who gave me your name on a piece of paper first. Normally, you leave a number with it too.”
Derek raises his eyebrows, lip quirked in amusement and disbelief. “You were staring,” he says smugly and as a way of explanation.
“How did your battery even get flat here?” asks Stiles, ignoring his statement.
Derek sighs. “I went for a walk. Left the lights on.”
“In there?” Stiles gestures towards the trees. “That’s private property.”
“I am aware,” says Derek curtly.
Stiles gives him a pointed look, but shrugs it off, clipping the leads and heading over to his car. His keys fumble in his hand, and he slides into his seat before his engine starts. Soon, Derek’s too gives a rumble of life and Stiles’ sweaty hands leave his steering wheel, working himself up to facing Derek again.
Guilt begins to well up inside him, aware that he really shouldn’t have been spending so much time with Derek in his thoughts. He doesn’t want to falter and make it obvious when his stupid crush is based entirely on nothing.
“So,” says Derek, looking amused, his car finally purring gently. “Do you feel you’re in tune with popular culture? Music?”
Stiles glances up. “Uh, sure?”
The answer seems to satisfy Derek; an arrogant smirk appearing on his face. “And what would you do if you met some sort of celebrity?”
“Oh, we don’t get them here in small towns,” Stiles waves off easily. “Maybe at college? Nah. Unlikely.”
“What do you think you would do?” presses Derek. He seems to be sitting up straighter, teeth gleaming wickedly as he waits for a response. There's an impressive amount of words strolling out of Derek’s mouth right now when there are usually five at most.
Stiles is under the impression he’s humouring Derek, and a little twinge of his heart wants to comply. “I’d jump on them.”
Derek raises his eyebrows so far it’s like they’ve fallen off a cliff. Whistling a little and trying to ignore the flush of embarrassment he’s brought upon himself, he retrieves the leads and wanders back to his car with a slight wave.
*
“There’s this hot guy at the coffee shop I’ve been annoying,” Stiles tells Lydia. She shoots him a dry look and the idea that he annoys everyone is probably not far from her mind.
“Does he work there?” she asks, an expectant pout on her lips.
“No,” Stiles admits.
“Then why are you dragging me there when I could be doing something else? You can’t even ensure that this hot piece of ass is going to be there,” she sparks, turning away from Stiles and sitting back into the passenger seat.
Stiles shrugs. “He’s tastefully hot.”
“At least it means you haven’t resorted to learning some poor barista’s hours off by heart,” Lydia says in an even tone. Stiles scowls at her, jerking the jeep around the corner a little too harshly.
“I’d do no such thing,” he claims. If he ever did, it would be by accident.
Stiles starts when they enter the coffee shop and Lydia crashes into his back. She flicks the back of his head and strides over to the counter to order their drinks. Derek is sitting at his usual table, and the sharp gleam of the one Stiles frequents is empty, pleasantly alone.
Stiles wanders forwards, nudges Lydia and gestures over to Derek. His back is to the counter and in his hands lies another book. His leather jacket hangs on the back of his chair and his light blue shirt stretches firmly over his skin. Lydia shoves away his nudging hands to spin around and her eyebrows raise, suitably impressed.
“Name?” she asks quietly behind her red-ribbon hair.
“Derek.”
“Hmm,” Lydia says. “You go over. I’ll wait for the drinks.”
Stiles accepts her order willingly, all limbs as he makes his way to his table. Stiles flops down wearing a pleasant grin as he shrugs off his jacket.
“How’s your car?” he asks loudly, and more than one person looks over.
Derek’s eyes flick up. “Fine,” he says slowly.
Stiles presses his lips into a thin line, smile residing. But Derek hasn’t looked away just yet and opportunity buzzes over his skin. “Good book?”
“Yes,” replies Derek. “But given your wide knowledge of music I doubt you’d ever heard of the book I’m reading now.”
He narrows his eyes, the bone dry tone of Derek’s voice clearly making fun of him. The words try me dangle on his tongue, nostrils flared as Derek turns away. At least Lydia is coming over with two cups of coffee. She glances at Stiles’ irritated expression and rolls her eyes. Then she turns to Derek and her mouth drops open.
“Stiles,” she says, eyes widening at the sight of Derek. “That’s Derek –”
“Oh my God, Lydia,” hisses Stiles, waving his hand manically for her to sit. He doesn’t want Derek to know he’s been spoken of to his friends. But at least a piece of him feels smug because her reaction means he didn’t exaggerate Derek’s attractiveness with his own blurred bias.
Derek chooses this moment to look up and Stiles resists the urge to cover his face with his hands. Lydia’s eyes flit between the two of them and the air feels tight. Derek shrugs at her, eyebrows glancing at Stiles. He glares back and tugs on Lydia’s arm to sit down.
“Right,” she says, swishing her hips as she sits and flicking her bright hair over her shoulder. She has her back to Derek, and past her ear Stiles can see all of Derek’s neck and face if he shuffles his seat marginally to the right.
The expressions the two wear could be mirrors, amusement playing within the frame of their faces. Derek’s biting his lip, gaze cast downwards and there’s an empty blur in Stiles’ brain that occurs when he knows he's not getting something.
“Did you watch the MTV video music awards last month Stiles?” Lydia asks rather loudly.
Stiles’ face scrunches up. “Uh, no. Why would I?”
“No reason,” Lydia says in a dry voice. Stiles swears he sees Derek’s body jump behind her once in laughter. Unknown riddles spill around him, riddles he swears Derek and Lydia know the answers to.
A little while later she begins to hum, seemingly absentmindedly as she sips her coffee.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” Lydia says innocently, but she continues. Stiles recognises the song. He’s pretty sure it was the same one Derek was asking him about, and sure enough when Stiles' eyes travel a little to the side Derek’s looking straight at the back of Lydia’s head, lip curled. “For the love of me I can’t remember name of this song!” she exclaims, looking extremely put out.
“Don’t look at me,” says Stiles. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know this song?” Lydia stares at him like he’s an idiot.
“Yes, I do, I just don’t know what it’s called,” he hisses at her.
“Or evidently who it’s by,” she mutters. Lydia turns her shoulders gracefully, manicured fingers on the table before she directs the question towards Derek. Stiles wants to kick her.
He questions his sanity in bringing Lydia here in the first place.
“Do you know?” she asks rather pointedly.
“Lydia.”
Derek’s warm coloured eyes stare at her a moment. “Tides,” he replies curtly.
She scrunches up her nose in thanks, before turning, smug, back to Stiles.
“Don’t ask me if I like it, he already has,” he says, frustrated, and he’s slightly worried when Lydia yelps out in laughter.
Stiles manages to shift the conversation to something he can contribute to, nerves settling when Derek slides out of his chair effortlessly and exits the coffee shop.
“I wonder if he can play the guitar,” she says innocently, and Stiles is instantly plagued by thoughts of those fingers lulling over strings, worshiping the guitar like he wished Derek would worship his body.
Lydia reaches forward and ruffles his hair. “You’re an idiot,” she says, fond.
He bats her hand away, grumbling in confusion. What has he done to warrant that statement this time?
“And I wouldn’t get your hopes up about Derek; he’s probably got a life.”
“As if I need reminding,” Stiles shoots at her. Lydia shakes her head incredulously, lips pursed like they’re the locks to some ridiculous secret.
*
Dragging Lydia along had clearly been a bad idea, so he heads to the coffee house alone. He places a shield in his mind, aware of the unhealthy direction his actions and thoughts have taken. He wants something, something he is probably not going to get.
The coffee swirls over his tongue and he hears a short sigh at the door before his eyes travel over to Derek. Stiles’ spine straightens, and Derek’s eyes sweep over him with the barest hint of acknowledgement.
“Hello to you too,” Stiles mutters when he finally sits, holding his cup over his face in a half–hearted attempt at hiding. Derek’s visits have been decidedly irregular, and while he’s been here every day at some time or another, he’s not sure whether he’s happy at Derek’s visit finally coinciding with his.
“Why do you come here?” blurts out Stiles.
Derek’s eyes roll before grimacing at Stiles. “It’s quiet.”
“Oh right,” he replies, a little louder than normal. Derek glares at him. “I thought it was because the coffee was good.”
“Why do you come here?” he asks pointedly, and the tips of Stiles’ ears go red
“Like I said,” Stiles says a little absently. “The coffee.”
“Did your friend say anything about me?” Derek says directly. His face doesn’t turn away, demanding an answer from Stiles’ lips. His heart sinks a little.
“She’s dating someone,” he mumbles. Derek rolls his eyes, but judging from the fact the tips of his lips have quirked up slightly and he’s turned back to his book, he seems to have gotten his answer.
His own book lies shut in his hands. Everything is ridiculous, but Derek's right there, falling under Stiles’ own definition of beautiful and he can’t bring himself to look away.
Hastily, he climbs to his feet and waves at the barista. He can’t subject himself to this any longer and he doesn’t have even a spoonful of courage to ask a question. What would he say? Would you like to get coffee with me?
His bank account is depleting rapidly, and Isaac, the barista, has managed to memorise his order. Stiles is a college student, for God’s sake. He can’t afford all these coffees because he’s been staring helplessly at Derek. It’s embarrassing.
The legs of the chair cling to the ground and screech when Stiles moves back. Derek’s eyes dart forward and it looks like he’s been snapped out of a dream. “You’re going?” he asks, but then he bites back into his chair like he didn’t mean for those words to slip out.
Stiles presses his lips together. He nods, and Derek sort of gives him a vague nod back.
*
He only goes into the shop the next time because he left his book. The squeak of his shoes against the ground distracts him as he travels in a direct line towards the counter. Stiles doesn’t want to look at where he normally sits, he doesn’t want his skin to jump up or his heart to be overly disappointed. He’s not actually sure what scenario he wants anymore, and is happy to leave it for fate to decide.
“Isaaaac,” Stiles draws out. “I left my book here; did you happen to pick it up?”
Isaac steps around the coffee machine and greets Stiles with a small smile. “No. There was no book.”
Stiles twists around to look at the table, frowning in disappointment. He flushes when he sees Derek is at his usual table. He turns back to Isaac.
“You sure?”
He nods helpfully, and noticing Stiles notice Derek, he smirks. “Should I get your order?”
“If you must,” sighs Stiles, fishing out his wallet from his back pocket. Isaac reaches out a hand.
“Dude, you’re in the system. This is your free coffee.”
Stiles relaxes. At least one of his inhibitions has been removed from his list. “Good, okay. Thanks.”
He doesn’t have anything to do and it’s awkward sitting here without his book. Stiles taps his fingers against the ceramic of his coffee cup, and he manages to scrutinise every part of the room except for where Derek’s seated.
It’s surprisingly easy, but he wants to kick himself when he notices straight away the sudden and sharp smile Derek gives him.
“What?” asks Stiles carefully.
“You left your book.”
Stiles gives him an accusatory look, but Derek ignores it and chucks the paperback over the table. Stiles has to fling his coffee away so that it doesn’t get knocked over, and hot sparks of liquid drip over his hand. Derek shrugs.
“Thanks,” Stiles says a little angrily.
Derek’s eyes move away again, but as if they are on a slippery track they’re back at Stiles.
“You’re reading McCartney’s biography?” he asks.
“Obviously,” says Stiles with a grin.
“I’ve met him,” Derek informs and there’s that slight smirk that makes Stiles know he’s part of a joke. But Derek sounds perfectly honest, even if he is a bit boastful.
“Good for you, dude. I met Justin Timberlake once,” he actually saw a glimpse of his profile the only time they had travelled away from this small town for a holiday. Derek does not need to know the details, however.
“I’ve met him too,” he says, this time showing a little teeth with his smile. It’s a little bit worth being made fun of to see the terrifyingly gorgeous spread of lips Derek's face is capable of. “I’m surprised you actually know the name of a current singer.”
Stiles frowns. “Of course I know the names of current singers.”
Derek’s eyebrows do that thing again where they quiver like his whole face is trying really, really hard not to laugh. He just clears his throat and turns back to his novel. Isaac is hovering close, cleaning the next table over and it’s as if he’s trying not to laugh as well.
Several times he tries to initiate conversation, but he gives up before he’s even formed a word.
*
It’s the last day before he’s off to college again and even though he hasn’t been here in a few days, one last time in the store can’t hurt him. Isaac catches his eye and waves his hand for him to sit while he makes the coffee.
He almost doesn’t notice Derek sitting there because he’s not alone. A dark haired beauty sits opposite Derek, blocking the view and talking sweetly yet menacingly at the same time. Stiles shifts his chair slightly to the side, and that’s better, he can see Derek.
On the phone with Lydia last night she asked if he had figured it out yet when talking about Derek. He bites at his uncertainty over the matter, sure he’s missing something important, but ultimately he puts it down to the hopelessness present at the seams of every coffee encounter.
“Hi Stiles,” calls Isaac loudly, placing the coffee on the table. He’s already got a few bills handy and he stuffs it in Isaac’s hand. The brunette twists around and with a delighted look, stares Stiles down.
“Um, hi?” he says, confused.
“Laura,” he hears Derek growl, but she’s already off her seat and has plonked herself down next to Stiles.
“Derek,” she tells off, pouting in annoyance. “He’s kind of young.”
Her eyes rake him, and this Laura is certainly friendlier than Derek, but equally as disarming.
“I’m twenty,” Stiles says, affronted.
“In advance,” she says over him, “I would like to apologise for my brother’s behaviour.”
“Um, okay? Wait, what?” Stiles hears himself saying, straightening and staring at Derek like he’s a block of bricks. Derek sighs and closes his book.
“I’m not even going to apologise for my sister.”
“Good,” says Laura, her voice dripping in a rich honey. Her fingers are placed territorially on Stiles’ arm, examining him. “So you really don’t know?”
“Know what?” asks Stiles, turning panicked. Derek’s standing with a fiery expression and he steps over to place his hands on Laura’s shoulders. He squeezes a little before pulling her up, her eyes rolling as she gives in to his touch. Derek guides her back over to the table.
“You guys are being overly cryptic!” he almost yells, but upon their amused expressions Stiles turns back to scowl at his coffee.
The two seem to have a not so quiet but wordless conversation that he’s fairly sure he’s the subject of. He deliberates saying something to get the anger out of his body, but with his jaw clenched he’s too distressed for it to be anything appropriate.
At least the girl is his sister. There’s that, but the information is dulled by the fact that Stiles is leaving tomorrow. He wishes he hadn’t wasted his break on a guy that only sometimes shows glimmers of actually wanting to talk to Stiles. His father and Scott deserve better company from him, even if he’s seen the two almost every night.
Stiles drowns the rest of the coffee and standing, clears his throat. The two seem to stop their wordless bicker.
“Nice to meet you,” he says politely to Laura.
“Please just ask him what he’s not telling you,” she says in reply. “Since this one has made me promise not to say anything.” Laura shoots him a glare.
“Have you met the dude?” asks Stiles, his voice echoes around. “He’s not exactly forthcoming with information. Besides, it doesn’t matter. I’m back to school tomorrow and I doubt we’ll ever see each other again. So. Yeah. Bye?”
Derek looks at him, startled. He gives a curt nod and Laura is muttering her brother’s name like he’s a fucking idiot. Stiles agrees wholeheartedly but that’s only because he’s angry at himself for pining after a god damn stranger.
*
When the gears in Stiles’ brain finally move together and click in the most frustrating way, he’s on the phone to Lydia. He doesn’t even let her speak when she answers, because his eyes are glued to a video on his computer screen and there is that gorgeous face, complete with an easy smile. It’s taken him a whole bloody month of late night thoughts and silver moons trying to forget about Derek.
“Guess you think you have a fucking funny sense of humour, Lydia, don’t you? Guess who I just saw on the tv and who I just googled? Oh god, it makes my pathetic crush even more tragic. Oh my god, why didn’t you tell me?” he hisses.
There’s a long sigh. “I suppose it’s more tragic because you’re definitely not the only person in the world who has jerked off to the thought of him?”
Stiles fights the urge to hang up on her and he can hear the smirk seep its way through the phone’s speakers.
“Why did you let me pine for someone who was so desperately unattainable?”
“You already thought that he was unattainable, besides, he seemed to be having fun,” she points out. Stiles growls at her and he cuts the call with a jab of his thumb. He paces his dorm room for a bit, Scott looking at him anxiously with a bowl of popcorn over his legs.
“Care to explain?” he asks, gesturing to the scowl on Stiles’ face. A whole bunch of things start to wind together to make fucking sense, and he wants to punch the feelings of any person who kept this from him.
Stiles collapses onto his own bed and points at the interview. “That, my friend, is coffee house guy.”
"Woah," Scott's voice echoes. "Derek as in Derek Hale? Stiles, where have you been?"
Stiles nods miserably, painfully examining his own ignorance. He feels like the butt of every joke combined.
*