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“No, no, no, the storm really isn’t that bad, I promise.” Stiles is practically on his knees at this point to beg with the woman behind the counter. Her name is Sharon and her flight attendant uniform is neatly pressed to perfection.
“Thank you, sir, for your input but I believe company policy is to listen to our licensed and trained meteorologist.” The woman quips, she types something out on her computer primly before turning back to him. “The next flight leaves tomorrow morning at seven, we’ll arrange to have you on that flight but no one is leaving the airport for the next eighteen hours. Is that all, Mr. Stilinski?”
“Yes,” he sighs, pulling up his rolling bag handle and reshouldering his satchel. “Thanks for your help.” He takes the new ticket she’s printed out and walks back to the waiting area. He pulls out his phone, sitting down and looking around to be sure no one is near the little alcove he had found earlier. He pulls one long sleeve up and swipes his thumb over a rune of silence, keeping an eye out as he goes. He dials and listens to the ringing while he situates himself into a more comfortable position with his satchel propped up against the wall behind him to lean on.
“Stiles, what’s up?” Scott’s sleepy voice comes over the phone. It was late for both of them.
“Hey Scotty-boy. I’ve got good news and bad news.”
“Alright, you don’t sound out of breath or in pain so good news first.”
“Good news - I stopped the aloviti. Bad news - humans are easily scared by testy weather and I’m stuck at O’Hare until tomorrow morning.”
“Damn, I really wanted you here for the McGreg pack arrival.” Scott sighs and Stiles sinks into his satchel more with the weight of his best friend’s disappointment.
“I know, and I wanted to be there too. I was gonna strike the fear of Stilinski into them.” Sott laughs and Stiles smiles. He knew Scott was stressed, trying to bring together packs and forge alliances. If he were just trying to bring packs together it wouldn’t be too hard, just a lot of territory disputes and pack politics. But no, this boy wanted to go all out and get werewolves to partner with hunters .
Stiles had countered that plan before it was even halfway out of Scott’s mouth. There was no possible way anyone else would be willing to shake hands with the men and women who killed so many of them and forced them into the dark ages of hiding and living low. But Scott was determined and Stiles did what he could to help his best friend. It had taken time but over the years, with successes and failures behind them Scott’s plans for supernatural peace were coming together.
“It’s alright, buddy. You’ll get here when you get here, just stay safe, okay?”
“Of course, dude. When have you ever known me to get into unnecessary trouble?” Scott just scoffs and hangs up with a quick good-bye. Stiles chuckles as he puts his phone away. He starts to pull out his book, a new mystery novel written by one of his fae friends in Orlando when his stomach makes an obnoxious growl.
“Well, I guess I need food then.” He mutters to himself, taking up his stuff and looking for a map. He spots one near the end of the hallway he’s in, connecting two wings of the airport. He looks over the map and does his best to locate the food court when the hairs of the back of his neck stand on end and his spark sizzles under his skin. Someone is watching him, intently by the feel of it and his magic isn’t too happy about it.
He resumes his search and nods when he finds what he’s looking for. Maybe his glamour over his rune tattoos aren’t strong enough after so much energy being drained in travel. They probably still look like average tattoos but there’s bound to be a lot of them and his undercut won’t be covering any of the ones crawling up his neck and around his throat. He walks in the direction of food and tries to take the feeling with a grain of salt but he can’t seem to shake it loose.
As he walks, he rubs at his shoulder, easy to mistake as him rubbing at soreness from where he satchel could be digging into the muscles. Really he’s activating a rune to sweep the nearby area for threats. His spine jolts with the shock of predator pinging on his magical radar, somewhere behind him and the the right, prowling at a slight distance. He doesn’t look but he knows it’s a supe with teeth and claws, it felt animal and proud - a wolf without a doubt.
He keeps walking, Panda Express in his sights but he knows that it’s going to be a while longer before he gets anything to eat. He feels the wolf draw closer and sticks his hand in his jean pocket, feeling the vial of mountain ash and the small baggie of wolfsbane.
“Hey, honey, I think I found a good place to rest over there,” a smooth voice carries a bit, a scruff surrounded lips pressing to his temple to whisper “follow me and don’t make a scene” as a hand, lightly pricked with too sharp nails presses to his lower back.
“Werewolves and your theatrics,” Stiles sighs, giving into the shove he’s given to keep moving. He takes a moment to look at his “captor” from out of the corner of his eye and damn, that’s a hot hunk of man . Damnit, Stiles, no objectifying the kidnapper. Mage-napper. Whatever. You haven’t even been napped long enough for Stockholm Syndrome.
A few moments later, Stiles finds tossed into a closet, lock somehow picked by wolfie’s claws in an amazing show of dexterity. He’s still righting himself from the stumble when Hot Guy pushes up behind him ( don’t go there, now is not the time ) and closes the door, plunging them into darkness.
“Well, this is bringing me some fantastic flashback of seven seconds in heaven from middle school. And when I say fantastic, I mean traumatizing -”
“Shut up.”
“No, man, you don’t get it. I had to kiss Greenberg and he had this weird like, tongue rash” Stiles shivers for emphasis, “never again. And don’t get me started with Sandra Blueguard -”
“I said shut up.” The werewolf hisses, noises of fumbling coming from his direction. Stiles assumes he’s looking for a light.
“And I had a story to finish,” Stiles huffs, snapping his fingers (he didn’t have to, but he had to keep up appearances) to bring a ball of light to the tips. “As I was saying -” The werewolf turns around with a snarl and swipes at his hand, effectively extinguishing the light.
“Are you insane? Someone could see you!” He hisses and Stiles has half a brain to make a were-snake joke but knows that would too easily delve into a dick joke.
“I know weres have superior night vision so I’m really hoping you can see my bitch face when I say - who is going to see me in this fucking closet? ” The werewolf just huffs in frustration rather than answering so Stiles jumps on the opportunity to continue. “I don’t think you realize this, big guy but I could have zapped my way out of here at any point. Did you notice my sudden lack of luggage?”
Yeah, that made baggage claim so much simpler. Zap it on the plane and then off when you arrive, no staring at the baggage carousel or pushing past people to claim it before it disappeared again.
“That’s why we need to talk, you idiot. You can’t be doing magic out in the open!” The werewolf growls. Stiles just rolls his eyes and concentrates momentarily before a smooth leather wallet appears in his hand. It’s well worn and soft, a few stitches coming loose, well loved. He snaps his fingers once more for light and examines the contents.
“Well, Mr. Derek Hale, you sure have scared me straight, ya know with the whole kidnapping and creepy, smelly closets shtick.” The man growls once more and it goes straight down Stiles’ spine, ending somewhere in his toes and no-no definitely not his dick . He snatches the wallet back but leaves the light this time.
“You can’t seriously be alive if you’re like this around humans. Hunters are looking for your kind, too.” Derek grumbles.
“I’m Stiles, thanks for asking.” He rolls his eyes and ignores the previous comment. “Are you from the local pack? I should probably be on good terms with you guys considering how often I’m here.” Stiles sighs, allowing himself to tone down the sass for the sake of civility. It would be a pain in the ass to have to avoid Chicago in his future flight plans across the US.
“No, I’m from California.”
“Oh sweet! Me, too. I was out on business but I’m on my way home and-” with a small pop, he has himself and Derek sitting at a little cafe table. The smell of coffee is enticing and he’s thinking about getting a cup but messing with Derek will be worth it, “this is my last stop before I make it to San Fran.”
“Stiles, what did you do.” Derek is leaning forward and subtly baring teeth as his eyes dart around and watch warily as people walk past.
“Don’t get your panties in a twist,” Stiles sits back and crosses his arms, he knows smirking never gets him anywhere good but it’s hard to resist, “I have an intense glamour set up, no one saw a thing.”
“You can’t know that. You can’t be holding a glamour all the time, it takes too much power.” Derek huffs, still looking around like mountain giant is going to come crashing through the airport.
“Really? Then why don’t you go order us some coffee? I’m sure you won’t have any trouble finding the table again.” Stiles gestures to the left where the line is non-existent for the coffee counter and watches Derek square his shoulders before getting up and walking away. “I want a raspberry mocha with extra raspberry!” Stiles presses his lips together as he waits, watching Derek order for them and then shuffle to the pick up counter. The barista is clearly hitting on him and he is very firmly not interested it seems.
Stiles sits up straight when Derek turns around to face the cafe, watches his pretty eyes scan the room. He tries to stifle his laughter despite not really needing to with his silence rune still tingling. It gets harder to contain when Derek, magnificent eyebrows furrowed, marches to a woman sitting the table in front of Stiles and proceeds to make a fool of himself.
“Very funny, Stiles. Disguises like that don’t work on me.” He huffs and practically slams the mocha on the table, startling the poor woman who squeaks in surprise. Stiles watches her flush and hears her stammer a reply but jumps in because she’s just an innocent bystander caught up in his games.
“Der-bear, there you are. You silly goose, you’re not supposed to wander off alone!” Stiles takes Derek’s well built bicep in hand and scoops up his drink with a pleasant smile to the woman still gaping at Derek. “Sorry about him, he has new meds and we’re trying to fix the balance. Have a lovely day!”
With that, Stiles resolutely holds in his snickers until they’re out of earshot where he promptly breaks down into a serious case of the giggles.
“Stiles.” Ooh, he really likes the sound of his name growled in that smooth tone. Oh no, no awkward boners in public, no way.
“Your face!” Stiles exclaims, pointing like Derek would forget where it is. “You actually thought I was that woman and you practically growled at her, that goes against your own rules, buddy.” Stiles straightens up and wipes at his eyes with his free hand before turning fully to Derek with a big smile. “Talk about pot and kettle, dude.”
“Don’t call me ‘dude’.” Derek snaps, taking a sip of his black coffee.
“Oh, that simply won’t do,” Stiles mutters, snapping his fingers (again with the keeping appearances, it’s hard work you know?) and watching as Derek sputters in surprise as his plain black coffee becomes a white mocha frappuccino with a pump of caramel.
“Stiles.”
“Keep growling my name like that and a boy might get the wrong idea,” Stiles sing-songs, smile spreading almost painfully when Derek rolls his eyes and continues to sip his drink. “Come on, let’s go sit and talk. But not at that cafe, I’m pretty sure that lady is mildly traumatized.”
“I wonder why.” Stiles just laughs and grabs Derek’s wrist to lead him away. The move is automatic, used to having the drag Scott around when he wanted to do something. When he realizes this is definitely not Scott, his pulse jumps, putting his heart in his throat and makes him stumble over his own feet. But Derek doesn’t yank his hand away. Stiles lets himself bask in the moment, content with the warmth under his fingers and the strong muscles that flex and relax in his grip.
“I’m going to New York,” Derek says as they sit on a bench in between gates. “I’m visiting my sister.” And that’s where it begins. They sit and talk, discuss their homes and families. Stiles tells stories of his training to be a mage and Derek offers stories of growing up in the Hale pack. It’s an easy back and forth that Stiles hasn’t had in a long time, Scott too caught up in pack politics and Lydia studying for her doctorate at MIT.
“Flight 298 to San Francisco is now boarding.” Stiles startles at the overhead announcement, flipping his wrist to look and the time. Sure enough, he and Derek have talked, wandered and laughed their way through the hours until Stiles could board his flight.
“Uh, that’s me.” Stiles says, slowly standing from the bench they had returned to after their third coffee and a shared muffin.
“Oh, right, you’re going back to California.” Derek nods, brushing off the non-existent lint from his jeans.
“Yeah, so,” Stiles stalls, looking at Derek and letting his eyes linger on the other man’s. “It was really nice talking to you.”
“Of course, well, have a safe trip.” Derek lifts his hand in an aborted wave as he steps back and goes to leave. He watches Derek’s retreating back for a few moments longer before shaking himself loose of whatever weird mental lapse he just had. He’s going home, and Derek is gone.
***
Stiles returns to Beacon Hills and his happy to be back. He gets to see his best friend, his dad, sleep in his own apartment and relax . Of course he loved his work but sometimes it was too much to handle all at once and coming home was always the reprieve he needed. But this time, something felt like it was missing.
There was a place in his chest that didn’t feel as settled as he normally did when he opened the windows to his apartment and turned on the TV with his feet propped up. There was this nagging sense in the back of his mind that something was missing. Or, well, someone. He tells Scott about his trip, tells him about Derek and how they talked. He gets a strange look in his eye when Stiles mentions the odd feeling but avoids his questions when he asks about it.
He’s home for the third day, berating himself fo becoming attached to a werewolf in less than eight hours when something pings against his wards. He feels it like a tap on the shoulder, an awareness to something happening in his home territory that his magic has decided he needs to be privy to. He grabs his satchel of magic supplies and heads out for the location of the warning. The wards let whatever it is through so they must have pure intent, he hopes it stays that way.
The drive is quick to the Preserve, only a couple minutes before Stiles can jump out of his Jeep and start up his tracking rune. It pulses under his skin and he relates it to a game of hot-and-cold as he scrounges through the trees and underbrush to find what he’s looking for.
“You know, it’s normal to make a formal request to enter another pack’s territory, even as a beta.” Stiles stands, hip cocked and arms folded, watching the large black wolf jump to alertness. It’s a lovely creature with silky looking fur and eyes so bright they look like miniature moons.
“I apologize,” Derek ducks his head as he transforms back into a man. “I told Scott I was coming but he must not have told you.” Stiles doesn’t look at him, carefully focused on scrounging through his bag for the spare shirt and sweats he keeps for random werewolf transformations.
“The wards wouldn’t have let you through if they thought you were a bad guy, so I guess you’re in the clear.” Stiles hands over the clothes and finds himself fascinated with the tree to his right, covered in moss with a small beetle climbing up it.
“I, uh, I don’t really know what to say.” Derek says when the shuffling of clothes has finished.
“What do you mean?” Stiles furrows his brows and takes the man in. The sweats seem to fit fine, but the shirt stretches and pulls over muscle mass that even Scott as an alpha doesn’t have.
“I didn’t think I would get this far, I didn’t know I would find you.” Stiles blinks and tries to process that sentence for a moment before opening his mouth, a feat, really.
“You were looking for me?” Derek nods, ears turning pink despite the lack of sunlight breaking through the canopy of leaves above them. “Why?”
“I- well, I- Have you -” Derek growls in frustration before stomping forward. Stiles rears back a bit, surprised by the turn of events but Derek just crowds him until his back is pressed to tree bark and their breaths mingle.
“Derek?”
“Can I- can I kiss you?” He asks, so quiet and shy that it steals Stiles’ breath so all he can properly do is nod.
It isn’t like what Stiles had absentmindedly imagined at the airport. It isn’t desperate and rough, all bruising fingers and frustrated nipping. It’s a timid press of lips that spark, so like his magic that Stiles gasps in surprise. Derek licks forward tentatively before sinking into the kiss and sighing. Derek sucks on his lower lip as he pulls away leaving Stiles to flutter his eyes open and take in the man before him.
“Did you feel it, too?” Derek asks, still so close that Stiles feels like they’re breathing the same air.
“I felt hollow when I got home, Derek.” Stiles says, hands clenched in the material of Derek’s borrowed shirt, down by his hips.
“Oh, good.” Derek sighs, tipping forward to press his nose to Stiles’ neck.
“What does that mean?” Stiles asks, heart beating happily in his chest, magic zinging through him at high speeds and the feel of Derek’s weight pleasantly pressing him into the tree behind him.
“We have a lot to talk about.”
“We’ve got time.”