Work Text:
Stiles heart is beating way too fast, and he’s incredibly lucky that nobody can hear it, because then he’d attract all the attention.
The attention that he desperately does not want, not right now. While normally he kind of thrives in attention (it’s a quirk about himself he’s starting to accept), now is not the time.
The mask that’s covering his face feels heavy, though to everyone else looking at him it looks like a real face, like his real face. He doesn’t really know what it looks like, because it’s a cloaking spell and when he looks in the mirror, he still sees himself. Scott had tried to describe him – dirty blond hair, about ear length and shaggy, blue eyes? – but it had been more a question, because while the mask does conceal his actual identity it also makes you very easily forgettable.
The other important thing it does, of course, is disguise the heartbeat and the scent, because he’s in a room full of supernatural creatures with enhanced senses. And he’s hella nervous, something that translates easily into heartbeats and into scents and he needs to blend in as well as possible.
He takes a moment by the refreshments table to even out his breathing, the biggest thing that might set him apart from the rest of them. There are no competitions, so he doesn’t have to worry about super strength or speed showing him as the weak link.
Weak link? He thinks to himself, grabbing a glass of the champagne and surveying the canapes. Maybe not so much, since they’re all here for him.
Because Stiles – Stiles is a spark. A magical being of untold power, incredibly rare and it’s extraordinary that both he and Scott are in one pack; Scott being a True Alpha and all that, also incredibly rare. Not to mention that they’ve got a werecoyote, a kitsune, a banshee, and a hunter. Everyone has heard about the McCall pack, which makes the cloaking spell even more important.
Every spark – and he means every one ever in the history of magical documentation – has a werewolf mate, who’s supposed to help the spark both meet their potential and serve as an anchoring point. It’s not quite clear why, but Stiles guesses it’s mostly because Fate is a motherfucker who likes to do weird little things to fuck with mortal’s minds. So if sparks don’t naturally find their mates, it’s not highly unusual to have these meet-and-greets with various werewolves from all over the world; the cloaking spell was used because apparently only your mate could tell exactly that you were you and not a fellow werewolf.
Stiles isn’t quite sure of the semantics, but were he to say that, Deaton, Marin, and Noel would all tell him he just needs to study more (and they’re all great teachers, but Deaton and Marin are druids and Noel’s a witch, so. Sparks are so incredibly rare, though, that Stiles has only ever met one other one, an eighty-six-year-old Mexican woman just after he’d come into his powers. She did not want to be his mentor, which left the local magic users). So he just goes along with it, casts the spell before the entire thing.
He’d been told before this all that most sparks go through three to ten of these things before meeting their mates, which Stiles is both hopeful for (he’s way too nervous right now to deal with meeting his mate) but also annoyed by (because he’s easily bored and by the tenth time? He’ll be easy to pick out because he’s terrible at keeping his expressions neutral). At least at this thing everyone’s a little nervous, so his usual ticks are probably not causing him much attention.
Well, everyone’s a little nervous but the triad standing a little in the shadows by the refreshments, because –
“I don’t wanna be here,” someone growls out, and Stiles glances behind him, sees the three of them. The one who’s spoken must be the only man in the group, a little taller than his counterparts with dark hair, scruff for days, and a scowl on his face. He’s hot, though, Stiles will grant; a sharp jawline, clearly built beneath the well-fitted suit he’s wearing.
“Pfft,” one of the women say; long hair sweeping down her back, in a long red dress, and looking out on the floor of the ballroom they’re gathered in like she thinks it’ll be that easy to spot the non-wolf, “You keep saying how happy you are single, but the thing is, if the McCall emissary is your mate, he’ll literally be built for you.”
“Not true,” the other woman says, looking bored as she scrolls through her phone. She’s got on a much shorter dress than the other woman, black, and her own hair is in some complicated updo.
“It just means we might hit it off, because we’re more likely to have something in common,” the man points out, rolling his eyes, and Stiles – well, he’s never been good at leaving misinformation alone.
“Also not true,” he speaks up, and the three all look at him, eyebrows raised simultaneously. It’s a little creepy.
“You eavesdropping?” the first woman asks, putting a hand on her hip with a smile curving onto her face.
“Can’t help it,” Stiles shrugs, turning slightly more toward them, “Especially when there’s inaccuracy involved.”
“Inaccuracy?” The second woman inquires, hand with her phone dropping slightly. Stiles shrugs.
“Well, if you should be the one to find the spark tonight, it’s neither that he’ll be specifically built for you nor that you’ll just be ‘more likely’ to have something in common with him. It’s way more nuanced than that.”
“You learn all that from your alpha?” the first woman speaks again, eyes sliding back to the floor. And, well, if this all is right that’s one down. She absolutely does not realize who Stiles is.
It takes him a moment to respond, and he lets out a huff as he thinks of a way to bend the truth so that it’s not technically a lie, before he realizes – oh! He doesn’t have to, because his heartbeat is disguised.
“Yep,” he says instead.
The man, who’s been just staring at him this entire time, suddenly cocks his head, eyebrows knitting together.
“Nuh-uh,” he says a moment later, “No, you didn’t.”
Both women and Stiles look at him, confused, but he just stares at Stiles for another moment.
“What?” The second woman asks.
“He didn’t learn that from his alpha. He’s lying, because he’s not a ‘wolf,” the man says, and – whoa. Whoa.
Stiles doesn’t let his hopes get up, just cocking an eyebrow himself.
“What?” he questions, but the man will not be deterred.
“You’re not a werewolf,” he repeats, smile sliding onto his face to replace the scowl and it’s, yeah, it’s a nice smile, “You’re the spark.”
There’s about a half second silence in their little group before the second woman says, “Holy shit” and pulls out her phone again, pointing it at them like she’s filming this, though Stiles only sees it from his peripheral, unable to tear his eyes away from the man. The first woman is staring at the two of them, jaw slightly hanging.
“What makes you think that?” Stiles asks next, and the man shakes his head, eyes searching Stiles’ face.
“I…dunno. I just know.”
They stare at each other for a long moment before Stiles takes a deep breath, reaching up with his hand a centimeter away from his face, slowly dragging it down as he feels the mask fade away. The man’s eyes flick down to Stiles’ chest as soon as his natural heartbeat is back, and his nose flares as his eyes meet Stiles’ again.
The first woman squeals.
“Stiles Stilinski,” Stiles says after the spell has disintegrated, sticking his hand out toward the man, “Pleased to meet you.”
The man’s smiling now, bright and not so much as a shadow of the scowl he’d held earlier still present, and he takes Stiles hand in one, shaking slowly.
“Derek Hale,” he replies.