Chapter Text
“Lydia, I can’t do this,” Stiles groaned, clawing his hands through his bird’s nest hair, which corresponded to different angles depending on how many hours he’d slept the night before. Judging by the odd 30 degree angle he’s sporting, he's gotten two hours, max.
For the last few months the entire precinct has been working on a case involving some kind of drug ring -- Stiles hadn't been part of the investigation since the main investigation was handed off to a different detective who was a specialist on drug cases involving gangs. But that didn't stop Stiles from sticking his nose in it anyways. So here he was, about a week or so into the investigation (that he wasn't suppose to be part of), before Lydia had caught him. Now he was here, with dark circles under his eyes, hair sticking up everywhere on a lousy Monday morning being asked to be part of the official investigation.
Stiles would have been happy, if it had been a legitimate job. But no, of course he wasn't that lucky. Instead, Lydia had decided to put him in the case on a different level.
Lydia Martin paced a few steps ahead of Stiles, facing the windows of her office as her heels clicked on the hard tiling floor. With a click of her tongue, she whirled around to face him using only the heel of her (black, thigh-high, leather, his brain supplies, unhelpfully) stiletto boots and Stiles watched in fascination at what appeared to be the sharpest and most dangerous pair of shoes he had ever seen. Lydia perched her hands on her hips, and pulled her fierce red lips into a thin line. Topped of with the full uniform (minus the peaked cap), Lydia was intimidating as ever. Without a word, she spun around and quickly picked up a small black binder from her desk and started leafing through it, “That’s Captain Martin to you Stilinski,” she said with a small frown and a flippant shrug, “And no, orders are orders. Nothing I can do about it now Detective Stilinski.”
Stiles pouted, actually pouted. He was a twenty-five year old grown-ass man for Christ’s sake, he really shouldn’t be doing that, but he was. “Captain Martin," he said as sincerely as possible even with the urge to roll his eyes, "Please. Come on, I’m begging you. Do me a little favor, please? I know I was wrong to look into the case even though I wasn't technically assigned to it, blah, blah, blah, but I don't deserve this, ” Stiles batted his eyes at her exaggeratedly while still pulling off the pout.
To Stiles' displeasure, Lydia-I'm-too-professional-for-your-shit-Martin didn't even spare a pity glance at him.
Instead, she stopped pacing and trained her eyes on the unlabeled binder which had been lying on her unsurprisingly tidy desk. She quickly skimmed through the first sections, paused on a page, and flipped it around to show Stiles, “See? It’s official. Colonel Greenberg,” she said with an obvious roll of her eyes, “Approved it. It’s got his signature and all that. If you can even call that a signature.” she said with a slight huff and an indignant sniff. Obviously, Lydia — no Captain Martin— was still bitter over the fact that Greenberg somehow managed to get a job in the city and was assigned as her immediate superior.
Stiles scoffed, “Do you really think this is a good idea if it came down from Greenberg? He scratched at his hair a little more. Ah, perfect. Now he’s really going to look like the lone survivor of an apocalypse. Stiles leaned back onto the cabinet across from her desk and scrubbed at his face, “Come on, please, for old time sake? Can you just give your brief best-friend-of-two-weeks-in-high-school a break Lyds?”
Lydia visibly softened at her nickname from high school, but the small frown still lingered on her face, “Stiles..." she began gently, "No can do. This time it’s direct orders from the commissioner and this is a big case,” she managed a small smile for a second, then it turned into a shit-eating grin, “You’re the only one on the squad who could pull off the malnutritioned, burnt-out college student look.”
Stiles sputtered in mock-offense, “I thought you wanted me in on the case cause I was one of the best and brightest in this rundown mediocre excuse of a Police Department?”
"Yeah because having a masters in both criminology and biochemical engineering is really useful as a detective," Lydia said with an affectionate roll of her eyes.
Stiles sputtered, "It actually is! Do you know how many times that has come into use? During the last stint operation I had to go in and collect all the slime samples from that kitchen and— you know what? Never mind, but next time see if I'll bail your ass out when some incompetent intern fucks up the sample again," He said with huff. Then his face morphed into a more devious expression,"My thesis on the male circumcision was exceptional and you know it. You're just jealous that Finstock gave me a higher grade than you," Stiles retorted.
Lydia grinned up at him with a mirrored devious glint in her eye and a casual shrug of her shoulders, “Oops, guess the cat’s out of the bag.”
She quickly sidestepped him and managed to hook one arm around Stiles’. She leaned her head sideways onto his shoulder, and for a moment she looked like the lonely girl who had lost her friends, her boyfriend and her carefully constructed reputation all at once. Stiles gently patted her shoulder as best as he could with his other arm before Lydia became Lydia again and she shoved him out her office.
Before Stiles could turn around and protest, Lydia was already blocking the entrance of her office with her slender frame.
She leaned her surprisingly small body on the frame of the door, holding the heavy wooden door open casually, “I’ll pay you back in beers the next time the department goes to McCall’s for dinner,” Lydia said with a genuine smile as she closes the heavy office door in his face, and Stiles could hear her cackling in her office. Of course. Scott McCall, Stiles’ best friend and all around bro for life, now co-owns a pet-themed family restaurant that definitely does not serve alcoholic beverages of any sort.
Stiles muttered under his breath as he walked over to his desk and plopped onto his chair. With a sigh, Stiles spun around on his chair and thought about how he was going to pull off being a college student again. He did enjoy the perks that came with college like the around-the-clock coffee chains and attractive lacrosse players, but the not so perks of college stood out to him more. There are only so many douchebags, frat parties, and actual cumulative final exams a person could stand in their lifetime, and he's just about hit the wall. Not to mention the cramming and making friends part of college, which by the way, gross.
Stiles leaned back on his office chair and the chair creaked ominously. As he leaned back a further degree, the chair had some kind of malfunction, because he managed to faceplant on the floor.
He knew it. The BHPD was definitely a rundown excuse of a police station.
***
A day later he found out that he wasn’t going to have a partner while on this trip, not specifically, no. This was unusual for his department, but this case was a unique case. Apparently there were suppose to be a few private contacts that will help him along the way, and they’ll contact him when they need to, which means Stiles wasn’t high enough on the ladder to get ‘security clearance’. After Lydia debriefed him on that matter, he let that thought sink in. This was his life now. This was basically a really terribly written sequel to some buddy cop/spy movie. Ugh.
This all just means that Stiles is royally screwed if he’s ever in real trouble. Hopefully he won't be.
Two days after the whole scene in Lydia’s office, he was entrusted with the black binder of doom, which, okay, he admits he named it (but give him a break. He was twenty-five, not fifty). It turns out the black binder of doom really was the black binder of doom because this case is actually serious shit. No longer the typical vandalism case or the petty theft cases that he was usually assigned to because apparently getting demoted to college student status somehow meant he was joining the big kids.
According to the multiple reports filed by various different eyewitnesses and secondhand observers, someone was bringing in some hardcore narcotics. The narcotics were manufactured to look like adderall and various types of migraine pills, which were already flooding in a typical college setting, but this drug had some nastier side effects. Someone had been spreading them around the school at parties and within a week, students would be puking their guts out and be utterly unable to move more than 2 feet without collapsing. Things really got serious when one of the college students went home after getting sick and actually died. Actually fucking died from this drug.
Yeah. Serious shit.
Apparently Berkeley believes that one of their students is distributing all the drugs, and now Stiles has to find out who’s the head and take them in.
Just three days later, he was sent in.
***
That first morning he had decided to put together an extremely typical college outfit. He wore a t-shirt from a band he liked way back in high school and hoped that the band was at least ironically cool now. He opted for his most comfortable pair of dark jeans and then to top it all off, pulled on an excessive Berkeley hoodie that he had gotten from Grandma Stilinski a couple years ago, when he was still in college. It was so damn loud, with the big bold letters of 'BERKELEY' jumping out at him not once, not twice, but four times, but he really couldn't refuse it because grandma Stilinski was just really proud, okay? Thankfully the hoodie was warm, which made up for the tacky lettering and it hopefully made him blend in further with the UC spirit.
Before he could make any better decisions with his life, he decided to pull on his favorite beanie and his thick glasses that he wore on his days off. If he was going undercover as a teenager, he might as well make dumb decisions for the first day of college and play it off like a hipster. It's his secret dream, okay? Stiles just really wants to be a hipster for like, two days alright? That and the fact that this hat and glasses combo made him feel like a superhero trying to hide his secret identity -- he really had this Clark Kent or Peter Parker mojo going on. Which wasn't far off now that he was thinking about it, he really isn't just a college kid — he is also a purveyor of truth and justice— and Jesus Christ, he's really going to stop now.
After getting all that ready in his normal apartment, Stiles shoved a large black suitcase into the back of his jeep and took off for Berkeley, again.
When he parked right outside the resident hall he had been given, he really couldn't believe it. Despite her usual chastisements, Lydia was kind of the best okay? Because somehow Stiles had landed himself in the brand new residence hall, the one that was built only a couple of years back to accommodate for the new flood of incoming college students. All the upperclassmen were upgraded into better buildings, while the freshmen were assigned the old residence halls in the name of 'tradition'. This particular building was the newest of the bunch and was really meant for the teachers and the occasional grad students that happen to still live on campus. He had really lucked out. Stiles made a mental note at the back of his mind to thank Lydia profusely and give her a hug once he gets back.
As he parked in the parking lot adjacent to the new building, he gave a quick scan in his rear-view mirror and saw the typical college setting. There were a few students lugging around backpacks and suitcases. Stiles took off his beanie, gave his messy hair a final solid pat down, and placed the beanie back on his head and stepped out of his jeep to opened the trunk. He grabbed his large black suitcase out of his car and started to lug everything he had with him. Besides his usual college junk and his normal junk, there was also police junk. A few handguns (officially approved by some secret contract between the police department and UC Berkeley), a few rounds, and lots and lots of paperwork. You know, to keep him company when he got tired of doing college level homework and studying. All of a sudden it seemed less exciting that his room was on the top floor.
Before he could even step onto the sidewalk leading up to the residence hall, a dark shadow seemed to block his entire way. Stiles stumbled as he tried to pull his suitcase in a straight line and nearly ran straight into someone.
“Hey, no offense dude, but can you watch where—,” Stiles looked up and saw— he saw the most gorgeous man he had ever seen. The guy had the most chiseled face he had ever seen, and the jawline— Jesus Christ that jawline. The man was mostly cleanly shaven, with the exception of the slight five o’clock shadow, and had the most dramatic eyebrows know to man.
He was wearing a casual pair of grey-tinted pressed trousers, a white button up shirt and a light grey-tinted suit vest hanging open just the right amount. This guy had the gall to unbutton the top two buttons on his shirt, exposing his slightly hairy chest. Even more so, he dared to roll his sleeves up his forearms — exposing masculine, but not too hairy arms that could do things to Stiles' rampant imagination. And Jesus. He could write poetry about those arms. Given, they would be very bad poetry since he wasn’t an English major, but holy god this man was attractive. Even with the excessive layers of loose clothing, Stiles could make out the muscles he packed underneath.
This guy was the real deal. Stiles wouldn’t be surprised if this guy turned out to actually be Clark Kent or Bruce Wayne or even some crazy hot Greek God because those pecs and those arms were definitely way too perfect to belong in everyday life. Stiles was pretty sure he looked like a cooked potato next to this hot piece of ass.
But it wasn’t the guy’s body that made him do a double take, or a triple take. Stiles knew a hot guy when he saw one, but come on, he isn't a superficial dip shit. Okay he was, but that's not the point. Because it felt like all the air was knocked out of his lungs when they locked eyes. The hot guys eyes were greenish-hazel, almost changing color against the typical sunny California backdrop. However, his eyes appeared to be strategically hidden under a pair of dark rimmed glasses, as if purposely hiding behind them to ward off prying eyes. The guy must have been really used to all this by now, because this goddamn GQ model just stood there with arms held casually behind his back with only a raised eyebrow as Stiles gaped at him with his mouth open.
“ I—,” Stiles stumbled, “Um. Hi are you—,”
Don't say single, don't say single, don't put your fucking foot in your mouth Stilinski, his brain helpfully supplies—
“This is private property for graduate students and professional staff only,” the glorious model cut in with a small quirk of his eyebrow.
Stiles paused for a second before understanding what he was implying, then bunched up his eyebrows, “Um. I— I think you’re mistaken. This is my residence hall.”
“You’re a graduate student?” Attractive eyebrows asked with a tone of utter disbelief as his eyebrows climbed even further up his forehead. Stiles should honestly be offended but the hot guy didn't seem to be trying to insult him, just seemed genuinely surprised, “You look like you’re seventeen.”
Stiles blanched and scoffed at the same time, while trying to look more offended than he actually was, “Yeah well. I’m—,” he bit his lip so he wouldn't run his mouth and blow his cover, “I’m eighteen actually. Perfectly legal, too.” Stiles had no idea why he added in the last bit and he hoped his cheeks weren't as red as they felt.
Mr. hot-eyebrows seemed to pick up on that as well, although he didn't look all that offended. Instead, the roman statue blocking up the sidewalk crossed his arms and said with a taunting grin, “The University has ethical policies against student-teacher relationships,”
Stiles felt his cheeks grow impossibly hotter, “God. No, that was not what I was implying,” he swore his cheeks were actually glowing and Mister-mens-wearhouse-model obviously noticed, since he tried to hide his bashful smile behind his hand. Stiles got the smallest glimpse of his teeth, and to his delight, this walking, talking, Alpha male had bunny teeth, huh. Cute.
Stiles tried again, trying not to stumble on his words, “Just. Jesus. Could you move please? You’re kind of blocking up the passage and I really need this sidewalk to roll my suitcase on.”
“Show me your schedule,”
“Excuse me?”
“Show me your schedule. To prove that you’re suppose to be in this residence hall,” he said as he stepped a little closer, “I’m taking over as the official coordinator for this hall since the RA is still back in New York trying to sort out some of his private business or something...” he paused, “Anyways, show me your schedule. If you're in the wrong place, I can help you find your way so you can get everything unpacked in time for class tomorrow.”
Stiles tried not to read too much into his words but it was all too good to be true. Attractive, nice, and helpful? Stiles may as well have hit the jackpot. But he still couldn't get over how this guy thought he was seventeen. He begrudgingly pulled out his schedule from his back pocket with more force than necessary and showed it to the guy.
The guy stepped a few steps closer and Stiles tried not to feel self-conscious with all that muscle six inches away in his face; he swears he could feel this guy's breath on his shoulder. God, Stiles felt like he was fifteen again, crushing on that rich boy whose name he didn't know that lived up at the Beacon Hills Preserve, the area where all the other rich families lived. The rich boy was probably too old, too attractive, and way too wealthy to be paying attention to small little fifteen year old Stilinski who had still been a jumble of lanky limbs and still had been too skinny for his own good.
But that never stopped him from poking around in the Preserve.
"How do you pronounce that?" the guy said, flicking his blue-green gaze from the paper to Stiles, which quickly drew Stiles out of his thoughts and back to the moment.
"What?"
Hot underwear model scowled, "Your name can't really be Przemysław Stilinski right?"
Stiles gaped, mouth hanging open.
Never in his entire life has anyone outside of his family pronounced his name correctly, or even close to correctly, "How did you know how to pronounce that?" Stiles asked incredulously. The guy in front of him looked a little sheepish, and mumbled something that sounded like, "I read a lot."
"Huh."
The guy in front of him took one final look at the printed schedule, and then glanced back at Stiles, looking him up and down. The really hot guy's gaze made its way down and he paused slightly at the loud BERKELEY hoodie and Stiles could swear he saw the slight quirk of his mouth. The guy's gaze made its way back up to Stiles, and finally settled on his face, as if he still couldn't believe he was at least eighteen. Which, honestly? Stiles was a twenty-five year old grown ass man. Stiles tried to make himself look slightly less like a teenager, but obviously wasn’t succeeding as this guy huffed and offered Stiles' schedule to him. Stiles made a grab for the schedule, and tried to assure himself that his heart didn’t start beating a little faster when their fingers touched for a brief moment.
Stupid, stupid heart, Stiles grumbled in his head, it was totally betraying him by beating so quickly.
“Satisfied?” Stiles said as he put his schedule back into his back pocket.
The guy looked anything but satisfied. Instead he grunted, “Fine. But I’m keeping an eye out for you. I'm pretty sure this residence hall is for graduate students and staff only."
"Could just be an honest mistake on the school's part," Stiles said with what he hoped was a casual shrug.
The guy's eyebrows bunched together, "I swear you could pass for a high school freshmen from certain angles.”
“Certain angles, really? Are you checking me out?” Stiles felt the flirty words roll out of his mouth and instantly regretted it as he felt his face start to heat up again. He was about to mentally smack himself before he noticed mister hot pants was also at a slight loss of words, "That—, that's not what I meant—Jesus. I just mean you look—"
Stiles was satisfied that his little comment made this attractive model guy actually falter a little, "Hot as hell?" He supplied a little cockily, more as a joke than anything else.
"—Like someone I knew," the well dressed guy said looking a bit flushed, “and that would just be very... inappropriate actually,” the guy finished a bit lamely.
“Oh yeah?” Stiles felt himself getting a little braver for no apparent reason, “And why’s that?” he said with his best flirty voice, which if he was to be honest, was about as sexy as a cow chewing cud.
The guy certainly thought that as well as his eyebrow climbed further up his forehead and graced Stiles with an unimpressed expression, “Really? That’s your game? Cause that was weak.” He said with a small smile as he started to loosen up.
This time Stiles actually felt himself heat up, but he's no longer feeling embarrassed or indignant from the guy's words, “That— That was not my game. You ain’t seen nothing yet,” he pouts, playing along. Then Stiles lights up again. "I've decided I'm gonna get to know you better! You're interesting, and you're also 'hot as hell'," he said with sarcastic smile.
“As an Ethics Professor, I have to say this is by far the worst, and most unethical, first-interaction I've had with any student,” the guy, the Professor, said with a raised brow and a small twitch of his lips.
"You're a professor?" Stiles said in disbelief, his eyes widening. He really shouldn't have been surprised because everything added up: the student-teacher relationship comment, the 'taking over for the RA' and even his professor-y outfit. Damn, he really thought this guy was just another RA or some poor grad student assigned the unfortunate job of helping freshmen move in.
Stiles bites his lips to try and cover his surprise, and changed the topic. “I’m Stiles, short for 'Stilinski' by the way, not Przemysław", he added with a slight wince. He held out his hand for the guy to shake. The professor seemed to frown at his name, but didn’t make a comment about it, “Professor Hale,” the other man said while taking his hand in a firm, professional handshake.
Stiles was just about to say something when another voice from the other side of the residence hall yelled at their direction. He and Professor Hale both looked over in the direction and Stiles saw a guy with a small blur of wavy blond hair call out, “Hey Derek!”
Professor Hale rolled his eyes, and gave Stiles a parting glance and small wave before jogging towards the voice.
Stiles was so not checking his ass out as Professor Derek Hale was leaving. Oh god, at this rate, if he wasn't going to get arrested for snooping around, he might as well get arrested for sexually harassing Professor Hale. Secretly. In his mind. God, he really needed to tone down the pervy comments, it wasn't even the first day of school yet.
Stiles finally pulled his suitcase up onto the sidewalk and made his way into his room, while totally not thinking about Professor Hale's attractive everything. From his surprisingly pleasant personality to his particular sense of humor. He was also definitely trying not to think about how Professor Hale was totally out of his league. Or how inappropriate it would be now that he was a student.
Holy shit. He was screwed.