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Stiles squinted against the darkness, trying to see through the cloud of smoke hanging heavy in the air. He had a moment’s thought to call his dad about violations of California’s smoking laws, but that would require him explaining why he was visiting a questionable establishment on the seedy side of town when he should be studying for exams.
He couldn’t even tell himself why he stood where he stood. He’d been heading into the library for an all-night study session while being sexiled by his roommate. As he’d passed the community announcement board just inside the front door, he’d paused, attention drawn to a simple black and white flyer. Eerily familiar handwriting advertised an open mic night with special guest “Alexander Wolf.” Something about the name pulled at Stiles.
He stared at the flyer for several minutes, finally deciding it was just the ‘Wolf’ that made him miss home. He made a note to call Scotty and see how he was holding up on his own in good old Beacon Hills while Stiles made his way through the mean streets of New York studying folklore and criminology.
He’d only taken a couple of steps when something washed over him, and he grabbed the flyer off the board. He stepped out into the humid night air, summer coming early to New York, and quickly walked across campus to the parking garage where he kept his Jeep. The trip went quickly, and he found a well-lit parking lot a few blocks from the coffee shop. The guys watching the Mets game in the guard shack seemed reliable, so he only had a moment of worry about Roscoe’s safety before he fell into the crowds of people walking through the city.
He walked past the club three times before he found the non-descript door, and now he stood inside, trying to figure out what he should do next. A blonde with a tray twirled past him with a smile and a wink, her eyebrow piercing flashing in the dim light.
“Hey, cutie. First time at the Den?” she asked, and he nodded, the name striking Stiles as funny, and he smirked. He blinked when he thought he saw her eyes flash yellow and her nostrils flare. “There’s a table near the stage with a small red candle on it. Why don’t you sit there.”
Shrugging, Stiles followed her directions and slid into an empty chair at the table. He glanced into the candle, surprised it was electric but figured it was a safety thing. His fingers tapped across the table, and a moment later, the blonde dropped into the chair across from his, holding out a laminated menu.
“What do you want, cutie? On the house,” she purred. Everything about her reminded him so much of Erica that he had to blink back tears for a second.
“Look, I appreciate-”
“I’m not hitting on you,” she said, cutting him off. “These instructions come from above.” She pointed up, and Stiles followed her finger to stare at the ceiling of the club. He raised his eyebrows in surprise at the sign of spirituality. “Boss lives upstairs. He said your money’s no good here.”
“Should I be worried?” Stiles asked.
She shrugged. “Alexander can be a bit of an asshole, but he’s pretty harmless.”
Stiles laughed. “Sounds like someone I used to know.” He glanced over the menu quickly, smiling at the number of things that sounded delicious but settled on an order of curly fries and a coke. He knew he’d have to get back to studying eventually.
“I’ll get it out to you before the show starts,” she told him. She took a couple of steps and then turned back. “The name's Melinda. Just holler if you need anything.”
Stiles grinned, and when she was nearly back to the bar, he whispered her name, smiling when she turned her attention back to him with a wry twist to her lips. Shaking her head, she disappeared through a door that had to lead to the kitchen. He grinned, and his attention was caught by a large man behind the bar who gave him a smile and a nod before turning his attention to a crowd of people that walked through the door.
While Stiles waited for his food, he eavesdropped on the conversations around him. Apparently, Alexander the owner was Alexander Wolf, the performer. He appeared to have quite a following, and he heard a couple of girls daring each other to ask him out. He laughed when Melinda swung by a table and informed the girls they weren’t packing the right equipment for Alexander. Unfortunately, that just seemed to encourage them.
Melinda dropped into the chair again as she dropped off his food. “You don’t mind if I take my break here, do you?”
“Would it matter if I did?” he asked, and she shook her head. Her grin made him miss Erica again, and he took a sip of his drink to swallow his grief.
He took a bite of a curly fry and tugged the plate away when Melinda reached for him. The atmosphere in the club changed, and he saw someone come onto the small stage and set up a stool in front of a lone microphone. “Showtime,” Melinda said, keeping her eyes on Stiles.
A figure dressed in a dark henley and jeans carrying an acoustic guitar crossed the stage and took a seat on the stool. He kept his head ducked, face hidden by a fringe of unruly black hair. Something about the shoulders, the fingers as they plucked at the strings, sent a surge of longing through Stiles.
Then Alexander began to sing, and Stiles’ breath escaped him as the singer raised his head, indescribable green eyes meeting his. “Derek,” he breathed out.
Derek’s lips twitched, and he continued to sing. The song was about a lost soul finding its way home, guided by a spark. Every time he sang the word spark, Derek’s eyes would return to Stiles, a look of longing in his eyes that Stiles knew he was echoing in his own.
Stiles’ curly fries went cold on the table, and Melinda disappeared while Derek kept Stiles enraptured with his voice. When the set was over, and Derek stood to announce that he’d be back at the end of the open mic night, Stiles clapped and wolf-whistled. He smiled as a few of the girls rushed towards the stage, and Derek moved between them like there weren’t there, eyes locked on Stiles.
Derek sat in the seat that Melinda had vacated, his hands resting on the table. He’d ducked his head again, hiding behind his hair. Stiles only hesitated for a second before reaching out and laying a hand over Derek’s. When their eyes met, Stiles gave a smile that Derek slowly returned. He turned his hand over and linked their fingers together, squeezing gently and not letting go.
“That was amazing,” he said. “I never knew you could sing, let alone like that. Are you part siren or something?” Derek leveled him with his blank stare, and Stiles laughed. “Man, I’ve missed you.”
“Me, too,” Derek said, his voice still as surprisingly soft as Stiles remembered. “I didn’t know you were in New York.”
“Well, if you answered a text every once in a while,” Stiles teased, frowning when the first open mic participant took the stage, making conversation difficult.
“Do you wanna come back to mine?” Derek said, pointing above their head. Stiles nodded, and Derek stood, tugging Stiles to stand.
“Will you sing for me again?” Stiles asked as they headed through the door Melinda had gone through earlier.
“I only sing for you,” Derek said, voice serious as he raised Stiles’ hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it.