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It’s simple. It’s terrifying.
The idea of a mate is something that always sounded so final to Derek. Like taking the ending of a book and ripping it out. The stories say it happens on first sight. And from then on your world is oriented around that one person, forever. Your heart, your soul, your wolf… is lost to you.
The stories, it turns out, are wrong.
It can sneak up on you. Years of spitting insults and a surprising amount of punches to the jaw (Stiles’ fist, Derek’s jaw.) One day he looks up from his book which is resting on Stiles’ feet. Stiles is defending his thesis, and he’s tired all the time from studying, so he fell asleep with his feet on Derek’s lap, snoring inelegantly into the pillow. It was one Stiles had picked out, brought over for the express purpose of making himself comfortable on Derek’s slick leather sofa.
And Derek looks up, he sees the pillow, the way Stiles is drooling into it. The dust motes dance in the air around them, the honey of the afternoon dripping slowly into evening’s teacup.
And it snaps into place, this violent thing.
Derek sucks in a breath, and it’s soaked with his mate, with flannel and inky fingers and cheap detergent and…
Stiles opens his eyes, lashes flutter and he looks over at Derek, a smile spreading across his face. And then it drops, just as quickly.
Derek’s stomach drops with it, wolf pacing. What did he do wrong. What now, what-
“What’s wrong? Derek? You look like you’ve seen a Darach?” Stiles sits up.
It should be so simple to lie, but it feels like barbed wire on the tongue.
Stiles is his mate, and Derek has had no chance to shore up any defenses for that. He has nothing to stop him.
“You’re my mate.”
Stiles’ eyes widen, but he doesn't move his feet, just stays staring at Derek for a long second. Maybe the longest second of his life.
"Wait... shit..." All of a sudden, Stiles springs into action. He flails, and even though he's slightly more graceful than he was a few years ago, there's still an awkwardness to his movements. It's just one of the things Derek loves about him.
Derek closes his eyes. Loves. Shit. Double shit.
Stiles almost collapses to the floor and then Derek can hear him rustling in his bag, shifting books and moving his laptop around. The bag that was a gift from Derek, not even for an occasion or anything.
How long has this been going on? He doesn't even know.
"Der."
Derek squares his shoulders and forces his eyes open. If he's going to get rejected, he may as well have some dignity about it.
Stiles is holding out a cookie in a plastic baggie. Derek can smell the cinnamon and nutmeg, the sugar, and Stiles' hands underneath all that, the scent of him worked into the dough.
Derek furrows his brow. "What-"
"Isn't this how it works? To accept?"
Derek must look even more confused because Stiles continues.
"Derek, this is how I accept a mating right?"
Derek stares at the snickerdoodle for a long moment before he can bring himself to answer.
He's not worthy. There's no universe in which that is true. But it's Stiles. And it's simple. And it's terrifying.
"Yes. It is."
"Do you accept me?" Stiles' voice betrays the slightest tremor.
"Yes, I do." Too fast, too eager, but it seems to work because a snickerdoodle gets tossed into his chest and his book gets set aside and Stiles is there, in his lap, with flannel and inky fingers and cheap detergent and…
Mate.