Chapter Text
“Stiles, we can’t turn this in.”
“Huh? Why?”
Lydia waves Stiles’s half of their term paper in front of his face. Her nails are a pristine shiny red today.
He grabs the paper from her, crumpling it in the process. “I worked on that for like, twenty years.”
“It’s got nothing to do with the prompt and it’s way too long. You didn’t even read the directions, did you?”
“I skimmed,” Stiles lies. His eyes stray to Derek for the fifteenth time. Or, more precisely, the computer screen in front of Derek.
“The directions are so clear. It’s only supposed to be three pages. Three. What does your soulmark mean to you? That is literally the only thing you need to answer.”
Here’s the conundrum: Stiles is 80% sure that he deleted his search history in the past 48 hours. It’s pretty good odds that he did. Derek didn’t even ask if he could use Stiles’s laptop; He just kind of walked in to his dorm room and sat down at his desk. Which is like, confusing because on one hand, it’s weirdly sweet that they know each other well enough to just barge in and use each other’s shit – and yes, Stiles can admit it’s shaky, pathetic ground he’s walking on here. On the other hand, if Derek had given him even a five second warning, he could have made 100% sure that nothing embarrassing would pop up. (Stiles can just imagine it: Any minute now Derek will spin slowly around in Stiles’s squeaky desk chair, a crease between his brows and ask, ‘What is frat-boy-physicals-dot-com?’ Which, Stiles reminds himself, would not matter at all. When your chances with someone are zero there’s no way to get lower than that.)
“… you know what? I’m just gonna write your half.” Lydia blows a long lock of red hair out of her face and pulls her laptop on to her lap with a determined look in her eye.
Stiles tears his eyes away from Derek’s ominous Googleing.
“Look, I’ll – I’ll cut down the length, okay? But I’m not changing the contents.”
“Stiles – ”
Stiles holds up his crumpled, twenty-page exercise in futility. “This is what I really think about my soulmark.” He tosses it down dramatically between where they are sitting on his dorm room floor. “It’s symbolic at best. Meaningless at worst.”
Lydia takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly like she’s trying to summon the will to live or something. Stiles takes the opportunity to glance back at Derek.
“You are a moron. Truly,” she tells him. “Cut down the length and then we can make the final page about the – the wide array of emotions soulmarks can stir in people.” She’s already typing. “Even when those emotions are wrong and stupid.”
“Yeah, well,” Stiles lies back down, cushioning his head on his backpack. There’s an excellent view of his computer screen from this angle and also an excellent view of Derek’s contemplative face as he studiously jots down notes on a piece of binder paper. “It’s my right and privilege to be wrong and stupid.”
Lydia shakes her head. Her lips are pursed in disapproval, but she doesn’t comment further on the matter. Derek is predictably silent.
It’s profoundly unfair that Stiles has to be surrounded by people who have the whole life partner thing all figured out. Not one of them is on his side about this. Scott is just as sickeningly enamored of Allison as he always has been, and Jackson and Lydia are content in their weird passive-aggressive love quadrangle between the two of them and their massive egos. Boyd and Erica are stoic and intimidating but they definitely love each other. Isaac, who’s single, is convinced that ‘the one’ will show up any day now. Even Derek’s not skeptical about the whole soulmate thing like Stiles is, he just believes it’s doomed for him, specifically. Very on brand.
Lydia fiddles with the little gold watch on her wrist. “Shit. It’s already one.” She starts shoving her laptop and various notebooks into her overlarge purse. “We didn’t get anything done.”
“I’ll fix my half by tonight, I swear,” Stiles says, watching his ceiling fan. The repetitive whooshing sound and the warm afternoon air flowing in through the open window makes him drowsy.
The door slamming shut muffles whatever irritated quip she throws back at him and then there’s nothing in the room but the whoosh of the fan, the faint buzz of students chatting three stories down, and Derek’s slow breathing and occasional typing. Stiles kicks off his shoes.
“What are you looking for?” he asks.
Derek scribbles something down on his paper. “Crime statistics in Tahoe over the last few months.”
“Because…” Stiles prompts. When Derek doesn’t answer: “You’re thinking of investing in real estate? You’re scoping out a nice timeshare?”
Derek’s mouth twitches a little. “No. I think there’s some new wolves up there and I want to keep a record of everything they’re doing. Or could be doing.”
“Mmm,” Stiles hums. This happens every few months; Derek catches wind of some new potential pack in Northern California and he keeps tabs on them. Within weeks, they’ve either moved on or he’s decided they pose no threat. “Any luck?”
“Some strange sightings, that’s all.”
“That’s good, right?” Stiles asks. “They’re just passing through.”
“Probably,” Derek says but he sounds unsure. “I caught a trail of the Alpha in the area yesterday.”
“What does that mean?”
Derek shuts Stiles’s laptop and folds his paper into thirds. “It means I’m going up to Tahoe this week to discuss boundaries with the newcomers.”
“I could come with you,” Stiles says, bold. “We could go this weekend. Talk diplomacy.”
Derek doesn’t even pretend to consider it. “No.”
A few years ago, this would raise every hackle Stiles has. Hasn’t he proved himself useful? Worthy?
“It could be fun?” It comes out like a question. Stiles doesn’t know why he bothers asking. It’s like poking a bruise. “We could drive up Saturday morning, take the Jeep…” Stop to get coffee, argue over what to put on the radio. Stiles shuts that fantasy down before he says it out loud.
Derek’s response is automatic: “It’s not safe.” He stands up and stows his paper in his jacket pocket. Stiles watches him from his spot on the carpet.
He considers arguing but there’s no point. He sits up, elbows resting on his knees. “Okay.”
Derek slaps him on the shoulder by way of goodbye on his way to the door.
“Wait,” Stiles says, scrambling off the floor; Derek turns. “Go out through the back stairs. My RA has been getting on my case.”
Stiles is done with getting warnings about the weird guy who manages to climb through Stiles’s third story window. That shit may fly in Beacon Hills but Derek’s been spotted doing it in Berkeley twice now.
Derek rolls his eyes and closes the door. Stiles plods over to his desk and deletes his search history twice, just to be sure.
Derek’s brushing his teeth Saturday morning when there’s a knock at his door and a familiar heart beating just this side of too fast. He spits out his toothpaste, pulls on a shirt and tamps down the usual guilty excitement.
Stiles is standing on the other side of his door. He’s holding two cups of coffee and wearing a bright smile. “Hi,” he says, holding out a cup for Derek. “For you.” He taps the cup twice. “Two cream, no sugar.”
Derek takes the coffee from him wordlessly. It seems to convey everything he wants it to because Stiles starts defending himself immediately.
“I know you said I shouldn’t come with you to talk to the new pack up North but I really think…” he waves his hands vaguely, “I think you’ll get bored. It’s a long drive. I promise I won’t even try to be a part of the talks with them, I swear.”
Derek sighs. “Stiles, it’s not safe.” Stiles has probably heard those very words from him so many times throughout the years that by now they mean nothing to him. “I don’t know anything about this pack. I’m just going to talk to them about keeping to their own territory. Going by myself will seem less threatening.”
Stiles leans against Derek’s door frame. He says nothing for a moment, looking put out which makes Derek, as usual, want to relent.
“Can I at least come in?” Stiles has this way of making it seem like he’s looking up at Derek with his big earnest eyes and long dark lashes, even though he can’t be more than a few inches shorter. It makes his stomach tie itself in knots; Derek steps aside before he’s fully decided to.
Stiles smiles and walks in, plopping down on Derek’s couch like he lives there. “Alright,” he says. “Alright. How about I just come on the drive? I won’t even be around for the talks, I’ll stay at the hotel or whatever.”
Derek closes his door and leans back against it. He takes a tentative sip of his coffee. It’s perfect, just how he likes it. “Why do you want to come then?”
Stiles pauses at that. “I – I don’t know. To hang out. Or something,” he stammers.
Some days Derek is tempted to crack and just tell Stiles what is so clear to everyone else. The mark over the left side of Stiles’s chest is the same one between Derek’s shoulder blades. But Stiles doesn’t believe in Soulmates and he doesn’t feel that way about Derek, so what does it really matter? It would change nothing. If anything, it would make it all much worse.
In the end, his own selfishness wins out.
“Fine, you can come. But – hey –” Stiles is already grinning hugely. “You cannot come to meet with the Alpha, alright?”
Stiles pretends to sober up but the uptick in his heart and breathing gives him away. “Absolutely, dude. No problem.” He smiles.
Derek shakes his head and pushes himself off the door. “Do we need to stop by campus to get your stuff?”
Stiles shakes his head. “I brought a bag of clothes and shit. It’s in the Jeep.”
He already knew Derek would say yes. Of course he did.