Archive of Our Own

Derek looks up from over the top of his book, tries not to scowl at the extremely attractive young man blinking at him expectantly. He’d been hoping for a quiet eight hours, not to be dealing with a constant desire to jump somebody all the way home.

“No,” he says flatly. “But, I’ve been told I snore when I inevitably fall asleep.”

The man laughs, juts his chin at Derek’s book, “I would, too, if I was reading Kafka.”

Derek arches an eyebrow, considers the cover of The Castle, “It’s… It’s a classic.”

“Sure,” the guy shoves his bag above Derek’s head. Derek tries and fails not to let his gaze be drawn to where his t-shirt rides up and reveals sharp hipbones and dark trail of hair leading down into his pants. Derek clears his throat, cursing himself and re-opens his book. 

“It’s most entertaining,” he insists. 

“You keep telling yourself that,” the guy winks at him as he settles in, tugs out a large pair of headphones. “I tried to read The Metamorphosis once, gave up and now I use it to prop up a photo frame.”

Derek snorts, “How quaint.”

“Hey, it was either that or actually fix the frame,” the guy shudders, “And, I am not allowed near super glue any more.” He sticks his hand out to Derek, “I’m Stiles, by the way.”

"Stiles,” Derek repeats.

“Nah, that’s my name,” Stiles smirks, clearly pleased with his own wit even as Derek rolls his eyes. “You are?”

"Not in the habit of giving out my name to strangers on a train.”

“Aw, come on, we’re gonna be sitting next to each other for a while, and I can’t exactly be referring to you as Literary Masochist Dude.”

"That’s my title,” Derek says drily, “Of all the titles you give to strangers.”

“I would have gone with Glasses Hottie but,” Stiles shrugs, “It seemed so cliché.”

"Well, I’d hate to be thought of as cliché.”

Stiles sticks his tongue between his teeth for a moment, grins, and then sticks his headphones over his ears, “Cliché Hottie it is, then.”

“No, I’m not—”

Stiles points to one of his headphones, “Can’t hear you, dude.”

Derek glares at him for a moment, and Stiles smiles sweetly back. Derek grabs his book, holds it up between the both of them, and then turns so that he’s facing the window. 

He does not think about the fact the extremely attractive idiot— Stiles apparently— referred to Derek as a hottie twice.

*

After about an hour, Derek decides he’s going to need a beer to get through his chosen book. It’s not that the writing is impossible, per se, though it isn’t exactly fun. It’s just that… he’s distracted.

Stiles has spent the entire hour tapping long, elegant fingers along to his music. He’s run them through his hair, he’s drifted them along the table top, he’s even picked up Derek’s bookmark— a dog eared postcard from his sister— and smiled at the shot of the beach on the front. 

"Jealous,” he’d mouthed at Derek. 

Derek had been panicking he’d turn the card over and read his sister’s beseeching note about Derek needing to take a vacation, or at least, find some sort of social life outside of Erica and Boyd (married people don’t count when you’re not married, Derek!!) and had given him a weak smile. 

It’s possible he’d come off a little rude, although, Stiles seemed to realise he’d picked up something of Derek’s without asking and dropped it quickly, holding up his hands apologetically. Wiggling his damn fingers in Derek’s face.  

Those fingers make Derek think about things that are most distracting. They make him crave things he hasn’t in a long time. They’re very appealing fingers. 

And, Stiles won’t keep still. Their legs are constantly brushing up against each other’s, and his arm is endlessly rubbing up next to Derek’s, he seemingly always has to be touching his damn face, too.

Derek definitely needs a beer. 

He twists to ask Stiles to move, and pauses when he sees Stiles is curled over a notebook and writing what seems like an essay in insanely small, cramped handwriting. 

Without thought, he snickers, and despite wearing headphones that are blaring music Derek can faintly hear, Stiles’ head jerks up. 

He narrows his eyes suspiciously at Derek, tilts his headphones back, “What?”

Derek gestures to the page, “How can you read that?”

“With my eyes?”

Derek pretends to laugh, and Stiles wiggles his eyebrows, jabs the end of his pen into his mouth. 

“You need somethin’?”

“To get out,” Derek makes an abortive hand movement, “I’m gonna go get a drink, if you wouldn’t mind watching my stuff?”

“Aw, shit, no, actually,” Stiles widens his eyes, “I was thinking I’d just auction off all your boring books the second your back was turned.”

Derek resists the urge to swat him in the shoulder with said book, “Not all of my books are boring; you can’t know that for sure.”

“Not yet,” Stiles points his pen at him, “But, I could rifle through your bags when you’re gone.”

Derek moves to sit back down and Stiles laughs, “Dude, kidding, of course I’ll watch your stuff, jeez, go!”

"I’ll be right back,” Derek promises, “And, if anyone tries to—”

“I won’t let anybody steal your shit, man, I’d be doing them a favor anyway, judging by your taste.”

Derek makes sure to accidentally step on his toes as he stands, and judging by the smug look on his face, Stiles knows it wasn’t an accident.

“Oops,” Derek says mildly. 

Stiles stumbles as the train veers to the left a little, treads on Derek’s foot as he clasps hold of his shoulder to regain his balance. It brings them into very close proximity with each other’s mouths, Derek tries not to look down. 

“Oops,” Stiles breathes out. 

Derek catches his gaze flick downwards, and then he’s moving around Derek, slipping back into his seat and replacing his headphones, smirking to himself. Derek harrumphs and stalks towards the refreshment cart. 

Sheer madness sees him buying two beers— he sincerely hopes Stiles is overage— and the nearest paperback to hand, which turns out to be something from the Twilight saga. 

Stiles accepts the beer gratefully, nods his thanks, “You didn’t put anything in this to knock me out, right?”

“Yes, Stiles, I went to the trouble of paying an extortionate amount of money for a drink, only for you to waste half of it, and have you drool all over me for the rest of the journey.”

“Oh, well, if it’s drool you’re after, gimme twenty minutes of reading that Kafka book and—”

Derek pretends to take the beer back, and Stiles leaps for it, “No, no, I’m kidding, I’ll be nice. Just lemme keep the alcohol, please and thank you.”

“Drama queen,” Derek mutters. 

Stiles knocks their beers together, grins around his bottle top. Derek pretends his cheeks don’t flush at the imagery.

*

“Derek,” Stiles taps him on the shoulder half an hour later, “Hey, Derek.”

“I heard you the first time,” Derek says calmly, pretending he’s deeply absorbed in Bella’s first meeting with Edward. 

“Yeah, I figured, but, I wanted to check you weren’t one of those old, deaf people that pretend not to be.”

Derek sighs, pained, and closes his book, “Exactly how old do you think I am?” he turns to look at Stiles, and suddenly their noses are extremely close to brushing together. 

Stiles visibly swallows, and then shrugs, scratches his chin, “Fifty?”

Derek blinks at him, “Do you like the view outside the window? Because I can arrange for you to join it. Outside the train.”

“Ooooh, are you the secretly strong type,” Stiles elbows Derek’s dark grey cardigan with a smirk, “Because, I gotta say I’m not shakin’ in my boots, here.”

“You’re not wearing boots,” Derek points out, turning back to his book, “And, if you were just looking to bother me—”

“Twilight, dude,” Stiles bursts out, “Seriously.”

Derek is man enough to admit, if only to himself, he picked a different book in the hopes that Stiles would comment on it. Besides, his sister would probably be proud of his attempts at socialisation. She’d maybe even be pleased to know this is Derek trying to flirt, albeit, terribly embarrassed that at twenty seven her brother’s best attempts at flirting are apparently to argue with someone, and stamp on their toes. Erica would be moving to a different cart and pretending not to know him by now. 

“Yes, Twilight,” he turns the page, makes an intrigued noise, “Interesting.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Stiles’ lips twitch, “Really? Read me what’s on the page, right now.”

“No.”

“Come on, I never had a vampire stage, okay? I’m curious to know what’s so interesting.” Stiles jostles his knee under the table, “C’moooon, if it’s so fascinating, read it to me.”

“I don’t read aloud,” Derek says firmly. 

Stiles leans right up against his chin and begins reading dramatically. “Hello, said a quiet, musical voice. I looked up,stunned that he was speaking to me. He was sitting as far away from me as the desk allowed, but his chair was angled toward me. His hair was dripping wet, dishevelled — even so, he looked like he’d just finished shooting a commercial for hair gel. His dazzling face was friendly, open, a slight smile on his flawless lips,” Stiles stops reading and breaks into hysterical laughter, “Flawless lips. Dude. There is no such thing.”

Derek darts a glance down at Stiles’ own luscious pink mouth, and holds his tongue on a correction. 

“And, a commercial for hair gel? That’s what descriptive passes for in these books?”

“You don’t find the image makes you think of a modern day Greek Adonis?”

“Please, if I were describing someone super fine, I’d pick better adjectives.”

“Okay,” Derek slips his bookmark between pages, looks at Stiles expectantly. “Prove it.”

Stiles narrows his eyes at him, “Fine,” he rolls back his shoulders, “So, there’s this beautiful man I meet, and though his voice isn’t what I expected, it’s all the nicer for it. I like the way he says my name and the way his lips curl when he’s amused. His hair makes my fingers itch to drag their way through it, and though his dazzling face was less than friendly, it was still like the one lone patch of sunlight breaking through the clouds. He was breath-taking.”

Derek lifts his eyebrows, feeling a little breathless himself, “Not bad.”

Stiles scrunches his nose up at him, “You put me on the spot.”

“You were criticising my book choices, again.”

“So, stop reading,” Stiles pouts exaggeratedly, “My attention span is about eight minutes and I’m bored of writing.”

“You’re writing?”

“No, I was just scribbling random words to make you think I looked busy,” Stiles retorts. 

Derek smirks, “You want to keep talking, or shall I continue reading about Edward’s commercial worthy hair.”

“Well,” Stiles pulls a face, “I hear he does sparkle at some point.”

Derek leaves his book shut, “You’re a writer, though?”

“Sort of,” Stiles looks suddenly a little shy, “I write the scripts for comics.”

“What kind?”

“Well,” Stiles turns his whole body towards Derek, and launches into an explanation of the unusual super hero comic story he and his best friend started five years ago. His friend Scott’s an amazing artist, apparently, and they pooled their talents, Derek’s not heard of the comics, but he makes a note to look them up when he’s home.

He enjoys the way Stiles’ face flushes with passion as he talks, and that his hands get increasingly agitated as he moves them. Unfortunately, the train sways, Stiles loses his balance, and one of his beautiful, enticing hands smacks Derek right in the face.

*

“Okay,” Stiles snaps an ice pack he’s acquired from the ticket officer, kneels on his chair next to Derek, “I’m going to approach your face.”

Derek rolls his eyes, winces a little, “You don’t have to warn me.”

“I feel terrible,” Stiles whines, face crumpling earnestly, “I fucking punched you in the face.”

“You didn’t punch me—”

"On a train! You got on in one beautiful piece and now you’re gonna get off all—" Derek tilts his head to one side, and Stiles flushes, "I mean, you’re just— you can—”

“I’ll tell people they should see the other guy,” Derek says into the silence, and Stiles grins, bites his lip. 

“I am really sorry, dude.”

“Don’t beat yourself up.”

“I could let you do it! We could trade blows!” Stiles’ eyes go wide as he seems to realise the implications of his sentence, and he leans away, cheeks blushing a dark red. “You know what? I think I’m gonna stop talking, altogether.”

Derek huffs a laugh, “Would that be a first in history?”

“Hey! Shut up.”

“I’m not the one having trouble keeping quiet.”

Stiles narrows his eyes at him, “I was gonna go get more beers as an extra apology, but—”

“Please get more beers,” Derek interrupts quickly, “I’ll be nice.”

“That seems unlikely,” Stiles snarks, but he’s smirking as he gets up and darts towards the refreshment cart.

He brandishes a beer at Derek five minutes later, collapses next to him, “Sheesh, walking is exhausting.”

Derek downs half of his bottle, nods gratefully as he places it on the table.

“Thanks.”

“I sort of owed you,” Stiles pulls a face, “I mean, hitting someone in the face is sort of terrible.”

Derek laughs, “Sort of?”

“I could have done something way worse.”

“Huh,” Derek arches an eyebrow, “Do I need to change seats?”

“No!” Stiles throws his arms wide, “Stay, please! I’ve done this journey so many times, and you are by far the nicest—well, most interesting person I’ve sat by.”

“Not the nicest?”

“You were not keen on me sitting here to start with.”

“Well,” Derek smirks, “You did hit me in the face. I must have known there was something wrong with you.”

“Oh, there’s lots wrong with me,” Stiles drawls, stretching in his seat and making Derek yearn to put his mouth on the exposed skin where his t-shirt creeps up again. “But, you are interesting,” Stiles winks at him casually again, and Derek pretends the heat on his face is left over from where Stiles hit him.

“Who else have you sat beside?”

“Oh, man,” Stiles scratches his chin, and Derek stares at his fingers for a moment too long. “There was a dude that spent the whole trip planning what looked like an elaborate bank heist. Like, he had maps out all over the place, he was yelling at people on the phone, money in piles on the table.”

“Seriously?”

“Mhm, I was super tempted to ask him to cut me in.”

Derek grins, “Why didn’t you?”

“Dad’s a sheriff, plus, you know, super illegal,” Stiles snaps his fingers, “Although, once, I had to do something really bad here.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I had to steal someone’s sandwich.”

Derek feels his eyes go wide, “What?! What if it had been—”

“Dude, kidding,” Stiles snickers, “Was my best friend’s. He fell asleep and I was starving. It was right there, okay. Right. There.”

“You just couldn’t help yourself,” Derek teases drily.

“Exactly,” Stiles leans back in his chair, grins at him, “I’m glad you understand.”

Derek takes another deep pull of his beer, smiling back shyly.

*

“So,” Stiles squints a little drunkenly, eyeing the paper in front of him. “I have like… an eye and the nose left, right? Right?”

Derek blinks at the stick man they’ve been drawing for hangman, “Yesh.”

“But, it’s not… it’s not P?”

“You already guessed P.”

“D!”

“You already guessed,” Derek laughs loudly, points at the list of letter, “See?”

“You have… you have nice hands,” Stiles says suddenly.

“Oh, thanks,” Derek holds them up to his face, “They do okay.”

Stiles nods, “They’re nice.”

“Yours are, too,” Derek informs him.

“That’s kind of you to say,” Stiles says cheerfully, “Fingers are a bit long and spindly.”

“Long is good,” Derek blurts out.

Stiles chokes on the last of his beer, and Derek pats him on the back.

“Alright, alright,” Stiles wheezes, looks to the paper again, “So, I have no idea, dude, o s t blank i blank h?”

“I’ll help you,” Derek takes the pen from him, begins drawing carefully.

Stiles leans over his shoulder, laughing quietly in his ear every now and again, and Derek shudders, sits back.

“See?”

“Uh,” Stiles tilts his head to one side, “Is that… a dinosaur?”

“No! Shut up, I can draw.”

“Na uh, what is that supposed to be?”

“An ostrich!”

“Oh,” Stiles lets out a cackle, shaking his head and grabbing the pen from Derek, “No way, man. No way.”

“You do better then,” Derek huffs, folding his arms and pretending not to watch as Stiles begins squiggling quickly.

“There,” Stiles presents the paper with a flourish, and Derek has to admit, it looks a lot more like an ostrich than his attempt.

“’S’good,” he admits grudgingly.

Stiles elbows him, looks smug, “Told ya.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Why’d you pick ostrich for a word?”

“Like ‘em,” Derek shrugs, “Their legs are—really weird and gangly, but strong.”

“I can relate,” Stiles taps his thigh. “I got real scrawny legs.” He pushes them up on the empty seat opposite, grins at his toes. “They get me from a to b, though.”

Derek nods slowly, “They seem okay.”

Stiles snorts, “’S’nice compliment, dude.”

“Shut up,” Derek scowls at him, shoves the paper towards him, “Your turn.”

“Can’t do anymore,” Stiles winces, “Head hurts.”

“So take a nap.”

“But, I was keeping you company.”

“’S’okay,” Derek reaches for where he’d abandoned his book under the table, “I have—I have this.”

Stiles chuckles, shakes his head, “No, I can’t make you read that.”

“It’s interesting,” Derek insists.

“No,” Stiles tips his head into the train side, blinks at him slowly, “Tell me a book you reall did like.”

Derek thinks for a moment, “Cider House Rules.”

“Ohh, yeah,” Stiles closes his eyes as he nods, “’S’good one. I like John Irving.”

“You?”

“Me what?”

“What’s a book you like?”

“I liked The Song Of Achilles, always knew the movie lied. Achilles and Patroclus were so getting it on.”

“Was a nice story,” Derek says wistfully, looking at his hands.

“Not really,” Stiles retorts, “They both die in the end.”

“Yeah, ‘spose,” Derek sighs, “But, it must be nice to love someone so epically it resounds through the ages.”

Stiles looks up at him sharply, “’S’very romantic notion.”

“Yeah,” Derek shrugs, “Sometimes I have them.”

“’S’nice,” Stiles shuffles until his hip is resting against Derek’s comfortably. “If I go to sleep will you steal my stuff?”

“Duh,” Derek rolls his eyes, “That’s why I’ve stayed so far, for your stuff.”

Stiles scrunches up his nose at him, but pats his hand, “Don’t go anywhere.”

“’Kay.”

*

Derek wakes with a crick in his neck, and Stiles’ head on his shoulder. He tries not to breathe in too hard, but Stiles’ scent is overwhelming, a little stale from the journey, but underneath woody and appealing. He idly wonders what aftershave he uses as he stretches. A jolt of the train wakes Stiles, and he groans, rubs his face against Derek’s shoulder before realising what he’s doing and sits bolt upright.

“Sorry!”

“No harm, no foul,” Derek says weakly, rubbing his cheek.

“Time is it?”

“Little after four am,” Derek coughs, staring blearily at his watch. He catches Stiles looking at him, and he glances away, looks out of the window. There’s a pink tinge to his cheeks that wasn’t there before. Derek wonders what he’s thinking. The journey’s nearly up. It’s weird, but he feels strangely attached, like he doesn’t want Stiles to clamber off the train and leave his life a little emptier. He didn’t even realise it was so empty.

“I always think about the people in the houses,” Stiles says quietly, presses his nose against the glass as he looks out into the darkness. “What they’re doing, how many of them are awake.”

“Hopefully not many of them if they’re lucky,” Derek says hoarsely. “You wanna go see if the night cart’s still got food and stuff?”

“Yeah,” Stiles stumbles up after Derek, trips, and Derek catches him. When he straightens up their noses practically brush, and Stiles smiles sweetly at him. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Derek manages, not letting go until Stiles has slid past him and begun walking up the now empty carriage.

The girl is half asleep as she serves them. Stiles buys two croissants, waves one at Derek as he buys water and mints.

“Eat this, oh my god, it’s so good.”

Derek takes a bite without thinking, and Stiles seems to freeze, still holding the croissant in front of Derek’s lips.

“Uh.”

Derek pries it from his hands, peels another bit off and begins chewing, trying not to smirk. Stiles’ gaze flits from his mouth to his eyes, and then the girl clears her throat, annoyance apparently waking her up enough to demand they pay and get the hell out.

The train goes round a curve, and Derek catches hold of the seat in front to keep his balance. Stiles sways dangerously close to him, his shoulder brushing Derek’s chest before he rights himself and begins walking again. Derek realises he’s disappointed he didn’t get another chance to touch Stiles properly, and then feels stupid. Stiles is most likely sleep deprived, still drunk, and not actually groping Derek on purpose. Derek’s desire to touch him would probably mortify him if he knew.

“Hey,” Stiles elbows him gently, and Derek looks to where he’s jutting his chin. There’s an elderly couple asleep, hands folded together on the table. The man’s got one hand on his cane, looking almost protective, even in sleep. “’S’nice,” Stiles whispers.

Derek nods, nudges Stiles gently to move on.

“You think they ever run out of conversation?” Stiles asks when they get back inside their own carriage.

Derek shrugs, “You and I haven’t so far.”

“Yeah, but we were strangers.”

“Were?”

Stiles grins, “Anyone that gets my drool on their shirt, and doesn’t complain about it is no longer a stranger, Derek, they’re an amigo.”

“An amigo?”

“Uh huh, an amigo, a homie, a friend.”

Derek gazes at him steadily for a long moment, and Stiles notices, looks back at him. Neither of them have sat down, Stiles is still clutching his croissant, Derek has water bottles under his arm. They don’t move.

“You did warn me about the drool,” he says finally.

“Right,” Stiles nods, gaze flickering all over Derek’s face before settling on his mouth, “Fair is fair, and all. I’ve been told off for it in the past.”

“It was okay,” Derek says carefully, “I wasn’t… I haven’t slept with anybody in a long time.”

Stiles’ eyes go wide, and Derek bites his tongue.

“I mean literally! Haven’t… you know,” he gestures to their seats, “Slept next to anybody. It was nice. Comforting.”

“Uh huh,” Stiles steps towards him, and Derek drops his arm to hang uselessly by his side.

“Although, I haven’t, uh, done that other thing… in a while… I mean, you know…” he feels his face heat up. Stiles is still smiling as he trails off, and Derek tries to roll his eyes, huff, look away, but Stiles is suddenly in his space, cupping his face slowly, giving him plenty of time to move away. Derek doesn’t. Stiles kisses him. The train curves again, and they sway together, Derek falling to lean against one of the chair arms, fingers scrabbling for purchase against Stiles’ hips. Stiles’ mouth is just as lush and gorgeous to kiss as Derek thought it would be. His thumb stroking softly along Derek’s jaw, other hand drifting to rest on Derek’s shoulder as Derek steps closer to him, pushes into the kiss.

Stiles grins, pulls away to tug Derek back into the seats, presses up against the side and yanks Derek flush against him. It’s not the most comfortable position in the world, Derek’s got a chair arm stuck against his stomach, and the train jerks every so often, but they laugh when their noses bump, and Stiles turns accidental bites of teeth into nips, teases.

Derek hasn’t made out with someone purely for the fun of it in a long time. He meant it when he said he hadn’t slept with someone for a while, but even then it was much more… precise, adult, looking to get off and get out. Kissing Stiles is fun, joyous, and he breaks away to pepper Stiles’ face with kisses, trails them from mole to mole across Stiles’ cheeks.

“Knew you couldn’t resist my dazzling face,” Stiles grins, fingers dragging along the sides of Derek’s face, curling around his ears.

Derek rolls his eyes, kisses him again because he can, because it’s lovely, and the train is slowing, the station looming in the distance.

“Glad to be home?”

He drags his eyes from the window, looks straight at Stiles for a long moment, “Not really, you?”

Stiles sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, runs his tongue along it as though hunting out Derek’s taste, and it makes arousal dart through Derek. He groans quietly.

“Not now,” Stiles says finally, petting Derek’s hair. “Not yet.”

Derek smiles softly at him, and they extricate themselves from one another reluctantly, in increments. Derek sits up, and Stiles follows, kissing him. Stiles packs his bag away and Derek presses a kiss to his shoulder; that leads to more kissing, deep and open mouthed. Derek puts away his ridiculous books, and Stiles laughs, drapes an arm around his neck and presses their foreheads together.

The train pulls to a stop, and they stand, Stiles kisses him one last time at the doors, and as they open, someone yells Derek’s name. Erica’s running towards him, beaming brightly despite the early morning, and he laughs, catches her up in a hug as he gets off the train. When he spins to introduce her, knowing Erica will want details, Stiles isn’t on the train any longer, but bolting over to a floppy haired guy that’s smiling and waving, and a pretty brunette with a sparkly sign.

Derek swallows down his disappointment. He must have just been a fun way to pass the train journey for Stiles.

“You have so much to tell me,” Erica cries, “How was your mom, did your dad send cookies?”

Derek grins despite himself, casts one last look over his shoulder to where Stiles is looking at him, a confused expression on his face, and then turns to give Erica his full attention.

“Your priorities astound me.”

“Hey, I’m a girl that knows what she wants,” Erica dismisses easily, “Come on, Boyd’s waiting in the car. Last I checked he was in a stand off with an old lady for the last spot in the waiting bays.”

“I bet he let her park there.”

“I know,” Erica rolls her eyes fondly, “Such a softy. Hey,” she tugs at his chin suddenly, looks at his bare neck, “Is that a—”

“Erica,” Derek cuts off, gives her a pleading look, “Not now?”

“Okay,” she slips her arm through his, “But, later?”

“Yeah,” he promises, hopes that both of them forget all about it.

*

Except that Derek doesn’t forget, nor does he stop thinking about Stiles. The stupid picture of the ostrich has found its way to Derek’s kitchen fridge, and he knows he should take it down, should try to move on, but he can’t bring himself to do so.

There had been something about Stiles he had… enjoyed, been enamoured by, savoured. There aren’t a lot of people Derek immediately clicks with, Boyd had been a mutual dislike of everything and everyone else, Erica a deep and steely loyalty and abruptness he resonates with. Stiles had been interesting, fascinating because Derek had been both physically attracted to him, and… more. He had hoped Stiles had felt the same. Every time his phone goes, or the buzzer rings, he foolishly hopes it’s somehow Stiles. And, it never is.

It’s two weeks later when he’s sitting in his favorite coffee shop, perusing the paper, when he notices an ad at the bottom of the page. There’s a comic book signing for a comic he has heard many stories about. The picture of the writer achingly familiar, and the other picture of the boy from the platform. Stiles and his best friend are signing comics at the comic store round the corner from Derek’s apartment. Stiles will be less than two blocks from Derek between eleven and twelve tomorrow.

His hands are shaking.

Erica closes Vogue, gives him a suspicious look, “What?”

Derek lifts his eyebrow at the paper, and she peers over, “Flame Boy’s creator’s Scott McCall and Stiles St—Stiles as in make out boy from the train?”

“Do you really have to keep calling him that?”

“Yep,” Erica purses her lips, “I don’t like him.”

“You don’t know him.”

“So? He abandoned you after eight hours of soul bonding or whatever it was, and hasn’t been in touch since.”

“In fairness, I haven’t been in touch, either.”

“I can’t believe both of you were dense enough to not exchange numbers,” Erica sits back in her chair, “You actually deserve each other.”

“I don’t know,” Derek swallows, looks at his hands, “He took off, I guess I just… want to know why.”

“Honey, sometimes you don’t get closure on these things. They’re magical, they happen, you move on.”

“But what if we were, you know, gonna be a good thing and he just panicked?”

“My, my,” Erica smirks, “The day Derek Hale turned into an optimist, a believer in fate.”

“It wasn’t fate.”

“This isn’t,” Erica points at the paper, “This is your chance to find out what his crappy deal was, and as your best friend and favorite person—”

“Boyd is my favorite—”

“No lies at our coffee table, Derek!” Erica taps the picture of Stiles, “At least if it turns out he was being a jerk, take some coffee and throw it at him.”

“Erica!”

“I didn’t say it had to be hot, god.”

Derek spends half his evening looking at his wardrobe, and then decides he can’t go. He has absolutely nothing to wear. Boyd shows up in the morning in sweats, and shoves a t-shirt at him.

“’S’Iron Man.”

“I know who Iron Man is,” Derek frowns down at the logo on the front, “Why are you giving this to me?”

Boyd shrugs, begins backing down the steps of Derek’s place as he puts his earbuds back in. “Because Erica spent all night worrying about you, and so I’m bringing you armour.”

“In a t-shirt?”

“Least the nerd convention people won’t judge you for showing up in plain black.”

“Plain black is sensible!”

Boyd waves over his shoulder, and Derek scowls after him. His friends had to know he’d find a way out. He hates that they think they know him.

*

Stiles looks in his element from the signing table, and Derek feels totally out of his. He pushes his glasses up his nose nervously, smooths a hand over the damn t-shirt as he moves up the queue. There’s a couple of girls in front of him giving him approving looks, and he takes heart from that. At least if Stiles shoots him down, he’ll still have some dignity.

Someone barges into him, and hot coffee scalds down his arm.

“Oh my god, I’m sorry!” A guy starts patting his arm apologetically, and Derek pulls away, mumbles something forgiving. He has to leave, immediately. He glances over his shoulder to see Stiles craning his neck at the commotion. Their eyes lock, and Stiles’ mouth falls open.

“Derek?”

Derek flees the comic book store, hurries down the street.

“Hey, hey, Derek!”

“Hi Stiles,” he calls over his shoulder, “Bye Stiles!”

“No, Derek, wait!” Stiles’ fingers curl around his biceps and Derek turns, mortified.

“What?”

“You,” Stiles steps back, although he takes a second too long letting go of Derek’s arm. “You found me.”

“I didn’t want to lose you in the first place,” Derek mutters, before swinging on his heel again and trying to cross the road.

Stiles darts out ahead of him, face confused, “You—you’re giving me really mixed signals here, dude!”

“I am not,” Derek huffs, “I came because I wanted to see you, because despite the fact you abandoned me on the platform—”

“Hey, you’re the one whose girlfriend showed up! I thought you’d want me to exit quietly, and not—”

“Girlfriend?”

“The hot blonde!”

“Erica, my best friend. She and her husband came to pick me up because they’re about the only friends I actually have! Because I’m a complete loser that had to borrow a contemporary t-shirt just to fit in at a comic book signing.”

Stiles’ face cracks into a wide smile, “That you came to, to see me.”

“Yes, I thought I made that perfectly clear!” Derek throws his arm up for a cab, but Stiles grabs him and throws his arms around him, making him stagger to the side. Stiles has his face buried in Derek’s neck, and then he presses a kiss to it, leans up and kisses Derek properly.

Derek feels his eyes go wide, but he drops his arms to Stiles’ lower back, holds him tight as he kisses back.

“Dude,” Stiles breathes out, “My amigo, my friend, I can’t believe you thought I’d abandon you. I have to show you something.”

“You—I—what?” Derek feels punch drunk, follows stupidly when Stiles starts tugging him back towards the comic book store.

The crowd parts for Stiles, and he waves, calling an apology before grabbing a new comic from the pile, flipping it open. There’s the flame boy character, sitting on a train with a dark haired, stubbled character that’s frowning out of the window.

“I’m just saying,” Flame Boy’s text reads, “Your face is dazzling.”

“Shut up,” the other man replies. “That’s a terrible compliment.”

“It’s cool, we’ll be friends soon enough.”

Derek swallows hard, lifts his eyes to meet Stiles’, “So…”

“So, I didn’t know if you’d ever actually read them, I just needed… something to mark it. I can’t explain it without sounding like I really did go Strangers On A Train with you. I’m trying to be cool about this, but, you’re here, and that has to mean something. I had to mean something to you, right? It wasn’t just me?”

Reaching into his pocket, Derek pulls out the picture Stiles drew of the ostrich, holds it out. “I was going to ask you to sign this.”

Stiles looks down at it, and then up at his face, smiling brightly.

“I’m gonna kiss you, now,” he says.

“Okay,” Derek nods, “That’s—yeah—okay,” and that’s all he gets out before Stiles is kissing him.

Somewhere behind them a voice says, “Oh my god, dude, is that Glasses Hottie from the train?”

“Yeah,” Stiles breaks away from Derek, but doesn’t stray far, “Except it’s Derek, and he’s not just from the train anymore.” He looks up at Derek, “You gonna stick around long enough for me to take you on a date to that big book store up the block? You can pick out some classics for me to fall asleep to.”

Derek laughs, “Yeah, but no reading aloud.”

“We’ll see,” Stiles kisses him again, “We’ll see.”