Archive of Our Own ^beta

When Stiles first decided to major in Anthropology, he maybe went a little overboard with the archaeology theme. He wore an Indiana Jones fedora for about a month straight. It wasn’t until Lydia ripped it off his head and informed him that she was going to burn it because he looked like a hipster brony and anyway you can’t wear a brown hat with black hipster glasses, for fuck’s sake, Stiles, what were you thinking?

So now he wore plaid and hipster glasses and beanies and worked at a local coffee shop with weird art on the walls and colored mood lighting, and no one ever believed him when he said he was going to be an archaeologist. Oh well. Looking out the windows with a shiver, Stiles thought to himself that it was almost worth it just so he had an excuse to stay inside where it was warm. He watched other students venturing out into the frigid Boston snowstorms all bundled up like prairie school children while he stayed right next to the espresso machine with a hot cup of coffee in one hand and a textbook in the other. If this was how hipsters lived, Stiles had no problem being one.

Stiles shivered when he felt a rush of cold air. He turned around to see a tall, broad, extremely muscled man in a black leather jacket step in amid a flurry of snowflakes. The man’s stubble and dark hair framed piercing hazel eyes. He held his hands in his pockets, and he glared out from beneath thick, furrowed eyebrows. His eyes landed on Stiles and pierced right through him as though Stiles were the only thing standing in between this man and his coffee, and Stiles gulped and...yep. Knocked over his coffee.

“Can I…Can I help you?” Stiles asked, dropping his textbook on the counter and dabbing at the coffee stains on his flannel.

“Sixteen ounce white chocolate cheesecake mocha,” the man said after glancing at the menu board. His voice was higher than Stiles had expected, and softer. He smiled, and as his eyebrows lifted, Stiles could have sworn he heard a choir of angels burst into song. “Hold the whip, please.”

“I’ll hold your whip,” Stiles garbled.

“Sorry?” the man said, looking confused.

“Sorry!” Stiles yelped. “Sorry, sorry. So, um, you said a medium mocha with white chocolate syrup and cheesecake syrup, no whip?”

“Yeah,” the man said, blushing faintly. “You, uh...you have cheesecake, right?”

Stiles felt like saying no would be equivalent to crushing this poor man’s hopes and dreams. No one with biceps like that should ever have their hopes and dreams crushed. “Yeah, we’ve got some in the back. I’ll be just a second,” he assured him.

“Thanks,” the man said with a smile as he turned to set up camp at one of the tables. Stiles spent a very productive couple of seconds ogling his ass before diving into the terrifying mess that was the spare syrup drawer.

The man’s beautiful ass was worth even the unexpected sticky hand from a leaky bottle of coffee flavored coffee syrup. Stiles really didn’t know why they ever paid actual money for that.

White Chocolate Cheesecake guy moaned when he took a sip, his eyes fluttering shut in ecstasy. Stiles whimpered manfully when he saw the man throw his head back, his throat working to swallow down the mouthful of coffee.

Some things mortal man was just not meant to withstand.

\_/

Stiles carefully poured steam milk into a hazelnut latte, slowly pulling the stream backwards while swaying from side to side, beaming as the last drops left a perfect flower pattern in the latte.

The man who’d ordered the hazelnut latte put one hand over his phone and glanced over his shoulder. “Oh, hey, and I’ll have whipped cream with that. Thanks.”

Stiles glared at the back of the man’s head as he sprayed whipped cream messily all over his beautiful foam flower. Whipped cream didn’t even go with hazelnut. Idiot.

“What did that whipped cream do to you?,” Stiles heard from over by the cash register. Handing over the latte, Stiles turned to see Which Chocolate Cheesecake guy from last week.

“Crushed my hopes and dreams,” Stiles said. “Ruined my life, actually. What can I get for you?”

“Twenty-four ounce white chocolate cheesecake mocha, and don’t worry, I don’t want whipped cream,” the man said, grinning.

“Ooh, twenty-four ounce,” Stiles said, grabbing the cup and ringing up the order. “Someone didn’t get much sleep.”

“It’s finals in two weeks, no one’s sleeping,” White Chocolate Cheesecake said, handing over his card. Stiles swiped it and got to work on foaming the milk.

“I feel you,” he said. “I’ve been studying for my Conversational Polish exam so much, I asked a customer what they wanted in Polish yesterday.”

“Oh, you’re studying Polish?” the man asked, leaning on the counter.

“I’m getting a minor in it, anyway,” Stiles said as he added the syrups to the milk. “I’m a sophomore, so I haven’t actually declared anything, but I’m thinking about majoring in Anthropology with a double minor in Geology and Polish.”

The man whistled. “That’s ambitious,” he commented.

“Yeah, thanks,” Stiles laughed. “I really like it, though. What’re you studying?”

“Oh, I’m actually a grad student,” the man said. “Linguistics.”

“Really? No way!” Stiles said as he added the milk to the espresso. “I’m taking Intro to Linguistics this semester. It’s through the Anthro department, though, so I don’t know if it exactly counts.”

“No, that’s awesome,” the man said. He smiled as Stiles handed him his latte. “Thanks for this. I definitely need it.” He waved a little awkwardly and left with a jingle of the bell.

“Wait,” Stiles called, cursing under his breath as the door closed on the man’s perfect ass. “I still don’t know your name,” he sighed.

\_/

Stiles left Boston in the grip of yet another ugly snowstorm (his flight was delayed three hours, Stiles drank three lattes and almost missed boarding because he was in the bathroom for twenty minutes peeing) and was greeted in California by sunny skies and temperatures in the sixties.

“I am never going back,” he said, his arms outstretched as he spun in circles in his front yard.

“Aw, hell, kid,” his dad sighed, leaning out the front door, “Mrs. Jenkins across the street is already calling me to complain about you, is this really necessary?”

“Yes,” Stiles informed him, stopping and staggering around a little as he tried to regain his balance. “Yes, it is.”

“Right,” the Sheriff sighed. “Well, I’ve put your suitcase upstairs. We’re having pizza for dinner, it should be here in an hour.”

“Pizza?” Stiles yelped, “Dad, that is not on your diet.”

“Can’t I celebrate my son’s homecoming?” the Sheriff asked, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow.

“You can celebrate with, like, sweet potato fries or soy ice cream or kale chips, not pizza!”

“It’s veggie. That’s as healthy as I’m willing to go.”

“Well, if it’s veggie,” Stiles said grudgingly. “But I’m cooking tofu tomorrow!”

The Sheriff wrinkled his nose, but stuck out his hand to shake on it. “Now go unpack,” he ordered.

“Sir, yes sir,” Stiles laughed.

\_/

Scott was studying abroad in France, which meant his break schedule was all out of wack. He flew in almost a full week after Stiles, landing in California fifteen minutes before midnight on Christmas Eve.

“Dude!” Scott called across the baggage claim area when he spotted Stiles and the huge, glittery sign Lydia had helped him make. (The glitter spelled out “welcome home, asshole” in French. Stiles was very proud.)

“Bro!” Stiles yelled back. They played a makeshift game of Marco, Polo as they fought their way through a knot of tired, grumpy passengers fighting over a tan suitcase. They embraced and shed several manly tears while a grandma whalloped a tall, muscular young man with her handbag.

“I missed you!” Scott yelled in Stiles’ ear.

“Bro!” Stiles yelled, “I missed you too!”

“Bro!” Scott said, pulling back to look Stiles in the eye with a teary eyed expression.

“Dude,” Stiles agreed.

\_/

Allison had moved to France back in high school, and while she kept in touch with the Beacon Hills crew, she stayed with her parents over the holidays. They hadn’t seen Isaac since he graduated high school. He prefered to stay in Seattle as much as possible, both because he didn’t want to leave his new hipster, scarf-wearing soulmate friends and because he didn’t want to see his dad. Everyone understood, and Lydia was planning a spring break road trip to visit him.

Jackson had no real excuse for not being around. He’d bummed a trip to Hawaii out of Danny. Lydia was furious, and took it out on Scott and Stiles, the only two left of the old Beacon High group, in the form of aggressive, angry shopping trips.

“It’s New Year’s Eve, and it’s not even worth it to have a party!” she spat as she critically eyed a slinky, sequined black dress.

“I mean, it’s not like people wouldn’t show up,” Scott said, wrinkling his nose at the pistachio green skirt he’d pulled off the rack.

“Of course they would,” Lydia sniffed. “But the only people from our high school whose names I actually bother to remember won’t, so there’s simply no point in even bothering!”

“We could get drunk anyway and play Spin the Bottle,” Stiles drawled.

Lydia raised an eyebrow at him. “We have got to get you a boyfriend,” she sighed.

\_/

Stiles made it through the door and into his first Language and Thought class seconds before the class started, latte in hand like the white girl Lydia insisted he was. He took a seat in the back as the professor introduced himself. The professor, Dr. Harris, sported a dull green tweed suit, an overgrown neck beard, a permanent sneer, and a smug, nasally voice. Stiles stopped paying attention to him when he realized that Harris was settling in for a long ramble about degrees and qualifications or something like that, and he eventually tuned in to find the professor only just getting around to introducing his TA.

“...and this is Mr. Derek Hale, a doctoral student here. You can find his office hours posted…” Stiles completely lost track of what the professor was saying when the TA stood up, waving awkwardly at the glass. White Chocolate Cheesecake himself was glaring out from under those eyebrows of his at the class.

Stiles’ first thought - that at least he finally had a name - was quickly overshadowed by the second - that he was going to have to focus on this pompous ass of a professor while Derek, in all his muscled glory, was sitting in front of him.

Stiles dared Indiana Jones himself to face a more intimidating opponent.

\_/

“Lydia,” Stiles groaned into the pillow, “He’s so cute, what do I dooo?”

“Pull yourself together, first of all,” Lydia said. “Good god, it’s like you’ve never seen a cute butt before. You managed to make it through three years of classes with me before getting over your crush, clearly you can survive one semester with a hot TA.”

“You have no compassion,” Stiles grumbled.

“Yes, your poor nerves,” Lydia drawled. “Here, I bought you ice cream. That is the extent of the sympathy I am willing to give you. Eat it and chill out.”

“Oh my god, did you just make a pun? A really, really terrible pun?” Stiles asked, looking at Lydia in horrified awe.

“No,” Lydia sniffed. “Shut up. Eat your ice cream.”

\_/

Stiles turned in his final paper with the words “will you go on a date with me? check yes or hell yes” written on the last page. He hoped very, very hard that Harris was the kind of professor to delegate all the grading to his TA, or else this was going to get far more kinky than he was comfortable with.

He got the paper back with a phone number scrawled next to the circled “hell yes”. He meant to wait a couple of days, let Derek sleep off finals, but ended up texting him almost immediately.

Stiles, 10:34pm, 06/14/17
Wanna get coffee??? I make a mean White Chocolate Cheesecake Mocha.

Derek, 10:48pm, 06/14/17
Consider me wooed.