Title: Syzygy
Author: ANTchan
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Rating/Genre: Romance/T
Pairings: Derek Hale/Scott McCall/Stiles Stilinski
Summary: When Stiles finds Syzygy, he's running on empty. After weeks of partying and generally enjoying his last semester of college, he'd finally remembered that midterms were around the corner, and has spent the last week trying to catch up. By the time he comes upon the little tucked away coffee shop, Stiles has been up for 36 hours and doesn't exactly remember how he ended up on that particular street.

Stiles blinks owlishly at the sign, mouthing the syllables for a few seconds. He feels an instant camaraderie to the shop, on account of both of them having weird, unpronounceable names. It feels like destiny. If Stiles believed in that sort of thing.

Prompt: It's not MY coffee shop AU it's THEIR coffee shop AU. D:

Syzygy

For Darby

-1-

When Stiles finds the little cafe, he's running on empty. After weeks of partying and generally enjoying his last semester of college, he'd finally remembered that midterms were around the corner, and has spent the last week trying to catch up. By the time he comes upon the little tucked away coffee shop, Stiles has been up for 36 hours and doesn't exactly remember how he ended up on that particular street. He still has two papers to finish by midnight, and had vacated his dorm room because his asshole of a roommate, a Beta by the name of Theo, has made it his life's quest to drive Stiles insane. It's a bad day for his ADHD, and the exhaustion and anxiety only makes it worse. So out he'd gone in search of some caffeine to calm his brain and a place to work that's stimulating enough but not too stimulating.

And thus, he finds Syzygy.

Stiles blinks owlishly at the sign, mouthing the syllables for a few seconds. He feels an instant camaraderie to the shop, on account of both of them having weird, unpronounceable names. It feels like destiny. If Stiles believed in that sort of thing.

The minute he opens the door, the smell of coffee hits him hard enough to make his knees wobble. With a dreamy sigh he heads straight for the counter. There's only two people ahead of him in line, at a time when the morning rush should be starting up.

Okay, it's destiny. He's converted.

The guy behind the counter is tall, muscular, and dark-skinned, and watches Stiles with something very close to confusion on his face. "Hey, hi uh," Stiles glances at the brass nametag pinned to his apron, "Boyd. I need a large cappuchino - thank you for not doing Starbucks sizes, Christ - with three extra shots, topped with caramel and chocolate."

Boyd pauses in tapping his order into the machine, and stares intently at him. "Three extra shots," he says softly.

"Yeah…"

"A large capp already has two shots of espresso in it. You know that, right?"

Stiles goes a little wild-eyed, and leans over the counter. "Boyd, dude. Boyd. I am a man in need of caffeine. I've been up for 36 hours, and I'm gonna need to squeeze at least 12 more out of my life before I die. Three extra shots, please."

"It's your funeral," Boyd mutters, and finishes punching in the order. "Name?"

"Bruce Wayne," he blurts out. It's a reflex, mostly. Telling people his name usually causes confusion and dismay for all parties involved. And don't even get him started on the nightmare that's his birth name.

Boyd the barista is not impressed, though. When Stiles grins at him, he only sighs, and writes the name on a receipt with a world-weary air. Stiles winks, and shuffles over to join a couple of other tired looking college students at the pick-up counter. He's pretty sure he falls asleep with his eyes open, because it the minutes seem to blur and then suddenly a voice calls out:

"Order for Batman!"

There's a chorus of quiet, sluggish laughter from the other customers. Stiles jolts back to attention, flashing the barista, a pretty blonde with smirking red lips, a smile. "That's me!" he exclaims. She slides a - frankly gigantic - mug of coffee across the counter at him. And it… holy shit, someone's made a bat symbol in the milk foam and outlined it with the caramel and chocolate syrups. He fumbles with his phone to get a picture of it, to immortalize this momentous caffeine-related miracle. But when he takes a sip, oh, oh.

His eyes nearly roll back at the rush of caffeine and the most perfectly brewed coffee he's ever tasted.

He might fall a little in love.

"Give my love to whoever made this," he sighs at the barista. He can barely see the top of this coffee magician's backwards baseball cap bobbing around behind all the fancy machines. Stiles, in a moment of exhaustion-induced madness, considers blowing them a kiss.

"Uh-huh,"the blonde says patiently. "I'll do that. Now move, you're blocking the pick-up."

Stiles hums noncommittally, barely even hearing her at this point. He drifts further into the cafe, mug of caffeinated heaven in hand, and finds a seat with easy access to a power outlet. By the fifth gulp of coffee, he's feeling a little more alert, a little less fuzzy and over-stimulated, and he actually can take in his surroundings in some form of cohesion.

There are three or four other customers sitting around him, all looking as tired as Stiles feels. Most of them are curled up in the overstuffed armchairs at in the back corner, sleepily drinking their coffees. It's all very sedate. The shop decorated in muted golds and warm browns and accents of deep blue. There's music playing softly, unobtrusively in the background, and there's art pieces along the walls. The ceiling of the cafe is a mosaic of ceramic and stained glass, the pieces weaving in and out of each other in patterns that, if Stiles let himself, he could get lost in. It's nice, cozy, really. And interesting.

Stiles drags his eyes away before he has a chance to get swept up in the mosaic overhead, gulps down another scalding mouthful, and sets to work.

The caffeine and the change of environment seems to do the trick. For the first time in 24 hours Stiles is able to write more than a sentence before his focus wavers. In fact, he manages three more pages before something draws his eyes away. The people who come and go as the morning ticks on are interesting enough. But this time it's more than just a passing glance. This time Stiles does a doubletake. No, a tripletake, just to make sure he hasn't fallen asleep and entered some kind of dream world.

Because an insanely attractive hipster has just walked into the shop.

No, insanely attractive doesn't accurately cover it. The man who walks into the coffee shop - tall, dark-haired, beardy - looks like a GQ model with a secret hipster life. There's no way a man that obviously muscular should wear cozy henleys and beanies and fucking skinny jeans, okay? Stiles can clearly see the definition of his thighs and his arms through those clothes. And that his ass is perfectly framed for Stiles to see when he goes to stand in line.

Stiles sinks lower in his chair to hide the fact that he's blatantly sexualizing a perfect stranger from across the room, and discreetly pinches his arm. The pain has him cringing, but holy shit that means he's not dreaming. There is actually a mind-meltingly gorgeous man waiting in line for coffee in this little shop that Stiles has found on chance alone.

Stiles watches Sinfully Hot Hipster get his drink and make his way to a table in the far corner - a little alcove made from a wall divider and a potted plant. He pulls a laptop from his bag and opens it, frowning around the mouth of his coffee cup. He doesn't look at anyone else, completely absorbed in his thoughts and whatever is on his laptop.

It's not until Stiles remembers his own work that he looks away, the sudden rush of anxiety the only thing keeping him from watching Beautiful Hipster God for a while longer.

-2-

Syzygy is the greatest discovery Stiles has made since coming to Berkeley. The fact that it's taken him until his last semester to find it is a little depressing.

Not because it means he could have been watching GQ Hipster for longer. Stiles can admit he's well on his way to being obsessed, but he hasn't gone that dangerously close to the stalker line yet. No, getting to watch him in his soft henleys or his waistcoats - actual waistcoats and even a cardigan at one point - is a perk, but it's not the only reason Stiles keeps coming back.

The cafe is actually a pretty nice place. It's got a nice atmosphere for studying and working on assignments, and it's fun to people-watch when he needs a focus break. The coffee is to die for too, which is basically what saves his ass through midterms week. He's somewhat learned Coffee Magician's schedule, after arriving late one afternoon only to find a different barista (a sarcastic little shit with angelic cheekbones he later discovered is named Isaac) to be manning the coffee machines.

Never again. He has tasted euphoria in coffee form and he's never going back.

The morning baristas - Erica, Isaac, Boyd, and the yet unseen Coffee Magician - are his favorites, and the most likely to banter with him over his caffeine intake and the fact that he's yet to actually give them his real name. Coffee Magician makes that the highlight of his mornings, because he always gets some cool coffee art to go with whatever name he gives. (The best ones so far have been the Batman from the first day, the Spider-Man insignia, and a Death Star.) But he also enjoys teasing the baristas from the afternoon shift - two small, angry sophomores by the name of Liam and Hayden. Well, Liam is the smallest and angriest of the pair. Hayden only ever seems to be angry where Liam is involved. Watching them bicker between orders is a great way to spend an afternoon after class.

Still, Stiles would be lying if he said he doesn't fantasize about talking to The Hot Hipster more than half the time he's in the shop. Hell, Stiles would settle for the man looking at him more than one, incredibly awkward, moment that ended in Stiles giving a hesitant wave that only seemed to confuse Outstandingly Pretty Hipster.

Look, Stiles has read about these things okay? He's somehow landed himself in a fucking coffee shop AU except in real life, complete with quirky baristas and the mysterious love interest. He'd be a fool to let this chance go by. He doesn't know The Hot Hipster's name, or if he's even interested in guys, it's still a chance that Stiles has to take.

Y'know, someday soon. When the idea of going up to him doesn't make Stiles' skin crawl with anxiety.

-3-

The protests start up mid-March. The Human Advocacy Coalition (Human Supremacy Coalition as they should be named) announces they're going to hold a rally near the Berkeley campus. They cite "Pack-related violence" in the city as their cause, but anyone with a brain can see they're just looking for another stone to be thrown, just like they'd done in Dallas and Boston the year before. So the shifters and humans alike flood the campus with non-violent protests. The tension starts to ramp up the more attention the whole thing gets. Human supremacists crawl out of the woodwork in "counter-protests." Media swarms the campus in preparation for the riot people are waiting for. Stiles' roommate, Theo, is chomping at the bit, just waiting for someone to step out of line. Not in an outwardly bloodthirsty way, no, the asshole is still as pleasant and suave as ever. But Stiles can feel it boiling beneath the surface.

He starts stocking up on protective spells, healing ingredients, first aid supplies, and the taser his dad gave him after all this started last year; starts carrying them around in his backpack. Something's going to break eventually, and Stiles is not going to be caught unprepared when it does.

He goes to Syzygy as he's done every other day for the past three weeks. He gets his coffee and trades quips with Liam and sits down to work on his classwork. Stupidly Gorgeous Hipster is in his designated corner, absorbed in own assignments. Grad work, he assumes. Stiles overheard Erica asking how his dissertation was going about a week back. Today he's wearing a rumpled white button up and a tan waistcoat. His beard is a little longer than usual, the circles under his eyes a little darker to match the stormy frown on his face. It's not going well, by the looks of it.

It should be another day of biding his time; of working up the courage to go across the room and talk to the guy. But instead…

Instead there's a man standing on the sidewalk near Syzygy, brandishing a sign that reads Monsters Walk Among Us! (Seriously, where do these assholes get their catchphrases?) shouting something about vigilance or… "not letting the beasts infect our families"... something moronic. The minute he shows up, the cafe takes on a brittle air. Most try to ignore him, though Stiles notices the tension in clenched hands and squared shoulders. Others turn to watch the man outside apprehensively. Liam the barista steps back into the cover of the coffee machines for a brief moment, where the Coffee Magician should be hard at work. Even Hipster Adonis sets his mug down and gazes at the loudmouth "defender of humanity" with the coldest, most murderous glare Stiles has ever seen.

And suddenly there's a colossal crash against the windows, one right after the other. Stiles isn't the only one that dives from his seat. There air is full of panicked shouts and snarls, and more splintering thuds against the glass. The sunlight is from the windows is blocked, the room painted in a surreal purple light. When Stiles braves peering up from behind his armchair, it's only to find that the windows have been covered in what at first looks like purple paint.

It's not until he looks around at the people around him, and finds all but a few of them pressing against the far wall, eyes flashing gold and fangs bared fearfully, that he realizes it's wolfsbane.

His heart slams against his ribs so hard there's actually a numb sensation before every nerve ending goes on high alert. The cafe is full of 'wolves - scared 'wolves who could do damage if they lose control. He can count the number of humans in the room on one hand now. And that's alarming, sure, but even more than that - that means there's a fucking human supremacist asshole throwing wolfbane at windows and possibly at people on the street. Anyone can be poisoned if that shit gets ingested.

Two simultaneous roars cut through the air, rattling Stiles' bones even as they turn the chaos into hushed silence.

The Hot Hipster has leapt from his alcove, face contorted in a snarl and his eyes glowing red. Alpha red, fuck, Gorgeous Hipster's not only a 'wolf, he's an Alpha. But he's not the only one in the room.

Another has jumped from behind the counter. A younger 'wolf, shorter and stockier than the other man - all bronze skin and dark hair under his backwards cap and a slightly crooked jaw. And eyes that burn like fire. Together the two Alphas race out the doors, presumably after their attacker.

Stiles' brain is going into so many different directions that he doesn't recognize him the second Alpha is his Coffee Magician until after they're gone.

He drags himself back into his chair in the seconds it takes the pair of Alphas to check the street and return. "Hayden, call the police and then Satomi," Coffee Magician says before the doors even close behind them. "Everyone else," he addresses the rest of the cafe, "stay away from the windows until we're sure it's all clear."

"Police aren't going to do shit," Stiles mutters, forgetting that he's currently in a cafe full of 'wolves. He fights not to sink into his chair when both the Hot Hipster and the Coffee Magician glance his way. His heart withers in his chest, mortified.

It takes a good fifteen minutes for the cops to show up, a fact that disgusts Stiles but doesn't surprise him in the slightest. They take a cursory statement and description of the attacker, but Stiles can tell by looking at the officer's exhausted, apathetic expression that the case is going to go into some forgotten file, never to be seen again. Stiles watches the proceedings from his seat, leg bouncing under the table. Even as the cops are taking statements from the rattled 'wolves, Coffee Magician and Ridiculously Pretty Hipster stand at the door, as if trying to physically block any oncoming attacks from the Betas in the cafe. Their eyes are still red.

Alphas. Christ.

As the officers are wrapping up, the Alphas move towards the crowd, talking in quiet voices. When they get closer, Stiles can hear them asking each person how they're getting home, if they've contacted their Alpha or their families, and to stay inside the cafe until someone comes to get them. He watches them, and yet it's still somehow a surprise when they wander up to him.

"Uh," he says intelligently.

"Hey man," Coffee Magician says, "you alright?" His eyes are gorgeous, a deep, soulful brown now that the red has faded.

His mind goes blank, which is… terrifying.

"You reek of anxiety," Ethereal Hipster adds. His voice is softer than Stiles expected it to be.

The bitter laugh bursts from his mouth before he can stop it. "Yeah, hi, Stiles Stilinski." He waves at the pair of them. "Anxiety is my default setting. This? This is nothing." A few wolfsbane filled balloons (or whatever they were) is nothing when Stiles' thoughts immediately went to firebombs and bullets and assholes who call themselves "Hunters."

"Oh," Handsome Coffee Magician murmurs. "Okay. Well, I'm Scott and this is Derek." He offers Stiles a smile that is far too sweet and kind for him to deal with. "Do you have someone you can call to pick you up?"

He can't help but scoff. Everyone he can trust is either still back in Beacon Hills, in class, at work, or Theo. And there's no way he's calling that asshole. "Nah, man. I'll be fine walking back to the dorms."

This is obviously not what they were wanting to hear. Coffee Magician's- Scott's smile fades quickly, and Derek's already stormy frown grows only darker. "You're not walking across town," Derek grouses.

Wow, what a grump. "Oh, excuse me, Your Highness. Some of us don't have the luxury of driving everywhere." It's only partially true, as poor Roscoe does still run. But his lovely old Jeep is in serious need of repair and Stiles can never justify risking another engine breakdown over a ten minute drive across campus. But Derek doesn't need to know that. And it only serves to make him look even grumpier, which is a delight. His jaw works, but he says nothing.

It's Scott who steps in. "It's dangerous for any of us to leave alone. What dorm are you at?"

"Oh, uh, Channing," Stiles mutters.

"Cool, I've got to drive Liam and Hayden to Unit 1; it's on the way. If you wait, I can take you."

Stiles ends up nodding, barely aware of what he's agreeing to. They leave him to it in favor of helping the others contact their rides, going so far as to escort people from the door to the cars that come for them. Eventually, it's just Hot Hipster Derek, Coffee Magician Scott, Liam, Hayden, and Erica.

And Stiles.

"Come on," Scott offers once they're done closing up.

Stiles… doesn't know why he stayed. He could've left at any time; snuck out the door when they weren't looking or just demanded that they let him leave. But here he is, gathering up his things, watching as Derek ushers Erica into a flashy Camaro and Scott opens the doors of a beat-up Honda for Liam and Hayden. He glances at the cracked, wolfsbane-splattered windows, at the deserted street, at the cafe sign hanging above their heads.

Syzygy.

Of course it's a fucking 'wolf cafe with a name like that what was he thinking? There's even a circle around the name that Stiles had assumed was decorative but it represents a fucking moon.

He's an idiot.

"Hey, you coming?" Scott's waiting for him, holding the passenger door open. He's smiling gently but his head is cocked - probably keeping an ear out for threats.

"I... yeah, uh. Thanks for the ride." Stiles brushes past him, and privately thinks that if his life has become a coffee shop AU, it's a strange one.

-4-

He quickly comes to the realization that it's not his real-life coffee shop AU he's stumbled into.

It's Scott and Derek's.

And boy, is that discovery a bitter one.

The elation of finally speaking to Derek, to even learning his name, lasts for only a few days. The attack on the cafe's windows gives Stiles an opening to actually speak to him, if only to gloat that, "See? This poor little human walked all the way here and arrived in one piece. Amazing, isn't it?"

It mostly just gets him a glare, but further pestering nets him the fact that Derek has a cat (named Selena, what a dork), he finds Stiles' constant pop references tiring and yet knows every single one of them, and that his master's focus is in languages, particularly the translation of shifter texts. That's something he seems to enjoy quite a bit, as the longest conversation they hold is over his current work on letters sent from a 17th century French Pack in the New World (before La Bete outed the shifter world as a whole).

Stiles actually starts to think he's getting somewhere - leading up asking Derek to dinner. Actual dinner. Something charming and properly romantic and that doesn't shout "I'm a poor college student."

And then… Scott makes himself The Competition.

Okay, it's not… it's not all that dramatic. Essentially what happens is that Scott just comes out from behind the counter to talk to Derek more. But it's… fuck, there's no missing the lovestruck gleam in Scott's eyes as he crosses the cafe to talk to the other Alpha - about Inter-Pack business at first, about protecting their Betas and everyone in the cafe, and then not about official business and-

And they sweet-flirt. A lot. It's actually a little sickening to behold. They gently tease each other and share secretive smiles and sometimes Derek gets his coffee and fails to hide the goofy (read: cute) little smile at whatever he sees in it because obviously Scott is making cute little drawings in the milk foam for him.

Which is not a Competition Stiles can win. Stiles' past attempts "flirting" (according to the great and powerful Lydia Martin) consists of fumbling attempts and almost stalker-like tokens of affection when he hits Full Obsession. College has helped mellow that out, but he's still not… he can't beat this. Stiles can banter, he can tease, he can even be grandly romantic (though it's often at inappropriate times). But he doesn't know how to do sweet, how to make that dopey little smile appear on Derek's face.

So he goes for Plan B, which is to do some digging on The Competition.

He snags Mason, one of the Pack-adjacent human regulars at the cafe. (Most of the human regulars at the cafe are Pack or Pack adjacent.) He's enthusiastic to speak with Stiles, he's got that wide-eyed supernatural newbie look to him. And that makes him talkative.

"Is your name really Stiles? Liam says it's gotta be another reference, but he can't figure out which." Mason asks almost immediately after exchanging hellos.

Stiles pauses in sliding onto the bench beside him. "Uh, yeah? Stiles Stilinski. You know the shortstack?"

The boy grins. "He's my best friend, and the reason I got involved in all this."

"So you're in Scott's Pack too, then?"

"I was. Technically I still am. I'm training to be his emissary. Pretty intense, right? Going from not having a clue about how Packs really work to… this. Learning magic and Pack politics and bylaws." He takes a sip of his own drink, something sugary covered in whipped cream and caramel, and leans forward. "So you have it too, right?" He gestures vaguely at Stiles. "Are you training as an emissary too?"

Oh. Now that's not a question he gets often. "Oh, nah. I've got a bit of magic- my grandmothers taught me before I left for college. I know some basics."

It's easy to get Mason to talk, to lead him from magical small-talk to casually probing about his Alpha. The more Stiles hears, the more his heart sinks. Scott is actually Scott McCall - True Alpha, a name he knows remembers from the news. General all-around good guy, a beacon of hope for a lot of people. Including big names like Satomi Ito and Mister Alpha of Alphas Deucalion himself. He's a big deal in 'wolf circles (Mason gushes for five minutes straight about him being one of only three True Alphas living in the western hemisphere). Liam and Hayden are his Betas, Bitten after a territory war got them caught in the crossfire.

So, in other words, Scott McCall is a fucking hero.

"What's his connection to Derek, then?." He keeps his voice low, even though he's come in at a time when neither Scott nor Derek are there and the cafe is busy enough to cover their voices.

Mason's brows inch ever higher. "Uh," he says softly, "he's Derek Hale? His Betas work here, but he and Scott are working on alliances."

He stops listening after Derek Hale.

Ridiculously Pretty, Grouchy Hipster Derek is Derek Hale. As in one the few survivors of the largest Pack massacre in the last century Derek Hale. As in reclusive scion of the prestigious (fallen) Hale Pack Derek Hale.

If his prospects looked bleak before, now they've dwindled down to nothing.

But if there's one thing Stiles knows how to handle, it's crushing on someone who's completely and utterly out of his league. He files away the information gained, picks up the pieces of his confidence and his shattered plans, and lets life continue on. It's not as if there isn't enough shit going on to distract him from his quickly sinking romantic prospects.

The non-violent demonstrations are gaining momentum and attention. The closer they get to the HAC rally, the more shifters gather in protest. Getting between classes - getting anywhere - takes three times as long. There's always a sit in, a rally, or a blockade to dodge around. Not that Stiles can muster up the energy to blame them. The HAC losers are creepy and get even creepier the more of them show up. When they're not spewing hate speech, they're standing quietly outside protest lines, eyeing up shifters and allies alike as if they're a hungry beast waiting to pick off weak prey.

It makes Stiles' skin crawl. Especially now that he's recognizing more and more faces in the anti-HAC crowd. He spies Derek's Betas - Boyd, Erica, and Isaac - more than once. Or the bubbly Asian girl, Kira, he sees in the cafe all the time standing vigil at the barrier between the students and the HACs, the smile gone from her face. His classmate, Malia, is beside her, then, baring her teeth as if she's daring anyone to come within snapping range.

And Stiles, well, Stiles can feel the breaking point approaching with every passing day. And he's got a police force background, is studying criminology, and is paranoid to boot. So it's no surprise to him when he finds himself reaching for a spare notebook and starts jotting down descriptions of the most suspicious characters around him. At first it's just the outspoken ones - the ones that come prepared with signs and memorabilia and HAC patches on their jackets. But it doesn't end there, because Stiles sees danger even in the faces of those he shares classes with. His classmates Garrett and Violet watch the shifters like hawks. He's pretty sure Allison Valet, the university's star archer, has connections to Hunters. And Matt Daehler is just a creep in general, but Stiles wouldn't put it past him use the chaos for something nefarious.

He's got the notebook half full in a week. It goes everywhere with him, and when he's not working on his Capstone, he skims through the data looking for connections, for anything relevant.

"What are you working on?"

"Nothing! Just uh, criminology project." Stiles jumps, pen skittering across the page. Scott steadies him with a hand lightly resting on his shoulder.

"Sorry," he apologizes with a sheepish smile. Stiles blinks up at him, a little mystified that Scott's come out from behind the counter and approached him. He's holding a steaming mug in his hands, which is offered the moment Stiles so much as looks at it. "Mocha with two extra shots. That's what you've been ordering lately, right?"

"I… yeah…" Stiles takes the mug, inhaling the delicious aroma of promised caffeine. There's a Star Wars Rebel emblem drawn in the foam. His heart does a questionable jump in his chest. His mouth is moving before he even realizes it. "Y'know, your coffee was like… the main thing that made me come back to this place. Well, I mean, that and all you ungodly pretty assholes that hang out here."

"Really?"

"Yeah, totally. The first time I tasted it I thought I was gonna leap over the counter and kiss whoever was at that damned coffee machine." Shit, that's not what he should be saying. Nice going, Stiles.

And now Scott is looking at him funny. He's smiling, sure, but the look in his eyes is unreadable. "It's really that good, huh?"

He forces the words past the lump in his throat, desperate to cover for his slip up. "Dude, yes. Best coffee I've ever had. And the art? You should, like, make a blog off of them. I've got a ton of pictures. How'd you know I like Star Wars?"

The color's rising high on Scott's cheeks now. "Oh, uh, a lot of your fake names were Star Wars? Kenobi. Solo. Dameron. You had a lot."

For some reason the idea that Scott had been keeping track of of his fake names makes feel light. Floaty. "You uh, you a Star Wars fan?"

"Nope. Never seen it."

"You- what. No. No, sit your ass down." He kicks the chair across from him out from the table and gestures to it. "Sit, sit! Never seen it. Christ. Scott McCall, I'm about to give you a fucking education. Your Yoda I will be."

"Sure," Scott laughs as he slides into the chair across from him. "My Yoda. Or… whatever." He knows exactly what he's talking about, damn him. His cheeky little smile proves it.

Scott's "education" fails, because the dude is an imp, apparently, and seems to delight in in doing everything he can to offend Stiles' delicate Star Wars sensibilities. And then… the conversation veers off. They talk about classes. Commiserate over Capstone, about the next step in The Plan (Stiles to the academy, Scott to vet school). It's nice. It's…

Stiles should hate him. Or at least irrationally miffed at the very idea of talking to him. Scott is The Competition; the man standing between Stiles and the beautiful, fascinating grouch of a man he wants to woo.

Or, you know, when he eventually works up the nerve to do that.

But talking with Scott comes so naturally. Stiles talks until his voice rasps, and for once he feels no shame in it. Scott only looks fond, rather than pained. His smile is infectious. His dimples charming. Even the slightly crooked slant of his jaw is adorable-

Oh.

Oh no.

-5-

Stiles is so fucked. So fucked.

"You're not allowed to crush on two pretty Alphas," he keeps telling himself. "One was bad enough. Fuck. Fuck."

It wasn't supposed to be this way. His situation was already hopeless, crushing on an unobtainable, uninterested guy who clearly had his eyes on someone else. But now Stiles and his… his heart? His brain? His dick? It had to go and develop an attachment to that someone else.

Stiles… Stiles has no idea what to do, except watch them circle each other and wait for the other shoe to drop.

The days pass in one wave of tension and anxiety after another. The unrest around campus grows. His notebook gets filled page by page. At the cafe, Stiles moves up to the front counter, in hopes that he won't have to look at either of them. But to his horror, Derek moves to join him after a few days. He's internally screaming with every quip that gets tossed between them. Sitting side by side he can now freely elbow the werewolf in the side when he gets particularly difficult. (And it makes it all too easy to pull up pictures of grumpy cat and ask "Is this you?" Derek is not impressed.) It should be fun, it is fun. But all Stiles can think about his how Scott now goes out of his way to come hand-deliver drinks to the pick up counter, and stop to chat on the way back. All he can think about is how Scott's eyes light up whenever he's talking to Derek.

It's going to slowly kill him.

He breaks the first day Derek isn't at Syzygy. He stops Scott on the way back to his coffee machines with a carefully rehearsed hum. "So… you and Derek."

He doesn't know what he'd been hoping for, but Scott fumbling to a stop, his face flushing so sweetly isn't it. Stiles' heart does a painful flutter. "Wh-What about him?"

He shrugs, forcing down the hollow ache of impending heartbreak. "You gonna do anything about him?"

Scott smiles bashfully. "Oh. You uh, noticed, huh?"

"Yeah," he scoffs, "like anyone could miss it. You light up when the dude's around, Scott."

"I… I've been thinking about it. Asking him out to dinner. But it… I'm not sure he's interested."

"What? No, of course he is. Never seen that grouch smile like he does when you're around. You should-" He has to force the words out past his constricting throat, his mind begging him not to finish that thought. "You should definitely ask him." It comes out softer, more sullen than he intended. Stiles clears his throat. "I'm uh, I'm gonna get going. I've got, y'know, stuff to do. But… good luck." God, his voice wavers. Stiles flinches, averting his eyes as he gathers this things.

He may or may not slink out of the cafe with his tail between his legs.

-6-

Stiles doesn't return to Syzygy for the rest of the week. Other than classes, he doesn't even leave his apartment. No, he sits at home and obsesses and mopes and just generally feels sorry for himself. He knows there's no scenario where this could work. Derek is the Alpha of a still prestigious name, is drop-dead gorgeous and smart. He may be a grouch but he's also kind of funny in this quietly biting way. And Scott is sunshine and goodness and a hidden wicked sense of humor with smouldering eyes and a charming smile. A True Alpha, an inspiration to many. And Stiles… Stiles is just a human with some slight magical ability to him. He may have grown into his too long limbs and filled out over the past few years, but none of that can erase the generally shitty personality he's working with.

He's so far out of their league that he might as well be playing the peewee version of whatever sport they're playing.

Stiles absolutely blames his morose mood for nearly giving in when Theo sidles up to him one afternoon, looking attractive and deceptively non-threatening and asks, "What's got you so wound up, Stiles? Need some help with that?"

It's not the first time Theo has propositioned him (in varying degrees of explicit). It's also not the first time Stiles has considered going with it. And damn if Theo's smug, simpering personality doesn't make him weigh the merits of hate-sex. But this is the first time Stiles finds himself truly hesitating, wondering if he should make the ultimate deal with the devil here.

Theo gives him what most would call a charming smirk, but Stiles knows him and knows it's only smarmy and calculating. "You've been smelling like misery and Scott McCall all week."

Stiles stops where he's been idly tapping at his laptop, and finally turns to fully look at his roommate. "Say that again?"

"Scott McCall. Loser True Alpha. Everyone knows him. He has all that power and influence and still chooses to work at that shitty little cafe uptown. Still wants to be a vet of all things," Theo laughs nastily. "Come on, Stiles, you can do so much better than some poser who doesn't even have the balls to use his power-"

His anger sparks magic through his body, and that's the only reason why Theo actually goes down as Stiles slams a fist into his jaw.

He stands there, gazing at his raised fist. He can't even feel the pain yet. 'Stupid,' he tells himself. 'He barely even said anything and you- stupid. Stupid.'

He leaves Theo there on the floor, scooping up his things and making a beeline out of the apartment. He thinks to hold up in the library, or just skulk around campus until he stops being pissed at the things Theo said about Scott - as if he has any right to say those things. But mostly he just paces the campus streets, reminding himself that going back to Syzygy will only lead to heartbreak now.

Stiles hears the sirens first. And then the shouting. It echoes through the streets, which have gone eerily lonely and still without him realizing it. His phone starts buzzing in his pocket.

Campus emergency alert, the text reads. Reports of violent protests at West Circle. Police have been dispatched. All students are advised to return to their dorms immediately, and remain there until it is safe.

The tension had finally snapped. And they hadn't even lasted until the HAC rally.

Stiles is too far away to know how bad the rioting is, or who or what started it. He should high-tail it back to his apartment. But instead his feet start carrying him towards east campus - towards Syzygy. His urge to go there now seems less like his emotions and more like his senses telling him something is wrong. Very wrong. His speed picks up from a brisk walk, but the anxiety has him running before he's rounded the block.

He only sees the smoke from a few blocks away. But he knows. He knows.

Syzygy is burning.

Stiles never expected a fire to be so loud. The roar of the flames almost overpowers the gasps and cries of the people on the street. His hope that everyone had made it out dies the closer he gets. The square is filled with smoke, but not from the fire. It's coming from canisters that spew out thick, pale smoke that covers the square completely. It can only be wolfsbane, or some other toxic cocktail the Hunters have cooked up. Stiles can barely see shapes stumbling in the smoke. The model-esque blond 'wolf that he'd seen Mason making googly-eyes at is collapsed in the street, gasping for air, a sick yellow foam rasping out of the corners of his mouth. He's still conscious, reaching towards a dark line of ash that's keeping him trapped.

The entire square's been ashed in. If the shifters don't get caught by the fire, they're forced to meet a horrible fate trapped in the toxic smoke.

Gunshots and laughter suddenly swell over the roar of the flames, and Stiles' blood snaps fire. There's a group of Hunters standing in an alley just out of sight, all sick mirth and nasty smiles, firing guns into the smoke without a care. Like they own the fucking place. Like they don't even care that there are people watching them.

Using magic without a focus is a lot harder than it looks - a lot harder than movies make it look too. But Stiles is furious enough to brute force it, to raise a hand to the fire escape above the Hunters' heads and pull. The metal shrieks like a vengeful fury, breaking free of the wall. The Hunters have maybe a few seconds to look up before the mass of metal is tumbling down onto them. Stiles catches one of the men's eyes for an instant.

The crash of the firescape drowns out the final gunshot.

It takes few moments for Stiles' body to catch up to the burning, piercing pain lancing up his arm. To the hot drip of blood soaking his sleeve. "Shit," he curses through gritted teeth. Watching the blood spread makes him feel ill, but when he works up the bravery to look,it's only a graze. He sighs in relief. It hurts like a bitch, but he can work with that.

The Hunters will be trapped until they can actually get the police to break away from the riots, but standing there will do nothing to help the shifters trapped in the square.

"Okay. Okay," he mutters to himself.

He recognizes nearly all of the people standing fearfully outside the barrier as the human regulars of Syzygy. He reaches for the first of them who will meet his eyes - a girl he's seen talking with Hayden on her shifts. "Hey, Sydney, right? You're friends with Hayden." The brunette looks like she's about to spiral into a panic attack and, hey, Stiles knows the feeling. "You okay? What happened?" he shouts over the roar and crack of the fire.

"I-I… I don't… They threw something through the windows. Some kind o-of… I don't know it just exploded and there was fire. Some people got trapped in the building. A-And the one's who got out..." Sydney clenches her eyes shut with a heavy gasp.

"Hey, you're out, okay? You're safe. And I need you to do something for me." He presses his phone into her hand. "I need you to call 911. There's a riot breaking out at West Circle, so all the cops are concentrated there. They're not looking this way. So I need you to call and tell them what happened. Can you do that?"

"I think so," she says tremulously. "Yeah."

Stiles doesn't leave her until he sees her starting to dial. The next person he finds is, thank god, Mason. The young man is kneeling in the street, breathing hard and his face covered in sweat and ash. "Mason!" he shouts.

"Stiles? You're bleeding..."

Stiles swings his bag down with his good arm, wincing. "Yeah. Got shot. But those Hunter assholes should be down for a while and Sydney's calling 911. Who was working today? Scott, Liam, Isaac- who of the Pack was there with you?"

"It was Scott's shift." Mason lets out a painful sounding cough. "Erica and Boyd were working with him. Derek was there. I think… I think everyone else was at the protests or at home."

A sharp, adrenaline-fueled focus takes over him. "Okay. Okay, look, we need to get that ash broken and we need to get people out. They're never gonna make it until the EMTs get here." Scott and Derek and their Pack are never going to make it.

"Yeah. I tried," Mason rasps, face anguished. "But there's so much smoke. And I don't have all the-"

"I got that covered, buddy." He unzips his bag, pulling out his "in case of HAC terrorism" first aid kit. "Sometimes it pays to be paranoid, huh? I've got healing and protection shit in here." Mason's eyes are wide as he picks through the kit. He tries to stand, but his legs aren't stable enough yet, and he only wobbles before sinking back to the concrete. "Whoa, no, okay, you need to stay here. We'll bring people to you."

"But I can help-"

"Damn right, you can. You're an emissary-in-training, Mason. You'll know more than anyone else here how best to use all of those. Let us do the heavy lifting."

Mason visibly swallows back the argument he's dying to make. "Okay. We don't have much time."

Stiles gently raps his knuckles against Mason's arm. "Leave that to us." If he can manage an us. The other humans around them look terrified, hurt, and exhausted. "I'm going to break the ash and go in," he announces to them. When no one says anything, his bravado falters. "But I could use some help." At first, no one moves. Disheartened, he turns towards the ash line. He's lifting his hand to swipe it away when someone steps up beside him.

It's Danielle. Stiles knows her name because of Heather, but he's seen her around Syzygy often. She's offering him a scrap of cloth, a determined frown on her face. "You're gonna want to cover your face if we're going in."

The vice around his heart releases. "Thanks," he sighs gratefully. He covers his mouth and nose with, and breaks the ash line. Others do step up to join them, about eight of them altogether. Some of them are only strong enough to wait at the ash line and carry people to Mason, but they aren't about to turn that away. Together they wade into the smoke, grabbing the shifters nearest to them. Some can almost walk on their own, others have to be carried out. Stiles doesn't have time to see how they fare with the first aid supplies. The moment he passes someone across the ash line, he's diving back in for the next. And even though he doesn't overlook anyone, his eyes are always darting, searching for familiar faces.

It's easy to lose his way. He wanders from shifter to the barrier and back, hoping for glimpses of the outside through the smoke. And then, finally, he makes out Erica collapsed in a heap somewhere in the smoke. As he nears, he spots Boyd not far away. He can see them taking each ragged, sluggish breath. He's not sure if they're even conscious. Stiles barely stops a gasp, diving for Erica's side first.

The roar rends the air so close to him that his ears ring. But the hulking, red-eyed shape that comes looming out of the fog is familiar and, perhaps stupidly, only fills him with relief. "Derek," he gasps.

The Alpha comes stalking at him in a blind rage, face shifted and dark and fangs bared. Unsure if it's the danger or the wolfsbane that's affecting him, Stiles stands slowly. "Derek," he says again, louder. Don't run, they say. Don't ever run from a scared predator. It makes you look like prey.

Derek slides to a stop within a few feet of him, the rage blinking out of his eyes for an instant. "...Stiles?" His voice is no longer soft. It's not even a growl, but a painful rasp. Even as an Alpha, he's only doing marginally better than his Betas. "You're… bleeding. You shouldn't be here. Why…" He sways on his feet, eyes going unfocused as he reaches for Stiles.

"I'm okay. We need to- hey, hey, listen to me. We need to get you guys out of here." Stiles points to the prone forms of Erica and Boyd. "I need your help. Derek, I need your help here, big guy."

Derek nods listlessly, and helps lift Erica into Sitles' arms before hauling Boyd over his shoulders. Stiles' heart is in his throat the whole way back, even though it's only the length of the square. He's terrified of losing Derek in the smoke, of turning around and finding that his strength has finally given out. Seeing the three of them take the first breath of wolfsbane-free air is only a small consolation. This time, Stiles walks them all the way to Mason, who has set up the first aid station out of the path of the wind.

Mason heads straight for them the moment they're within sight. "EMTs are on the way," he says quickly. "Where's Scott?"

Something sick and cold turns over in Stiles' stomach. "I don't know. Derek, did you see- Derek?"

Derek is staring at Syzygy's burning husk, at the flames licking the building, as if he's forgotten the world exists apart from it. And it's not until Stiles remembers the infamous Hale fire that he recognizes the hollow look in his eyes.

"Hey." He reaches out, gently brushing fingers against Derek's jaw to divert his gaze. His heart flutters as Derek's anguished eyes turn to him. "Where's Scott?"

"He… He was pulling people out of Syzygy. I tried, but I couldn't… I can't… so I tried to get people out of the smoke." His voice is thick with guilt, and his eyes keep flicking towards the cafe.

"Don't even think about it," Stiles tells him. He presses a hand to Derek's shoulder, nudging him down to sit on the concrete next to Erica and Boyd. "You've already breathed in too much of that shit. I'll find him."

And Derek whines, actually whines in distress and it breaks Stiles' heart. "I left him there. I need to…"

"No, no you don't." He grips Derek by the shoulders, as close to his neck as he dares with an Alpha. "You think killing yourself is a good idea? It's not going to help anyone, not me, not your Betas, and not Scott. I'll find him for you. I promise I'll find him."

"...Okay," Derek relents, as if the words physically pain him. "Be careful."

Stiles wants, no, needs to kiss him. And the only thing that stops him is the knowledge that of he doesn't leave right now Scott could die. "I will," he promises, and returns to the smoke.

This time he heads straight for the burning cafe. Everything in his body tells him how stupid of an idea it is, but he can't, he won't leave Scott. Not like this.

He's so busy trying to remember everything he's ever researched about burning buildings that he runs full tilt into Scott. A sharp cry leaves him, muffled by his makeshift mask. Scott's weight sags against him rather than catching his balance. He almost takes Stiles down with him. "Scott!" Stiles' arms go around him, swaying to hold him up.

Scott only wheezes in his ear, which does nothing to ease the panic rising in Stiles' lungs. Scott smells like smoke and ash and wolfsbane and blood. "Fuck, okay, let's get you out of here."

"N-No," Scott croaks. "There still might be…"

Stiles is already pulling him away, physically hauling him away from the burning wreck of Syzygy. "If there's anyone left-" They're certainly not going to make it out, is what he almost says. But the words stick to his tongue. "You did good, Scott," he says instead. He squeezes his arms around Scott's waist, hitching him higher.

There are sirens in the distance.

"You did great, buddy."

-7-

By the time the EMTs finally release him from their clutches (after being stitched up and prodded and an oxygen mask stuck on his face), the firefighters have all but doused the fire. Stiles sits on the sidewalk with his oxygen mask and watches them work, busily moving over and around everyone. None of them are going home for a while, if at all tonight.

But none of them are dead.

Scott managed to get everyone out. And Derek kept them as safe as he could within the smoke. Like a fucking miracle.

Like heroes.

Scott and Derek are huddled side by side with Boyd, Erica, and Mason. They're leaning into each other, completely plastered into each other's sides as if they're afraid the one or both of them are going to disappear. Derek is holding the oxygen mask closer to Scott's face, probably reminding him to take deep breaths. Apparently, Scott's extremely sensitive to airborne shifter poisons. Mason had been the first to tell the EMTs that Scott had a history of severe asthma before he'd been Bitten.

Scott and Derek's eyes lift, finding him easily even through the crowd. Stiles' traitorous heart does a miserable flip in his chest. He quickly averts his gaze.

He knows better than to think he's gotten away with… with pining for them in plain sight. He's prepared when two sets of footsteps approach. He's not prepared for Derek and Scott sinking onto the curb on either side of him, close enough that their shoulders brush. "H-Hi," he mumbles through the plastic mask. "You guys okay? How's Boyd and Erica?"

"They'll recover," Derek answers brusquely. "The hospital's going to keep them for a few days."

"Good. That's… good." Stiles clears his throat, self-conscious under the weight of their stares. Act casual, Stiles. "And Liam? And Hayden?"

Scott leans his arms against his knees. "They got back to their dorms okay. Derek's having Isaac get them and they're going to meet us at the hospital."

"Oh. Okay. Glad they-"

Derek interrupts his awkward attempts at conversation with a weak-sounding growl. "What were you thinking, being out tonight?"

Stiles slowly turns to squint at him. "Seriously? You're gonna scold me for saving your life?"

"It was dangerous! You should've gone somewhere safe. There were Hunters-"

"And you saw what I did to them, yeah? Dropped a fire escape on their bigoted asses."

"You got shot, Stiles!"

"Grazed! I was grazed!" His voice rises, only to break off into a chest-rattling cough. It feels like something's squeezing his lungs. Almost immediately, two pairs of hands grab hold of his arms, the pain leaching from him so fast his head spins. Werewolves. He waves them away with an irritated scowl.

"I'm glad you were here," Scott admits after a tense silence. And then he takes in a breath that makes him wince. "I mean, I don't like that you got shot. Or that you put yourself in danger but… you saved us, Stiles. You saved all of us."

"Me- I-" Stiles sputters, feeling even more breathless than before. "No way, man! You guys are the heroes, not me."

"We'd still be in that ash if it wasn't for you," Derek grunts. And when Stiles opens his mouth again to argue, he nudges him hard. Almost hard enough to send him careening into Scott. "Shut up, Stiles."

"I didn't even say anything."

"You were thinking. Loudly."

Stiles resists the urge to stick his tongue out at him.

They fall into silence, watching the people around them. There's something surreal about it. It seems like an eternity ago that Stiles had punched his roommate in the face and left him on the floor of their apartment. But it's only been a few hours at most.

Scott sinks into his side so slowly that Stiles doesn't realize it until the 'wolf is pressing his whole weight against him. He's not proud to say he nearly jumps out of his skin. "Um," he murmurs.

Scott's mouth twitches into a smile, and he lays his head on Stiles' shoulder.

The silence is heavy.

Hesitantly, Stiles tips his head to glance at Derek. He's expecting nothing short of righteous fury. Instead, all he sees is baffling fondness. Even amusement. And then Derek reaches over and takes his hand.

"Um."

"Eloquent," Derek mocks.

Okay, no. This… he can't take this. "You're- but aren't you supposed- you two-" Fuck, he can't even think. "You're together. I thought- you two were so gaga over each other."

Scott lifts his head, propping his chin on Stiles' shoulder like he belongs there. And that's not fair - that's absolutely not fair. "I wouldn't call it gaga…"

"Oh please, you two were over the moon on each other. Pun fucking intended. I couldn't stand watching it."

"Is that why you stopped coming to the cafe?" Scott asks quietly.

The arguments die in Stiles' mouth. They're both watching him intently now, as if this isn't unnerving enough. His silence has already given away his lie before he's even said it. "Well, I… I wanted you to be happy, you know. With each other." Shit. Shit, he's being so obvious. It's impossible for them not to know by now. He glances between them, struggling to come up with an apology.

Only to find that Derek is suddenly very close and oh, oh.

Their masks tap together in an anti-climatic thump that sends Scott into wheezing giggles. Derek's cheeks flush in a way that has nothing to do with respiratory problems.

"Well," Stiles clears his throat. His shoulders fight not to shake. And then the mask is being pulled away from his face with a growl from Derek. But for all the show of aggression, the kiss he gives is… sweet. Almost shy. Which is not allowed, it's totally not. Allowed. Because Stiles kind of wants to wreck him and none of them are in any condition for that. "Wow," he sighs when Derek pulls away, grinning when the older Alpha ducks his head. A hand is on his chin before he has the chance to process what the hell his life has turned into, turning him to meet Scott's kiss next. His is a little dirtier. All slick, sliding and sweet, full of promise. It's made even better because he's sandwiched between the two of them, Derek pressing his nose into Stiles' (undoubtedly foul-smelling) hair while Scott slow-kisses him into a simmering mass of helpless want. The world is a little different when they part, a little more vivid and hazier around the edges. Like he's just discovered magic all over again.

"Do you want to be with us?" Derek whispers in his ear.

And Stiles laughs, because surely this is some strange dream. "Yes. Fuck. Absolutely."

"Good," Scott sighs happily. He rests his head on Stiles shoulder once more. "We should go out soon. Like, real soon."

"We're going to be in a hospital for the next week, between your Pack and mine," Derek reminds him. "Not exactly the best place for a date."

Stiles pats his arm. "Have some faith, dude. We'll think of something."

They do. They do romantic slow walks in the hospital garden, cafeteria lunch dates, sharing the coveted jellos, the whole nine yards. They even get scolded by the nurses for setting off the heart monitors during "sneaky, sloppy makeouts" as Stiles delightfully puts it. Neither of his boyfriends are too impressed with him for it.

He'll win them over eventually.

End. Walk on, Traveler of Worlds.