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Derek walked into the library for about the thirteenth time that week, and for the thirteenth time that week, the guy behind the desk (whose name he didn’t know; Derek had never asked during the few times they had conversed. Though if Laura was asked after the one time she had come with him, they hadn’t conversed, he had grunted and the desk guy had apparently tried to say things but after Grunt Number 3—Laura’s words, not his—desk guy had stopped) studiously ignored him.
The magazine that the guy was reading rustled, and Derek paused, thinking that maybe the guy had noticed him—wanted to notice him, maybe. But he made the mistake of glancing over at the guy, and he was able to count the number of moles on the guy’s cheek (Erica had told him that he really needed to find out his name, or “Give him a damn nickname, because calling him desk guy or library clerk, it’s getting really ridiculous. You know what, you’re ridiculous. Just ask him out already!”). He thought there were four, on that side of his face, which he could clearly see because the guy was turned away from him now so that Derek was only looking at his profile.
Derek sighed heavily and meandered through the aisles of books. He had always loved coming here. As a child, his mother had brought him here while she could work on things using their computers—his father believed in the microchip era, that family should spend time together in their home and not sitting in front of a screen—and he had spent most of his time looking at all of the different tomes.
He always liked the older books; the ones without the colourful cover art, or photographs of models who probably hadn’t read anything longer than a job listing in years; the ones where the spine spelled out the title of the work in gold lettering, and holding them felt like holding a piece of history.
So that’s where he went that day. There was this one, slightly ratty couch back in that corner of the library, almost never used, so he grabbed a book of poetry by Emily Dickinson and sat down. He wasn’t sure how long he’d stay, but he had nothing better to do. Laura knew he was here, had sighed resignedly when he had grabbed his keys, and had mockingly told him to tell the desk guy hi for her.
At least, he thought it was never occupied. That’s why he was shocked when, shortly after he had started reading “‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers…” someone’s weight depressed the cushion next to him.
Derek looked up and promptly forgot how to breathe. It was the desk guy. The guy, from the desk, was sitting next to him. Just there. Looking straight ahead, the guy was without his magazine, without anything. And even in simple jeans and a T shirt (apparently the library here had no dress code for employees), he looked amazing. And he was there, sitting next to Derek, who most likely looked like a slob. Because really, it was Derek, and that was his luck.
"So this is completely dumb. Lydia, the other clerk who works on the days I’m off, says she’s never seen you before."
Derek didn’t answer, couldn’t; the guy’s appearance had taken the air from his lungs and he had forgotten how to fill them up.
The guy gave a huff of annoyance, probably, and continued. “Meaning that you don’t come in during those days. Meaning that you know my schedule. Meaning that you’ve come in here enough times to know what my schedule is and that it’s regular enough to be memorised.”
Derek still doesn’t know what to say, even though he’s finally been able to take in small amounts of oxygen again, now that band of iron around his chest has slackened, just slightly.
"And you come up to the desk with these books. These books that I’ve read and that I love. These old books, on life, and happiness, and finding yourself. Books on poetry about love. And it makes me crazy. I’ve literally read them all. But there’s no way you can know that. Because that’s crazy. So you come up with these books, and you’re standing there, and you’re goddamn gorgeous, and I try, oh my god, do I try to flirt with you. Only it’s hard because I fail at it and because we’re in a library and who flirts in a library, really?"
Derek bit his lip. That seemed like a rhetorical question, though he wanted to answer that he flirted in libraries, or, more correctly, he wanted to flirt in libraries with this guy. And no one else. Ever.
"So I repeat myself, which I’m pretty good at doing: this is dumb. You’re you. And I’m me. But we could be us. And I think you think so, too. At least you give me these looks when you think I’m not paying attention, which, how could I not be paying attention when somebody like you walks through those doors?"
Derek didn’t think he had ever met anyone who could talk like this guy. And his sister was Laura, and that was saying something.
"And so help me god, if you answer with a grunt, I’m marching over to that desk, revoking your library card—I have that power—and calling Scott to evict your ass to the street, and he doesn’t even work here."
Derek blinked at him. The guy wasn’t even breathing heavily, as though talking like this, like that, saying so many things all at once, was nothing for him. But now the guy seemed to be waiting for something. For Derek, obviously, to say something. So he did.
"Your name."
This seemed to surprise the other guy. “What?”
"I want your name."
"Uh, I’m Stiles."
"Stiles." He said the name, almost reverently. He tasted it, for the first time, and it was amazing. He liked the way it sounded. "Do you know how many times I’ve wanted to ask you that? It’s absolutely insane that you don’t wear a name tag. You drive me crazy. Do you know how many times I’ve just wanted to drag you across that circulation desk and kiss you?"
Stiles’ eyes glazed over a little, as though he was lost in thought, before he cleared his throat. “Well, next time, just fucking do it, okay?”
Derek’s lips twitched up. He nodded. “Okay.”
And so he did. And he might have been shot a disapproving look from the head librarian, and several of the patrons, but he left there with the book of poetry and a phone number, and his heart felt lighter than it had in years.
Derek didn’t go back to the library for the rest of that week, but that was okay, because he was now getting ready for a date with the desk guy.