Chapter Text
Stiles never would’ve guessed who he’d see when he walked into his last period class that September afternoon. It had been a fairly normal first day back. The sun showed bright as he walked into the school, for the last first time. It stirred an uncomfortable feeling in his gut. Despite the senior year jitters, he was doing well. Save for him having to sit right next to Malia for World History, they managed to have half a conversation which was better than the icy awkwardness the previous summer had held every time the two had to be near each other. Besides that, everything else was shaping up nicely. He had AP Psych with Lydia which meant amazing notes to use for studying the whole semester. There was one issue with your senior year, by the time you get to it everyone’s so focused on taking the courses they need to look good for future colleges or jobs that the fun classes get shuffled out. Scott was knee deep in biochemistry, the only class they had together was Forensics. However, that did mean they shared a lunch period, which was great and it turned out a lot of the pack shared it with them; Scott, Isaac, Erica, Boyd, and Kira! Not too bad of a group to deal with for half the year. Besides that, Stiles was all alone for his last class of the day. Poetry. Which he’d been practically forced to take, given his inclination for traditional academics, he’d pushed his elective requirements away for so long he would have to do something this term.
Low and behold, when he made his way to the classroom, on the far side of the school where all the art and music classes were, up the stairs to a tiny classroom that looked out across the woods. He’d never been in it before, but his jaw fell on the floor as he saw none other than Derek Hale, current co-alpha of their pack, wearing a white button down, pinstripe slacks and a maroon tie, scrawling notes with chalk on the green board in front of him.
Stiles looked around, noticing not even a dozen students were in the class, all absentmindedly playing on their phones or stressfully scribbling on transfer papers to turn in before the end of the day. No wolves. So Stiles ran up to the desk. “Dude!” he scream-whispered in Derek's general direction, trying to fight the urge to swat him on the side of the shoulder.
Derek turned to look at him, a hint of shock on his face that was quickly replaced with his usual cold demeanor. “Mr.Stilinski,” he said in a stern tone, not unlike the one he used with the betas, clearly not wanting to talk to the boy.
Stiles flung his arms around. “What are you doing here?” He pressed, trying to keep his voice down and failing. He’d quickly earned the attention of one of the girls in the front row, who set her eyes on Derek and immediately stuck there.
“I work here part time,” Derek sighed. “Please go sit down.”
Stiles, despite his confusion, followed his alpha’s orders and took a seat by the window in the second row. He whipped his phone out to text Scott. ‘ Dude, when did Derek start teaching here??? Is there some secret evil werewolf PTA thing going on that he’s trying to sneak into? ’
The boy's phone buzzed back almost immediately with Scott’s response, ‘ Lol. He said he was starting a new job soon, didn’t think he meant here ’
Before Stiles could reply, Derek made a loud thump, a thick book falling onto his desk. “I’m Mr.Hale, I’ll be your poetry teacher for this term. Your syllabus,” he grabbed a small stack of papers, handing them to the girl closest to the front, “has all the books and poems we’ll be reading this year. Along with a loose schedule of your assignments and test dates. I’ll try my best to keep to it, but I know that sometimes, especially with literature and poetry, we may need to wiggle that around if a certain story keeps our interest more than another. This is my first time teaching, so please go easy on me,” he said with a smile and tone that Stiles had never heard come out of his mouth. Ever. It was almost charming and Stiles didn’t even need to turn his head to see the way the girls in the class were blushing. It reminded him of watching the alpha flirt with his dad's deputy, how easily he'd slipped into the mask, despite never attempting to put it on around them.
Derek continued, “We’ll be starting with exercises in style by Raymond Queneau, which is a retelling of the same story 99 ways, just in different styles. This isn’t something you need to slave over, I just want you to get an idea of all the different styles and ways to write poetry. Every Friday, we will have a group poetry reading, where everyone can share a poem they’ve written relating to something we’ve learned the past week. I’m not a harsh teacher, this is mostly just so I can see how you all are interpreting the works and readings. If you’d like to just write what you like, maybe in the style of a poet we’ve read, that’s also acceptable. If you are uncomfortable sharing your writing, you are more than welcome to just leave your poems on my desk at the beginning of class on Fridays, but I do expect you to be active in discussions about other people’s works.” Derek walked back around to his desk and sat down, “Any questions so far?”
Stiles let out a small laugh when nearly every girl’s hand flew up. Derek’s eyes flickered over to him for just a moment, before going to the girl in the back, a quiet freshman with streaks of purple in her hair. “Yes, Miss…” Derek looked down at his class list.
“Alexis,” she answered in a meek tone. “I was just wondering, are you also the coach for basketball this year?”
Stiles’ eyebrows furrowed, gaze still locked on Derek as the teacher answered. “Yes, I am. But that’s just until Coach Leary is back from paternity leave.” He looked over to the girl in the front row, a tall and slender junior with straight ginger hair and splattering of freckles on her cheeks. “Yes?”
“Kasey Williams, sir-”
Stiles almost choked on his own spit hearing the flirtatious tone coming from her.
“Kasey,” Derek parroted. “Please, there’s no need for honorifics in my class. Mr.Hale, Mr.H, hell, even Coach is fine. But ‘sir’ makes me feel like my father, so let’s not use that again,” he said, almost with a hint of stutter.
She looked bashful, “Sorry Mr.Hale, I was just gonna ask if we’re going to have homework besides reading, like journals?”
Derek sighed a bit, clearly relieved the question was actually relevant. “Great question. So, you’ll have a few chapters of reading a night, and if you’d like to take notes please feel free. But no, I find that while journals are helpful, it leads people to looking stuff up on google just to have something to write. I’d much rather you attempt your best to understand the readings on your own and dedicate your time to that. Your weekly poems will be enough, and then we’ll have scattered papers and quizzes but nothing crazy.” He turned his attention towards the rest of the class, “I know most of you are taking this more as a filler class than anything, not to offend anyone who is here because of their deep love for poetry.” The class chuckled a bit, even Stiles. “So, I don’t want to overwhelm you with work. I’d rather you actually absorb something, then be swamped with reading and not comprehend anything. That being said, I would appreciate it if you try your hardest to make this class count for something. Poetry may seem silly at your age, but there’s something powerful about being able to make other people feel your feelings, experience things through your lens, and to read someone’s work and empathize with them.”
Stiles found himself lost. So entranced by Derek’s words it caught him off guard. Derek… cared about this. He liked poetry. He went on and on about its importance, about censorship, and how it was a way to let out feelings with this gap of anonymity that allowed for truth. Stiles knew the man had plenty of money, if the newly refurbished Hale house where they'd been having pack meetings had anything to say about that fact. So of course, if there were no supernatural or monetary reasons to be here, Derek was a poetry teacher because he genuinely wanted to teach poetry. Something about that made Stiles’ face heat up with blush. It felt like an intimate detail, something he shouldn’t know about the alpha. Derek was always a brick wall, no words, no smiles, no conversations about his personal life or feelings at all. Even as the pack recently settled into a comfortable new life after the hellscape that was their junior year, Derek was still just as standoffish as he ever was. Of course, Stiles knew deep down the wolf cared for them. He’d spent sleepless nights trying to find Stiles when he was possessed. He called anytime Scott needed him. He drove Isaac, Erica, and Boyd to school every day last year. Derek had a heart, of course he did. But Stiles didn’t realize it was anything like this.
So, he listened to Derek read one of his favorite poems, and Stiles tried to act like his entire world wasn’t crumbling around him as the older man spoke with such gentle firmness.
Derek stood up to the front of the class, “We don’t have much longer. Please try to get your books, I’ve ordered a handful of copies of everything on the syllabus to the library, if you aren’t able to buy one please send me an email and I will get it for you. Now, I’ll leave you with a poem by Ross Gay. I would like you all to write down one word about how it made you feel, put your name on it and give it to me before you leave.” Derek smiled, looking over briefly at Stiles, with an unreadable expression. Almost shy. He coughed and began to speak, his mossy green eyes raking over the stanzas;
“No matter the pull toward the brink. No
matter the florid, deep sleep awaits.
There is a time for everything. Look,
just this morning a vulture
nodded his red, grizzled head at me,
and I looked at him, admiring
the sickle of his beak.
Then the wind kicked up, and,
after arranging that good suit of feathers
he up and took off.
Just like that. And to boot,
there are, on this planet alone, something like two
million naturally occurring sweet things,
some with names so generous as to kick
the steel from my knees: agave, persimmon,
stick ball, the purple okra I bought for two bucks
at the market. Think of that. The long night,
the skeleton in the mirror, the man behind me
on the bus taking notes, yeah, yeah.
But look; my niece is running through a field
calling my name. My neighbor sings like an angel
and at the end of my block is a basketball court.
I remember. My color's green. I'm spring.”
Derek paced around the room as he read the printed off page, and Stiles watched him with hawk eyes. The words fell out his lips like a gospel and the mid afternoon sun shined through the window. As he spoke, Stiles felt the words hit his chest like daggers. And he immediately understood why Derek chose this piece to read. Despite the skeletons, despite the dark, and the ever present shadow of death on Derek’s shoulder. Despite the pull of that ever present sleep. There was the light, the beauty of life, of remembering the good. It went against everything Stiles thought he knew about the man in front of him. Someone who seemed haunted, who seemed to be completely fine wallowing in the dark alleys of abandoned buildings, who pushed everyone away.
Stiles coughed a bit, surprised by the emotion in his chest. The bell rang, making Stiles jump in his seat. He watched as everyone grabbed their bags and turned in their papers, heading out the door into the rush of students racing to the buses. He waited until everyone was gone. Stiles looked down at his notebook, pulling a piece of paper out and thinking. Of course, he had a million things he could say if asked, but to be concise? That wasn’t usually his style, he was more of a word-vomit kinda guy. Finally, he wrote down one word. ‘Relief’, folding the paper in half, shoving the syllabus into his backpack and walking up to Derek.
“Here ya go, teach,” He smirked as he put his assignment down on the stack of papers on the corner of Derek’s desk.
Derek sighed, the softness of his poetry reading face gone. He said nothing.
“So you like poetry?” Stiles pressed.
The alpha rolled his eyes, turning his back on Stiles, tucking his book away into his satchel.
“Dude, I’m not like making fun of you, I swear. I just wasn’t expecting to see my co-alpha in a little tie when I decided on this class for my elective," the teen explained.
Derek paused, sighing, as he turned back around. “Stiles… yes I like poetry. I went to NYU for education and minored in literature and poetry… I always wanted to teach.” He wouldn't meet Stiles' eyes, his gaze locked on the tiled floor as he fidgeted with his keys before tucking them away in his bag.
Stiles perked up, this was one of the first personal details he’d heard about Derek’s life that wasn’t cloaked in tragedy. “That’s great! Why didn’t you tell us you were gonna be teaching here? I literally saw you last week at the barbeque Lydia had. We were all talking about school.”
Derek slid his satchel over his shoulder, shrugging. “They didn’t offer me the job officially until the last student signed up. They needed at least ten kids interested in taking my class to reserve a classroom for me.”
“I think I’m your lucky tenth student!” Stiles laughed, “I signed up like the day before registration closed.”
An almost smile twitched on the corners of Derek’s lips at that. And Stiles didn’t want to think about the way in made his cheeks heat up.
It fell as soon as it bloomed, and Derek finally looked at him with the same cold expression Stiles was far more used to. “Obviously we see each other out of class, but I don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea. So no pack stuff on campus, I’ll tell everyone else the same.”
Stiles was a bit confused at that, “I mean, don’t you drive Erica and Boyd to school, or did you tell the principal you like adopted them?”
Derek sighed, “I got them their own car a few days ago. Despite Erica begging me for a Hellcat.”
Stiles chuckled, “Oh so you’re allowed to whip around in a Camaro but everyone else gets sensible, reliable toyota’s?”
“Exactly. Now get out of here. I have to schedule," Derek snipped back, a hint of humor that made Stiles very pleased.
“There’s the blunt alpha we all love. I almost thought he died when you read that beautiful poem earlier.” There was no mistaking the hint of red spreading down Derek’s ears. But Stiles didn’t want to push his luck at actually getting to know the wolf in front of him, so he let up. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow… Mr.Hale ,” he teased.
“See you tomorrow, Stiles,” Derek sighed with an exacerbated tone. “Close my door behind you, please.”
Stiles obeyed, and walked down the hallways and past the gym until he reached the locker rooms. Inside, he found Scott, Isaac, and Boyd all getting into their gear. “Yo!” he called out, running up to them. They all greeted each other. Stiles was pulling his equipment out of his locker as he asked, “Have you guys seen Mr.Hale yet?”
They all laughed a bit, “No, but me and Boyd will see him tomorrow for basketball tryouts,” Isaac chimed in.
“I can’t believe he’s teaching here… also he said we should all pretend not to know him,” Stiles replied, shedding his clothes quickly to change before Coach came in screaming that he didn’t need to see everyones bare asses all the time.
“Fine by me,” Isaac poked. “What class is he teaching anyway?”
“Poetry,” Stiles answered. “He actually might be a really good teacher...which makes no sense seeing as I was under the impression he had the social skills of a block of concrete.”
“Funny because when he was teaching us it was more like fight club than dead poets society,” Boyd snarked as he shrugged his shoulder pads on, making him even more intimidating.
Despite the joke, it was clear there was still some hurt behind it. Stiles felt a pang of sympathy for him, for all Derek’s betas. Despite their recent amity, there was no doubt a gap between Derek’s and Scott’s respective pack members. They decided to become one pack, blended with two alphas, after the nogitsune situation of the former year. Derek had nearly lost his alpha powers giving way to save Cora, but to everyone’s surprise his eyes flickered red the second Boyd and Erica returned to Beacon Hills. It was better that way, they were stronger in numbers and, despite Scott’s initial skepticism, it seemed to be working well. Derek took a stronger hand in training and order, whereas Scott mostly was there for emotional support. They balanced each other well.
The boys all ran off to the turf together, and Kira joined them, giving Scott a playful jab as she ran past him. Stiles tried to focus on practice, on tryouts, on trying not to vomit as he ran laps around the field despite the hot late summer sun beating down on his pale skin. The entire time his mind was stuck on that damn poem. On one line. ‘There is a time for everything.’ It made him wonder when his time would be. Was it now, surrounded by more friends than he’d ever had, doing well in school and finally a break from the tormented terror of last year? Would he look back at these days, his last in highschool, with painful nostalgia and yearn for them? When would Derek’s time be? The poem held within it a brimming spirit of hope; that made Stiles think the alpha’s time of happiness, of spring, was still to come.
Stiles kept up, until he was sweaty and panting and ready to go home for a nap. He watched his teammates, mostly his packmates. Their wolves, and fox, keep them able to run and run without even breaking a sweat. Stiles, however, collapsed against the cold metal of his locker and chugged the water bottle he’d packed, wondering why the hell he even bothered with sports. They all showered and dressed and headed home. Stiles was exhausted, but oddly satisfied. Still, there was the fear. The anxiety of what's to come. There’s always something. Something that cuts their plans in half, that plagues Stiles’ dreams with fear. That keeps them up all night, keeps Stiles hunched over his laptop or old dusty books from the Hale vault. He prayed there was nothing, but at this point he knew it was only a matter of time.
Stiles laid in bed after dinner, making lists of textbooks to order, but found himself staring at the syllabus for his poetry class. For Derek’s class. He highlighted the books he needed to order, but as he stared at the schedule there was something pressing inside him. A memory. Of the way Derek had nearly sung out the poem, at his flushed red ears, the way he looked…softer. Not shirtless and cut up from sparring with the betas, not growling and huffing in rage. No, he was controlled, calm, and confident. Stiles ignored how his stomach turned at the thought.
Still, the first books the teen ordered for school that night were all poems.