A/N:

No notes, just vibes.

Stiles's phone is ringing.

Stiles's phone is ringing.

Stiles's phone is…ringing?

In a modern world obsessed with texting, the novelty of someone calling his number is only eclipsed by the strange and unexpected dread that kicks in soon after the second ring.

He grabs his phone and checks the caller ID.

Elijah glows in the dim light.

Stiles snatches up his quilt and wraps it around his shoulders, stepping out on the porch of the latest cabin he's renting out to pace as he answers.

"Hello, Elijah," he intones. "I'm not sure what I expected from you in terms of phone etiquette, but I must say I'm a little shocked at getting calls at—" Stiles quickly squints down at his screen. "—11:48 at night?" He smiles to himself. "Is this a vampire thing? I've never put much stock in the whole nocturnal-bat thing."

Silence.

And then the most beautiful laughter Stiles has ever heard comes in over the speaker, each chuckle rich and deep.

"I can't say I have ever been compared to a bat in my life," Elijah quips back. "A panther, a bear, a stag—yes, but never a bat." Stiles can hear the teasing notes in his accented voice. "And I seem to recall that you enjoy surprises." Elijah hums. "Surprise."

Stiles can't help the short huff of laughter that escapes. "And it's a welcome one. What's it been? A month since we saw each other last?"

(Three weeks, four days, and six hours, but who's counting? Not Stiles, definitely not him—no siree.)

(It's him that's counting. Ever since they met for the first time five months ago, he's been tracking their bizarre, coincidental meetups on the calendar on his encrypted laptop. They'd only just exchanged phone numbers after the third impromptu run-in at the library in Lexington, Kentucky.)

"Almost," Elijah responds nonchalantly, and Stiles can feel his gut clench at the idea that he isn't the only one keeping track. "I remembered from our lunch that you'd mentioned your next area of research was leading you to Virginia." There's a pause. "Do you still happen to be in the state?"

Stiles sits down on the rickety porch swing and leans backward, swaying in the cool night air. "I am. I'm renting a nice little cabin in Portsmouth. It's got a rustic porch swing and running water, so I couldn't really help myself."

"Would you be opposed to my company?"

In the silence between them, Stiles can hear the chirp of tree frogs and the faint cry of a coyote.

"No, Elijah," he breathes out. "It would be great to see you again."

His honesty leaves his hands shaking, but it's worth it when he hears Elijah inhale sharply. Stiles pulls his quilt over his head as he blushes. "I'll text you my address." He almost hangs up before he adds, "And bring pizza with you. It's only polite to bring over a gift for a housewarming, and I assume you're not swimming in personalized spoons or freshly baked babka."

"I seem to be all out of spoons, yes," Elijah answers drily. "But I'll see what I can do regarding the rest of your request. I am, after all, a gentleman." Stiles can hear the mechanical sound of an engine starting. "Until I see you next, Stiles."

"You bet your fine ass."

And Stiles hangs up, face flaming and his body firmly trapped in his self-imposed quilted cocoon.

For all that he's embarrassed by what he said, he doesn't regret his sendoff.

Goodbyes are for schmucks.

It's all about the hellos.

(Especially when handsome vampires purr them in vaguely European accents.)

The second time Stiles met Elijah Mikaelson was just as unintentional and fraught with inconvenient danger as the first.

It was two months since the minor murder in Pennsylvania, and Stiles had been coasting along the edges of South Carolina, following a lead on a string of eleventh-century cursed-wolf cults.

It turns out that those cursed-wolf cults weren't just historically accurate, but presently accurate as well.

And they were pseudo-cannibals.

(The "pseudo" qualifier is only present because of the debate in certain in-the-know academic circles about whether a being cursed into something other than human should still be considered human, or wholly other.)

(Stiles doesn't know where his opinion stands in this particular debate, having been too busy trying to not get eaten by those cursed humans, wolves, psychos.)

He'd just beaten one scraggly wolf into a tree with his trusty wolfsbane-lacquered, mountain ash baseball bat when the wolf he could feel breathing behind him suddenly, well, stopped. The three other wolves running to catch up soon followed, their ragged breaths silenced by something large that Stiles could sense moving rapidly through the air.

Stiles couldn't swallow the strangled yelp that climbed out of his throat when Elijah flashed in front of him, not a speck of dirt marring his pristine black ensemble. He did lower his bat out of courtesy, though.

(And mild infatuation. That was a motivator, too.)

They'd stared at each other curiously for a long minute before Stiles had offered the man a smile. "Can I reward your dashing rescue with breakfast?"

Elijah had merely smirked and glanced at the Patek Phillippe on his wrist (noticing that particular detail had given Stiles a mild aneurysm and the inexplicable urge to call Lydia). "It's not too late for a spot of breakfast." He shook out his arm. "I know a nice place two towns over. Let's go."

(Stiles had never tasted eggs benedict so good.)

(He still wonders why Elijah had been there that morning. Based on the hard look that had been in Elijah's eyes that day, he's not sure he'll ever ask.)

If Stiles wasn't the loving son of a Sheriff, he'd be impressed by the time that Elijah had made getting to his cabin. But, Stiles is the loving son of a Sheriff, and as it stands, making the trip in just under two hours from where Elijah had said he'd been in Charlottesville was enough to make Stiles's stunted respect for the law dust itself off.

He watches in the dim light of the moon as Elijah pulls up his gravel driveway. Though he was tickled to find a pizza box in Elijah's hand, Stiles couldn't help but greet the man with, "Please tell me you didn't hit any poor pedestrians on your ultrasonic drive here."

Elijah's dark eyes gleam. "Only the shifty-looking ones." And then he handed not only the pizza to Stiles but also a small, paper-wrapped package that smelled strongly of chocolate and cinnamon. "Hello, Stiles."

Stiles's mouth started watering. "Hi, Elijah."

The third time Stiles had met Elijah Mikaelson, it was so mundane it was comical.

Stiles was visiting Scott while he was starting up his veterinary program at the University of Kentucky, both of them excited to hang out in more than the chat of the MMORPGs they played. They'd been tossing a lacrosse ball back and forth when Stiles had finally mentioned the odd meetings between him and Elijah.

Scott had taken it in stride. "A vampire, huh?"

Stiles twirled his crosse. "Yep. An old one, too."

That had Scott's nose scrunching. "How old?"

Stiles had shrugged. "Very. I haven't asked him specifics, because I want to hear his story when he wants to tell it, but I can feel him. He's like a grave, man."

Scott's nose un-scrunched and his puppy-dog eyes had gone uncharacteristically sly. "You felt him, or you felt him?"

Stiles made sure the next toss went straight into his gut, the wind whistling around his throw and eliciting a satisfying groan when Scott couldn't get out of the way.

"But seriously, bro," Scott wheezed out. "I think this might be fate or something. Meeting the same guy twice, and while the whole killing thing is no bueno, he's technically saved your life."

Stiles rolled his neck as he settled into the grass next to his fallen friend. "Twice is still just coincidence. Fleming made that pretty clear."

"Well, who the hell cares about that guy?" Scott had closed his eyes in a huff and rested his head on Stiles's leg. "Just wait for the third time, then. Dumbass."

Stiles snorted. "Yeah, right. I'll do that, Scotty."

(Stiles had run into Elijah for the third time twelve hours later in the Lexington Public Library. They'd gotten lunch and talked about Stiles's research into the history of the occult.)

(Scott still hasn't changed Stiles's contact name in his phone from Dumbass.)

"I can't believe you got me babka." Stiles moans around a bite of said bread,

Elijah's indulgent smile is a thing of sheer masculine beauty.

(Stiles recognizes that in a completely platonic way, of course.)

(That's a lie. His poor, bisexual heart can't take much more close contact before bursting Alien-style out of his chest.)

"I was fresh out of personalized spoons, and the Live, Laugh, Love kitchen décor was just…" Elijah shudders. "Too hideous to contemplate, even in jest."

Stiles laughs so hard he cries, leaning breathlessly into Elijah's shoulder from where he's seated beside him. He can feel the slight shake of Elijah's shoulders as he laughs freely with him.

When he finally comes up for air, Stiles leans back from invading Elijah's space and looks at the man contemplatively.

Behind the man's impeccable exterior is a guardedness Stiles hasn't yet seen.

"Are you alright, Elijah?"

The vampire sets down his fork and closes his eyes. "I have found myself in need of someone to talk to." His sharp gaze blinks back into existence. "Someone I knew very long ago has reached out to me recently. It has brought back memories of times best left alone."

Stiles sets down his own fork and cocks his head. "And you thought of me?"

That indulgent smile once again teases Elijah's lips. "And I thought of you."

Stiles gave the man his full attention. "I'll listen if you want me to."

The calculation in Elijah's eyes goes on for a few seconds before the rigid line of his shoulders drops. "You should know, the consequences of knowing what I am—of knowing who I am…well, let's just say that it's never been particularly pretty."

With the dozens of creatures he's outlived in his short life racing through his mind, Stiles slowly places his hand over Elijah's clenched fist in calm reassurance. "I think I like my odds."

He forces out another bit of raw honesty. "I want to know you, Elijah."

Warm, calloused fingers lace themselves with his own. "Well, alright then."

A/N:

Fictober, Entry 1. Prompt: "It's not too late, let's go."