A/N:

My first crossover fic. Don't even ask where it came from, because if I were to guess I'd say some repressed file cabinet in my mind labeled "Trash Shows I Binged, 2011 Edition."

I hope you like it.

If you don't, well, I guess that's on you.

Stiles has always measured his life in firsts.

First stolen chocolate chip cookie? He was three, and a surprisingly good climber.

First video game? Lego Star Wars. Stiles still has his copy resting on his shelves.

First punch thrown? It happened to be right after the first time he'd tackled someone—Jackson Whittemore, to be specific. The spindly douche's helmet of hair gel must have seeped into his skull and rotted out the bright-idea center of his brain, thinking that his money gave him a free license to steal Scott's inhaler and push them into lockers. Stiles had taken great pleasure in showing him how very wrong he was about what Stiles would and wouldn't tolerate.

(After that fateful day, Jackson had stuck to verbal bullying and the occasional hard hit during lacrosse—but Stiles noticed that Jackson still always looks away first when he meets Stiles's eyes.)

So—firsts.

It's a yardstick, not necessarily a good one, but it's managed to carefully balance itself between what Stiles has grown to need (with his shit attention span the way it is, he's learned that he requires schedules and, okay, stimulants to help him focus, to help him remember) and what he is, deep down inside—a creature whose heart was a magpie, equal parts fascinated and possessive over the small, sparkling, interesting bits of life.

Stiles needs the yardstick. He needs every bit of help to keep his mind in order.

But why measure in firsts?

Because each always shines so bright and new.

And because Stiles can't possibly know what his lasts are going to be, now can he? He's not a fucking psychic.

No—Stiles isn't some two-bit carnival hack, he's a witch.

(Well, sort of, kinda, not really, not anymore).

The first memory Stiles can recall is one of his favorites.

When he closes his eyes, Stiles can see the curve of his father's soft grin, can smell the rain on his jacket, and feel the slight tremble in his hands as he cradles Stiles's small body to his chest.

Stiles lets himself relive this memory every time he stays up waiting for his father to come home from a late shift.

(The caveat to this exercise is that Stiles never allows himself to think too deeply about why all of the shiny memories after that first one are always about his father and not his mother.)

When Stiles had met Scott McCall, he knew that they'd be friends for life. What else could possibly explain the instantaneous connection Stiles felt when he handed Scott the juice box that he'd dropped?

The boy was all knobby knees and skinned elbows, a kind but shy smile on his face showing off two missing teeth.

When Stiles's hand had brushed Scott's, it felt like the middle of July. Scott McCall was a tiny being whose every square inch was sunshine. Stiles had gotten a little light-headed at the contact, but he'd grinned back, his smile crooked but just as eager.

From that day on, they were inseparable.

(And not even the little detail of Scott turning into a werewolf ever really changes that.)

The moment Stiles discovered he had been born a witch—a rather powerful one, at that, with potent magia running restlessly under his skin—was right after the moment he no longer was one.

(This is a first that Stiles never actively remembers, but also one he will never let himself forget.)

The first time Stiles met Derek Hale, he handed him a Clark bar from the dusty vending machine from down the hall.

Even at the age of ten, Stiles could only imagine that it was probably the most bitter piece of chocolate anyone had ever choked down.

When Stiles had turned away to go back to sitting in his dad's office, Derek had grabbed his wrist.

"Thanks."

It was the only word he'd whispered, and Stiles can still recall the tear tracks on his face and the smell of smoke wafting from his hair.

(Stiles will never tell a soul, but he's always liked that wet and horrible Thanks more than the deadened This is private property he and Scott had gotten all of those years later.)

Stiles's meeting with Peter Hale shines amongst the rest of the muck in his head only because of two passing thoughts that cement themselves later as irrefutable truths.

The most immediate is that Stiles wants to set the man, monster, murderer, fucking asshole who bit Scott on fire. Something is howling in his ears to make what is already spiritually dead become physically congruent.

The thought that hides itself behind Stiles's erratic heartbeat is that Stiles won't ever take the bite. The matter of wanting it was never even a pleasant daydream.

(Two creatures can't simultaneously exist under the same human mask, after all.)

(At least, not any that haven't been cursed to do so.)

When Stiles finally faces down a bonafide, raging monster—Peter's giant alpha form twisted and grotesque, a complete nightmare of patched, inky fur and raging red eyes glinting like hellfire—he throws a Molotov cocktail at it.

It doesn't even matter that the werewolf catches it.

The air whistling around Allison's arrow guides it back from its faulty path into Peter's shoulder and directs it straight into the bottle.

(Stiles catalogs every notable monster to come, both creature and human alike.)

The first time Stiles meets the man in the suit, it's half past two in the morning and he's got a piece of maple-laden pecan waffle stuffed in his mouth.

Stiles had easily clocked the handsome man from his spot at the counter as soon as he'd opened the door and strolled into the ramshackle Waffle House. The steady gait of his polished oxfords against the cracked and sticky tile makes the corners of Stiles's mouth twitch.

It also makes the emptiness of the diner ring something wrong in the back of Stiles's mind. No matter where or when Stiles has frequented a Waffle House, there's never been less than five people fighting and seven people cooking (and neither of those classifications being mutually exclusive). The emptiness of the restaurant besides himself, the suit, and the two workers behind the counter makes the hair rise on the back of his neck.

Stiles looks suspiciously over his waffles at the waitress in front of him, who hasn't taken her eyes off the suit since he arrived.

Shit.

The handsome stranger slides into a seat two down from Stiles and gives his sweater, tight jeans, and scuffed sneakers a cursory glance. From this close, Stiles can make out that his eyes aren't black, but the very deepest of browns, that there's a dimple in his chin, and that for his age, there's only a bare hint of both laugh and frown lines at the edges of his mouth and eyes. He stands around Stiles's own height, perhaps an inch or two shorter, but Stiles can make out the tightness of the suit jacket against those broad shoulders and notes that the man is much more muscular than his lean frame.

What also becomes more apparent upon closer inspection is that the man has air swirling in and out of his lungs, but Stiles can tell that they're not the necessary kind, the life-sustaining kind. The breaths are too exact, a reflex likely turned into an unconscious habit.

He's got zero noticeable compunctions to fidget or twitch.

His hair is wrong, parted long, and floppy in his eyes—outdated and reminiscent of 90s boybands.

He also smells of blood, both new and indescribably old.

Double shit.

Stiles can't help but hate his life, Pennsylvania, and the entirety of the Waffle House franchise—and the grip it has on his collegiate stomach and wallet—all at this moment.

Stiles sighs and takes a sip of his coffee just as a softly lilting voice breaks the quiet of the diner.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Stiles splutters his drink and looks to his left.

The suit has obviously noticed his dribbling by the amused quirk of his lips, but Stiles realizes he isn't talking to him.

He's staring back mildly at the woman behind the counter, who seems to have taken out a bag of herbs and a shiny purple stone.

Stiles sets his cup down as the man behind the counter shifts farther to the left.

The woman looks extremely nervous, by the shaking of her hands and the wetting of her lips. "It's just a precaution, Mr. Mikaelson."

The man hums and leans back in his seat, folding his hands in his lap.

(Stiles can't help but see a lounging tiger in the man's place.)

"You are the ones who called me here, Ms. Smoker." He turns to look at Stiles curiously. "Well, most of you."

The waitress barely bats an eyelash. "Oh, him? He's a gift for you if you're hungry."

That makes Stiles's eyes narrow, and something hot beats in the pit of his stomach. "Bitch."

Mr. Mikaelson raises an eyebrow. "As intriguing as that offer is," he takes a discreet sniff Stiles's way, "I'm not so sure the young man is yours to give away."

"He isn't," Stiles adds, venom making the words cold and bland. He glances at the two wannabe witches. "But he does know a hex-bag when he sees one." That makes the woman go rigid and finally look him in the eyes. "And it's a shitty plan to curse a vampire with one, especially this one." Stiles gives him another once-over and notes the amused glint in Mikaelson's eyes. "He feels a little too old to fall for the cursed hacky-sack trick."

"It's just a precaution, I swear," she grits out. "My brother and I just want to make a deal. We heard that you were the vampire to go to for those."

The silent brother nods in seeming agreement, but Stiles can't help but notice the white-knuckled grip he has on the counter.

Mr. Mikaelson uncrosses his legs and leans forward. "And just what do you and your…" he grimaces at the brother's vacant expression, "charming sibling want?"

"We've heard of your family," she gulps as the suit's eyes notably darken. "And we know your brother liked to collect witches and their spell books." She can't look Mr. Mikaelson in the eye as she finishes. "We wanted to buy back our family grimoire from you, now that he's gone."

Not just a bitch, but a dumb one.

Stiles can't help but briefly reflect on the reliability of Darwin's theory of natural selection.

"Mr. Mikaelson, we're prepared to—"

Stiles flinches at the splatter of red that suddenly stains his waffles. He can't look away from the vampire standing behind the counter as the bodies of the two witches drop lifelessly to the floor, their hearts following them shortly after.

The vampire doesn't look away from him, either.

Stiles can't help but break their shared silence.

"That's really rude, you know." He grimaces as he touches his face and it comes away sticky and wet. "Not to mention incredibly unsanitary."

The vampire blinks once, twice. And then he smiles, entirely bemused. "I do apologize." He tucks a hand into his jacket and pulls out an embroidered handkerchief. "My quarrel was not with you." He walks up to the counter until he's leaning into Stiles's space. "Or your breakfast."

"Obviously," Stiles mutters, a glance at the dead people splayed out on the ground.

Stiles doesn't breathe as the man reaches out and gently wipes at the gore on his face. The vampire laughs lowly. "For all that I am the most patient of my family, I am by no means a patient man." He gives one last swipe to Stiles's jaw, and Stiles can't help the small shiver that curls down his spine.

Stiles feels like he's been electrified.

Stiles blames that feeling for what he decides to do next.

"Well, what kind of man are you, then?"

The man gives Stiles a more thorough search with his dark eyes. "Intrigued." He seems to decide something without looking away from Stiles. The vampire nods slightly and shrugs off his suit jacket, hanging it over a clean area of the counter before rolling up his sleeves. "It seems that I have inadvertently ruined your meal. What would you like in recompense?"

Stiles's heart doesn't race.

It doesn't.

"I've always been fond of surprises," he replies, eyes rapt.

The vampire smiles crookedly. "How serendipitous. So have I." He reaches out a calloused hand for Stiles to shake. "One surprise, coming up, Mr.—"

It's his complete lack of survival skills and his magpie heart that have him answering honestly. "Stilinski. Stiles Stilinski."

He takes the vampire's hand and blushes when the man turns it over and lifts it to his mouth. "Stiles." He rolls the name over in his mouth, the end a soft hiss. "Lovely to meet you, Stiles, despite the…" he looks down at the dead woman, "…bloody waffles."

He presses a chaste kiss to the back of Stiles's hand, and peers over at Stiles intently. "I'm Elijah."

Looking back, that's the moment.

That first time that Stiles meets Elijah Mikaelson—he doesn't realize it at the moment, what with all of the mayhem and being drenched in some asshole's blood—Stiles falls in love.

He's really quite dumb that way.

A/N:

Fictober, Entry 9. Prompt: "I wouldn't do that if I were you."