You're delusional. Rosalind's lab is ventilated, right? You didn't... inhale anything toxic? I'm worried about you.
[ you know, because stiles' head is so fucked up that he thinks he stands a chance!! checkmate!!!!!!
whatever. whatever? whatever. fuck. derek's feet are hurting. his legs are tense and his muscles are taut, and he just keeps walking in front of his front door, over and over again, trying to hear the distant ping of an elevator eighty floors below him. waiting shouldn't be such a big deal; stiles ended things with rosalind sooner than derek expected him to, and he's coming over early to shower. the elevator could get stuck, maintenance could come and fix it, and stiles could get caught up in a fucking flash mob and he'd still make it to derek's apartment sooner than they'd originally planned. being impatient is just... the same as being greedy.
but he is impatient. he's very, very impatient, and he's very, very lonely, and it's not like he and stiles haven't seen each other since the fort, but he hasn't told stiles he missed him, and stiles hasn't promised to share a bed with him again, and there's so much here that derek wants that it's this scary, intimidating, amorphous blob of good feelings that he just wants to dive into already. this is taking too long, and... and he can swear that he's caught stiles' scent, somehow, through all the thick layers of concrete and wood and metal standing between them, and that's only making him feel worse.
he wants stiles. he wants to see stiles, he wants stiles so fucking bad.
impulsively, derek opens the door to his apartment and walks out, shutting it behind him. he takes a hard left down the hall, ducking out of sight from the top of the stairs, turning down a corner and making it to the end. the elevators are a ways away, but derek walks until he gets there, staring blankly up at the little LED display indicating that the elevator is still a good sixty floors below him. cool.
cool. cool. cool. great. fine. this is fine. derek's still pacing, but he's pacing a little faster now, arms crossed over his chest. sixty floors. fifty nine. fifty eight. fifty seven. derek glowers at the light above the elevator doors like it's just another stupid fucking act of aggression from duplicity against him. another shred of evidence that this apartment is fucking stupid, and that he hates it, and that he hates the city, and that he hates being here, and that he wants to be somewhere else. somewhere safe. with stiles.
stiles sends him another message and derek doesn't reply, but he stops walking just long enough to read it. he stares at the text, hears the words in stiles' voice. the uptick when he says something that's supposed to be a joke, the cocky little smile he'd have if he were saing this to derek's face. the way he'd laugh, that kind of soundless, sarcastic laugh he does, where he just exhales air through his nose and lets his shoulders shake. derek misses that fucking laugh. it hasn't been long since he's seen stiles laugh, but derek still misses it so bad.
he lifts his thumb to his lips and anxiously bites the nail, which isn't a good habit, and he knows that, so he crosses his arm again and tucks his hand beneath his bicep, sandwiching it against his side. he chews his lip, stops himself from peeling away any dry skin, because that's not a good habit, either. he can work with anger, he can shoulder his grief, but he sure as shit doesn't know how to deal with this impatient, scratchy anxiety that makes everything in him feel so tightly wound.
and then he hears a noise from behind him, just out of sight. the gangly footsteps of an uncoordinated idiot, crashing through derek's anxiety like he crashes through everything else. derek frowns, eyebrows meeting in the middle, and after a quick glance up at the elevator - still thirty floors down, maybe a little less - he turns, and he heads back.
and then there's stiles, sweaty and exhausted and trying to catch his breath, struggling to reclaim whatever dignity he has left in him before derek opens the door he's not actually behind and catches him. there's a window here where stiles doesn't realize he's there, and derek knows he should - take advantage of that, or something. come up with something biting and clever and funny, maybe. but he doesn't want to? he just...
this makes him feel happy. this makes him feel warm.
so derek walks over, keeping his footsteps light, and he's smiling, all self-satisfied and content and kind of endeared. stiles ran up to see him, and derek can't exactly pretend like he wasn't waiting outside the elevators to meet him - he wouldn't hide it, either, if stiles asked why he's not inside. they both wanted to see each other as soon as possible, and derek latches onto that, even though it would be so easy to assume the worst. so easy to assume that stiles is being chased by a fucking murderer and just needs to get inside as soon as possible, so easy to assume he's fucking-- shit his pants, or something, and just ran up here to change. derek doesn't let himself scroll through the rolodex of pessimistic and kind of mean bullshit, he just - assumes that stiles wanted to see him as much as derek wanted to see him back.
derek leans against the wall beside his door, arms still loose across his chest, but just seeing stiles is enough to relax him. he feels so much less tense, so much happier. derek might not know stiles as well as he should, being two years behind, but he knows that it's been a long, long time since he's just been this fucking happy to see someone.
and he's not an idiot. he knows what that feeling is. ]
It's unlocked.
[ he nods his head towards the apartment, like stiles is too dumb to know what he's talking about. "you look like a mess", fuck, that's what he should have said. ]
no subject
Rosalind's lab is ventilated, right? You didn't... inhale anything toxic?
I'm worried about you.
[ you know, because stiles' head is so fucked up that he thinks he stands a chance!! checkmate!!!!!!
whatever. whatever? whatever. fuck. derek's feet are hurting. his legs are tense and his muscles are taut, and he just keeps walking in front of his front door, over and over again, trying to hear the distant ping of an elevator eighty floors below him. waiting shouldn't be such a big deal; stiles ended things with rosalind sooner than derek expected him to, and he's coming over early to shower. the elevator could get stuck, maintenance could come and fix it, and stiles could get caught up in a fucking flash mob and he'd still make it to derek's apartment sooner than they'd originally planned. being impatient is just... the same as being greedy.
but he is impatient. he's very, very impatient, and he's very, very lonely, and it's not like he and stiles haven't seen each other since the fort, but he hasn't told stiles he missed him, and stiles hasn't promised to share a bed with him again, and there's so much here that derek wants that it's this scary, intimidating, amorphous blob of good feelings that he just wants to dive into already. this is taking too long, and... and he can swear that he's caught stiles' scent, somehow, through all the thick layers of concrete and wood and metal standing between them, and that's only making him feel worse.
he wants stiles. he wants to see stiles, he wants stiles so fucking bad.
impulsively, derek opens the door to his apartment and walks out, shutting it behind him. he takes a hard left down the hall, ducking out of sight from the top of the stairs, turning down a corner and making it to the end. the elevators are a ways away, but derek walks until he gets there, staring blankly up at the little LED display indicating that the elevator is still a good sixty floors below him. cool.
cool. cool. cool. great. fine. this is fine. derek's still pacing, but he's pacing a little faster now, arms crossed over his chest. sixty floors. fifty nine. fifty eight. fifty seven. derek glowers at the light above the elevator doors like it's just another stupid fucking act of aggression from duplicity against him. another shred of evidence that this apartment is fucking stupid, and that he hates it, and that he hates the city, and that he hates being here, and that he wants to be somewhere else. somewhere safe. with stiles.
stiles sends him another message and derek doesn't reply, but he stops walking just long enough to read it. he stares at the text, hears the words in stiles' voice. the uptick when he says something that's supposed to be a joke, the cocky little smile he'd have if he were saing this to derek's face. the way he'd laugh, that kind of soundless, sarcastic laugh he does, where he just exhales air through his nose and lets his shoulders shake. derek misses that fucking laugh. it hasn't been long since he's seen stiles laugh, but derek still misses it so bad.
he lifts his thumb to his lips and anxiously bites the nail, which isn't a good habit, and he knows that, so he crosses his arm again and tucks his hand beneath his bicep, sandwiching it against his side. he chews his lip, stops himself from peeling away any dry skin, because that's not a good habit, either. he can work with anger, he can shoulder his grief, but he sure as shit doesn't know how to deal with this impatient, scratchy anxiety that makes everything in him feel so tightly wound.
and then he hears a noise from behind him, just out of sight. the gangly footsteps of an uncoordinated idiot, crashing through derek's anxiety like he crashes through everything else. derek frowns, eyebrows meeting in the middle, and after a quick glance up at the elevator - still thirty floors down, maybe a little less - he turns, and he heads back.
and then there's stiles, sweaty and exhausted and trying to catch his breath, struggling to reclaim whatever dignity he has left in him before derek opens the door he's not actually behind and catches him. there's a window here where stiles doesn't realize he's there, and derek knows he should - take advantage of that, or something. come up with something biting and clever and funny, maybe. but he doesn't want to? he just...
this makes him feel happy. this makes him feel warm.
so derek walks over, keeping his footsteps light, and he's smiling, all self-satisfied and content and kind of endeared. stiles ran up to see him, and derek can't exactly pretend like he wasn't waiting outside the elevators to meet him - he wouldn't hide it, either, if stiles asked why he's not inside. they both wanted to see each other as soon as possible, and derek latches onto that, even though it would be so easy to assume the worst. so easy to assume that stiles is being chased by a fucking murderer and just needs to get inside as soon as possible, so easy to assume he's fucking-- shit his pants, or something, and just ran up here to change. derek doesn't let himself scroll through the rolodex of pessimistic and kind of mean bullshit, he just - assumes that stiles wanted to see him as much as derek wanted to see him back.
derek leans against the wall beside his door, arms still loose across his chest, but just seeing stiles is enough to relax him. he feels so much less tense, so much happier. derek might not know stiles as well as he should, being two years behind, but he knows that it's been a long, long time since he's just been this fucking happy to see someone.
and he's not an idiot. he knows what that feeling is. ]
It's unlocked.
[ he nods his head towards the apartment, like stiles is too dumb to know what he's talking about. "you look like a mess", fuck, that's what he should have said. ]
If you want to head in.