[ derek could take stiles' pain. it's not like stiles is really suffering, but derek could still take it, and for a moment, he considers doing so. he could reach out, set a hand against his shoulder, drain away the aches and the pains he's amassed from running up the stairs on those weak, human legs. those weak, spindly, gangly, horrible spidery legs. it would be easy, and he'd get to make stiles feel a little more comfortable, and that, too, would make derek happy.
but it could also go pretty badly, he thinks, because if there's one thing derek knows about stiles - one thing that he thinks he knows better than a lot of people do - it's that he's selfless. derek's arm isn't bandaged up anymore, but it's still very tender, and under the sleeve of his henley, there's a gnarly mark that hasn't fully recovered despite his accelerated healing. he doesn't want to ruin this by giving stiles a chance to... tell him to take it easy, or something. he doesn't want to ruin this quiet little bubble they have for themselves by reminding stiles of veracity, or the fort, or the execution, or - anything. any of it.
so he won't. stiles takes the glass, and he smiles, and derek's done smiling for the day, but their fingers brush against each other and derek nearly drops the glass when they do. he catches himself and plays it off, but for a second he can't tell if the heartbeat he can hear beating so loudly is stiles' or his own.
stiles gets comfortable. he drinks, he eats ice, and he stares at derek, and derek stares back, because if he didn't, he'd notice the wet, pink shine on stiles' lips, he'd notice the flushed color of his skin, he'd think about how easy it would be to steal his overshirt while stiles' is showering and hide it under his bed for when he's alone, and he can't think about any of that, just like he sure as shit can't act on that last impulse. he lets his nerves settle, and he waits, and he stares at stiles like he's bored, or like this conversation doesn't mean half as much to him as it does. he stares at stiles like he's intruding on his time alone in his new apartment, even though he's made it so fucking clear that he's been desperate for him.
the shower comment, though, that gets a reaction. he takes it seriously, at first. his eyebrows pinch and his jaw clenches, and his eyes flicker a bit like they want to close, just for a second. he's not really sensitive when it comes to jokes, least of all jokes made by stiles, but there'd been an energy in the air that he thought he'd read as-- something, and he guesses he was wrong? of course stiles wants to use his shower, jesus. he's been without decent plumbing for months. derek's an idiot, to think there could be anything more.
but then stiles keeps talking, and there's something in the way derek's shoulders slope that shows he's relieved to hear the confession, like whatever tension was tightening them up and keeping them raised has been swept away all at once. that's - good, he thinks. he wasn't wrong. stiles wanted to see him, too. fuck. fuck, he likes him so much, and he doesn't know what to do about it. this never ends well. this won't end well.
derek puts his hand on stiles' chest. stiles is too busy choking back ice from the glass for derek to make eye contact, but derek still waits, fingertips firm against his sternum, and when the glass is drained dry, derek slowly pushes stiles off the arm of the couch, tilting him forward into the seat cushions. ]
Dick.
[ bye. anyway, christ, okay. whether stiles scrambles to hold onto something so he won't fall or tilts back completely, derek fishes the glass out of his hand before it breaks and takes it back to the kitchen. he spends his time rinsing it, just because he's feeling a bit overwhelmed and needs a few seconds to himself to calm down, and when he shuts off the faucet, he dries his hands on the bottom of his shirt. he's still in the kitchen, when he calls out again. ]
Go shower.
[ he's not going to be a creep and ask for an invitation, but it's gonna be in his head until stiles is done. ]
no subject
but it could also go pretty badly, he thinks, because if there's one thing derek knows about stiles - one thing that he thinks he knows better than a lot of people do - it's that he's selfless. derek's arm isn't bandaged up anymore, but it's still very tender, and under the sleeve of his henley, there's a gnarly mark that hasn't fully recovered despite his accelerated healing. he doesn't want to ruin this by giving stiles a chance to... tell him to take it easy, or something. he doesn't want to ruin this quiet little bubble they have for themselves by reminding stiles of veracity, or the fort, or the execution, or - anything. any of it.
so he won't. stiles takes the glass, and he smiles, and derek's done smiling for the day, but their fingers brush against each other and derek nearly drops the glass when they do. he catches himself and plays it off, but for a second he can't tell if the heartbeat he can hear beating so loudly is stiles' or his own.
stiles gets comfortable. he drinks, he eats ice, and he stares at derek, and derek stares back, because if he didn't, he'd notice the wet, pink shine on stiles' lips, he'd notice the flushed color of his skin, he'd think about how easy it would be to steal his overshirt while stiles' is showering and hide it under his bed for when he's alone, and he can't think about any of that, just like he sure as shit can't act on that last impulse. he lets his nerves settle, and he waits, and he stares at stiles like he's bored, or like this conversation doesn't mean half as much to him as it does. he stares at stiles like he's intruding on his time alone in his new apartment, even though he's made it so fucking clear that he's been desperate for him.
the shower comment, though, that gets a reaction. he takes it seriously, at first. his eyebrows pinch and his jaw clenches, and his eyes flicker a bit like they want to close, just for a second. he's not really sensitive when it comes to jokes, least of all jokes made by stiles, but there'd been an energy in the air that he thought he'd read as-- something, and he guesses he was wrong? of course stiles wants to use his shower, jesus. he's been without decent plumbing for months. derek's an idiot, to think there could be anything more.
but then stiles keeps talking, and there's something in the way derek's shoulders slope that shows he's relieved to hear the confession, like whatever tension was tightening them up and keeping them raised has been swept away all at once. that's - good, he thinks. he wasn't wrong. stiles wanted to see him, too. fuck. fuck, he likes him so much, and he doesn't know what to do about it. this never ends well. this won't end well.
derek puts his hand on stiles' chest. stiles is too busy choking back ice from the glass for derek to make eye contact, but derek still waits, fingertips firm against his sternum, and when the glass is drained dry, derek slowly pushes stiles off the arm of the couch, tilting him forward into the seat cushions. ]
Dick.
[ bye. anyway, christ, okay. whether stiles scrambles to hold onto something so he won't fall or tilts back completely, derek fishes the glass out of his hand before it breaks and takes it back to the kitchen. he spends his time rinsing it, just because he's feeling a bit overwhelmed and needs a few seconds to himself to calm down, and when he shuts off the faucet, he dries his hands on the bottom of his shirt. he's still in the kitchen, when he calls out again. ]
Go shower.
[ he's not going to be a creep and ask for an invitation, but it's gonna be in his head until stiles is done. ]