[ stiles slows to a stop at the mouth of the hallway, not quite in the living room, but not quite not in it either, but derek is just looking at him and stiles feels. kind of weird about it, like he's being scrutinized for his stupid, stupid choice in clothes. or maybe his hair is a fucking disaster, and he should have taken a few extra seconds to slap some pomade in it. maybe he shouldn't have gotten so comfortable in his soft clothes, like this is some kind of fucking sleep over and not - whatever this is. stiles has no idea what this is, except for subtle but embarrassing desperation on his part.
( derek was waiting for him by the elevator, though. he has to remind himself of that. )
changing his clothes now would just be suspicious and weird though, so - stiles owns his decision to be comfortable as best as he can own it. he stares at derek, slowly inching his eyebrows up his forehead while he waits for derek to say something - about food, hopefully, and not his clothes, because that'll shatter this whole illusion of stiles owning his stupid sweatpants and his stupid hoodie, probably. he's not typically insecure about his style, if you want to call his tendency to gravitate toward plaid overshirts style (stiles doesn't), but having two people he highly respects criticize him over it is enough to rattle his previously-solid foundation.
stiles takes his finger out of his ear and makes a small gesture with the same hand, like, well? because he's not really sure if derek heard him or if derek's just ignoring him or what, and he doesn't really want to repeat himself and look like a dumbass if it's the latter. he flexes his toes over the carpet to keep himself from rocking back on his heels in all of his awkwardness, watches as derek looks away and scratches between his eyebrows—
pizza. hell yeah, okay. great. pizza in the microwave, stiles can get behind that. he smiles a little without really thinking about it and shoots derek a pair of half-assed finger guns before setting off for the small kitchen.
briefly, he considers nuking the pizza for half a minute just to make sure it's nice and warm, but stiles would eat cold pizza without hesitation, and he's hungry, and derek said it should still be warm, so that's good enough. he grabs the box, sets it on the counter so he can tug open the fridge to grab a couple drinks, and really, really contemplates whether he wants a soda, which would be easier, or a glass of milk, which he hasn't actually had in like. months. because he sure as shit doesn't trust milk in the down to not be spoiled, or if not spoiled, at the cusp of going bad.
in the end, he doesn't want to search through derek's cabinets for a cup, and derek apparently already washed and put away the one he was drinking from earlier, so he settles for soda. he grabs two cans, sliding one into a hoodie pocket, nudges the refrigerator closed with his knee, and then grabs the pizza with his other hand, rolling his eyes as derek whines from the living room. he snags a napkin or two on the way out, too. ]
Yeah, yeah. I can't wait for you to make me cry, either. From laughing at how confident you were that you could play me in a game of chess and actually win.
[ stiles reaches out with a soda in his hand, ready to press the cold can to derek's throat for a second before he thinks better of it. instead, he just stands there for a beat, quietly considering the way derek is sitting, the way his head is tilted back, throat bared, eyes closed. it makes his lungs feel weird for a moment, makes his stomach dip a little, because he knows werewolves. he knows what it looks like to submit, and maybe that's not what derek is doing, because stiles is not a werewolf at all and not someone anyone would ever submit to the way wolves might, but - derek's relaxed enough to be vulnerable, and that makes stiles feel... something.
he doesn't touch the can to derek's throat, but he thumps it twice against his shoulder instead and then lets it go, counting on derek to exercise his reflexes before it can fall into his lap. stiles circles around to the other side of the coffee table, setting the pizza box down near the edge as he sits himself down on the floor. his muscles are still fairly tight and sore, so it's a little bit of an awkward struggle complete with a thin noise of discomfort and a half-grimace, but. he has pizza, and he's spending time with derek like he wanted, so it's all good. he's not going to complain.
stiles flips the pizza box open, then flicks at derek's ankle a couple times in an attempt to get him to move it, setting his own can of soda down on the table by his foot regardless of whether derek moves or not. he pops the tab, nodding his chin at the board as he reaches to separate a slice of pizza for himself, fingers pulling at the edges of the crust. ]
no subject
( derek was waiting for him by the elevator, though. he has to remind himself of that. )
changing his clothes now would just be suspicious and weird though, so - stiles owns his decision to be comfortable as best as he can own it. he stares at derek, slowly inching his eyebrows up his forehead while he waits for derek to say something - about food, hopefully, and not his clothes, because that'll shatter this whole illusion of stiles owning his stupid sweatpants and his stupid hoodie, probably. he's not typically insecure about his style, if you want to call his tendency to gravitate toward plaid overshirts style (stiles doesn't), but having two people he highly respects criticize him over it is enough to rattle his previously-solid foundation.
stiles takes his finger out of his ear and makes a small gesture with the same hand, like, well? because he's not really sure if derek heard him or if derek's just ignoring him or what, and he doesn't really want to repeat himself and look like a dumbass if it's the latter. he flexes his toes over the carpet to keep himself from rocking back on his heels in all of his awkwardness, watches as derek looks away and scratches between his eyebrows—
pizza. hell yeah, okay. great. pizza in the microwave, stiles can get behind that. he smiles a little without really thinking about it and shoots derek a pair of half-assed finger guns before setting off for the small kitchen.
briefly, he considers nuking the pizza for half a minute just to make sure it's nice and warm, but stiles would eat cold pizza without hesitation, and he's hungry, and derek said it should still be warm, so that's good enough. he grabs the box, sets it on the counter so he can tug open the fridge to grab a couple drinks, and really, really contemplates whether he wants a soda, which would be easier, or a glass of milk, which he hasn't actually had in like. months. because he sure as shit doesn't trust milk in the down to not be spoiled, or if not spoiled, at the cusp of going bad.
in the end, he doesn't want to search through derek's cabinets for a cup, and derek apparently already washed and put away the one he was drinking from earlier, so he settles for soda. he grabs two cans, sliding one into a hoodie pocket, nudges the refrigerator closed with his knee, and then grabs the pizza with his other hand, rolling his eyes as derek whines from the living room. he snags a napkin or two on the way out, too. ]
Yeah, yeah. I can't wait for you to make me cry, either. From laughing at how confident you were that you could play me in a game of chess and actually win.
[ stiles reaches out with a soda in his hand, ready to press the cold can to derek's throat for a second before he thinks better of it. instead, he just stands there for a beat, quietly considering the way derek is sitting, the way his head is tilted back, throat bared, eyes closed. it makes his lungs feel weird for a moment, makes his stomach dip a little, because he knows werewolves. he knows what it looks like to submit, and maybe that's not what derek is doing, because stiles is not a werewolf at all and not someone anyone would ever submit to the way wolves might, but - derek's relaxed enough to be vulnerable, and that makes stiles feel... something.
he doesn't touch the can to derek's throat, but he thumps it twice against his shoulder instead and then lets it go, counting on derek to exercise his reflexes before it can fall into his lap. stiles circles around to the other side of the coffee table, setting the pizza box down near the edge as he sits himself down on the floor. his muscles are still fairly tight and sore, so it's a little bit of an awkward struggle complete with a thin noise of discomfort and a half-grimace, but. he has pizza, and he's spending time with derek like he wanted, so it's all good. he's not going to complain.
stiles flips the pizza box open, then flicks at derek's ankle a couple times in an attempt to get him to move it, setting his own can of soda down on the table by his foot regardless of whether derek moves or not. he pops the tab, nodding his chin at the board as he reaches to separate a slice of pizza for himself, fingers pulling at the edges of the crust. ]
Go ahead. You can have the first move.