[ stiles' fingers scrape across derek's back, pulling like he's trying to grip onto his shirt but derek isn't wearing one and stiles doesn't really care that he isn't. it doesn't even really register that deeply that derek is standing in his doorway in literally nothing but sweatpants - no shirt, no socks, no shoes -, but somewhere in the back of his mind stiles is almost grateful for it because feeling derek's bare skin under the press of his hands is calming. the warmth of his skin, the solid, hard muscle, the undeniable life as derek's heart beats quick and steady and insistently against his chest is grounding.
one of his hands creeps from the space between derek's shoulder blades, sliding up the back of his neck to cup the back of his head, and he nearly whimpers with relief when all he feels is soft, night-cooled hair and solid bone. no blood, no hot wax melting between his fingers. he lets his hand drift back down to the nape of derek's neck, fingers squeezing tight.
derek's voice sounds a little distant, but stiles just chalks it up to the blood still rushing in his ears, the loud buzz of anxiety pulsing through all of his nerves. he turns his face slightly, pushes his nose into the space where derek's neck swoops down toward his shoulder, and he breathes deep, still struggles a little to do it without his lungs quaking.
he doesn't want to let go when derek eases him back. he resists for half of a second, hands grappling at his shoulder, at his lower back, but he needs to not let his panic rule him. he needs to let go of that initial fear of derek not being okay, because he is. he's real and he's solid and he's here and he's okay and it was just a dream. it was just a dream. right? it was just a dream.
or is this the dream?
stiles swallows hard, suddenly feeling a little lightheaded with the realization that maybe things aren't what they seem. it's been a while since he's had to question reality - the doors, the nogitsune -, but this is something stiles has to be sure about. derek's holding him and derek's looking him in the eye and stiles looks right back, he stares right back with wet eyes, trying to find the one thing that's wrong, the thing that'll tip him off that he isn't awake.
he doesn't answer derek, not right away. instead, he takes another step back, reaching up at the same time to take derek by the wrists, drawing his hands down off of his shoulders. he turns both of his hands over so they're palm up, smoothing his thumbs over the lifelines, lips moving minutely as he counts all of his fingers.
ten. not eleven, not twelve, just ten. no extra fingers. he looks up at derek, his brows pinched together in the middle, arching slightly upward. he looks a little lost, and he still reeks of guilt, but the tightness in his chest is starting to ease up a little. derek's hands are warm. stiles wants to take them and press them over the back of his neck. ]
I, I'm... so sorry. I didn't mean— I wasn't— I didn't know. But I shouldn't have— over a box of crayons. Derek, I'm sorry, I wouldn't, ever. [ he breathes out, suddenly feels... really fucking embarrassed and ashamed because it was just— ] It was just, just - a bad dream.
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one of his hands creeps from the space between derek's shoulder blades, sliding up the back of his neck to cup the back of his head, and he nearly whimpers with relief when all he feels is soft, night-cooled hair and solid bone. no blood, no hot wax melting between his fingers. he lets his hand drift back down to the nape of derek's neck, fingers squeezing tight.
derek's voice sounds a little distant, but stiles just chalks it up to the blood still rushing in his ears, the loud buzz of anxiety pulsing through all of his nerves. he turns his face slightly, pushes his nose into the space where derek's neck swoops down toward his shoulder, and he breathes deep, still struggles a little to do it without his lungs quaking.
he doesn't want to let go when derek eases him back. he resists for half of a second, hands grappling at his shoulder, at his lower back, but he needs to not let his panic rule him. he needs to let go of that initial fear of derek not being okay, because he is. he's real and he's solid and he's here and he's okay and it was just a dream. it was just a dream. right? it was just a dream.
or is this the dream?
stiles swallows hard, suddenly feeling a little lightheaded with the realization that maybe things aren't what they seem. it's been a while since he's had to question reality - the doors, the nogitsune -, but this is something stiles has to be sure about. derek's holding him and derek's looking him in the eye and stiles looks right back, he stares right back with wet eyes, trying to find the one thing that's wrong, the thing that'll tip him off that he isn't awake.
he doesn't answer derek, not right away. instead, he takes another step back, reaching up at the same time to take derek by the wrists, drawing his hands down off of his shoulders. he turns both of his hands over so they're palm up, smoothing his thumbs over the lifelines, lips moving minutely as he counts all of his fingers.
ten. not eleven, not twelve, just ten. no extra fingers. he looks up at derek, his brows pinched together in the middle, arching slightly upward. he looks a little lost, and he still reeks of guilt, but the tightness in his chest is starting to ease up a little. derek's hands are warm. stiles wants to take them and press them over the back of his neck. ]
I, I'm... so sorry. I didn't mean— I wasn't— I didn't know. But I shouldn't have— over a box of crayons. Derek, I'm sorry, I wouldn't, ever. [ he breathes out, suddenly feels... really fucking embarrassed and ashamed because it was just— ] It was just, just - a bad dream.