[ stiles groans, annoyed, and derek can't possibly express how happy that makes him. he loves annoying stiles, and he's comfortable enough with him by this point to just - smile, happy and bright, in response. his smile fades with time, but not by much. it shifts from a mischievous, sunny glow into something more lukewarm and restful, like he's just... quietly safe, quietly content. peaceful. stiles makes everything feel peaceful.
derek's done eating, if only because stiles is done, too, and he doesn't feel like eating alone. he closes the box and tucks it away under the table; he'd take it out to the kitchen, if he trusted stiles alone with the board, but that's sure as shit not going to happen. when stiles cringes and gives him shit for Cum City USA, derek's got a litany of sick burns to throw back in his face, fully prepared to defend the name and entirely ready to die on Cum City USA's largest and stickiest hill, but.
he opens his mouth, says the start of the word well, and then stiles makes a move. it's fast. distracting. he just - pushes a pawn forward when derek's not looking, and that's, well. that's alarming. what? what just happened. derek sits up straight and instantly puts on his game face, staring down at the board and trying to figure out what the fuck he just missed. what the fuck stiles is thinking.
truthfully, stiles is always good at reassuring him. derek doesn't respond to everything he's saying about julis squeezer, about the jeep, about the station. he just...
he's going to have to go on the defensive, if he wants to save his piece, but that's not how he plays chess. he's reckless. derek ignores stiles' pawn and uses his rook to capture another piece, completely missing the fact that it puts his rook in danger until he's already made his move and taken his hand away. he winces, and it's obvious he's made a mistake, but he tries to wear a poker face anyway.
poorly. because he just looks mad. he takes a breath, shakes it off, hopes that stiles doesn't see the stupid shit he just pulled. right, okay. home. ]
Okay. The station. Yeah.
[ derek sighs through his nose, then leans back on his palms. for a second, he looks at stiles like he's still only concerned about the game, smile gone like it was never there. they were both so young, during the fire. would his life have been any different, if he stayed in beacon hills? if, instead of running from the argents with his tail between his legs, he'd realized how badly this poor, grieving kid had needed someone who understood what it was like to lose family, and just - stayed, and helped, and listened? would stiles have been happier? would derek?
sometimes, everything just hurts. the clouds cover the sun and make everything cooler, and derek realizes, when his eyes adjust to the shade, just how hard he's been hit by life. he feels a disconnect from his own body, like he's outside of himself. that happens here. he never should have been at that station. stiles should have never lost his mother. everything is always so... hard.
but then he looks up, and stiles is resting on the table, and he's safe, and he's quiet, and he's happy. life can't be all bad. not if he has stiles. how the fuck did he go so long without realizing how fucking likeable stiles is? kind and beautiful and honest. derek just-- stares, like he's seeing him for the first time. he has stiles. he can't lose stiles. ]
I never want to lose you. I hope I never... I mean - I hope we always...
[ his eyebrows pinch, and he sits up on his knees. he looks at the board, and he's almost annoyed that it's there. annoyed with himself for caring so much about whether he fucked up one move or not, like any of this actually matters. why are they wasting time playing chess? why are they playing chess, when they could be-- they could be... ]
I forfeit. I don't want to play anymore.
[ he looks at stiles, and his temper rises in him like a bullet, because it's been half of half a second since he's spoken and stiles still hasn't replied, so maybe derek's not making himself clear. in one hard, sweeping motion, derek pushes the chessboard and it's pieces off the table and onto the floor, each loose wooden game piece hitting the carpet so quietly they're barely even heard, but rolling and scattering across the apartment.
which means he's lost. he loses the game, he loses, he's lost, and that means stiles wins, and that means stiles can make him do something, and that's fine, derek doesn't care. they should be doing things. they should be doing things, they should be-- derek should be doing so much for stiles. he needs to show him how devoted he is to making this contract work, how desperately he wants this friendship to last, how terrified he is that he might go home and forget about the city and go back to being shallow and angry and alone, staring at stiles with resentment and disappointment instead of fucking realizing that stiles is his hero, and stiles is his savior, and stiles is smart and beautiful and could maybe even be his, if he just stopped being stupid and realized that this thing he feels between them goes both ways.
derek grips the side of the table, leaning forward, barely managing to avoid knocking over his soda. he doesn't know how to speak up. how to tell stiles he wants him. he just - stares, intense and frustrated and desperate, like he's on a time limit. like he's suddenly realizing how easily one of them could just go. like scott. like allison. like the nogitsune. like so many others who came before them.
he pitches forward, and his voice is deep, steady and demanding. his eyes are sharp, wolfish, predatory. he only has eyes for stiles. ]
Tell me what you want from me. Whatever it is, you can have it.
no subject
derek's done eating, if only because stiles is done, too, and he doesn't feel like eating alone. he closes the box and tucks it away under the table; he'd take it out to the kitchen, if he trusted stiles alone with the board, but that's sure as shit not going to happen. when stiles cringes and gives him shit for Cum City USA, derek's got a litany of sick burns to throw back in his face, fully prepared to defend the name and entirely ready to die on Cum City USA's largest and stickiest hill, but.
he opens his mouth, says the start of the word well, and then stiles makes a move. it's fast. distracting. he just - pushes a pawn forward when derek's not looking, and that's, well. that's alarming. what? what just happened. derek sits up straight and instantly puts on his game face, staring down at the board and trying to figure out what the fuck he just missed. what the fuck stiles is thinking.
truthfully, stiles is always good at reassuring him. derek doesn't respond to everything he's saying about julis squeezer, about the jeep, about the station. he just...
he's going to have to go on the defensive, if he wants to save his piece, but that's not how he plays chess. he's reckless. derek ignores stiles' pawn and uses his rook to capture another piece, completely missing the fact that it puts his rook in danger until he's already made his move and taken his hand away. he winces, and it's obvious he's made a mistake, but he tries to wear a poker face anyway.
poorly. because he just looks mad. he takes a breath, shakes it off, hopes that stiles doesn't see the stupid shit he just pulled. right, okay. home. ]
Okay. The station. Yeah.
[ derek sighs through his nose, then leans back on his palms. for a second, he looks at stiles like he's still only concerned about the game, smile gone like it was never there. they were both so young, during the fire. would his life have been any different, if he stayed in beacon hills? if, instead of running from the argents with his tail between his legs, he'd realized how badly this poor, grieving kid had needed someone who understood what it was like to lose family, and just - stayed, and helped, and listened? would stiles have been happier? would derek?
sometimes, everything just hurts. the clouds cover the sun and make everything cooler, and derek realizes, when his eyes adjust to the shade, just how hard he's been hit by life. he feels a disconnect from his own body, like he's outside of himself. that happens here. he never should have been at that station. stiles should have never lost his mother. everything is always so... hard.
but then he looks up, and stiles is resting on the table, and he's safe, and he's quiet, and he's happy. life can't be all bad. not if he has stiles. how the fuck did he go so long without realizing how fucking likeable stiles is? kind and beautiful and honest. derek just-- stares, like he's seeing him for the first time. he has stiles. he can't lose stiles. ]
I never want to lose you. I hope I never... I mean - I hope we always...
[ his eyebrows pinch, and he sits up on his knees. he looks at the board, and he's almost annoyed that it's there. annoyed with himself for caring so much about whether he fucked up one move or not, like any of this actually matters. why are they wasting time playing chess? why are they playing chess, when they could be-- they could be... ]
I forfeit. I don't want to play anymore.
[ he looks at stiles, and his temper rises in him like a bullet, because it's been half of half a second since he's spoken and stiles still hasn't replied, so maybe derek's not making himself clear. in one hard, sweeping motion, derek pushes the chessboard and it's pieces off the table and onto the floor, each loose wooden game piece hitting the carpet so quietly they're barely even heard, but rolling and scattering across the apartment.
which means he's lost. he loses the game, he loses, he's lost, and that means stiles wins, and that means stiles can make him do something, and that's fine, derek doesn't care. they should be doing things. they should be doing things, they should be-- derek should be doing so much for stiles. he needs to show him how devoted he is to making this contract work, how desperately he wants this friendship to last, how terrified he is that he might go home and forget about the city and go back to being shallow and angry and alone, staring at stiles with resentment and disappointment instead of fucking realizing that stiles is his hero, and stiles is his savior, and stiles is smart and beautiful and could maybe even be his, if he just stopped being stupid and realized that this thing he feels between them goes both ways.
derek grips the side of the table, leaning forward, barely managing to avoid knocking over his soda. he doesn't know how to speak up. how to tell stiles he wants him. he just - stares, intense and frustrated and desperate, like he's on a time limit. like he's suddenly realizing how easily one of them could just go. like scott. like allison. like the nogitsune. like so many others who came before them.
he pitches forward, and his voice is deep, steady and demanding. his eyes are sharp, wolfish, predatory. he only has eyes for stiles. ]
Tell me what you want from me. Whatever it is, you can have it.