[ it's not really an unspoken rule that stiles is to leave derek alone while he's working out, but more of an unspoken - habit. stiles has absolutely nothing to contribute to derek's routine outside of like - inane, unnecessary commentary, and maybe like. a towel, occasionally, to mop up some sweat, but other than that, stiles is better at brains over brawn.
derek's been going at it for a while, though. longer than usual, and occasionally stiles can hear the clang of a weight being put down a little too hard or derek's labored breathing when he paces too close to the open door, but stiles doesn't really think too much of it. he's deep in his notes - the paper copy of everything that derek prefers to keep locked up when stiles isn't actively adding to it - rifling through pages, drawing lines through something here and there, highlighting something else or scribbling an additional note in the margins. stiles' laptop is open too, sitting on the opposite end of the coffee table in the living room so he can look back and forth between the digital file and the physical one spread out in front of him, the pages laid out in a very particular order.
he gets ink on his hand when tries to cap his pen and misses, and immediately licks his thumb to wet it so he can wipe at the line of ink over his knuckle, but he only gets so far as licking his thumb before he realizes that his mouth is super dry and he's actually really thirsty and he hasn't had anything to drink since this morning when he knocked back a glass of water with his medication. stiles nudges his laptop a little and gets up from the couch, his foot a little numb from sitting on it this whole time. he limps to the kitchen, yanks open the fridge - and if he makes a pleased little sound at the realization that there's a new carton of milk in the fridge, then no one has to know.
stiles smiles like an idiot, folding and pinching and pulling at the corner of cardboard until it opens up, and to no one's surprise, he starts to drink right from the carton, chugging like a man who's been in the desert for days. he doesn't hear derek anymore - but he does hear the terrifying sound of fluttering paper.
a gust of a breeze blows in through the door to the balcony that stiles tends to leave open more for derek's sake than his own, even if he's never really explained as much, blowing his carefully organized spread of notes off of the coffee table and into complete disarray. stiles nearly chokes on a mouthful of milk, nearly dribbles down his chin as he takes the carton away and hastily sets it down on the counter, scrambling out of the kitchen and across the living room to shut the door. for a moment, he just stands there with his hands on the glass, cheeks still puffed out because he has yet to swallow what's in his mouth, and then he turns, wincing slightly.
the floor is a mess. it's only about twenty pages of hand-written notes, but they're - everywhere, and blown out of whatever groups he'd separated them into. stiles swallows, runs both of his hands down his face and takes a deep breath. okay. okay, it's fine, it's not a huge deal. it's not like he can't reorganize and continue, it's just - frustrating.
with a sigh, stiles crouches and then sits. he crosses his legs and folds them underneath himself, and then starts to pick everything up, slowly rifling through the pages and piling them back up in chronological order, murmuring quietly to himself as he goes. ]
4/19
derek's been going at it for a while, though. longer than usual, and occasionally stiles can hear the clang of a weight being put down a little too hard or derek's labored breathing when he paces too close to the open door, but stiles doesn't really think too much of it. he's deep in his notes - the paper copy of everything that derek prefers to keep locked up when stiles isn't actively adding to it - rifling through pages, drawing lines through something here and there, highlighting something else or scribbling an additional note in the margins. stiles' laptop is open too, sitting on the opposite end of the coffee table in the living room so he can look back and forth between the digital file and the physical one spread out in front of him, the pages laid out in a very particular order.
he gets ink on his hand when tries to cap his pen and misses, and immediately licks his thumb to wet it so he can wipe at the line of ink over his knuckle, but he only gets so far as licking his thumb before he realizes that his mouth is super dry and he's actually really thirsty and he hasn't had anything to drink since this morning when he knocked back a glass of water with his medication. stiles nudges his laptop a little and gets up from the couch, his foot a little numb from sitting on it this whole time. he limps to the kitchen, yanks open the fridge - and if he makes a pleased little sound at the realization that there's a new carton of milk in the fridge, then no one has to know.
stiles smiles like an idiot, folding and pinching and pulling at the corner of cardboard until it opens up, and to no one's surprise, he starts to drink right from the carton, chugging like a man who's been in the desert for days. he doesn't hear derek anymore - but he does hear the terrifying sound of fluttering paper.
a gust of a breeze blows in through the door to the balcony that stiles tends to leave open more for derek's sake than his own, even if he's never really explained as much, blowing his carefully organized spread of notes off of the coffee table and into complete disarray. stiles nearly chokes on a mouthful of milk, nearly dribbles down his chin as he takes the carton away and hastily sets it down on the counter, scrambling out of the kitchen and across the living room to shut the door. for a moment, he just stands there with his hands on the glass, cheeks still puffed out because he has yet to swallow what's in his mouth, and then he turns, wincing slightly.
the floor is a mess. it's only about twenty pages of hand-written notes, but they're - everywhere, and blown out of whatever groups he'd separated them into. stiles swallows, runs both of his hands down his face and takes a deep breath. okay. okay, it's fine, it's not a huge deal. it's not like he can't reorganize and continue, it's just - frustrating.
with a sigh, stiles crouches and then sits. he crosses his legs and folds them underneath himself, and then starts to pick everything up, slowly rifling through the pages and piling them back up in chronological order, murmuring quietly to himself as he goes. ]