[ the gym is supposed to be derek's sanctuary within a sanctuary. the den as a whole is obviously his home, but the gym is this quiet, tucked away part of it he can wile away the hours in, burning off his problems and pushing himself until it hurts. it's supposed to be his reset button.
with the full moon out, the gym's only making him feel worse. no matter what he does to tire himself out, he feels like he's pulling from a bottomless well of energy; he's sweaty and sore and red with effort, but the more his body hurts, the angrier he feels, and the angrier he feels, the less control he has over himself. all his usual methods for staying anchored during the full moon just-- aren't working, and if he paid more attention to himself, he'd know that this was coming from a build up of stress and foul moods, he'd know that he needs stiles here to ground him. he'd know that he could fix this if he just found a way to calm the fuck down.
when the wind blows through the main living area, derek's just finished swearing and throwing his weights down, hard enough to actually make a crack in the concrete flooring. he's already pissed, but the damage just makes it worse, because this is the fucking den, and it's the one place in the world he's supposed to keep safe and pristine - he's just so fucking frustrated with himself, with all his horrible behaviour and incomprehensible susceptibility to the moon. he feels weak. like a complete and total piece of shit.
he heads out, teeth grit, hearing stiles' scramble and using the frantic flurry of his footsteps to justify leaving the gym behind him. he's tense, close to snapping, and when he sees the situation in the living room - whatever frayed string was keeping his temper in check breaks. ]
Are they your notes?
[ those are stiles' notes. a mess of papers over the ground, the very same papers that derek tries to keep hidden and safe in preparation for whatever worst case scenario gets them into the wrong hands. derek's standing by the entrance to the room, sweaty and breathing hard, and his eyes flick up to the door by the balcony.
he-- sees white, a little bit. ]
Jesus, Stiles!
[ the snap comes hard and fast. he's never really thought about why stiles keeps the door open, but once he pieces together what happened - a wind blew in from outside, messing up what stiles was doing - all his cynical pessimism rears its ugly head. how the fuck could stiles leave the door open while he was working on something so important? so private and so fucking personal?
derek practically storms over, and he doesn't just shut the door to the gym behind him when he leaves - he slams it, shaking that half of the house, another fresh blow of wind blowing the papers back another few inches. derek's-- livid, and he's been livid like this before, but he had ways to calm down, back home. ways that aren't working. why is nothing working? ]
You-- they could have-- they could have blown out the window, they could have ended up on the street, someone could have-- why do you even have them out?
[ derek's talking loud and fast, looking at stiles like-- like he's an idiot, like he's that same fifteen, sixteen year old kid he was when they first met. like stiles is the stupidest person in the world for thinking the door needed to be open. ]
no subject
with the full moon out, the gym's only making him feel worse. no matter what he does to tire himself out, he feels like he's pulling from a bottomless well of energy; he's sweaty and sore and red with effort, but the more his body hurts, the angrier he feels, and the angrier he feels, the less control he has over himself. all his usual methods for staying anchored during the full moon just-- aren't working, and if he paid more attention to himself, he'd know that this was coming from a build up of stress and foul moods, he'd know that he needs stiles here to ground him. he'd know that he could fix this if he just found a way to calm the fuck down.
when the wind blows through the main living area, derek's just finished swearing and throwing his weights down, hard enough to actually make a crack in the concrete flooring. he's already pissed, but the damage just makes it worse, because this is the fucking den, and it's the one place in the world he's supposed to keep safe and pristine - he's just so fucking frustrated with himself, with all his horrible behaviour and incomprehensible susceptibility to the moon. he feels weak. like a complete and total piece of shit.
he heads out, teeth grit, hearing stiles' scramble and using the frantic flurry of his footsteps to justify leaving the gym behind him. he's tense, close to snapping, and when he sees the situation in the living room - whatever frayed string was keeping his temper in check breaks. ]
Are they your notes?
[ those are stiles' notes. a mess of papers over the ground, the very same papers that derek tries to keep hidden and safe in preparation for whatever worst case scenario gets them into the wrong hands. derek's standing by the entrance to the room, sweaty and breathing hard, and his eyes flick up to the door by the balcony.
he-- sees white, a little bit. ]
Jesus, Stiles!
[ the snap comes hard and fast. he's never really thought about why stiles keeps the door open, but once he pieces together what happened - a wind blew in from outside, messing up what stiles was doing - all his cynical pessimism rears its ugly head. how the fuck could stiles leave the door open while he was working on something so important? so private and so fucking personal?
derek practically storms over, and he doesn't just shut the door to the gym behind him when he leaves - he slams it, shaking that half of the house, another fresh blow of wind blowing the papers back another few inches. derek's-- livid, and he's been livid like this before, but he had ways to calm down, back home. ways that aren't working. why is nothing working? ]
You-- they could have-- they could have blown out the window, they could have ended up on the street, someone could have-- why do you even have them out?
[ derek's talking loud and fast, looking at stiles like-- like he's an idiot, like he's that same fifteen, sixteen year old kid he was when they first met. like stiles is the stupidest person in the world for thinking the door needed to be open. ]