[ the sun is only just beginning to set by the time stiles makes for home. it's not a very far walk, but the bus would get him there faster. still, he opts to go on foot if only for the little extra time to be alone, to - not have to look at someone he loves and tell them that he killed someone. to not have to stand there and watch the disgust cross over their face, the disappointment, the repulsion, like he did with scott.
stiles stands at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the den for a solid thirty seconds, fingers twisting and pulling at the ring on his right hand, the ring he's been thinking about moving to his left, because that's where derek wears his, and he's not sure if it means anything, but there's a part of him that wants it to. it probably won't really matter by the end of the night.
he feels a little bit sick as he makes his way up the stairs. stiles doesn't know if derek is home, hasn't looked at his phone since the last text he sent him, but. this is something he can't avoid, now that it's out there. still, he lingers at the top of the stairs for a handful of moments too, then takes a deep, steadying breath, and unlocks the door. he slides it open quietly, eyes purposely downcast as he steps inside and turns to lock everything back up. when he turns back around, he's only a little bit surprised to see derek in the kitchen, setting cutlery down next to what looks to be a home-cooked meal.
stiles stands there awkwardly for a moment, maybe uncomfortably, but he offers a small, tight-lipped smile, gesturing kind of vaguely at the hall to his right, murmuring because he knows derek will still hear him. ]
I'm... just gonna change really quick.
[ the walk back home was kind of warm, and while he's not sweating, the subtle heat still clings to his clothes, the layers making him feel a uncharacteristically claustrophobic. stiles takes a few backward steps, then turns and disappears down the hall into the bedroom. he's not gone for long, though, trades his flannel and his undershirt out for a simple t-shirt, swaps his jeans for sweatpants, slides out of his shoes.
when he comes back, he slides into a seat at the kitchen island, and he seems a little more lively, but the contrasting anxiety and fear and self-loathing building up inside of him only make it obvious that he's trying too hard.
he doesn't look at derek, focusing instead on the meal, fingers playing with the silverware by his plate. ]
Did you make this? [ dumb question, but it fills the silence. ] It smells really good.
no subject
stiles stands at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the den for a solid thirty seconds, fingers twisting and pulling at the ring on his right hand, the ring he's been thinking about moving to his left, because that's where derek wears his, and he's not sure if it means anything, but there's a part of him that wants it to. it probably won't really matter by the end of the night.
he feels a little bit sick as he makes his way up the stairs. stiles doesn't know if derek is home, hasn't looked at his phone since the last text he sent him, but. this is something he can't avoid, now that it's out there. still, he lingers at the top of the stairs for a handful of moments too, then takes a deep, steadying breath, and unlocks the door. he slides it open quietly, eyes purposely downcast as he steps inside and turns to lock everything back up. when he turns back around, he's only a little bit surprised to see derek in the kitchen, setting cutlery down next to what looks to be a home-cooked meal.
stiles stands there awkwardly for a moment, maybe uncomfortably, but he offers a small, tight-lipped smile, gesturing kind of vaguely at the hall to his right, murmuring because he knows derek will still hear him. ]
I'm... just gonna change really quick.
[ the walk back home was kind of warm, and while he's not sweating, the subtle heat still clings to his clothes, the layers making him feel a uncharacteristically claustrophobic. stiles takes a few backward steps, then turns and disappears down the hall into the bedroom. he's not gone for long, though, trades his flannel and his undershirt out for a simple t-shirt, swaps his jeans for sweatpants, slides out of his shoes.
when he comes back, he slides into a seat at the kitchen island, and he seems a little more lively, but the contrasting anxiety and fear and self-loathing building up inside of him only make it obvious that he's trying too hard.
he doesn't look at derek, focusing instead on the meal, fingers playing with the silverware by his plate. ]
Did you make this? [ dumb question, but it fills the silence. ] It smells really good.