[ stiles mulls this over as he shoulders his backpack. he does a customary check of his pockets to make sure he has everything - his wallet, which is more or less useless, his key, and his phone is still in his hands - shuts off the one light in the room, and locks up. he answers from the little common area outside of his apartment. ]
Telling me you're gonna make me wreck my body doesn't exactly sound fair. But considering I don't plan on losing? Deal. If you want to stand over me while I put your abs to shame, fine. Because that's only gonna happen in your dreams. I'm not telling you what happens when you lose, though.
I'm sure you have it in you to come up with something truly horrible to put me through if I lose. I mean, like, remarkably heinous. If you win, I don't want you holding your punches. I want you to really make me regret thinking of you as a stupid idiot baby who can't play battleship without accidentally choking on one of the pieces, let alone chess.
I really want you to wonder. I want you to spend the next three hours wondering what I could possibly do to you that’ll make you think twice about ever questioning my chess game ever again. I’ll tell you one thing though. I’ll give you two options, and I’ll tell you the first one right now. When you lose, you’re gonna post a video on the network, and you’re going to tell everyone how bad you are at chess, and you’re gonna tell everyone how great you think I am, and that you’ll never challenge me like this again. Publicly admit defeat. You’re going to tell everyone that I’m the king. Scratch that, you’ll tell everyone I’m your king. And you have to sound sincere. I’ll make you do it over and over again until you sound like you mean it.
See, I can see what you're trying to do here. Make me sweat a little. Really get in my head and psyche me out. But that's not going to work. I'm not going to wonder. Why would I wonder? I have no intention of losing. This means nothing to me. This colorful little daydream you've whipped up? Absolutely meaningless.
I'm picking door number two, regardless of what it is. I want this to be between us. I want your inevitable failure all to myself.
Oh, Derek. Derek, you sweet summer child. You sweet stupid werewolf. You just did exactly what I wanted you to do and I didn't even have to try. You have no idea what you just signed yourself up for. I'm sealing this in. Locking it down, this is your final answer, you can't go back. I can't believe I'm going to come out a winner twice in one night.
[ says the guy who is suddenly incredibly nervous because that actually worked out exactly how he wanted it to, but had zero expectation that it actually would. cool. neat. it might actually just be easier to throw the game at this point. ]
Yeah, whatever. You're not intimidating. Like I said - you're cute. I feel like I'm being threatened by a kitten. A sarcastic kitten. Do your worst. You bastard.
[ he's kind of excited. he's kind of excited, but he's also sort of salty with himself for limiting his inevitable victory to making stiles do crunches. it'll be fun, watching him just straight up fucking die, and derek is completely sure that he's going to win this, but. should've thought of something more humiliating than physical exertion, if stiles is getting this creative with it. oh well. ]
Are you going to tell me what I'm signing myself up for, or do I have to wait until I've won to get it out of you?
You know what? I'm not even offended. I love it when people underestimate me because it just makes handing their ass to them later that much more satisfying.
1.) I'm not going to tell you until you lose. 2.) If you win. IF. IIIF you win, I'm still not going to tell you. You'll just have to wonder for the rest of forever what your life could have come to if you'd lost. 3.) I'm about to get in the elevator to come up so I'll probably lose signal, and then it's like... ten minutes from there, so. See you in a couple hours? I'll let you know when we're wrapping up.
You're absolutely going to tell me when I win. I'm not letting you taint my victory with your Stilinski-style smugness. I don't want you holding some dumb, pointless secret over me when I'm trying to celebrate. Your defeat has to be total. I'm getting what I want. Stiles.
[ ah, man, stiles has to go. that's... fine, derek doesn't want to steal all of his attention, but. just kind of missing him again already, which is stupid, and he's stupid, and this is stupid. everything's stupid. still - there's a fire under him now, and he's gonna get everything set up for the rest of the day. gonna grab food, gonna get the board set up. gonna... spend the night with his friend. that's kind of thrilling. when was the last time he invited a friend over for a fucking sleepover? has he ever? ]
But fine. Okay. Run away. Like a coward. I'll see you when you're done. Loooooooooooseeeeeeeeeer.
[ stiles doesn't reward derek with a response for another hour and a half. rosalind doesn't make him turn his phone off when they're working, but he makes a point of taking away as many distractions as possible so he doesn't end up doing something stupid like knocking something over and starting a chemical fire all because he wanted to check his phone. he knows himself well enough. ]
You think I'm gonna tell you, but I'm not. You don't scare me. If I lose - which I won't - but if I lose, you get to watch me work out. That's what you asked for, so that's all you'll get. It's too late to start making all these other requests, womp womp, sucks for you. I'm done, by the way. Be up in like ten.
[ there's a minute, minute and a half lull. ]
Make that thirty? Some asshole pressed every button in the elevator before they got out. See you in a year Mr. 89th floor. God.
[ derek keeps checking his phone, up until he's pretty convinced stiles has started working with rosalind and doesn't intend on using the walk from the elevator to her place to message him back. which is fine? he doesn't care. he totally doesn't care, and he totally doesn't keep checking his phone in case he missed a notification, and he totally puts stiles out of his mind until he messages him back. he's an alpha? he's a leader. he doesn't sit around waiting for boys to text him. he is a fucking adult.
anyway. stiles texts him back and derek, who had been lounging on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, bored and lonely, sits up hard enough to hurt his arm. he winces a little, but he also doesn't care. stiles is funny. derek doesn't laugh, but stiles is funny. ]
I do want to watch you work out. I'm going to make you do crunches until you tell me what you had planned. There's no escaping this.
[ make that thirty, stiles says, and now, derek's kind of annoyed. he feels like he's been waiting for stiles all day, and now he's making him wait even more? he feels like walking down to the lobby and dragging him up the stairs, jesus. so annoying.
whatever. it's fine. in the hour and a half stiles has been gone, derek's been trying to make the apartment feel like home, which has been kind of difficult, because he... hates the place, and it still looks brand new. the apartment is furnished exactly the same as it was when derek first moved in, certain places completely untouched and covered in a light layer of dust, and fluffing up a few pillows and buying snacks for the night isn't going to change that.
he picked up some food - pizza, because everybody likes pizza, and even though he considered actually cooking something himself, he doesn't have the guts to try doing that for someone else just yet - and a dickton of soda, just because stiles seems like the kind of guy who likes soda. derek doesn't. but stiles probably does.
the chess board is set up in the living room, a deep, reddish wood with cream and dark brown pieces. derek didn't wait until stiles was here to set the game up, because stiles is a shady piece of shit, and if derek hadn't doublechecked the board for strings or secret compartments when he bought it, he would have very quickly accused stiles of pulling some kind of trick if he were the one to get the game ready and derek somehow, inconceivably, lost. ssssso. he will accept any loss he suffers as fair. but he isn't going to lose.
so. yeah. fine. good. everything's good. he's not nervous. why would he be nervous. derek paces to the front of his apartment, walking back and forth in front of the door, straining his ears to hear the elevator ping at the end of the hall. ]
You know I didn't choose to live on the 89th floor, right? This is just where they put me. I'd move out and sleep in a box under an overpass, if I had the option.
[ stiles sighs and settles in for a long ride, sliding his backpack off his shoulders and setting it down on the floor between his feet. he leans back against one of the walls, close to the buttons panel, and absently scratches the inside of his left wrist. ]
I'll die before I tell you But considering you're gonna be the one to lose You can just have some patience and find out after I call checkmate.
[ for about ten floors, stiles repeatedly jabs the doors close button with his thumb every time the lift stops and opens. by the twelfth stop, stiles has had enough. he makes a frustrated sound in the back of his throat when the doors slide open to an empty hallway, and impulsively reaches down to snag his backpack by one of the straps, pushing his way out of the lift.
it's sixty-three fucking floors from here, but - he can make that, right? it'll be like running suicides, just... against gravity, and probably for way longer and way farther than stiles has ever run and also: stairs. but its fine. the alternative is to spend forty-five minutes standing in the elevator, and that's a total waste of time he could spend showering or eating or being around derek.
so he slides his backpack on over his shoulders, tightens up the straps so the bag sits high and flush to his back, and he starts up the stairs at a moderate pace, somewhere between walking and running, skipping every other step. fortunately for stiles, the flights in between floors are short, but it's still sixty fucking floors.
he makes it about half way before he has to stop for a breather, his thighs aching and warm, his knees a little weak. there's a sheen of sweat over the back of his neck and between his shoulders, his forehead a little damp. his heart is in his throat. he can feel and hear the pulsing rush of blood in his ears.
stiles slumps against the wall at the bottom of one set of stairs, hands curled around the straps at his shoulders, and leans his head back as if that'll somehow help with putting some oxygen back into his lungs. he has to lock his knees, otherwise he'll wind up sliding down until his ass hits the floor and there's no telling how long it would be until he got back up, if at all.
he checks his phone while he's taking a break, swiping some sweat from his temple with the back of his fingers. ]
I can find you a box. I'll find you a box and a nice tree for you put it under in place of an overpass.
[ at this point he'll do whatever if it means he never has to climb this many stairs ever again in his life. of course, this is only happening because of one particular assholeish person. it's not like he'll have to take the stairs every single time he visits derek after this. it's not as if he didn't make this choice himself on account of he's impatient.
stiles pockets his phone, decides to peel himself out of his green overshirt, takes a deep breath. he blows it out nice and slow... and hauls himself up the stairs the rest of the way. it's not any easier, and his calves and his thighs and his ass and his back feels like it's on fire and also numb by the time he reaches derek's floor another five minutes later. he practically falls through the doorway into the hall by the elevator (which he's beaten by at least five minutes, if not more), stumbling on his feet a little, and when he reaches derek's door, all he does is lean his entire body against it, forehead pressed to the cool wood, palms flat.
derek can probably hear him panting. he can probably hear his heart battering up against his rib cage, and stiles knows this, but he doesn't care. he balls one of his hands up, pounds it pathetically against the door, and just kind of rolls himself away, squishing his backpack between his shoulders and the wall as he leans to wait for derek to let him in. ]
You're delusional. Rosalind's lab is ventilated, right? You didn't... inhale anything toxic? I'm worried about you.
[ you know, because stiles' head is so fucked up that he thinks he stands a chance!! checkmate!!!!!!
whatever. whatever? whatever. fuck. derek's feet are hurting. his legs are tense and his muscles are taut, and he just keeps walking in front of his front door, over and over again, trying to hear the distant ping of an elevator eighty floors below him. waiting shouldn't be such a big deal; stiles ended things with rosalind sooner than derek expected him to, and he's coming over early to shower. the elevator could get stuck, maintenance could come and fix it, and stiles could get caught up in a fucking flash mob and he'd still make it to derek's apartment sooner than they'd originally planned. being impatient is just... the same as being greedy.
but he is impatient. he's very, very impatient, and he's very, very lonely, and it's not like he and stiles haven't seen each other since the fort, but he hasn't told stiles he missed him, and stiles hasn't promised to share a bed with him again, and there's so much here that derek wants that it's this scary, intimidating, amorphous blob of good feelings that he just wants to dive into already. this is taking too long, and... and he can swear that he's caught stiles' scent, somehow, through all the thick layers of concrete and wood and metal standing between them, and that's only making him feel worse.
he wants stiles. he wants to see stiles, he wants stiles so fucking bad.
impulsively, derek opens the door to his apartment and walks out, shutting it behind him. he takes a hard left down the hall, ducking out of sight from the top of the stairs, turning down a corner and making it to the end. the elevators are a ways away, but derek walks until he gets there, staring blankly up at the little LED display indicating that the elevator is still a good sixty floors below him. cool.
cool. cool. cool. great. fine. this is fine. derek's still pacing, but he's pacing a little faster now, arms crossed over his chest. sixty floors. fifty nine. fifty eight. fifty seven. derek glowers at the light above the elevator doors like it's just another stupid fucking act of aggression from duplicity against him. another shred of evidence that this apartment is fucking stupid, and that he hates it, and that he hates the city, and that he hates being here, and that he wants to be somewhere else. somewhere safe. with stiles.
stiles sends him another message and derek doesn't reply, but he stops walking just long enough to read it. he stares at the text, hears the words in stiles' voice. the uptick when he says something that's supposed to be a joke, the cocky little smile he'd have if he were saing this to derek's face. the way he'd laugh, that kind of soundless, sarcastic laugh he does, where he just exhales air through his nose and lets his shoulders shake. derek misses that fucking laugh. it hasn't been long since he's seen stiles laugh, but derek still misses it so bad.
he lifts his thumb to his lips and anxiously bites the nail, which isn't a good habit, and he knows that, so he crosses his arm again and tucks his hand beneath his bicep, sandwiching it against his side. he chews his lip, stops himself from peeling away any dry skin, because that's not a good habit, either. he can work with anger, he can shoulder his grief, but he sure as shit doesn't know how to deal with this impatient, scratchy anxiety that makes everything in him feel so tightly wound.
and then he hears a noise from behind him, just out of sight. the gangly footsteps of an uncoordinated idiot, crashing through derek's anxiety like he crashes through everything else. derek frowns, eyebrows meeting in the middle, and after a quick glance up at the elevator - still thirty floors down, maybe a little less - he turns, and he heads back.
and then there's stiles, sweaty and exhausted and trying to catch his breath, struggling to reclaim whatever dignity he has left in him before derek opens the door he's not actually behind and catches him. there's a window here where stiles doesn't realize he's there, and derek knows he should - take advantage of that, or something. come up with something biting and clever and funny, maybe. but he doesn't want to? he just...
this makes him feel happy. this makes him feel warm.
so derek walks over, keeping his footsteps light, and he's smiling, all self-satisfied and content and kind of endeared. stiles ran up to see him, and derek can't exactly pretend like he wasn't waiting outside the elevators to meet him - he wouldn't hide it, either, if stiles asked why he's not inside. they both wanted to see each other as soon as possible, and derek latches onto that, even though it would be so easy to assume the worst. so easy to assume that stiles is being chased by a fucking murderer and just needs to get inside as soon as possible, so easy to assume he's fucking-- shit his pants, or something, and just ran up here to change. derek doesn't let himself scroll through the rolodex of pessimistic and kind of mean bullshit, he just - assumes that stiles wanted to see him as much as derek wanted to see him back.
derek leans against the wall beside his door, arms still loose across his chest, but just seeing stiles is enough to relax him. he feels so much less tense, so much happier. derek might not know stiles as well as he should, being two years behind, but he knows that it's been a long, long time since he's just been this fucking happy to see someone.
and he's not an idiot. he knows what that feeling is. ]
It's unlocked.
[ he nods his head towards the apartment, like stiles is too dumb to know what he's talking about. "you look like a mess", fuck, that's what he should have said. ]
[ it strikes stiles just a second or two after knocking how embarrassing this is going to be. he just ran up like a million flights of stairs and he's slowly dying in the hallway outside of derek's door because he couldn't wait the five or ten extra minutes it would have taken in the elevator to get up to derek's apartment. he tells himself, as he struggles to slow down and even out his breathing, steady his heartbeat, that he's just - really excited about the prospect of a decent, hot shower. which he definitely, definitely needs at this point, now that he's sweated in his clothes.
god, he probably stinks. he's a clean, hygienic person, and he put on deodorant this morning and then reapplied before he left, but he probably smells like rosalind's lab - clinical and medicinal, like a combination of all the chemicals he handled. and sweat. stiles can't actually smell anything on him, but he briefly considers snatching his deodorant out of his bag for another quick swipe under his arms, though. because his sense of smell isn't anywhere close to how sharp derek's is.
but there's probably not enough time for that, and derek opening the door to stiles freshening up his armpits would probably be more embarrassing that derek finding him like... this. too warm, with jelly legs and out of breath.
stiles doesn't actually hear derek at all when he rounds the corner. he's still breathing just a little too harshly to hear anything quieter than that. it's movement in his peripherals that catches his attention. stiles impulsively pushes himself away from the wall, fully intending to try and play it cool for derek's neighbor, or whatever other sad sack decided to take the stairs. he lifts his hand to rub at the back of his neck, but he's still holding his overshirt, so he just looks - dumb.
and it's not derek's neighbor, it's derek. stiles drops all pretenses and sags back against the wall again, not feeling nearly embarrassed as he thought he would. he does feel a little confused, though, because derek is... on the wrong side of the door. oh, right, he was picking up food, his brain supplies, but derek isn't carrying anything, so. that can't be it.
stiles doesn't ask, though, because derek leans against the wall on the opposite side of his apartment door and stiles is very easily distracted. he kind of wants to reach over and shove his shoulder for no particular reason, but that seems like it would require more energy than he's currently willing to expend, so he doesn't.
his eyebrows lift a little. he rolls himself sideways, leans his weight into the press of his shoulder. ]
That seems smart. You're a - [ he sniffs, swipes his thumb through the thin film of sweat over his upper lip, drops is hand, ] - a burglar's best friend.
[ he says it with a fair amount of seriousness, but the edges of his eyes crinkle a little and he finds himself smiling faintly and tiredly and definitely like an entire idiot. he hums unintentionally as he breathes out, and then tilts himself forward again until he's standing in front of the door.
it's unlocked, just like derek said. not that stiles thought he was lying, but he wouldn't put it past derek to tell him one thing just to see stiles make a fool of himself struggling to open a locked door. stiles pushes his way inside, already starting to slide one of his arms free of a backpack strap. he's still too warm, and the bag is keeping his body heat trapped between his shoulders, slowing down the process of cooling off. he turns on his heel, teeters a little on his jelly legs, takes a small step sideways with one foot to keep his balance. ]
Beat the elevator, [ he says with a lazy flap of his hand back toward the hallway he's already leaving behind, offering up an explanation for why he's all gross and red-faced and generally a mess despite the fact that derek didn't ask. he frees his other arm, and then just kind of stands there with his bag in his hands because he doesn't know where to put it down. it's awkward for a second before he just decides to act like this place is his old place. it's the same exact layout, only mirrored, and just about as bare as stiles kept his before he was moved to the down.
stiles sets his bag down by the side of the couch. he lifts one foot to pull his sneaker off, quickly realizes he has absolutely zero chance of balancing on one foot with his knees still as wobbly as they are, and sits down on the arm of the couch instead, dragging his leg up so he can get at his laces. ] Where'd you go?
[ he lifts his chin at derek, eyes flitting up from his fingers for a moment. why were you in the hallway, why were you not here to open the door and scoop him up and deposit him immediately into the air conditioning and press a cold drink into his hand.
why has it taken this long for stiles to admit he's missed sharing space with derek? ]
[ stiles has been, for the most part, a lot calmer than derek in the time since derek's arrival. maybe it's because he's just-- steadier, now, than he was at sixteen, or maybe it's because he's spent months in duplicity and knows when to keep his head down better than derek does. whatever the case, he's been reliable. clearheaded when things have gone bad, a fixed point in otherwise stormy seas. an anchor, in some ways, though derek has yet to truly think of him like that.
so this is a nice change of pace. the sweat, the struggle, the imminent cardiac arrest. derek's got this sly, wolfish grin on his face as he rests against the wall, watching stiles revert to the awkward, messy teenager he's always been. as much as stiles annoys the shit out of him when he's all frantic and physically emotive and energetic, it's comforting to see that he isn't always... worried about things.
maybe that's hypocritical, maybe he's projecting, maybe he just doesn't want stiles to be as fucked up by his trauma as derek is. maybe he's just... actually sort of starting to like this side of stiles, now that he's not constantly spazzing out when derek's trying to fucking get shit done. maybe it's cute. he does think stiles is cute, after all. that's written down. he can't take that back.
stiles lifts his eyebrows, calls him a burglar's best friend. derek lifts his eyebrows back, still smiling that same shit-eating grin, but by the time they've headed inside together, he's got it under control. he steadily closes the door behind them (and locks it, this time,) as stiles wobbles in, and his eyes linger on stiles' shoulderblades for a second or two as he goes. stiles takes a seat, and derek feels sort of awkward standing at the front door, so he drifts into the kitchen area, rummaging through the fridge for the soda he bought. it's cold, at least a little bit, but he adds some ice to a glass to really sell it. feels like it's probably been a while since somebody got stiles a drink, so. yeah. he wants to do it.
he gets everything set up, puts the soda back in the fridge, then heads back over when stiles is asking his question. "where'd you go". derek's eyebrows are back up, and he holds the glass out for stiles to take, carrying it with his good arm, the one he leant against the wall with.
he could lie. it'd be easy to lie, but. he'd already decided not to. ]
Wanted to see you sooner.
[ derek shrugs, like it's an easy thing to say, even though - as it always seems to be, with stiles - he feels a little bit like he's throwing himself off of a cliff. admitting that he has feelings, like a normal person? that shit can't keep flying as easily as it has been. one of these days, it's going to bite him in the ass.
still. he's happy. he wanted those few extra seconds, those tiny, bonus moments they'd have on the few steps back to his apartment. he's not ashamed of that, exactly, even if he is daunted by the idea that stiles might react poorly. it is what it is. ]
[ stiles grabs both ends of his shoe once he's got the laces undone, wiggling it off of his foot and dropping it to the floor with very little care. he eases his leg back down with minimal wincing as his thigh muscles protest any and all movement, and decides to take a minute or so break before he starts on his other shoe. it's not like there's any rush, aside from the fact that he just wants to feel comfortable. which he does, generally speaking - he feels more comforted in the last five minutes than he has in... well, since the last time he saw derek, actually -, but he'd like to get out of his shoes, and eventually, his sweaty clothes.
derek offers him a drink, and there's ice and stiles looks almost awed by the gesture, his eyes flickering from the cool glass in derek's hand up to his face. he presses his lips into a thin line, but the edges of his mouth betray his dumb, pleased little smile. he reaches out, carefully takes the drink from derek so he doesn't spill. and then just sits there with his arm out, cup in his hand, looking a little dumb for a second.
wanted to see you sooner.
stiles' stomach swoops as he connects the dots. derek came from down the hall where the elevator is, and he wasn't coming out of the elevator because the lift had to be like, thirty floors below by the time stiles came bursting out of the stairwell. which means he was waiting by the elevators for stiles to come up, waiting to meet him because he wanted to see him sooner. because he wanted the couple extra seconds of time between the elevator and his apartment.
stiles likes him so much. stiles likes him so much it's stupid. he likes him so much that he loves him, which feel less and less scary to admit to himself every time he thinks about it, but still pretty terrifying when he thinks about what would happen if derek ever found out. it's fairly obvious by now that derek likes him at least a little bit - he's called him attractive, he's told him he's missed him - but maybe it's just a purely physical thing.
which is... fine. stiles is cool with purely physical if that's where derek stands. he can pretend he's cool with it, anyway, and do whatever he has to do to keep his feelings in check. that's fine. he's good at that, mostly.
stiles wets his lips and draws his arm back in, lifting his hand to press the cold glass to his cheek. it feels nice on his heated skin. he lets his eyes close for a moment, lets a soft, contented hum escape him, and then opens his eyes again. stiles takes a long sip of soda, knocking back about half the glass while simultaneously toeing his other shoe off by stepping on the heel of it with his other foot. he tilts his glass back down, the ice inside clinking quietly as it floats around. he crunches down on a smaller piece. why did you take the stairs?
for a moment, stiles just keeps chewing his piece of ice, rolling the smaller bits on his tongue as they melt away. he looks directly at derek, and his heartbeat quickens only slightly. the corner of his mouth lifts faintly, hinting at a smirk. ]
Because I've been thinking about your shower for the last three hours.
[ he shrugs just as casually as derek had, then brings his glass to his mouth again, pausing long enough to add: ]
But also because I'm impatient and I didn't want to waste thirty minutes standing in an elevator when I could spend thirty more minutes here. With you. [ he shrugs again, averting his eyes now that he's gotten that out, and speaks directly into his glass. it makes his voice sound a little echo-y. ] I have legs, so. Or - I did when I started. I'm not so sure anymore.
[ and then he chugs the rest of his soda, tilting his head back to get the ice at the bottom of the cup. ]
[ derek could take stiles' pain. it's not like stiles is really suffering, but derek could still take it, and for a moment, he considers doing so. he could reach out, set a hand against his shoulder, drain away the aches and the pains he's amassed from running up the stairs on those weak, human legs. those weak, spindly, gangly, horrible spidery legs. it would be easy, and he'd get to make stiles feel a little more comfortable, and that, too, would make derek happy.
but it could also go pretty badly, he thinks, because if there's one thing derek knows about stiles - one thing that he thinks he knows better than a lot of people do - it's that he's selfless. derek's arm isn't bandaged up anymore, but it's still very tender, and under the sleeve of his henley, there's a gnarly mark that hasn't fully recovered despite his accelerated healing. he doesn't want to ruin this by giving stiles a chance to... tell him to take it easy, or something. he doesn't want to ruin this quiet little bubble they have for themselves by reminding stiles of veracity, or the fort, or the execution, or - anything. any of it.
so he won't. stiles takes the glass, and he smiles, and derek's done smiling for the day, but their fingers brush against each other and derek nearly drops the glass when they do. he catches himself and plays it off, but for a second he can't tell if the heartbeat he can hear beating so loudly is stiles' or his own.
stiles gets comfortable. he drinks, he eats ice, and he stares at derek, and derek stares back, because if he didn't, he'd notice the wet, pink shine on stiles' lips, he'd notice the flushed color of his skin, he'd think about how easy it would be to steal his overshirt while stiles' is showering and hide it under his bed for when he's alone, and he can't think about any of that, just like he sure as shit can't act on that last impulse. he lets his nerves settle, and he waits, and he stares at stiles like he's bored, or like this conversation doesn't mean half as much to him as it does. he stares at stiles like he's intruding on his time alone in his new apartment, even though he's made it so fucking clear that he's been desperate for him.
the shower comment, though, that gets a reaction. he takes it seriously, at first. his eyebrows pinch and his jaw clenches, and his eyes flicker a bit like they want to close, just for a second. he's not really sensitive when it comes to jokes, least of all jokes made by stiles, but there'd been an energy in the air that he thought he'd read as-- something, and he guesses he was wrong? of course stiles wants to use his shower, jesus. he's been without decent plumbing for months. derek's an idiot, to think there could be anything more.
but then stiles keeps talking, and there's something in the way derek's shoulders slope that shows he's relieved to hear the confession, like whatever tension was tightening them up and keeping them raised has been swept away all at once. that's - good, he thinks. he wasn't wrong. stiles wanted to see him, too. fuck. fuck, he likes him so much, and he doesn't know what to do about it. this never ends well. this won't end well.
derek puts his hand on stiles' chest. stiles is too busy choking back ice from the glass for derek to make eye contact, but derek still waits, fingertips firm against his sternum, and when the glass is drained dry, derek slowly pushes stiles off the arm of the couch, tilting him forward into the seat cushions. ]
Dick.
[ bye. anyway, christ, okay. whether stiles scrambles to hold onto something so he won't fall or tilts back completely, derek fishes the glass out of his hand before it breaks and takes it back to the kitchen. he spends his time rinsing it, just because he's feeling a bit overwhelmed and needs a few seconds to himself to calm down, and when he shuts off the faucet, he dries his hands on the bottom of his shirt. he's still in the kitchen, when he calls out again. ]
Go shower.
[ he's not going to be a creep and ask for an invitation, but it's gonna be in his head until stiles is done. ]
[ he's not expecting the hand on his chest. he's not expecting derek to touch him at all, actually, so he startles slightly, almost inhaling a sliver of ice as he sucks in a short breath, lips still pressed around the rip of his glass. he's still got his head tilted back, so he can only really see derek through the blur of the glass in front of his face, but he decides to keep it that way, at least for now. he has no idea why derek is touching him, but he sure as shit isn't going to complain about it, or do something stupid like open his mouth and say something dumb that'll make him take his hand away.
but derek just keeps his hand there and stiles finishes his drink and wills his heartbeat to slow down to baseline, which is a lot easier to do when his body isn't trying to pump as much blood through his veins as quickly as possible, routing oxygen to where it's needed to keep up with the amount of energy he's burning, which is currently none at all.
and then derek nudges at his chest and stiles isn't exactly ready for it, so he tilts back easily, his butt sliding backwards until it hits the cushions. stiles' empty hand flies out instinctively, grabbing at derek's forearm with a wavering, somewhat panicky sound somewhere in the back of his throat, but once he realizes he's not about to fall off the edge of the planet, he lets derek go.
stiles looks like an idiot, sitting there with his body practically folded in half, calves resting on the armrest where his butt just was, sock feet sticking out. he gives his empty glass up easily, watches derek walk away for a second, and then flops back completely on the couch, stretching himself out. he throws his arms backwards, reaching them up over his head, and relishes in the pull of his muscles, the warm ache. ugh.
he's turns onto his side, about to roll himself up an off of the couch, probably to follow derek and annoy him, but turning over puts him face to face with the chess board on the table. stiles pauses, then props himself up on one elbow to get a better look, his eyebrows lifting slightly. it's a nice board, definitely more expensive than the one he has back home, definitely less used. which makes sense, because derek only bought it recently, but it's nice. stiles reaches his hand out, drags his fingertips along one edge of the board, then picks up the king piece nearest to him for no particular reason.
he huffs at derek's command just to be annoying, setting the piece back down before he forces himself to haul his ass up and off the couch. he grabs his backpack from the floor and hooks it over one shoulder, scooping his rumpled overshirt up too and draping it over his other shoulder so he can add it to his small pile of clothes he'll have to wash at a later date. stiles knows the layout of derek's apartment like the back of his hand because he spent three months living here too, some seventy or so floors below, so he doesn't have to ask where the bathroom is. ]
Don't tell me what to do! [ he's halfway down the hall when he calls back over his shoulder, his tone anything but offended because he's literally letting derek tell him what to do, even if a shower was in the plans this whole time. ] Also, I'm using your shampoo and your soap.
[ because he didn't bring any. because his building provides shampoo and conditioner and soap for everyone in the communal bathrooms, but it comes in the form of a dispenser suction cupped to the walls, refilled probably once a week. perks of being lesser.
stiles disappears into the bathroom after that though, closing the door behind him. if he has any thoughts of inviting derek to come with him, he bites a hole through his tongue to keep them to himself, dropping his bag on top of the toilet seat and leaning to turn on the water so it has time to warm up while he's peeling himself out of his sweat-damp clothes. ]
[ this might be the most obvious thing ever said, but derek likes teasing stiles. he like watches him scramble and flail and act like an idiot, and he likes watching him ultimately give up and surrender and accept defeat. derek's the kid in a playground who pulls a girl's pigtails to show that he likes her, he's always been that kid. it was the same with paige - he'd play basketball in the halls to annoy her, he'd make fun of her in front of his friends. he's always been stupid and boyish and undeveloped, when it comes to expressing his feelings, even before the fire made it even harder for him to understand himself. he never really had the chance to grow. he should have with paige. he should have with kate.
stiles is just... stiles is fun. derek doesn't have fun, all that often. he has fun with stiles. even in a place like this one. even if he complains the entire time they're together. maybe he shouldn't tease him so much. maybe it borders on bullying, sometimes. it's just so hard to stop himself from having fun, with stiles. from goofing around with him, teasing him, and hopefully, making him have fun, too.
either way. they move away from one another, and derek heads out of the kitchen in time to see stiles opening the bathroom door, catching a glimpse of an elbow as it ducks out of sight. again, derek finds himself feeling impatient. he wanted stiles to come over early, which is why he told him to shower here, and that worked out much, much better than expected, but now derek's alone and has to wait. again. this is so frustrating.
he retreats to the sofa, sitting on the very edge of the seat with his hands between his knees, looking down at the chessboard solely because it's something for him to focus on. he can't tell that stiles messed with it, but that doesn't stop him from fidgeting with the edge of it, running his thumb along the closest of the grooves drawn into each edge. he pulls his hands back, holds them between his knees again. he sighs through his nose, and he scratches his palm with his thumb, and he slaps his knuckles against his other fist. bored. bbbbbbored. already bored.
derek can hear the shower turn on. he can hear the rush of water through the pipes as it heats up, he can hear the spray of it hit the tiles, he can smell the steam. he can hear, through the door, the rustle of stiles' clothes as he undresses, and that's not good, because he shouldn't be listening to that. derek slowly drops onto his side, unemotionally sinking onto the cushion like a felled tree. he stares at the chessboard, and he tries not to listen. he genuinely does try not to listen.
he keeps listening.
stiles is naked, he thinks. after a while, there's just - no more clothes being removed, no more fabric brushing against fabric, which means stiles is naked, and soon he's going to be in his shower. naked. inside of derek's shower, stiles is going to be naked. and that's, uh. well, that's something.
derek might still tug on pigtails and call people names, but he's not this adolescent little idiot who only thinks with his dick. he's not scott. he doesn't have a hair-trigger on his boner, just fucking. waiting to get hard the second someone flashes him some skin. behind a fucking door. while they shower. nonsexually. like a person does. unaware that there's a fucking creepy werewolf stalker straining his advanced senses to hear him, letting his pulse quicken in his veins as he wonders, quietly, if stiles realizes that using his shampoo and smelling like him is going to drive him fucking insane. he can't know. he wouldn't have said it, if he did.
jesus. okay. derek needs to stop, he's feeling skeevy. he resituates himself on the couch a little better, rolling to face the wall of it and curling up a little, his legs too long to fit neatly in front of the arm. he's been getting carried away, lately, and he knows it's just... high emotions from finally being away from the fort, but he needs to roll it back. he's so tired of himself. of being this happy because of one person. of only being attracted to this one person. he needs to stop. can't rely on stiles. can't keep pushing this shit on him. can't keep wanting to go back to the barracks. that night.
so he waits. he'll wait, and he'll let stiles have his shower, and, okay, maybe, maybe, he'll think about knocking on the bathroom door and asking stiles if he wants company, and he'll maybe let himself think about what that would be like, if it was a successful way to proposition someone instead of creepy and kind of a lot. jesus christ.
[ stiles is used to rushing. when you've only got about thirty seconds of barely-hot water before it starts to run cold, every second counts, and stiles has gotten his showers down to about a minute and a half. which still leaves him standing in icy water for way, way longer than anyone should have to unwillingly suffer a cold shower for, but the half a minute of warm water makes the rest of it tolerable.
but he doesn't have to rush right now, and it takes him a second to remember that, half way through dragging his shirt off over his head before he realizes he can take his time. he stands there with his arms tangled in his t-shirt, pulled up over his face, and then he sighs, because it's nice to not have to scramble for a fucking semi-decent shower. stiles tugs his shirt the rest of the way off and drops it in the sink, briefly glancing at his reflection in the mirror, but it's already starting to fog up with the steam.
stiles can take his time here without having to worry about the water running cold, but the thing is... he doesn't actually want to. he ran up sixty-something flights of stairs because he wanted to see derek, which sounds kind of insane when he actually stops to think about it. he can hardly get through running suicides at school without wanting to throw up and toss himself off of a cliff afterwards, but he ran up sixty. fucking. flights. he could have stayed in the elevator and found some patience, but he chose to run some kind of crazy marathon instead just for a couple extra minutes with derek. they have the entire evening and night ahead of them, and however long it takes before derek kicks him out in the morning, and stiles still ran for it.
jesus.
stiles swallows thickly and tries not to think about derek and whatever he's doing while stiles faffs around in the bathroom wasting time. he peels off his socks, then unbuttons, unzips, and steps out of his pants, dragging his boxers down with them, and he tries really, really hard not to think about the fact that he's butt-ass naked. in derek's apartment. he tries not to think about derek being like, thirty feet away from him at most no matter where he is in the apartment. while he's naked. stiles is suddenly glad that the mirror is fogged up to hell and back.
the spray of water is a little too hot for stiles' taste when he finally steps in, but he doesn't move to turn the temperature down at all. too hot water is better than no hot water, and the heat makes his tight muscles feel a little better anyway. he breathes a sigh of sweet relief, head tilted forward so the water sprays over the back of his neck, and he just takes a couple long seconds to breathe. a hot shower with actual water pressure shouldn't feel this good, but it does. god, it does.
stiles lifts his head, tilts it backwards, drags his hands down over his face, stifling a quiet groan of contentment. okay. okay, enough wasting time. stiles breathes out, does a little twist one way and then the other before he finds the bottle of shampoo propped up on the narrow bar that runs around the back of the shower at about eye-level. he squeezes a generous amount into his palm, lathers his hair up, scrubs at the nape of his neck with his fingertips and drags his fingernails over his scalp. he rinses without getting suds in his eyes, then lathers his hands up with soap and gives himself a quick, full-body rub down. his hands stroke over his dick just once, but his mind immediately wanders to derek and what he's doing and if he could get away with— like really quick— ]
Nnnope.
[ stiles takes his hand off of himself with a decisive murmur because thaaat's dangerous. he scrubs under his armpits, rubs his fingers behind his ears, passes his soapy fingers over the back of his neck one more time, and calls it a successful shower. less than five minutes, probably, which still feels like an hour in comparison to what he's accustomed to.
stiles shuts off the water and he climbs out and he grabs the nearest towel he can find, patting himself dry. he rubs the towel over his hair, scrubs at his scalp, and then wraps the towel around his waist so he's not just standing there with his dick out in derek's bathroom. even though the door is closed. even though the bathroom is like, the most appropriate place for him to have his dick out. he rifles through his backpack, weighing his options. he could just pull on his sweats and a t-shirt, but it's not even really that late yet and that almost seems a little too comfortable for anything other than bed. he could pull on some khakis, throw on a hoodie. he could—
this is dumb. it literally does not matter, and stiles is just being dumb and nervous and stupid for no reason and he knows this and he's just wasting more time, which is annoying him too. he settles for sweats, grey and loose and threadbare, a plain black t-shirt, and a navy hoodie, unzipped, because he likes layers. he's more comfortable in layers most of the time. he worries about his hair next, but only goes so far as finger-combing it to the side a bit, just so it's out of his eyes and won't dry weird without any product in it.
okay. okay, cool, that's. as good as it's gonna get. they're not going anywhere, right? ... right? this is fine. stiles grabs his dirty clothes and folds them a little haphazardly, piling his shirt and his pants and his socks and his underwear on top of each other before scooping up his backpack. a cloud of rolling steam precedes him as he steps out of the bathroom and into the hall with all his stuff. which he decides to leave on the floor, leaned up against the wall just outside of derek's bedroom door. he decides to leave his phone, too, plopping it down on top of his clothes.
time to find derek, wherever he is. stiles calls out as he's making his way down the hall back toward the center of the apartment, wigging a finger in his ear to try and shake some water out of it. ]
it's torture, but it shouldn't be. realistically, derek understands that he barely knows stiles. he's analyzed himself and how he's behaved over these past few weeks enough times now to realize that any feelings he has for stiles can be easily explained away as just... a side effect of what they are to each other. these feelings are a byproduct of their contract, or of their time together. they're not real. how could they possibly be real, when there's so much about stiles he just doesn't know?
maybe he's just being possessive. maybe he's just so moved by the fact that he has a friend after spending so many years without one, he's confusing those feelings as romantic. stiles is filling a void in him, making him less lonely, and derek has to remember that, because that's not how a healthy relationship starts, he thinks. he's a romantic at heart, and it would be so easy for him to get carried away with this, and he just - can't do that. not to himself, and certainly not to stiles.
so. he needs to stop thinking. needs to stop being excited all the time, needs to stop treating a fifteen minute shower break like it's the end of the world. it's ludicrous, to derek, that he's in his twenties and pining over someone again. derek's so much better than that.
ugh, whatever. derek moves around a few more times, searching for a way to sit comfortably, before he finally ends up settling. he sits up, leans into the corner of the couch, elbow on the arm of it. it's really, really hard not to fixate on stiles. on the sigh of relief he heard when the warm water started easing away the tension on stiles' muscles - that groan he heard that he shouldn't have been listening to. it's hard not to feel-- so many things. lust. joy. comfort. loneliness. he's stewing in it all, waiting in silence, staring at the chessboard like it'll solve all his problems.
stiles comes out of the shower, eventually, and derek briefly panics about whether or not he'll need spare clothes, but stiles took care of that on the way over, it turns out. derek remembers the conversation they had earlier; stiles was insecure about the way he dressed, and derek, with a pang of guilt, remembers that he made that feeling worse, for a second. he looks up with just his eyes, resting his cheek on the lazy curl of his fist, and he watches stiles walk over.
derek's appraising him. it's obvious, because derek never hides the penetrating way he looks at people, but for all the apparent self-evaluation he's been doing these last few weeks, he doesn't seem to realize that judgmentally staring at someone right after they get out of the shower might be kind of awkward. he's just - curious, about the clothes stiles is wearing. he wonders if he can say something without it sounding forced. a... compliment. maybe. like "i notice you're wearing clothes - good work".
or something. that won't work. that's nothing. jesus christ. derek's eyes lift a little. stiles looks good in layers. he could at least say that. maybe. stiles asks about food, and derek looks away, back to the chessboard. he lifts his other hand and scratches the space between his eyebrows with his thumb, taking a long, deep breath. food. right. okay. ]
Pizza. Microwave. Should still be warm. Grab me a drink, too, while you're at it.
[ he doesn't care what of, but he only really owns soda and milk, so. probably soda.
derek stretches out on the couch, pops his shoulders as he does it. he props his heel up on the table, next to the chessboard, and he straightens out his leg until his knee gives a satisfying crack. he breathes out again, leans back against the sofa, and he tilts his head back, exposing his neck and closing his eyes. it doesn't look like much - he's just relaxing - but blinding himself and baring his throat means that he trusts stiles, and that he feels safe around him.
but he's also impatient to play fucking chess. ]
C'mon, hurry up. Everything's ready. I wanna make you cry already.
[ stiles slows to a stop at the mouth of the hallway, not quite in the living room, but not quite not in it either, but derek is just looking at him and stiles feels. kind of weird about it, like he's being scrutinized for his stupid, stupid choice in clothes. or maybe his hair is a fucking disaster, and he should have taken a few extra seconds to slap some pomade in it. maybe he shouldn't have gotten so comfortable in his soft clothes, like this is some kind of fucking sleep over and not - whatever this is. stiles has no idea what this is, except for subtle but embarrassing desperation on his part.
( derek was waiting for him by the elevator, though. he has to remind himself of that. )
changing his clothes now would just be suspicious and weird though, so - stiles owns his decision to be comfortable as best as he can own it. he stares at derek, slowly inching his eyebrows up his forehead while he waits for derek to say something - about food, hopefully, and not his clothes, because that'll shatter this whole illusion of stiles owning his stupid sweatpants and his stupid hoodie, probably. he's not typically insecure about his style, if you want to call his tendency to gravitate toward plaid overshirts style (stiles doesn't), but having two people he highly respects criticize him over it is enough to rattle his previously-solid foundation.
stiles takes his finger out of his ear and makes a small gesture with the same hand, like, well? because he's not really sure if derek heard him or if derek's just ignoring him or what, and he doesn't really want to repeat himself and look like a dumbass if it's the latter. he flexes his toes over the carpet to keep himself from rocking back on his heels in all of his awkwardness, watches as derek looks away and scratches between his eyebrows—
pizza. hell yeah, okay. great. pizza in the microwave, stiles can get behind that. he smiles a little without really thinking about it and shoots derek a pair of half-assed finger guns before setting off for the small kitchen.
briefly, he considers nuking the pizza for half a minute just to make sure it's nice and warm, but stiles would eat cold pizza without hesitation, and he's hungry, and derek said it should still be warm, so that's good enough. he grabs the box, sets it on the counter so he can tug open the fridge to grab a couple drinks, and really, really contemplates whether he wants a soda, which would be easier, or a glass of milk, which he hasn't actually had in like. months. because he sure as shit doesn't trust milk in the down to not be spoiled, or if not spoiled, at the cusp of going bad.
in the end, he doesn't want to search through derek's cabinets for a cup, and derek apparently already washed and put away the one he was drinking from earlier, so he settles for soda. he grabs two cans, sliding one into a hoodie pocket, nudges the refrigerator closed with his knee, and then grabs the pizza with his other hand, rolling his eyes as derek whines from the living room. he snags a napkin or two on the way out, too. ]
Yeah, yeah. I can't wait for you to make me cry, either. From laughing at how confident you were that you could play me in a game of chess and actually win.
[ stiles reaches out with a soda in his hand, ready to press the cold can to derek's throat for a second before he thinks better of it. instead, he just stands there for a beat, quietly considering the way derek is sitting, the way his head is tilted back, throat bared, eyes closed. it makes his lungs feel weird for a moment, makes his stomach dip a little, because he knows werewolves. he knows what it looks like to submit, and maybe that's not what derek is doing, because stiles is not a werewolf at all and not someone anyone would ever submit to the way wolves might, but - derek's relaxed enough to be vulnerable, and that makes stiles feel... something.
he doesn't touch the can to derek's throat, but he thumps it twice against his shoulder instead and then lets it go, counting on derek to exercise his reflexes before it can fall into his lap. stiles circles around to the other side of the coffee table, setting the pizza box down near the edge as he sits himself down on the floor. his muscles are still fairly tight and sore, so it's a little bit of an awkward struggle complete with a thin noise of discomfort and a half-grimace, but. he has pizza, and he's spending time with derek like he wanted, so it's all good. he's not going to complain.
stiles flips the pizza box open, then flicks at derek's ankle a couple times in an attempt to get him to move it, setting his own can of soda down on the table by his foot regardless of whether derek moves or not. he pops the tab, nodding his chin at the board as he reaches to separate a slice of pizza for himself, fingers pulling at the edges of the crust. ]
[ derek stays where he is while stiles fucks around in the kitchen, eyes closed and breath slow. his ears are pricked, listening to stiles' heart, comforted by the safe, steady beat through his clothes, and he feels warmed, for the first time, in this worthless cage of an apartment. this doesn't feel like his territory, but with stiles here, it's something close.
there's nothing stopping them from seeing each other for the rest of the evening and all through tomorrow morning, and that's just... the best. it's just going to be the two of them, some lukewarm pizza and a night in one bed. he's missed this.
stiles blearily opens his eyes when stiles stands over him, soda in hand, nudged against his shoulder. there's - a delay. he doesn't think to look at the soda, not at first. he just... looks up at stiles, takes him in. the color of his eyes, the softness of his hair. the way he smells like derek's shampoo, his soap, which puts a lump in his throat like he knew it would. it's only for a second, but he looks a little entranced, which is why when stiles lets go of the can, derek has to struggle to catch it.
it's not exactly the comical flailing of limbs stiles would have if their positions were reversed, but he grabs at the can and completely misses it, which is pretty unusual for him. a sign that he's distracted. the soda bounces off his seat and tumbles to the floor, rolling forward until it's stopped by the table leg, and derek stares after it, sighing a little. he pitches forward and has to stretch out to reach it, rolling it towards him with his fingertips, then leaning back just in time for stiles to flick at him and tell him to move.
ugh. ugh. ugh. okay. he slides off the couch and joins stiles on the floor, sitting on the opposite end of the table, crossing his legs and resting his forearms on the edge of it. the table has just enough room for their arms, the chessboard, the pizza and their drinks, which is good, but also optimal conditions for cheating. he will have to watch stiles pretty fucking closely.
the pizza's half-and-half, one side covered in barbecue sauce and different cuts of meat, the other slightly less carnivorous. derek knows stiles' order, or at least he thinks he does, because he's seen him eat pizza back home and he'd committed it to memory, as if it would one day come in handy to know that stiles has pineapple on his pizza and scott's an idiot who likes idiot mushrooms like an idiot. guess he was right.
derek takes a slice of his side, biting in and getting a mouthful of bacon. stiles tells him to take the first move, and derek only raises his eyebrows. whoever goes first actually tends to win, so this feels like an insult. like stiles is trying to give him a handicap. the only reason he agrees is because he's already on white's side and he's too lazy to make stiles move. ]
You're a dick.
[ but it's fine, whatever. he moves a pawn forward two spaces, eyebrows raised. there's this one really obvious trick you can do in chess, something peter used to pull with him all the time when he was a kid - move a pawn, move a bishop, move a queen, capture a pawn with your bishop, checkmate. he's not dumb enough to do that here, because stiles would see it coming a mile away, but the idea of beating stiles in three or four moves actually gives him a bit of a boner. that's not great. that says something about him. ]
[ stiles is a little too distracted with splitting his attention between the pizza on the table and the fumbling idiot across from him to actually realize that derek never actually asked him what he likes on his pizza, but still somehow managed to order exactly what he likes. it'll strike him later, probably, maybe as he's just about to fall asleep, or maybe even later than that, when he's waking up tomorrow. but right now he's preoccupied, watching derek with quiet curiosity as he reaches for the can he didn't catch (odd) and slides himself down onto the floor on the other side of the table.
stiles knows exactly what he's doing and it's clear by the shit-eating grin that he tries to smother by cramming a bite of pizza into his mouth. derek would have gone first anyway just by the rules of the game, but making it seem like he's letting derek have the advantage, like he's being gracious enough to let derek have a fighting chance at beating him is too good of an opportunity to pass up. ]
Mmhmn.
[ he flaps his other hand at derek, smiling around a mouthful of pizza as he sinks his teeth into warm-ish bread and less-warm-ish cheese and tangy pineapple, and it doesn't even matter that it's not hot, because it's still so fucking good. stiles has to take a second to really savor the moment. he sighs through his nose, his shoulders sagging a little and his eyes closing. fuck, pizza is so good. pretty much anything that doesn't come from the down is delicious, but this pizza is doin' it for him.
stiles flutters his eyes open in time to see derek make his first move. it's not anything that's particularly unusual or interesting - yet -, but stiles still narrows his eyes the tiniest bit, gaze flickering from the pawn to derek and back again. he wipes his fingertips on his thigh even though he barely touched the crust with this hand, then reaches out to move a pawn two spaces in the same column, right up to derek's.
if you'd told stiles at sixteen that one day he'd be sitting around in sweatpants and a hoodie, splitting a pizza with derek hale while playing an actual game of chess, stiles probably would have laughed until he gagged because in what world? if you'd told him at eighteen, before duplicity, he'd have laughed then too, maybe not as hard, maybe with a little sadness souring the edges, because stiles would have given damn near anything just to know where derek was, let alone play a game of chess with him.
in all honestly, stiles couldn't give a shit if he winds up losing this game. it would bruise his ego a little, probably dampen his pride for all of ten minutes, but it would be worth it all the same. he's said it already, but he's missed derek, not only here, but back home, too. don't get him wrong - he's glad derek finally got the hell away from beacon hills, but there were some days when things got really rough, where stiles would find himself wishing derek had just taken him with him.
he'd have gone, he thinks. but he has this, now. this fragile, tentative thing, whatever it is. and that's good too.
stiles crams another bite of pizza in his mouth, reaching for his drink. he doesn't sip from it right away, electing to set it down on the floor in the triangle formed by his leg instead, bent at the knee and laid flat. ]
I like this board.
[ he says, apropos of nothing, really, but it's the truth. it's nicer than the one he has, even before the many years and the many games played on it with his father wore it down. stiles gently pulls the pads of his fingers along the edge of the board, watching his own hand for a moment before he glances up. ]
[ keep grinning, you bastard. derek'll knock that smug look off your horrible, horrible face before too long.
derek sets down his pizza and taps the bottom of his soda before he opens it, like that'll somehow stop it from exploding a little after being dropped and shaken up. surprisingly, it doesn't work. he cracks open the tab and it starts to bubble over, but derek seals the hole with his lips and drinks the head, foam and a thin line of coke dribbling down the corner of his mouth. he coughs a little when he peels off, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. decent damage control, but not the best. pretty much an analogy for his life as an alpha.
but whatever. it's fine. derek sets his soda on the table, smears away a little extra coke with his wrist, then dries his hands off on his shirt. stiles said something about how he's surprised derek bought a chessboard, and derek's defensive and a hypocrite, so he uses the opportunity to be a snippy little bitch. ]
Yeah, well. I did, and it was expensive, so. Don't grease it up with your dirty pizza fingers.
[ as if he doesn't have dirty pizza fingers himself. as if he doesn't have dirty soda fingers, too, for that matter. derek wipes his hand on his shirt again, just really double-dosing this, then scoots a little closer to the table. stiles made a move, and it's kind of annoying, because moving their pawns together is the chess equivalent of cockblocking. but fine. whatever. he moves a pawn, too, one of the pawns guarding his rooks. figures he'll bring that out and go on the offensive.
once he's made his move, he leans back, propping himself up on one hand and picking up his pizza again. he bites, and he chews, and he looks at stiles, kind of... entertained. stiles is fun to watch. the expressions he makes, the way he looks at derek. it's... nice. fun. if someone had told him he'd spend an afternoon splitting a pizza and playing chess with stiles, he probably would have laughed. he can't possibly know that stiles is thinking the exact same sentiment - but he wonders if he feels the same way. ]
Anyway. I don't know. This is nice.
[ derek sets his pizza back down, and again, wipes his fingers on his shirt. he's not talking about the pizza, or about the chessboard that wasn't half as expensive as he's making it out to be, he's talking about... this. all of this. derek gestures with his hand a little, pointing at stiles, then pointing at him. it's been - nice, having each other. it was nice, waiting to see stiles come over. it was nice, knowing that stiles ran up to see him. everything is just... nice, and maybe drawing attention to it will break the magic a little, but he wants to talk about it. he promised himself he'd be honest with stiles, back in the barracks. he needs to keep pushing for that, even when it's kind of hard to do. like now. ]
I mean - this is nice, right? All of this. Kind of makes me wish I'd given you more of a chance back home. Maybe I could have been happier, if I tried harder to connect with you. With Scott, too.
[ but that's easier said than done. stiles didn't treat him back home the way he treats him here. derek was on the run from hunters, constantly, and while veracity scares the shit out of him, the argents are so much worse. the death of the hales, the loss of laura, all of that is still so fresh back home. the kanima, gerard. there are so many factors in why derek couldn't have given stiles a chance that just... aren't here. but.
he still just - wants that. to have a relationship like this with stiles back home. caring and kind. supportive and understanding. he hopes he won't forget, when he's finally removed from duplicity.
derek shrugs, shaking his head. he looks away from stiles and the board like he's in thought, but then he frownss and looks back, just in case stiles decided to cheat and move a piece on the board while derek wasn't paying attention. this might be a sentimental and emotionally freeing moment, but derek still won't let his guard down enough for stiles to cheat. ]
Then again - you did get me arrested, and Scott is trying to convince my pack that I'm a murdering psychopath while simultaneously trying to blow his load in an Argent, so. Neither of you deserve me. Should've just let Peter eaten you.
[ he's teasing. well, he's teasing stiles, at least. scott's still on his shit list after not answering his fucking phone in the pool. ]
[ stiles knows that derek tapping the bottom of his soda can isn't going to do shit for the carbonation, and he could stop derek, tell him to wait, let him have a sip of his until derek's soda has settled a little more - but that would be too easy and stiles would be a liar if he said he didn't want to watch this unfold. he's not expecting a volcanic eruption of coca-cola, but there was some bounce when derek failed to catch the can, so it's bound to be at least a little entertaining.
still, he casually reaches for the napkin on the table, makes like he's just trying to wipe some grease on his thumb when really he's just readying himself to wipe up the table and spare the chess board should things go better than he expects them to. better, in that things go worse.
derek handles it like a pro, for the most part, and there's minimum spillage, though stiles' eyes immediately hone in on the little streak of soda that drips from the corner of derek's mouth. there's... nothing remotely sexy about someone dribbling on themselves - except to stiles, apparently, but he's thinking less about the mess and more about cleaning it up, swiping his tongue up derek's chin and licking into his mouth for that sweet, almost acidic taste—
jesus christ. stiles clears his throat and puts the rest of his pizza in his mouth, tearing the crust away. he drops the crust in the box and then crumples the napkin in his hand up a bit so he can toss it at derek for being. stupid. and dumb. stop wiping your hands on your shirt like a twelve year old, you massive child.
derek makes another move, and stiles shifts his attention to the board again, forcing himself to focus on this game and not on the fact that he totally just disappeared into his own head for a second. definitely not on the fact that derek could probably smell the brief spike of unexpected arousal— no. he was not aroused and he is not aroused and if he just keeps telling himself that, then it's true, right? if he can manage to steady his heartbeat enough now to get away with lying to werewolves, surely he can will himself into feeling absolutely nothing.
stiles doubles down on his concentration, sitting forward a little and ducking his chin slightly so he's eye-level with the game pieces. they've only just started, but stiles is already thinking far ahead, his eyes shifting from piece to piece, mapping out different plays in his head, trying to guess derek's most likely counter for any move he decides to make.
he glances up at derek, peers at him over the top of his queen. it takes him a second to realize derek isn't talking about the board and the craftsmanship, but that he's talking about the company. he confirms it with a little flap of his hand between himself and stiles, and stiles feels - good. it makes stiles feel really good and if he thins his lips a little, it's just to suppress a small smile.
and then derek keeps going, and stiles feels great, and then he feels a little sad because derek talking about wanting something that could potentially make him happier is just. it's hard to know about all the things to come for derek, all the things he'll go through, all the things that'll hurt him. stiles' smile fades a little as he suddenly remembers allison, and how stiles didn't get to tell her.
he should really tell derek. he needs to tell derek about erica and boyd. he needs to tell him about scott's plan for gerard, about the bite. he needs to tell derek about peter, and cora. about mexico. he needs to tell him a lot, before he can't.
stiles makes his move instead, picking up a piece and placing it down with intent, a clear counter to whatever derek may have had planned, if anything at all. he draws his hand back, pays attention to the rest of what derek is saying, and finds something to focus on. the worst thing to focus on, apparently.
stiles cringes slightly, because the last thing he wants to do is think about scott blowing his load anywhere, but especially not - jesus. he may have never been best friends with allison, but she had her moments when she wasn't trying to murder scott and derek and derek's pack. derek may not thinks so - and stiles wouldn't necessarily blame him -, but allison deserves a little more respect than that. maybe stiles just feels bad for his own failure to protect her. ]
Come on, man. [ stiles picks up his soda takes a sip, licks his top lip. he keeps it vague on purpose, doesn't specify what he has a problem with in that sentence. ] I thought we were over the Derek's The Murderer thing?
[ stiles sets his drink down on the floor again, fingers pushing the tab back and forth until it snaps off. he puts that on the table so he doesn't do something stupid like drop it in his drink, then reaches for the pizza crust he discarded earlier, folding it in half. he bites at the crease, separating it into two pieces, squashed up against each other. ]
And [ he gestures at derek with his crusts, emphasizing his point, ] I'm pretty sure there's nothing you could have done to make Scott like you back then. Don't get me wrong— I love the guy, but he's pretty blind to everything and everyone else when it comes to... girls.
[ he was going to say allison, but then there was kira, who scott was also pretty obsessed over. maybe not to the same extent as he was with allison, but. stiles is just calling it like it is. the next thing he says is a little quieter. ]
Trust me. It's going to get a lot worse before it gets better.
[ scott, he means - it still kind of baffles stiles that scott really forced derek to bite the man who orchestrated the murder of most of derek's family, even if the plan was more complicated than that - but also life for all of them in general. there's never time to breathe, never time for a break.
except right here, right now, which is almost kind of surreal. stiles drags himself away from that darker mood that's threatening to creep up, smirking as he tries to lighten things up. ]
If you'd have let Peter kill me, then where would you be? You told me I need you to survive - [ stiles hesitates for half a second, shrugs his shoulder nonchalantly. he's not going to try and argue that point, ] and you're not wrong. ... Obviously. But you need me just as much.
[ stiles' eyes flicker briefly toward derek's bicep. his sleeves may cover his arms, but stiles knows what's there, what's healing. he'd promised derek that if he ever got shot for pushing the guards too far, that he'd dig the bullet out with his own hands if he had to, and when it came down to it, that's exactly what he had done.
stiles picks up the tab he broke off of his can and flicks it at derek, his eyes shining slightly, crinkled near the edges. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Telling me you're gonna make me wreck my body doesn't exactly sound fair.
But considering I don't plan on losing?
Deal. If you want to stand over me while I put your abs to shame, fine.
Because that's only gonna happen in your dreams.
I'm not telling you what happens when you lose, though.
no subject
If you win, I don't want you holding your punches. I want you to really make me regret thinking of you as a stupid idiot baby who can't play battleship without accidentally choking on one of the pieces, let alone chess.
Why don't you want to tell me?
Coward.
no subject
I want you to spend the next three hours wondering what I could possibly do to you that’ll make you think twice about ever questioning my chess game ever again.
I’ll tell you one thing though.
I’ll give you two options, and I’ll tell you the first one right now.
When you lose, you’re gonna post a video on the network, and you’re going to tell everyone how bad you are at chess, and you’re gonna tell everyone how great you think I am, and that you’ll never challenge me like this again. Publicly admit defeat.
You’re going to tell everyone that I’m the king.
Scratch that, you’ll tell everyone I’m your king.
And you have to sound sincere.
I’ll make you do it over and over again until you sound like you mean it.
Or there’s always mystery door number two.
no subject
But that's not going to work.
I'm not going to wonder. Why would I wonder? I have no intention of losing. This means nothing to me. This colorful little daydream you've whipped up? Absolutely meaningless.
I'm picking door number two, regardless of what it is.
I want this to be between us.
I want your inevitable failure all to myself.
no subject
Derek, you sweet summer child.
You sweet stupid werewolf.
You just did exactly what I wanted you to do and I didn't even have to try.
You have no idea what you just signed yourself up for.
I'm sealing this in.
Locking it down, this is your final answer, you can't go back.
I can't believe I'm going to come out a winner twice in one night.
[ says the guy who is suddenly incredibly nervous because that actually worked out exactly how he wanted it to, but had zero expectation that it actually would. cool. neat. it might actually just be easier to throw the game at this point. ]
no subject
Like I said - you're cute. I feel like I'm being threatened by a kitten. A sarcastic kitten.
Do your worst. You bastard.
[ he's kind of excited. he's kind of excited, but he's also sort of salty with himself for limiting his inevitable victory to making stiles do crunches. it'll be fun, watching him just straight up fucking die, and derek is completely sure that he's going to win this, but. should've thought of something more humiliating than physical exertion, if stiles is getting this creative with it. oh well. ]
Are you going to tell me what I'm signing myself up for, or do I have to wait until I've won to get it out of you?
no subject
I'm not even offended.
I love it when people underestimate me because it just makes handing their ass to them later that much more satisfying.
1.) I'm not going to tell you until you lose.
2.) If you win. IF. IIIF you win, I'm still not going to tell you. You'll just have to wonder for the rest of forever what your life could have come to if you'd lost.
3.) I'm about to get in the elevator to come up so I'll probably lose signal, and then it's like... ten minutes from there, so. See you in a couple hours? I'll let you know when we're wrapping up.
no subject
Your defeat has to be total.
I'm getting what I want.
Stiles.
[ ah, man, stiles has to go. that's... fine, derek doesn't want to steal all of his attention, but. just kind of missing him again already, which is stupid, and he's stupid, and this is stupid. everything's stupid. still - there's a fire under him now, and he's gonna get everything set up for the rest of the day. gonna grab food, gonna get the board set up. gonna... spend the night with his friend. that's kind of thrilling. when was the last time he invited a friend over for a fucking sleepover? has he ever? ]
But fine. Okay. Run away. Like a coward.
I'll see you when you're done.
Loooooooooooseeeeeeeeeer.
no subject
You think I'm gonna tell you, but I'm not.
You don't scare me.
If I lose - which I won't - but if I lose, you get to watch me work out.
That's what you asked for, so that's all you'll get.
It's too late to start making all these other requests, womp womp, sucks for you.
I'm done, by the way.
Be up in like ten.
[ there's a minute, minute and a half lull. ]
Make that thirty?
Some asshole pressed every button in the elevator before they got out.
See you in a year Mr. 89th floor.
God.
no subject
anyway. stiles texts him back and derek, who had been lounging on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, bored and lonely, sits up hard enough to hurt his arm. he winces a little, but he also doesn't care. stiles is funny. derek doesn't laugh, but stiles is funny. ]
I do want to watch you work out.
I'm going to make you do crunches until you tell me what you had planned.
There's no escaping this.
[ make that thirty, stiles says, and now, derek's kind of annoyed. he feels like he's been waiting for stiles all day, and now he's making him wait even more? he feels like walking down to the lobby and dragging him up the stairs, jesus. so annoying.
whatever. it's fine. in the hour and a half stiles has been gone, derek's been trying to make the apartment feel like home, which has been kind of difficult, because he... hates the place, and it still looks brand new. the apartment is furnished exactly the same as it was when derek first moved in, certain places completely untouched and covered in a light layer of dust, and fluffing up a few pillows and buying snacks for the night isn't going to change that.
he picked up some food - pizza, because everybody likes pizza, and even though he considered actually cooking something himself, he doesn't have the guts to try doing that for someone else just yet - and a dickton of soda, just because stiles seems like the kind of guy who likes soda. derek doesn't. but stiles probably does.
the chess board is set up in the living room, a deep, reddish wood with cream and dark brown pieces. derek didn't wait until stiles was here to set the game up, because stiles is a shady piece of shit, and if derek hadn't doublechecked the board for strings or secret compartments when he bought it, he would have very quickly accused stiles of pulling some kind of trick if he were the one to get the game ready and derek somehow, inconceivably, lost. ssssso. he will accept any loss he suffers as fair. but he isn't going to lose.
so. yeah. fine. good. everything's good. he's not nervous. why would he be nervous. derek paces to the front of his apartment, walking back and forth in front of the door, straining his ears to hear the elevator ping at the end of the hall. ]
You know I didn't choose to live on the 89th floor, right? This is just where they put me.
I'd move out and sleep in a box under an overpass, if I had the option.
no subject
I'll die before I tell you
But considering you're gonna be the one to lose
You can just have some patience and find out after I call checkmate.
[ for about ten floors, stiles repeatedly jabs the doors close button with his thumb every time the lift stops and opens. by the twelfth stop, stiles has had enough. he makes a frustrated sound in the back of his throat when the doors slide open to an empty hallway, and impulsively reaches down to snag his backpack by one of the straps, pushing his way out of the lift.
it's sixty-three fucking floors from here, but - he can make that, right? it'll be like running suicides, just... against gravity, and probably for way longer and way farther than stiles has ever run and also: stairs. but its fine. the alternative is to spend forty-five minutes standing in the elevator, and that's a total waste of time he could spend showering or eating or being around derek.
so he slides his backpack on over his shoulders, tightens up the straps so the bag sits high and flush to his back, and he starts up the stairs at a moderate pace, somewhere between walking and running, skipping every other step. fortunately for stiles, the flights in between floors are short, but it's still sixty fucking floors.
he makes it about half way before he has to stop for a breather, his thighs aching and warm, his knees a little weak. there's a sheen of sweat over the back of his neck and between his shoulders, his forehead a little damp. his heart is in his throat. he can feel and hear the pulsing rush of blood in his ears.
stiles slumps against the wall at the bottom of one set of stairs, hands curled around the straps at his shoulders, and leans his head back as if that'll somehow help with putting some oxygen back into his lungs. he has to lock his knees, otherwise he'll wind up sliding down until his ass hits the floor and there's no telling how long it would be until he got back up, if at all.
he checks his phone while he's taking a break, swiping some sweat from his temple with the back of his fingers. ]
I can find you a box.
I'll find you a box and a nice tree for you put it under in place of an overpass.
[ at this point he'll do whatever if it means he never has to climb this many stairs ever again in his life. of course, this is only happening because of one particular assholeish person. it's not like he'll have to take the stairs every single time he visits derek after this. it's not as if he didn't make this choice himself on account of he's impatient.
stiles pockets his phone, decides to peel himself out of his green overshirt, takes a deep breath. he blows it out nice and slow... and hauls himself up the stairs the rest of the way. it's not any easier, and his calves and his thighs and his ass and his back feels like it's on fire and also numb by the time he reaches derek's floor another five minutes later. he practically falls through the doorway into the hall by the elevator (which he's beaten by at least five minutes, if not more), stumbling on his feet a little, and when he reaches derek's door, all he does is lean his entire body against it, forehead pressed to the cool wood, palms flat.
derek can probably hear him panting. he can probably hear his heart battering up against his rib cage, and stiles knows this, but he doesn't care. he balls one of his hands up, pounds it pathetically against the door, and just kind of rolls himself away, squishing his backpack between his shoulders and the wall as he leans to wait for derek to let him in. ]
no subject
Rosalind's lab is ventilated, right? You didn't... inhale anything toxic?
I'm worried about you.
[ you know, because stiles' head is so fucked up that he thinks he stands a chance!! checkmate!!!!!!
whatever. whatever? whatever. fuck. derek's feet are hurting. his legs are tense and his muscles are taut, and he just keeps walking in front of his front door, over and over again, trying to hear the distant ping of an elevator eighty floors below him. waiting shouldn't be such a big deal; stiles ended things with rosalind sooner than derek expected him to, and he's coming over early to shower. the elevator could get stuck, maintenance could come and fix it, and stiles could get caught up in a fucking flash mob and he'd still make it to derek's apartment sooner than they'd originally planned. being impatient is just... the same as being greedy.
but he is impatient. he's very, very impatient, and he's very, very lonely, and it's not like he and stiles haven't seen each other since the fort, but he hasn't told stiles he missed him, and stiles hasn't promised to share a bed with him again, and there's so much here that derek wants that it's this scary, intimidating, amorphous blob of good feelings that he just wants to dive into already. this is taking too long, and... and he can swear that he's caught stiles' scent, somehow, through all the thick layers of concrete and wood and metal standing between them, and that's only making him feel worse.
he wants stiles. he wants to see stiles, he wants stiles so fucking bad.
impulsively, derek opens the door to his apartment and walks out, shutting it behind him. he takes a hard left down the hall, ducking out of sight from the top of the stairs, turning down a corner and making it to the end. the elevators are a ways away, but derek walks until he gets there, staring blankly up at the little LED display indicating that the elevator is still a good sixty floors below him. cool.
cool. cool. cool. great. fine. this is fine. derek's still pacing, but he's pacing a little faster now, arms crossed over his chest. sixty floors. fifty nine. fifty eight. fifty seven. derek glowers at the light above the elevator doors like it's just another stupid fucking act of aggression from duplicity against him. another shred of evidence that this apartment is fucking stupid, and that he hates it, and that he hates the city, and that he hates being here, and that he wants to be somewhere else. somewhere safe. with stiles.
stiles sends him another message and derek doesn't reply, but he stops walking just long enough to read it. he stares at the text, hears the words in stiles' voice. the uptick when he says something that's supposed to be a joke, the cocky little smile he'd have if he were saing this to derek's face. the way he'd laugh, that kind of soundless, sarcastic laugh he does, where he just exhales air through his nose and lets his shoulders shake. derek misses that fucking laugh. it hasn't been long since he's seen stiles laugh, but derek still misses it so bad.
he lifts his thumb to his lips and anxiously bites the nail, which isn't a good habit, and he knows that, so he crosses his arm again and tucks his hand beneath his bicep, sandwiching it against his side. he chews his lip, stops himself from peeling away any dry skin, because that's not a good habit, either. he can work with anger, he can shoulder his grief, but he sure as shit doesn't know how to deal with this impatient, scratchy anxiety that makes everything in him feel so tightly wound.
and then he hears a noise from behind him, just out of sight. the gangly footsteps of an uncoordinated idiot, crashing through derek's anxiety like he crashes through everything else. derek frowns, eyebrows meeting in the middle, and after a quick glance up at the elevator - still thirty floors down, maybe a little less - he turns, and he heads back.
and then there's stiles, sweaty and exhausted and trying to catch his breath, struggling to reclaim whatever dignity he has left in him before derek opens the door he's not actually behind and catches him. there's a window here where stiles doesn't realize he's there, and derek knows he should - take advantage of that, or something. come up with something biting and clever and funny, maybe. but he doesn't want to? he just...
this makes him feel happy. this makes him feel warm.
so derek walks over, keeping his footsteps light, and he's smiling, all self-satisfied and content and kind of endeared. stiles ran up to see him, and derek can't exactly pretend like he wasn't waiting outside the elevators to meet him - he wouldn't hide it, either, if stiles asked why he's not inside. they both wanted to see each other as soon as possible, and derek latches onto that, even though it would be so easy to assume the worst. so easy to assume that stiles is being chased by a fucking murderer and just needs to get inside as soon as possible, so easy to assume he's fucking-- shit his pants, or something, and just ran up here to change. derek doesn't let himself scroll through the rolodex of pessimistic and kind of mean bullshit, he just - assumes that stiles wanted to see him as much as derek wanted to see him back.
derek leans against the wall beside his door, arms still loose across his chest, but just seeing stiles is enough to relax him. he feels so much less tense, so much happier. derek might not know stiles as well as he should, being two years behind, but he knows that it's been a long, long time since he's just been this fucking happy to see someone.
and he's not an idiot. he knows what that feeling is. ]
It's unlocked.
[ he nods his head towards the apartment, like stiles is too dumb to know what he's talking about. "you look like a mess", fuck, that's what he should have said. ]
If you want to head in.
no subject
god, he probably stinks. he's a clean, hygienic person, and he put on deodorant this morning and then reapplied before he left, but he probably smells like rosalind's lab - clinical and medicinal, like a combination of all the chemicals he handled. and sweat. stiles can't actually smell anything on him, but he briefly considers snatching his deodorant out of his bag for another quick swipe under his arms, though. because his sense of smell isn't anywhere close to how sharp derek's is.
but there's probably not enough time for that, and derek opening the door to stiles freshening up his armpits would probably be more embarrassing that derek finding him like... this. too warm, with jelly legs and out of breath.
stiles doesn't actually hear derek at all when he rounds the corner. he's still breathing just a little too harshly to hear anything quieter than that. it's movement in his peripherals that catches his attention. stiles impulsively pushes himself away from the wall, fully intending to try and play it cool for derek's neighbor, or whatever other sad sack decided to take the stairs. he lifts his hand to rub at the back of his neck, but he's still holding his overshirt, so he just looks - dumb.
and it's not derek's neighbor, it's derek. stiles drops all pretenses and sags back against the wall again, not feeling nearly embarrassed as he thought he would. he does feel a little confused, though, because derek is... on the wrong side of the door. oh, right, he was picking up food, his brain supplies, but derek isn't carrying anything, so. that can't be it.
stiles doesn't ask, though, because derek leans against the wall on the opposite side of his apartment door and stiles is very easily distracted. he kind of wants to reach over and shove his shoulder for no particular reason, but that seems like it would require more energy than he's currently willing to expend, so he doesn't.
his eyebrows lift a little. he rolls himself sideways, leans his weight into the press of his shoulder. ]
That seems smart. You're a - [ he sniffs, swipes his thumb through the thin film of sweat over his upper lip, drops is hand, ] - a burglar's best friend.
[ he says it with a fair amount of seriousness, but the edges of his eyes crinkle a little and he finds himself smiling faintly and tiredly and definitely like an entire idiot. he hums unintentionally as he breathes out, and then tilts himself forward again until he's standing in front of the door.
it's unlocked, just like derek said. not that stiles thought he was lying, but he wouldn't put it past derek to tell him one thing just to see stiles make a fool of himself struggling to open a locked door. stiles pushes his way inside, already starting to slide one of his arms free of a backpack strap. he's still too warm, and the bag is keeping his body heat trapped between his shoulders, slowing down the process of cooling off. he turns on his heel, teeters a little on his jelly legs, takes a small step sideways with one foot to keep his balance. ]
Beat the elevator, [ he says with a lazy flap of his hand back toward the hallway he's already leaving behind, offering up an explanation for why he's all gross and red-faced and generally a mess despite the fact that derek didn't ask. he frees his other arm, and then just kind of stands there with his bag in his hands because he doesn't know where to put it down. it's awkward for a second before he just decides to act like this place is his old place. it's the same exact layout, only mirrored, and just about as bare as stiles kept his before he was moved to the down.
stiles sets his bag down by the side of the couch. he lifts one foot to pull his sneaker off, quickly realizes he has absolutely zero chance of balancing on one foot with his knees still as wobbly as they are, and sits down on the arm of the couch instead, dragging his leg up so he can get at his laces. ] Where'd you go?
[ he lifts his chin at derek, eyes flitting up from his fingers for a moment. why were you in the hallway, why were you not here to open the door and scoop him up and deposit him immediately into the air conditioning and press a cold drink into his hand.
why has it taken this long for stiles to admit he's missed sharing space with derek? ]
no subject
so this is a nice change of pace. the sweat, the struggle, the imminent cardiac arrest. derek's got this sly, wolfish grin on his face as he rests against the wall, watching stiles revert to the awkward, messy teenager he's always been. as much as stiles annoys the shit out of him when he's all frantic and physically emotive and energetic, it's comforting to see that he isn't always... worried about things.
maybe that's hypocritical, maybe he's projecting, maybe he just doesn't want stiles to be as fucked up by his trauma as derek is. maybe he's just... actually sort of starting to like this side of stiles, now that he's not constantly spazzing out when derek's trying to fucking get shit done. maybe it's cute. he does think stiles is cute, after all. that's written down. he can't take that back.
stiles lifts his eyebrows, calls him a burglar's best friend. derek lifts his eyebrows back, still smiling that same shit-eating grin, but by the time they've headed inside together, he's got it under control. he steadily closes the door behind them (and locks it, this time,) as stiles wobbles in, and his eyes linger on stiles' shoulderblades for a second or two as he goes. stiles takes a seat, and derek feels sort of awkward standing at the front door, so he drifts into the kitchen area, rummaging through the fridge for the soda he bought. it's cold, at least a little bit, but he adds some ice to a glass to really sell it. feels like it's probably been a while since somebody got stiles a drink, so. yeah. he wants to do it.
he gets everything set up, puts the soda back in the fridge, then heads back over when stiles is asking his question. "where'd you go". derek's eyebrows are back up, and he holds the glass out for stiles to take, carrying it with his good arm, the one he leant against the wall with.
he could lie. it'd be easy to lie, but. he'd already decided not to. ]
Wanted to see you sooner.
[ derek shrugs, like it's an easy thing to say, even though - as it always seems to be, with stiles - he feels a little bit like he's throwing himself off of a cliff. admitting that he has feelings, like a normal person? that shit can't keep flying as easily as it has been. one of these days, it's going to bite him in the ass.
still. he's happy. he wanted those few extra seconds, those tiny, bonus moments they'd have on the few steps back to his apartment. he's not ashamed of that, exactly, even if he is daunted by the idea that stiles might react poorly. it is what it is. ]
Why did you take the stairs?
[ he already knows. he hopes he knows. ]
no subject
derek offers him a drink, and there's ice and stiles looks almost awed by the gesture, his eyes flickering from the cool glass in derek's hand up to his face. he presses his lips into a thin line, but the edges of his mouth betray his dumb, pleased little smile. he reaches out, carefully takes the drink from derek so he doesn't spill. and then just sits there with his arm out, cup in his hand, looking a little dumb for a second.
wanted to see you sooner.
stiles' stomach swoops as he connects the dots. derek came from down the hall where the elevator is, and he wasn't coming out of the elevator because the lift had to be like, thirty floors below by the time stiles came bursting out of the stairwell. which means he was waiting by the elevators for stiles to come up, waiting to meet him because he wanted to see him sooner. because he wanted the couple extra seconds of time between the elevator and his apartment.
stiles likes him so much. stiles likes him so much it's stupid. he likes him so much that he loves him, which feel less and less scary to admit to himself every time he thinks about it, but still pretty terrifying when he thinks about what would happen if derek ever found out. it's fairly obvious by now that derek likes him at least a little bit - he's called him attractive, he's told him he's missed him - but maybe it's just a purely physical thing.
which is... fine. stiles is cool with purely physical if that's where derek stands. he can pretend he's cool with it, anyway, and do whatever he has to do to keep his feelings in check. that's fine. he's good at that, mostly.
stiles wets his lips and draws his arm back in, lifting his hand to press the cold glass to his cheek. it feels nice on his heated skin. he lets his eyes close for a moment, lets a soft, contented hum escape him, and then opens his eyes again. stiles takes a long sip of soda, knocking back about half the glass while simultaneously toeing his other shoe off by stepping on the heel of it with his other foot. he tilts his glass back down, the ice inside clinking quietly as it floats around. he crunches down on a smaller piece. why did you take the stairs?
for a moment, stiles just keeps chewing his piece of ice, rolling the smaller bits on his tongue as they melt away. he looks directly at derek, and his heartbeat quickens only slightly. the corner of his mouth lifts faintly, hinting at a smirk. ]
Because I've been thinking about your shower for the last three hours.
[ he shrugs just as casually as derek had, then brings his glass to his mouth again, pausing long enough to add: ]
But also because I'm impatient and I didn't want to waste thirty minutes standing in an elevator when I could spend thirty more minutes here. With you. [ he shrugs again, averting his eyes now that he's gotten that out, and speaks directly into his glass. it makes his voice sound a little echo-y. ] I have legs, so. Or - I did when I started. I'm not so sure anymore.
[ and then he chugs the rest of his soda, tilting his head back to get the ice at the bottom of the cup. ]
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but it could also go pretty badly, he thinks, because if there's one thing derek knows about stiles - one thing that he thinks he knows better than a lot of people do - it's that he's selfless. derek's arm isn't bandaged up anymore, but it's still very tender, and under the sleeve of his henley, there's a gnarly mark that hasn't fully recovered despite his accelerated healing. he doesn't want to ruin this by giving stiles a chance to... tell him to take it easy, or something. he doesn't want to ruin this quiet little bubble they have for themselves by reminding stiles of veracity, or the fort, or the execution, or - anything. any of it.
so he won't. stiles takes the glass, and he smiles, and derek's done smiling for the day, but their fingers brush against each other and derek nearly drops the glass when they do. he catches himself and plays it off, but for a second he can't tell if the heartbeat he can hear beating so loudly is stiles' or his own.
stiles gets comfortable. he drinks, he eats ice, and he stares at derek, and derek stares back, because if he didn't, he'd notice the wet, pink shine on stiles' lips, he'd notice the flushed color of his skin, he'd think about how easy it would be to steal his overshirt while stiles' is showering and hide it under his bed for when he's alone, and he can't think about any of that, just like he sure as shit can't act on that last impulse. he lets his nerves settle, and he waits, and he stares at stiles like he's bored, or like this conversation doesn't mean half as much to him as it does. he stares at stiles like he's intruding on his time alone in his new apartment, even though he's made it so fucking clear that he's been desperate for him.
the shower comment, though, that gets a reaction. he takes it seriously, at first. his eyebrows pinch and his jaw clenches, and his eyes flicker a bit like they want to close, just for a second. he's not really sensitive when it comes to jokes, least of all jokes made by stiles, but there'd been an energy in the air that he thought he'd read as-- something, and he guesses he was wrong? of course stiles wants to use his shower, jesus. he's been without decent plumbing for months. derek's an idiot, to think there could be anything more.
but then stiles keeps talking, and there's something in the way derek's shoulders slope that shows he's relieved to hear the confession, like whatever tension was tightening them up and keeping them raised has been swept away all at once. that's - good, he thinks. he wasn't wrong. stiles wanted to see him, too. fuck. fuck, he likes him so much, and he doesn't know what to do about it. this never ends well. this won't end well.
derek puts his hand on stiles' chest. stiles is too busy choking back ice from the glass for derek to make eye contact, but derek still waits, fingertips firm against his sternum, and when the glass is drained dry, derek slowly pushes stiles off the arm of the couch, tilting him forward into the seat cushions. ]
Dick.
[ bye. anyway, christ, okay. whether stiles scrambles to hold onto something so he won't fall or tilts back completely, derek fishes the glass out of his hand before it breaks and takes it back to the kitchen. he spends his time rinsing it, just because he's feeling a bit overwhelmed and needs a few seconds to himself to calm down, and when he shuts off the faucet, he dries his hands on the bottom of his shirt. he's still in the kitchen, when he calls out again. ]
Go shower.
[ he's not going to be a creep and ask for an invitation, but it's gonna be in his head until stiles is done. ]
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but derek just keeps his hand there and stiles finishes his drink and wills his heartbeat to slow down to baseline, which is a lot easier to do when his body isn't trying to pump as much blood through his veins as quickly as possible, routing oxygen to where it's needed to keep up with the amount of energy he's burning, which is currently none at all.
and then derek nudges at his chest and stiles isn't exactly ready for it, so he tilts back easily, his butt sliding backwards until it hits the cushions. stiles' empty hand flies out instinctively, grabbing at derek's forearm with a wavering, somewhat panicky sound somewhere in the back of his throat, but once he realizes he's not about to fall off the edge of the planet, he lets derek go.
stiles looks like an idiot, sitting there with his body practically folded in half, calves resting on the armrest where his butt just was, sock feet sticking out. he gives his empty glass up easily, watches derek walk away for a second, and then flops back completely on the couch, stretching himself out. he throws his arms backwards, reaching them up over his head, and relishes in the pull of his muscles, the warm ache. ugh.
he's turns onto his side, about to roll himself up an off of the couch, probably to follow derek and annoy him, but turning over puts him face to face with the chess board on the table. stiles pauses, then props himself up on one elbow to get a better look, his eyebrows lifting slightly. it's a nice board, definitely more expensive than the one he has back home, definitely less used. which makes sense, because derek only bought it recently, but it's nice. stiles reaches his hand out, drags his fingertips along one edge of the board, then picks up the king piece nearest to him for no particular reason.
he huffs at derek's command just to be annoying, setting the piece back down before he forces himself to haul his ass up and off the couch. he grabs his backpack from the floor and hooks it over one shoulder, scooping his rumpled overshirt up too and draping it over his other shoulder so he can add it to his small pile of clothes he'll have to wash at a later date. stiles knows the layout of derek's apartment like the back of his hand because he spent three months living here too, some seventy or so floors below, so he doesn't have to ask where the bathroom is. ]
Don't tell me what to do! [ he's halfway down the hall when he calls back over his shoulder, his tone anything but offended because he's literally letting derek tell him what to do, even if a shower was in the plans this whole time. ] Also, I'm using your shampoo and your soap.
[ because he didn't bring any. because his building provides shampoo and conditioner and soap for everyone in the communal bathrooms, but it comes in the form of a dispenser suction cupped to the walls, refilled probably once a week. perks of being lesser.
stiles disappears into the bathroom after that though, closing the door behind him. if he has any thoughts of inviting derek to come with him, he bites a hole through his tongue to keep them to himself, dropping his bag on top of the toilet seat and leaning to turn on the water so it has time to warm up while he's peeling himself out of his sweat-damp clothes. ]
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stiles is just... stiles is fun. derek doesn't have fun, all that often. he has fun with stiles. even in a place like this one. even if he complains the entire time they're together. maybe he shouldn't tease him so much. maybe it borders on bullying, sometimes. it's just so hard to stop himself from having fun, with stiles. from goofing around with him, teasing him, and hopefully, making him have fun, too.
either way. they move away from one another, and derek heads out of the kitchen in time to see stiles opening the bathroom door, catching a glimpse of an elbow as it ducks out of sight. again, derek finds himself feeling impatient. he wanted stiles to come over early, which is why he told him to shower here, and that worked out much, much better than expected, but now derek's alone and has to wait. again. this is so frustrating.
he retreats to the sofa, sitting on the very edge of the seat with his hands between his knees, looking down at the chessboard solely because it's something for him to focus on. he can't tell that stiles messed with it, but that doesn't stop him from fidgeting with the edge of it, running his thumb along the closest of the grooves drawn into each edge. he pulls his hands back, holds them between his knees again. he sighs through his nose, and he scratches his palm with his thumb, and he slaps his knuckles against his other fist. bored. bbbbbbored. already bored.
derek can hear the shower turn on. he can hear the rush of water through the pipes as it heats up, he can hear the spray of it hit the tiles, he can smell the steam. he can hear, through the door, the rustle of stiles' clothes as he undresses, and that's not good, because he shouldn't be listening to that. derek slowly drops onto his side, unemotionally sinking onto the cushion like a felled tree. he stares at the chessboard, and he tries not to listen. he genuinely does try not to listen.
he keeps listening.
stiles is naked, he thinks. after a while, there's just - no more clothes being removed, no more fabric brushing against fabric, which means stiles is naked, and soon he's going to be in his shower. naked. inside of derek's shower, stiles is going to be naked. and that's, uh. well, that's something.
derek might still tug on pigtails and call people names, but he's not this adolescent little idiot who only thinks with his dick. he's not scott. he doesn't have a hair-trigger on his boner, just fucking. waiting to get hard the second someone flashes him some skin. behind a fucking door. while they shower. nonsexually. like a person does. unaware that there's a fucking creepy werewolf stalker straining his advanced senses to hear him, letting his pulse quicken in his veins as he wonders, quietly, if stiles realizes that using his shampoo and smelling like him is going to drive him fucking insane. he can't know. he wouldn't have said it, if he did.
jesus. okay. derek needs to stop, he's feeling skeevy. he resituates himself on the couch a little better, rolling to face the wall of it and curling up a little, his legs too long to fit neatly in front of the arm. he's been getting carried away, lately, and he knows it's just... high emotions from finally being away from the fort, but he needs to roll it back. he's so tired of himself. of being this happy because of one person. of only being attracted to this one person. he needs to stop. can't rely on stiles. can't keep pushing this shit on him. can't keep wanting to go back to the barracks. that night.
so he waits. he'll wait, and he'll let stiles have his shower, and, okay, maybe, maybe, he'll think about knocking on the bathroom door and asking stiles if he wants company, and he'll maybe let himself think about what that would be like, if it was a successful way to proposition someone instead of creepy and kind of a lot. jesus christ.
jesus
christ.
when did he get like this. ]
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but he doesn't have to rush right now, and it takes him a second to remember that, half way through dragging his shirt off over his head before he realizes he can take his time. he stands there with his arms tangled in his t-shirt, pulled up over his face, and then he sighs, because it's nice to not have to scramble for a fucking semi-decent shower. stiles tugs his shirt the rest of the way off and drops it in the sink, briefly glancing at his reflection in the mirror, but it's already starting to fog up with the steam.
stiles can take his time here without having to worry about the water running cold, but the thing is... he doesn't actually want to. he ran up sixty-something flights of stairs because he wanted to see derek, which sounds kind of insane when he actually stops to think about it. he can hardly get through running suicides at school without wanting to throw up and toss himself off of a cliff afterwards, but he ran up sixty. fucking. flights. he could have stayed in the elevator and found some patience, but he chose to run some kind of crazy marathon instead just for a couple extra minutes with derek. they have the entire evening and night ahead of them, and however long it takes before derek kicks him out in the morning, and stiles still ran for it.
jesus.
stiles swallows thickly and tries not to think about derek and whatever he's doing while stiles faffs around in the bathroom wasting time. he peels off his socks, then unbuttons, unzips, and steps out of his pants, dragging his boxers down with them, and he tries really, really hard not to think about the fact that he's butt-ass naked. in derek's apartment. he tries not to think about derek being like, thirty feet away from him at most no matter where he is in the apartment. while he's naked. stiles is suddenly glad that the mirror is fogged up to hell and back.
the spray of water is a little too hot for stiles' taste when he finally steps in, but he doesn't move to turn the temperature down at all. too hot water is better than no hot water, and the heat makes his tight muscles feel a little better anyway. he breathes a sigh of sweet relief, head tilted forward so the water sprays over the back of his neck, and he just takes a couple long seconds to breathe. a hot shower with actual water pressure shouldn't feel this good, but it does. god, it does.
stiles lifts his head, tilts it backwards, drags his hands down over his face, stifling a quiet groan of contentment. okay. okay, enough wasting time. stiles breathes out, does a little twist one way and then the other before he finds the bottle of shampoo propped up on the narrow bar that runs around the back of the shower at about eye-level. he squeezes a generous amount into his palm, lathers his hair up, scrubs at the nape of his neck with his fingertips and drags his fingernails over his scalp. he rinses without getting suds in his eyes, then lathers his hands up with soap and gives himself a quick, full-body rub down. his hands stroke over his dick just once, but his mind immediately wanders to derek and what he's doing and if he could get away with— like really quick— ]
Nnnope.
[ stiles takes his hand off of himself with a decisive murmur because thaaat's dangerous. he scrubs under his armpits, rubs his fingers behind his ears, passes his soapy fingers over the back of his neck one more time, and calls it a successful shower. less than five minutes, probably, which still feels like an hour in comparison to what he's accustomed to.
stiles shuts off the water and he climbs out and he grabs the nearest towel he can find, patting himself dry. he rubs the towel over his hair, scrubs at his scalp, and then wraps the towel around his waist so he's not just standing there with his dick out in derek's bathroom. even though the door is closed. even though the bathroom is like, the most appropriate place for him to have his dick out. he rifles through his backpack, weighing his options. he could just pull on his sweats and a t-shirt, but it's not even really that late yet and that almost seems a little too comfortable for anything other than bed. he could pull on some khakis, throw on a hoodie. he could—
this is dumb. it literally does not matter, and stiles is just being dumb and nervous and stupid for no reason and he knows this and he's just wasting more time, which is annoying him too. he settles for sweats, grey and loose and threadbare, a plain black t-shirt, and a navy hoodie, unzipped, because he likes layers. he's more comfortable in layers most of the time. he worries about his hair next, but only goes so far as finger-combing it to the side a bit, just so it's out of his eyes and won't dry weird without any product in it.
okay. okay, cool, that's. as good as it's gonna get. they're not going anywhere, right? ... right? this is fine. stiles grabs his dirty clothes and folds them a little haphazardly, piling his shirt and his pants and his socks and his underwear on top of each other before scooping up his backpack. a cloud of rolling steam precedes him as he steps out of the bathroom and into the hall with all his stuff. which he decides to leave on the floor, leaned up against the wall just outside of derek's bedroom door. he decides to leave his phone, too, plopping it down on top of his clothes.
time to find derek, wherever he is. stiles calls out as he's making his way down the hall back toward the center of the apartment, wigging a finger in his ear to try and shake some water out of it. ]
Hey, what did you end up picking up to eat?
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it's torture, but it shouldn't be. realistically, derek understands that he barely knows stiles. he's analyzed himself and how he's behaved over these past few weeks enough times now to realize that any feelings he has for stiles can be easily explained away as just... a side effect of what they are to each other. these feelings are a byproduct of their contract, or of their time together. they're not real. how could they possibly be real, when there's so much about stiles he just doesn't know?
maybe he's just being possessive. maybe he's just so moved by the fact that he has a friend after spending so many years without one, he's confusing those feelings as romantic. stiles is filling a void in him, making him less lonely, and derek has to remember that, because that's not how a healthy relationship starts, he thinks. he's a romantic at heart, and it would be so easy for him to get carried away with this, and he just - can't do that. not to himself, and certainly not to stiles.
so. he needs to stop thinking. needs to stop being excited all the time, needs to stop treating a fifteen minute shower break like it's the end of the world. it's ludicrous, to derek, that he's in his twenties and pining over someone again. derek's so much better than that.
ugh, whatever. derek moves around a few more times, searching for a way to sit comfortably, before he finally ends up settling. he sits up, leans into the corner of the couch, elbow on the arm of it. it's really, really hard not to fixate on stiles. on the sigh of relief he heard when the warm water started easing away the tension on stiles' muscles - that groan he heard that he shouldn't have been listening to. it's hard not to feel-- so many things. lust. joy. comfort. loneliness. he's stewing in it all, waiting in silence, staring at the chessboard like it'll solve all his problems.
stiles comes out of the shower, eventually, and derek briefly panics about whether or not he'll need spare clothes, but stiles took care of that on the way over, it turns out. derek remembers the conversation they had earlier; stiles was insecure about the way he dressed, and derek, with a pang of guilt, remembers that he made that feeling worse, for a second. he looks up with just his eyes, resting his cheek on the lazy curl of his fist, and he watches stiles walk over.
derek's appraising him. it's obvious, because derek never hides the penetrating way he looks at people, but for all the apparent self-evaluation he's been doing these last few weeks, he doesn't seem to realize that judgmentally staring at someone right after they get out of the shower might be kind of awkward. he's just - curious, about the clothes stiles is wearing. he wonders if he can say something without it sounding forced. a... compliment. maybe. like "i notice you're wearing clothes - good work".
or something. that won't work. that's nothing. jesus christ. derek's eyes lift a little. stiles looks good in layers. he could at least say that. maybe. stiles asks about food, and derek looks away, back to the chessboard. he lifts his other hand and scratches the space between his eyebrows with his thumb, taking a long, deep breath. food. right. okay. ]
Pizza. Microwave. Should still be warm. Grab me a drink, too, while you're at it.
[ he doesn't care what of, but he only really owns soda and milk, so. probably soda.
derek stretches out on the couch, pops his shoulders as he does it. he props his heel up on the table, next to the chessboard, and he straightens out his leg until his knee gives a satisfying crack. he breathes out again, leans back against the sofa, and he tilts his head back, exposing his neck and closing his eyes. it doesn't look like much - he's just relaxing - but blinding himself and baring his throat means that he trusts stiles, and that he feels safe around him.
but he's also impatient to play fucking chess. ]
C'mon, hurry up. Everything's ready. I wanna make you cry already.
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( derek was waiting for him by the elevator, though. he has to remind himself of that. )
changing his clothes now would just be suspicious and weird though, so - stiles owns his decision to be comfortable as best as he can own it. he stares at derek, slowly inching his eyebrows up his forehead while he waits for derek to say something - about food, hopefully, and not his clothes, because that'll shatter this whole illusion of stiles owning his stupid sweatpants and his stupid hoodie, probably. he's not typically insecure about his style, if you want to call his tendency to gravitate toward plaid overshirts style (stiles doesn't), but having two people he highly respects criticize him over it is enough to rattle his previously-solid foundation.
stiles takes his finger out of his ear and makes a small gesture with the same hand, like, well? because he's not really sure if derek heard him or if derek's just ignoring him or what, and he doesn't really want to repeat himself and look like a dumbass if it's the latter. he flexes his toes over the carpet to keep himself from rocking back on his heels in all of his awkwardness, watches as derek looks away and scratches between his eyebrows—
pizza. hell yeah, okay. great. pizza in the microwave, stiles can get behind that. he smiles a little without really thinking about it and shoots derek a pair of half-assed finger guns before setting off for the small kitchen.
briefly, he considers nuking the pizza for half a minute just to make sure it's nice and warm, but stiles would eat cold pizza without hesitation, and he's hungry, and derek said it should still be warm, so that's good enough. he grabs the box, sets it on the counter so he can tug open the fridge to grab a couple drinks, and really, really contemplates whether he wants a soda, which would be easier, or a glass of milk, which he hasn't actually had in like. months. because he sure as shit doesn't trust milk in the down to not be spoiled, or if not spoiled, at the cusp of going bad.
in the end, he doesn't want to search through derek's cabinets for a cup, and derek apparently already washed and put away the one he was drinking from earlier, so he settles for soda. he grabs two cans, sliding one into a hoodie pocket, nudges the refrigerator closed with his knee, and then grabs the pizza with his other hand, rolling his eyes as derek whines from the living room. he snags a napkin or two on the way out, too. ]
Yeah, yeah. I can't wait for you to make me cry, either. From laughing at how confident you were that you could play me in a game of chess and actually win.
[ stiles reaches out with a soda in his hand, ready to press the cold can to derek's throat for a second before he thinks better of it. instead, he just stands there for a beat, quietly considering the way derek is sitting, the way his head is tilted back, throat bared, eyes closed. it makes his lungs feel weird for a moment, makes his stomach dip a little, because he knows werewolves. he knows what it looks like to submit, and maybe that's not what derek is doing, because stiles is not a werewolf at all and not someone anyone would ever submit to the way wolves might, but - derek's relaxed enough to be vulnerable, and that makes stiles feel... something.
he doesn't touch the can to derek's throat, but he thumps it twice against his shoulder instead and then lets it go, counting on derek to exercise his reflexes before it can fall into his lap. stiles circles around to the other side of the coffee table, setting the pizza box down near the edge as he sits himself down on the floor. his muscles are still fairly tight and sore, so it's a little bit of an awkward struggle complete with a thin noise of discomfort and a half-grimace, but. he has pizza, and he's spending time with derek like he wanted, so it's all good. he's not going to complain.
stiles flips the pizza box open, then flicks at derek's ankle a couple times in an attempt to get him to move it, setting his own can of soda down on the table by his foot regardless of whether derek moves or not. he pops the tab, nodding his chin at the board as he reaches to separate a slice of pizza for himself, fingers pulling at the edges of the crust. ]
Go ahead. You can have the first move.
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there's nothing stopping them from seeing each other for the rest of the evening and all through tomorrow morning, and that's just... the best. it's just going to be the two of them, some lukewarm pizza and a night in one bed. he's missed this.
stiles blearily opens his eyes when stiles stands over him, soda in hand, nudged against his shoulder. there's - a delay. he doesn't think to look at the soda, not at first. he just... looks up at stiles, takes him in. the color of his eyes, the softness of his hair. the way he smells like derek's shampoo, his soap, which puts a lump in his throat like he knew it would. it's only for a second, but he looks a little entranced, which is why when stiles lets go of the can, derek has to struggle to catch it.
it's not exactly the comical flailing of limbs stiles would have if their positions were reversed, but he grabs at the can and completely misses it, which is pretty unusual for him. a sign that he's distracted. the soda bounces off his seat and tumbles to the floor, rolling forward until it's stopped by the table leg, and derek stares after it, sighing a little. he pitches forward and has to stretch out to reach it, rolling it towards him with his fingertips, then leaning back just in time for stiles to flick at him and tell him to move.
ugh. ugh. ugh. okay. he slides off the couch and joins stiles on the floor, sitting on the opposite end of the table, crossing his legs and resting his forearms on the edge of it. the table has just enough room for their arms, the chessboard, the pizza and their drinks, which is good, but also optimal conditions for cheating. he will have to watch stiles pretty fucking closely.
the pizza's half-and-half, one side covered in barbecue sauce and different cuts of meat, the other slightly less carnivorous. derek knows stiles' order, or at least he thinks he does, because he's seen him eat pizza back home and he'd committed it to memory, as if it would one day come in handy to know that stiles has pineapple on his pizza and scott's an idiot who likes idiot mushrooms like an idiot. guess he was right.
derek takes a slice of his side, biting in and getting a mouthful of bacon. stiles tells him to take the first move, and derek only raises his eyebrows. whoever goes first actually tends to win, so this feels like an insult. like stiles is trying to give him a handicap. the only reason he agrees is because he's already on white's side and he's too lazy to make stiles move. ]
You're a dick.
[ but it's fine, whatever. he moves a pawn forward two spaces, eyebrows raised. there's this one really obvious trick you can do in chess, something peter used to pull with him all the time when he was a kid - move a pawn, move a bishop, move a queen, capture a pawn with your bishop, checkmate. he's not dumb enough to do that here, because stiles would see it coming a mile away, but the idea of beating stiles in three or four moves actually gives him a bit of a boner. that's not great. that says something about him. ]
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stiles knows exactly what he's doing and it's clear by the shit-eating grin that he tries to smother by cramming a bite of pizza into his mouth. derek would have gone first anyway just by the rules of the game, but making it seem like he's letting derek have the advantage, like he's being gracious enough to let derek have a fighting chance at beating him is too good of an opportunity to pass up. ]
Mmhmn.
[ he flaps his other hand at derek, smiling around a mouthful of pizza as he sinks his teeth into warm-ish bread and less-warm-ish cheese and tangy pineapple, and it doesn't even matter that it's not hot, because it's still so fucking good. stiles has to take a second to really savor the moment. he sighs through his nose, his shoulders sagging a little and his eyes closing. fuck, pizza is so good. pretty much anything that doesn't come from the down is delicious, but this pizza is doin' it for him.
stiles flutters his eyes open in time to see derek make his first move. it's not anything that's particularly unusual or interesting - yet -, but stiles still narrows his eyes the tiniest bit, gaze flickering from the pawn to derek and back again. he wipes his fingertips on his thigh even though he barely touched the crust with this hand, then reaches out to move a pawn two spaces in the same column, right up to derek's.
if you'd told stiles at sixteen that one day he'd be sitting around in sweatpants and a hoodie, splitting a pizza with derek hale while playing an actual game of chess, stiles probably would have laughed until he gagged because in what world? if you'd told him at eighteen, before duplicity, he'd have laughed then too, maybe not as hard, maybe with a little sadness souring the edges, because stiles would have given damn near anything just to know where derek was, let alone play a game of chess with him.
in all honestly, stiles couldn't give a shit if he winds up losing this game. it would bruise his ego a little, probably dampen his pride for all of ten minutes, but it would be worth it all the same. he's said it already, but he's missed derek, not only here, but back home, too. don't get him wrong - he's glad derek finally got the hell away from beacon hills, but there were some days when things got really rough, where stiles would find himself wishing derek had just taken him with him.
he'd have gone, he thinks. but he has this, now. this fragile, tentative thing, whatever it is. and that's good too.
stiles crams another bite of pizza in his mouth, reaching for his drink. he doesn't sip from it right away, electing to set it down on the floor in the triangle formed by his leg instead, bent at the knee and laid flat. ]
I like this board.
[ he says, apropos of nothing, really, but it's the truth. it's nicer than the one he has, even before the many years and the many games played on it with his father wore it down. stiles gently pulls the pads of his fingers along the edge of the board, watching his own hand for a moment before he glances up. ]
Didn't think you'd actually buy one.
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derek sets down his pizza and taps the bottom of his soda before he opens it, like that'll somehow stop it from exploding a little after being dropped and shaken up. surprisingly, it doesn't work. he cracks open the tab and it starts to bubble over, but derek seals the hole with his lips and drinks the head, foam and a thin line of coke dribbling down the corner of his mouth. he coughs a little when he peels off, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. decent damage control, but not the best. pretty much an analogy for his life as an alpha.
but whatever. it's fine. derek sets his soda on the table, smears away a little extra coke with his wrist, then dries his hands off on his shirt. stiles said something about how he's surprised derek bought a chessboard, and derek's defensive and a hypocrite, so he uses the opportunity to be a snippy little bitch. ]
Yeah, well. I did, and it was expensive, so. Don't grease it up with your dirty pizza fingers.
[ as if he doesn't have dirty pizza fingers himself. as if he doesn't have dirty soda fingers, too, for that matter. derek wipes his hand on his shirt again, just really double-dosing this, then scoots a little closer to the table. stiles made a move, and it's kind of annoying, because moving their pawns together is the chess equivalent of cockblocking. but fine. whatever. he moves a pawn, too, one of the pawns guarding his rooks. figures he'll bring that out and go on the offensive.
once he's made his move, he leans back, propping himself up on one hand and picking up his pizza again. he bites, and he chews, and he looks at stiles, kind of... entertained. stiles is fun to watch. the expressions he makes, the way he looks at derek. it's... nice. fun. if someone had told him he'd spend an afternoon splitting a pizza and playing chess with stiles, he probably would have laughed. he can't possibly know that stiles is thinking the exact same sentiment - but he wonders if he feels the same way. ]
Anyway. I don't know. This is nice.
[ derek sets his pizza back down, and again, wipes his fingers on his shirt. he's not talking about the pizza, or about the chessboard that wasn't half as expensive as he's making it out to be, he's talking about... this. all of this. derek gestures with his hand a little, pointing at stiles, then pointing at him. it's been - nice, having each other. it was nice, waiting to see stiles come over. it was nice, knowing that stiles ran up to see him. everything is just... nice, and maybe drawing attention to it will break the magic a little, but he wants to talk about it. he promised himself he'd be honest with stiles, back in the barracks. he needs to keep pushing for that, even when it's kind of hard to do. like now. ]
I mean - this is nice, right? All of this. Kind of makes me wish I'd given you more of a chance back home. Maybe I could have been happier, if I tried harder to connect with you. With Scott, too.
[ but that's easier said than done. stiles didn't treat him back home the way he treats him here. derek was on the run from hunters, constantly, and while veracity scares the shit out of him, the argents are so much worse. the death of the hales, the loss of laura, all of that is still so fresh back home. the kanima, gerard. there are so many factors in why derek couldn't have given stiles a chance that just... aren't here. but.
he still just - wants that. to have a relationship like this with stiles back home. caring and kind. supportive and understanding. he hopes he won't forget, when he's finally removed from duplicity.
derek shrugs, shaking his head. he looks away from stiles and the board like he's in thought, but then he frownss and looks back, just in case stiles decided to cheat and move a piece on the board while derek wasn't paying attention. this might be a sentimental and emotionally freeing moment, but derek still won't let his guard down enough for stiles to cheat. ]
Then again - you did get me arrested, and Scott is trying to convince my pack that I'm a murdering psychopath while simultaneously trying to blow his load in an Argent, so. Neither of you deserve me. Should've just let Peter eaten you.
[ he's teasing. well, he's teasing stiles, at least. scott's still on his shit list after not answering his fucking phone in the pool. ]
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still, he casually reaches for the napkin on the table, makes like he's just trying to wipe some grease on his thumb when really he's just readying himself to wipe up the table and spare the chess board should things go better than he expects them to. better, in that things go worse.
derek handles it like a pro, for the most part, and there's minimum spillage, though stiles' eyes immediately hone in on the little streak of soda that drips from the corner of derek's mouth. there's... nothing remotely sexy about someone dribbling on themselves - except to stiles, apparently, but he's thinking less about the mess and more about cleaning it up, swiping his tongue up derek's chin and licking into his mouth for that sweet, almost acidic taste—
jesus christ. stiles clears his throat and puts the rest of his pizza in his mouth, tearing the crust away. he drops the crust in the box and then crumples the napkin in his hand up a bit so he can toss it at derek for being. stupid. and dumb. stop wiping your hands on your shirt like a twelve year old, you massive child.
derek makes another move, and stiles shifts his attention to the board again, forcing himself to focus on this game and not on the fact that he totally just disappeared into his own head for a second. definitely not on the fact that derek could probably smell the brief spike of unexpected arousal— no. he was not aroused and he is not aroused and if he just keeps telling himself that, then it's true, right? if he can manage to steady his heartbeat enough now to get away with lying to werewolves, surely he can will himself into feeling absolutely nothing.
stiles doubles down on his concentration, sitting forward a little and ducking his chin slightly so he's eye-level with the game pieces. they've only just started, but stiles is already thinking far ahead, his eyes shifting from piece to piece, mapping out different plays in his head, trying to guess derek's most likely counter for any move he decides to make.
he glances up at derek, peers at him over the top of his queen. it takes him a second to realize derek isn't talking about the board and the craftsmanship, but that he's talking about the company. he confirms it with a little flap of his hand between himself and stiles, and stiles feels - good. it makes stiles feel really good and if he thins his lips a little, it's just to suppress a small smile.
and then derek keeps going, and stiles feels great, and then he feels a little sad because derek talking about wanting something that could potentially make him happier is just. it's hard to know about all the things to come for derek, all the things he'll go through, all the things that'll hurt him. stiles' smile fades a little as he suddenly remembers allison, and how stiles didn't get to tell her.
he should really tell derek. he needs to tell derek about erica and boyd. he needs to tell him about scott's plan for gerard, about the bite. he needs to tell derek about peter, and cora. about mexico. he needs to tell him a lot, before he can't.
stiles makes his move instead, picking up a piece and placing it down with intent, a clear counter to whatever derek may have had planned, if anything at all. he draws his hand back, pays attention to the rest of what derek is saying, and finds something to focus on. the worst thing to focus on, apparently.
stiles cringes slightly, because the last thing he wants to do is think about scott blowing his load anywhere, but especially not - jesus. he may have never been best friends with allison, but she had her moments when she wasn't trying to murder scott and derek and derek's pack. derek may not thinks so - and stiles wouldn't necessarily blame him -, but allison deserves a little more respect than that. maybe stiles just feels bad for his own failure to protect her. ]
Come on, man. [ stiles picks up his soda takes a sip, licks his top lip. he keeps it vague on purpose, doesn't specify what he has a problem with in that sentence. ] I thought we were over the Derek's The Murderer thing?
[ stiles sets his drink down on the floor again, fingers pushing the tab back and forth until it snaps off. he puts that on the table so he doesn't do something stupid like drop it in his drink, then reaches for the pizza crust he discarded earlier, folding it in half. he bites at the crease, separating it into two pieces, squashed up against each other. ]
And [ he gestures at derek with his crusts, emphasizing his point, ] I'm pretty sure there's nothing you could have done to make Scott like you back then. Don't get me wrong— I love the guy, but he's pretty blind to everything and everyone else when it comes to... girls.
[ he was going to say allison, but then there was kira, who scott was also pretty obsessed over. maybe not to the same extent as he was with allison, but. stiles is just calling it like it is. the next thing he says is a little quieter. ]
Trust me. It's going to get a lot worse before it gets better.
[ scott, he means - it still kind of baffles stiles that scott really forced derek to bite the man who orchestrated the murder of most of derek's family, even if the plan was more complicated than that - but also life for all of them in general. there's never time to breathe, never time for a break.
except right here, right now, which is almost kind of surreal. stiles drags himself away from that darker mood that's threatening to creep up, smirking as he tries to lighten things up. ]
If you'd have let Peter kill me, then where would you be? You told me I need you to survive - [ stiles hesitates for half a second, shrugs his shoulder nonchalantly. he's not going to try and argue that point, ] and you're not wrong. ... Obviously. But you need me just as much.
[ stiles' eyes flicker briefly toward derek's bicep. his sleeves may cover his arms, but stiles knows what's there, what's healing. he'd promised derek that if he ever got shot for pushing the guards too far, that he'd dig the bullet out with his own hands if he had to, and when it came down to it, that's exactly what he had done.
stiles picks up the tab he broke off of his can and flicks it at derek, his eyes shining slightly, crinkled near the edges. ]
Your turn, hotshot.
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