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Social Emitter: N/A
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| Players |
 Derek Hale  Stiles Stilinski
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NPCs |
None
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Factions |
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Music |
"San and Ashitaka Theme" from Princess Mononoke (Yeah, I went there!)
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Something's wrong with Derek. Stiles tries to take care of him.
August 20, 2015
Derek Hale's Loft, Beacon Hills
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<OOC> Stiles says, "KEEP CALM AND SHIP STEREK" |
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Because you can't handle the Sterek cuteness. You just can't. even. |
This log follows the events of:
- 2015.08.16 - Breakfast with Derek Gets Too Close for Comfort
- 2015.08.18 - Cutscene: A Day in the Life (of Stiles Stilinski)
The Jeep pulls up outside, and there's the sound of sneakers on pavement. The car door shuts, then the steps enter the warehouse. The elevator door clacks open, the machine rumbles, and soon the door above opens, admitting Stiles Stilinski into the room, moving cautiously. "Derek...?" he calls out, uncertain, worried.
The place is quiet, but music can be heard softly. Very softly, so low as to almost be inaudible. It's classical, soothing tones, nothing too jarring or modern. There's no sign of Derek at first, but he shifts slightly on the bed at the far end of the room, catching the light and shadow on his body.
Stiles progresses in, slowly, and as he finally sees Derek, he stops a number of feet away. Not quite approaching, he calls over again, "...Derek? You there? It's Stiles." He wants to draw near, but based on their last meeting... he holds back.
"Mm." Derek pushes up and sits up. He's fully-dressed, he's just...rough-looking. Must have been a hard week since Stiles was here last. He's just not sure what to do, and it shows on his face, in his eyes. They just don't have the same gleam, or one could say, the same spark...like he's exhausted.
Stiles sits down on the edge of the arm of the couch, resting his hands on his thighs. "Hey," he calls over, expression quite serious and worried. He's been looking, but he hasn't found any good answers yet. He doesn't know what to say.
Derek sits in silence for a time, then he abruptly begins to move, rising to stand and immediately leaning into motion. Soon he is over at the couch, and he wraps his arms around Stiles, pulling the boy's head to his stomach. No words yet, just that. Apparently by way of a greeting.
Stiles wraps his arms around Derek's waist, hugging him as hard as he possibly can. For once he doesn't say anything, doesn't flail about, doesn't do any of the things that people usually associate him with. He just doesn't seem to want to let go at all.
It's been several days, so it's understandable that he's a little clingy, more than usual certainly. He smells good, very strongly Derek, and he feels warm, like maybe he's been sleeping until Stiles arrived. His breathing is slow and deep and deliberate. His heart thumps steadily.
It's a while before Stiles finally speaks, and even then he doesn't move his head from Derek's abs. He just asks in that low, raw-edged voice, "How are you doing? I was... worried about you." He tries not overstate it, but it's clear he's been very preoccupied about the whole situation.
"Sorry." Derek answers, his voice deep and rough with sleep and tiredness. He keeps himself so calm though, calm to the hearing, to the feeling of touch, and his hand moves to rub softly along Stiles's head. "Had...rough week."
"No," Stiles says, squeezing harder. "Don't be sorry. Just... just get better. Tell me how I can help. I'll do anything, Derek... okay? Anything it takes." Then he falls quiet again, closing his eyes, and relishing the simple, comforting weight of Derek's hand on his head.
Derek does still his hand after a moment and just breathes slowly again, not making any other sounds, keeping it quiet for that time. The music grows slightly more noticeable: plenty of smooth strings and slow going with the melody, nothing too bright or peppy. Perfect music to sleep to. "Don't know," he at last replies. "I wish I did."
"Is it safe for me to be here?" Stiles asks softly. "I wanted to see you, but... I don't want to make it worse." He doesn't say I needed to see you, but only because he doesn't want to put that pressure on Derek. He just can't let himself make it worse, not if he can help it.
"I don't know." Derek's voice remains quiet and doesn't seem to wake up very well. But he doesn't move away, doesn't take his arms from around Stiles. He remains close, feeling comforted by the presence and in some way, perhaps, in need of comforting that he finds. He wishes he could be sure. About anything recently.
"Then I'll stay until you need me to go," Stiles says quietly. "You shouldn't be alone right now. Whatever's going on... you just shouldn't." He doesn't have much else to say, but then he draws a deep breath. "Can... I get you something? Food, or... anything? Do you need any, like... laundry done, or whatever?"
Derek doesn't answer at once, but he seems content enough to just latch onto Stiles as he has. There's an impression that he hasn't had any contact with people to speak of in the past week. Maybe he hasn't even left the loft. He's at least not neglecting himself though...at least, not in terms of keeping the place clean, or keeping himself showered; it would show otherwise. "Can you cook again?"
Smiles puts on a big smile, one he doesn't really feel, but he nods and says, "Sure! At least, if you feel like breakfast for dinner." He stands up, hugging Derek tight all over again, but eventually he reluctantly lets go, and then he reaches for Derek's hand, to lead him back to the kitchen.
"Whatever's fine," Derek murmurs in return, watching Stiles move and letting his hand be taken. He also lets himself be led, following steadily to the kitchen and standing wherever he's finally released. He's so quiet, almost like he's still asleep mostly. It's not a familiar side of Derek, not a side shown to most. But gradually he seems to take strength in some way, from something -- maybe the presence of Stiles -- and slowly he seems to draw up in posture to a stronger way of standing.
Stiles finally lets go of Derek's hand, only so he can dig out a pan, scrounging up some eggs, potatoes, bred, cheese--a variation on what he made the other morning, only a bit simpler. He chops the potatoes up into cubes, tossing them into the pan of hot oil, and setting about making a little fry-up for Derek with some toast on the side.
Derek slowly moves to actual activity. Just as he had nearly a week earlier, he takes the press and grinder and performs the elaborate ritual needed to coax coffee from the arcane machinery. It's a gradual process, but eventually there sit two cups of coffee -- an accomplishment, and one that adds more to his apparent energy levels. He holds out a cup to Stiles, handle to him.
Stiles Scoops the potatoes to one side, sprinkling cheese over them, and cracks the eggs into the open space in the pan. As things sizzle pleasantly, he reaches out to accept the cup of coffee with a smile. "Thanks," he murmurs, and takes a long, slow sip.
Derek nods his answer, but the more he sips, the more he perks up. There's a greater energy in him, and by the time things get closer to done, he looks like he's finally transitioned into "awake" state, rather than his mostly-asleep one. "So you couldn't find anything?"
Shaking his head, Stiles sets down the coffee mug. He flips things around in the pan a bit more, then slides the whole lot onto the plate. He shuts off the flame, plates up the toast, and then slides the lot over to Derek. He picks up the coffee again, wrapping his hands around it. "Nothing yet. Deaton didn't know anything... but I have a few other sources to check with, too."
"Not eating?" Derek takes the plate, fishing a fork out of the drawer to eat with. He starts, nibbling, but it becomes clear he is voracious. Maybe he hasn't been taking such good care of himself after all. Looks like he hasn't eaten in days! Or at least, he's worked up a tremendous appetite since the last meal.
"I'm not too hungry right now," Stiles says, explaining, "Mel--uh, Ms. McCall did a bunch of cooking this week." He makes a mild face. "Just remembered. I have a slice of pie for you down in the Jeep." Keeping his comments about Derek's eating to himself, he sips his coffee and tries not to look as deeply worried as he feels.
Derek gets himself under control after a few mouthfuls. He's clearly very hungry, and clearly appreciative, but the worry can't be so easily hidden from someone as perceptive. Body language is most of his language. But even though his hunger is great, he slides closer to Stiles and holds out a fork with food scooped into it to Stiles's lips.
Stiles gives Derek a fragile little smile, reflecting quite a mix of gratefulness, concern, happiness, and I'm not about to cry, I swear all in one little expression. He accepts the forkfull of food, chewing and swallowing. "Pretty good," he declares, giving a quietly playful wink, and then resumes sipping the coffee.
Derek takes another couple of bites, but then he does it again. It would seem that he's rationing himself so that Stiles can eat too. Probably more concern than he shows for himself. Maybe it's instinctual. His eyes don't leave the boy's face for long. His whole posture is almost...protective.
Stiles' expression shifts subtly as he begins to see what Derek's doing. He takes the second bite with eyes suddenly very bright, though he doesn't let himself show any tears. He's moved, quite beyond words, at Derek's protectiveness, even now. He steps a bit closer, careful not to get too touchy, and just reaches to lightly rest one hand on Derek's chest. He gazes at him, eyes on eyes, with his lips pressed hard together. He's not going to get emotional. It's, like, unmanly or something. But mostly, he has to be strong for Derek.
Derek doesn't seem that concerned with Stiles being strong so much as Stiles keeping himself well-fed and healthy. Derek can let himself go by the wayside for a few crazy days where he doesn't seem to be in any state he's ever heard of as a wolf, but Stiles, he knows, is a non-wolf human, and that makes things easier and so much more complicated. He keeps the pattern up until there's almost nothing left, but then he holds out the plate and fork with the message that what's left is what Stiles should finish.
Setting down the coffee cup, Stiles accepts the plate and manages a little smile for Derek. He makes quick work of the remaining food, despite not being all that hungry, and then he turns to the sink, proceeding to go and wash the dishes. Any protests are met with a firm stare, one of the more determined expressions he's ever given Derek.
Derek starts to try and stop Stiles from doing it, but he knows to read that stare and he knows what it means. So he just remains off to the side, watching carefully and drinking his coffee, until it is all drained from the cup. He sets the empty cup down, looking Stiles over. There's a faint smile hinted at his mouth, but it's one very tired and almost like sea foam, destined to be barely ephemeral.
Stiles tosses back the last of his own coffee, and once he's finished with the dishes, he washes the mugs. Once everything's drying, he wipes his hands on his jeans and goes back to Derek. Taking his hand, he leads the big wolf back through the central room, to his bed, where he gestures for him to sit. "Wouldn't you be more comfortable in, like, pajamas?" he asks, looking skeptical of the "sleeping in my clothes" choice.
Derek gives Stiles an odd sort of look, as if he's only finally catching on to the fact that he's being guided and directed. But he does sit, looking slightly up at Stiles. "...do you really think I own pajamas?" There's a faint but detectable fiber of the usual dry wit in the question.
Grunting in an almost Derek-like fashion, Stiles says, "Fine. Tomorrow, I'm buying you pajamas." He reaches down to lift Derek's feet into bed, anyway, and says, "But lose the pants. No way you're comfortable enough sleeping in jeans." There's no flirty play in his voice or manner. He's in a strictly no-nonsense mode, tending to Derek like he was home with the flu or something.
Derek sighs and rolls his eyes. "You aren't made of money." Although he could probably point out that he himself, in fact, just about is. Not that he uses it particularly often with anything but necessities. He reaches down to undo his jeans and push them down. Cute boxer shorts. Surprisingly cute. Maybe that's where he expresses himself. Appropriate, since no one sees them, ever really.
Stiles folds up Derek's jeans, putting them aside, and then pulls the sheet up, setting about tucking the werewolf in. "I can afford a pair of pajamas for you, Sourwolf," he declares stubbornly. He leans across Derek, adjusting the blankets, and and then reaches to fluff the pillows.
Derek looks at Stiles, down at himself, and then looks up to Stiles again, evenly enough. "Did you want to stay?" It's a quiet little question, presented as if it might offend simply by existing, or shatter if heard the wrong way.
That draws a warmer smile from Stiles, and he says, "'Course I do. I didn't want to ask in case that would make it harder for you." He kicks off his shoes, then, and, after a moment's hesitation, sheds his pants, too. (He's wearing underwear, of course. This isn't HBO!) He lowers himself onto the bed, stretching out beside Derek with the sheets between them, apparently wanting to be sure that he doesn't push the boundaries too far.
"'s okay this time...too tired..." Derek rolls over, curling against Stiles's side and closing his eyes. That food was just what he needed, but having not eaten enough apparently lately...the digestion puts him to sleep quickly enough. And in sleep, truth asserts itself: the grasp he holds Stiles in is truly viselike, as if Stiles were the only thing to keep him from washing away with the tide of dreams.
Stiles snuggles into the embrace, pressing his hands over top of Derek's, and relaxes into the strength of that embrace. Derek's strength is solid, reassuring. Even if he's not fully himself, at least he's kept that up. Worried but comforted all at the same time, Stiles soon lets sleep overtake him. Here, in this moment, at least things are all right.