laography | i've drowned and dreamt this moment

[ Silently thankful that he's been found before he moved again-- because he would despite M's best attempts to tell him he would be safe here-- Derek takes two steps forward as Stiles takes four, bringing his hand up as he's pulled down. They're still in time, despite the month apart and the image of death cast over them both. He still feels a little like death, to be honest, but Stiles is here.

His fingers curl at the base of his skull, holding fast to him as the other hand comes up to frame his face. A rough thumb brushes across smooth skin, a gentle press as he leans into the kiss, pulling him closer.

It's like the desperation is being matched with apologies, his own sorrow and anger reflected against Stiles'. He didn't want to leave him, didn't want to disappear off the face of the earth to leave him wondering where he'd gone to. But there'd been no choice, in the beginning.

Now, there is. And he tries to convey everything that's built up in him for the past month. How sorry he is and just how much he's missed his quartermaster. ]

I can't believe you. [It comes out of his mouth raggedly, because Stiles can't stop the floodgates once they've opened, and every phrase is punctuated by kisses, like he can't stop, drawn in like a magnet. The words themselves have a double entendre--he can't believe Derek's not dead, can't believe he's actually standing here in front of him, when he'd watched them lower his casket into the ground, read his obituary, but at the same time, he can't believe Derek for not--warning him, or something. It's to be expected, he had to disappear, and the fact that Stiles is here could be a liability to say the least, but it doesn't change the fact that he's very much human, very much emotional, and had to deal with far too much death in his day to day life, let alone in his line of work.

And he'd found him, he'd worked so hard to track and trace and follow every path until one day his gut instinct told him where to look, and combined with an old, fading signal from a tracker, he'd gone.] You're--an idiot, you're a goddamn idiot! Taking stupid--goddamn--heroic risks like--mmft, like that--no wonder you're--s'posed to be dead.

[It's not like he's making much sense, and he just, finally settles to tear away from the kiss and slide his arms around his shoulders instead, pressing close and burying his face in the junction of his neck and his collarbone and holding on for dear life.]

[ Rather than fight back, or try to defend himself, Derek simply returns the kisses as they're given between his rant. His thumb sweeps across his cheekbone, down to follow the trail of moles that mark his face, and he just lets out a low rumble of agreement. Any of his soreness, any stretching stitches or irritated bruises, is completely ignored in the face of Stiles. In his voice and his touch and everything that is him.

The hand at the back of his head gentles over his hair, his shoulders slowly sagging at the end of the interrupted rant. It's as if a weight has been taken off his shoulders, because really, it has. Stiles has this way of putting him on edge, that's for sure, but all the same he knows just the right way to seep into his tired muscles and weary bones, and manages to get him so at ease.

His hands drop as Stiles' arms go around his shoulders, one hand fitting into its spot at the small of his back while the other wraps tight around him. Lips brushing over the top of his head, he noses at his hair and anchors them together in a tight grip. ]

I wanted to tell you, but they said protocol, and there was no time beforehand-- I was waiting for you--

Good, you can do the widow's walk instead of me. [It comes out of his mouth before he can process it right, and Stiles can't help the stupid, almost hysterical laugh that bursts out of his mouth as he squeezes, dropping a kiss on his shoulder and, for once in his life, refusing to move for just a little while. Even if he's all vibrating energy, and it had been as clear as anything could be, but the minute he hit against Derek's chest and breathed him in, it was like everything could just. Slow down again. He keeps talking, though, steady and unfettered, and focuses on the smell of Derek's soap, the way leather hung around him like a misty curtain.]

No one knows I'm here--I mean, I guess M probably figured it out but no one told me anything, if there's anything they're good at it's frickin' protocol. But I think I'm on--temporary vacation. Leave. I don't know. [He says the word a little venomously and turns his head to the side again, so his words aren't muffled into Derek's shoulder anymore, scrabbling his fingers against tanned skin, over a familiar tattoo, three spirals he could trace with his eyes closed. When Stiles finally moves up again, he presses another solid kiss to his mouth, wanting nothing more than to hold him in place and repeat this until it finally sinks in that it's real.]

[ Derek lets a startled laugh slip out of him in response to Stiles' hysterical one, bringing his hand up higher between his shoulders and curling his fingers tight in the layers that are constantly found on him. It's easy to lose himself in Stiles, now that he's so close again-- the way his scent is warm and almost bright, summer easing its way into fall, the way his heart beats underneath his touch. ]

M probably knows exactly where you are, and where we'll wind up if we leave. [ He catches the venom, and doesn't blame him for it. Not when he's lived years of his life at the whims of the agency, though it was all he knew for the longest time. That was before Stiles' barreled into his life, before he found the touch soothing rather than annoying. The tension in his shoulders leaves just a little more as he feels Stiles' fingers press between his shoulders, where the triskele spirals and spins. Without hesitation, he returns the kiss, pulling him flush against him.

But there's one thing he has to get out, even if it's against Stiles' lips. ]

Christ, I missed you.

I don't care. [He really, really, doesn't. M could track them to the end of the world--hell, he probably would, would probably come and pluck them both out of this the moment he needed them--but Stiles was notably stubborn and far less obedient than the other agents, and God knew he needed his time to recover, to reabsorb Derek, who'd become obscenely important to him since the fateful day they met at the college cafe.

The second half makes something squirm in his chest, and he kisses him again, long and slow, and only pulls away when he finally feels satisfied with it, that the feeling that he can't get enough, that he missed him too, so badly it hurt, is properly expressed, and he runs a hand just barely over a bruise, looking down at his chest.]

I--christ, you look like you got hit by a car. I missed you too, I was getting ready to wear black for the rest of my life and everything. [His sense of humor never changes.]

[ A quiet snort leaves him at that, but it's not derisive in the slightest bit. He knows they'll be called upon again, and such an integral part of him-- the part that's latched to Stiles, and has felt Stiles hold on just as tight back-- is on the edges of saying fuck them. They're done, they're gone. But he knows that he'll go if Stiles does, if it's proposed in a way that will benefit Stiles, because that's just how woven into Derek's life he is. There's no two ways around it, not when he stands there so close to him and knows what his answer would be if the questions came knocking.

Even as he kisses back, slow and easy but almost reflecting that quiet need from the first kiss, he needs to look at him towards the end, just before Stiles pulls back. And even then, he chases after him, though it's a simpler press of lips at first, followed by pressing his forehead to Stiles'. Like all he wants is to just be in contact with him (as if there's still an inch between them as is). ]

I did get hit by a car. That only stunned me, though. [ His tone is flat, in response to his sense of humor. It's grim admittance. ]

And you got shot, and fell off of something exorbitantly high for a car chase. I know. I saw. [His tone's flat, even if there's a twinge of sadness underneath it--he'd watched Derek "die", from his desk at the Q branch. There was literally nothing he could have done, especially as M gave the command for Derek to carry on in the mission; Stiles just had to sit there.

It was awful, and the panic attack he'd had afterwards was even worse.

Letting Derek press their foreheads together, he brings his hand back up and cups Derek's cheek, taking a step forward with him, and then another, and then another. At this point, the only real thought on his mind is finding somewhere to sit down, because seriously, at this point, his legs are going to give out. ]

[ Something bitter tasting rises in him at that, and all Derek can do is look at Stiles for a long minute, bringing his hand up from between his shoulders so that he can mirror him, cupping his face gently. Stiles shouldn't have had to see that, shouldn't have watched as everything about the mission went awry. Yet he finished it, even if it meant that it was finished in more bloodshed than was necessary on both sides.

He doesn't need to look back to steer their steps, footing sure as he lets Stiles propel them until they're passing through the doorway to the bedroom. Then he starts pulling a little with the hand at the small of his back, guiding just like he had during their masquerade, and then when it had slipped away bit by bit. ]

[And thank god for that, because Stiles has no idea where he's going, but you know, details. He leans in for a kiss as they pass through the doorway, pausing just long enough to kick the door shut behind him and make his way towards the bed, holding the kiss, long and slow. There are a million marks he wants to make disappear, a million reasons to stay in here, uninterrupted, forever, and he drops the small communicator he'd deactivated earlier in the day and kicks it across the room, stopping near the edge of the bed and hesitating, just for a second.

It's not like him to wait, but Derek seems so much more fragile, like the illusion that he's alive'll just break into pieces any seconds, and he spreads his hand on his chest and holds it there, breaking away from the kiss slowly, just an inch, the question on his breath but never quite making it out.]

[ Hearing the clatter of the communicator after the shutting of the door, the corner of Derek's mouth quirks up a little as he returns the kiss. This is just them, in this little room in the middle of nowhere. There's no missions, no headquarters, no agency and no orders passed down. No guns, no suits, no tech. Just them. And he breathes it in, breathes Stiles in as they stand at the edge of the bed.

He brings his hand up, forehead briefly resting against Stiles' brow as he pulls back the small space between them, and sets it over the one at his chest. Shifting it, he presses it over where his heart is steady and beating, there, his other hand coming up to frame his jaw with rough-but-gentle fingers. ]

[It's enough confirmation--confirmation that Derek's alive. That he's not so broken. Still, as he feels the steady thump underneath his fingers, Stiles pulls his hands down, fingers just ghosting over a path of jagged stitches. There are so many words on his tongue--you're hurt, I'm sorry, I should have done something, I thought I lost you-- that he doesn't even know where to start, and Stiles leans just slightly into the hand on his face, lifting his eyes to match his gaze, golden brown into namelessly colored greens and hazels. How is he supposed to tell Derek that? That he'd--hell, in the five or six months since he'd known Derek, since they'd started to work together, he'd gone from hating his guts to falling, falling hard in what felt like the most natural leap of his life.

Stiles was worried, miserable, terrified, heartbroken. He'd gone to enough funerals as an agent, seen enough people die (his mother, barely a ghost of herself, is the most painful by far) but this had been taking the knife, shoving it in deeper, twisting it. The fact that Derek was still alive was probably a miracle.

The hand on his stitches tracks down to his waist, slowly, and Stiles presses forward a little, to get him to bend his knees and sit. Normally, he wouldn't ask like this--but this is different.]

[ There's no flinch as Stiles' touch drifts further down, not when fingertips ghost over the stitches, or there's a warm brush across mottled skin. Derek is, for all intents and purposes, a wreck. His bruises are disgusting and numerous, varied in their colors from the shocking black-purple-blue to sick mixes of brown-green-yellow. There are healed injuries that are angry in their vibrancy, freshly scarred. But Stiles doesn't bring pain-- every touch is warmth, and he lets his eyes fall half-shut as he lets it wash over him, holding his gaze as it's lifted to him.

The thing is, Stiles is all words. He has something to say about everything and nothing all at once. But Derek has learned his silences, as infrequent as they were at the start. He knows the subtle shift that comes with the bow of his lips, the furrow of his brow, the weight of his moods. And here, here, he doesn't need to hear a spoken word. Not when he's had to 'bury' his entire family, had to watch his sister (broken in two) get rolled back into a drawer after being identified.

He knows the weight of loss like this, the same as he knows the weight of relief in Stiles, bloody and beaten but breathing, pulse alive under his touch. To say that, in the months they'd been working together, Stiles hadn't become the most important person in his life would have been an outright lie.

Before he accepts the nudge, he leans in, a soft press of lips to his. As he pulls away, he goes to settle back, slipping his hand down from his face slowly. Like he doesn't want to break contact. ]

[It's amazing how in tune they still are, after so long apart--as Derek sits back, Stiles pushes forward, clambering astride his knees and murmurs a comment as he shifts closer, distributing his weight as evenly as possible so as not to hurt him. He's not sure where Derek's still hurting--although he's sure he's going to find out now--and the last thing he really wants to do is cause him any more pain. (Which is funny. Kind of shows how much they've grown.]

Did you know animals do that to wipe their scent on other animals? Rub on their faces. [TMI, but since when does he not ruin the moment.

It's kind of absurdly, perfectly normal, something he'd missed achingly badly. Even Derek's "Stiles, you're a moron" face. He missed that too. Skirting his hands over Derek's broad shoulders, he links his arms behind his head, twining his fingers together and letting them drape to fall near his triskele, resisting the urge to find every bruise, touch every ache. He could have done something. Anything, and he didn't.

He has to do something now. ]

[ Letting Stiles get himself settled before he brings his hands up, Derek does in fact give him the Stiles, you're a moron face.

Except for where there's an affectionate twist to it, an almost god, I missed you attached beneath it. He slides his hands up along the outside of his legs once he's properly situated, working up towards his hips as he tips his head towards him. ]

I did, actually.

[ His shoulders relax further under the easy touch, and the simple weight that comes from Stiles' arms. His own touch rises higher, fingers slipping under the layers of shirts that always accompany his quartermaster. Finding the warmth of skin, but not going any higher just yet, as he essentially basks in it and their closeness.

Tipping his head, he brushes his lips across Stiles' chin, with absentminded purpose. ]

You live up to your codename. [He grins at that, an echo of their very first meeting, and Stiles squirms a little as Derek's fingers find their way under his layers, turning his focus to the skin underneath his fingers, the bruises that he traces and--okay, he'd gladly pay them more attention if Derek didn't seem to be occupied. Tilting his chin up just a little, he closes his eyes, thinking.

Where should he even start? His voice comes out softer, a little less joking, jaw moving under Derek's mouth.] ...I should have been there.

Lycanope? I'm sure. [ If Stiles' memory is sharp, Derek's isn't bad in the least. He brushes calloused fingers against him as he squirms, a little amused by it. But he can tell where Stiles' silence is going, and he opens off-green eyes to look at him as amber brown close. Regarding him, he shifts to draw a slow line of kisses up from his chin and along his jaw.

His voice comes out soft, and his hands drift up higher so that he can spread broad hands across Stiles' sides completely under his shirts, pressing soft but firm. ] You can't blame yourself for any of this.

And any of it's synonyms.

[His fingers curl just a little against the triskele; Stiles wears his heart on his sleeve to say the least. Like most things about him, his emotions are loud and out there, and when he's feeling guilty you can practically sense it, the way his anxiety claws at his stomach and sucks him inwards. It's a tiny movement, but it's enough to give him away, and he exhales through his nose, letting the kisses make the tension sag from his shoulders a little more.

As many times as anyone could tell him otherwise, there will always be an inkling of doubt in the back of Stiles' mind. I could have done this. I should have been there. If I'd only done that. It's a constant in his life, and it makes him wish he had a damn reset button. The presses are comforting, though, and he leans backwards just slightly into his hands.]

Could have given you better gadgets. Or better guidance. Or better a lot of things. [It's softly, though, like his resolve on it is weakening. His fingers touch stitches and he brushes them again, getting goosebumps from the familiar feel of the thread against his own skin.]

Hey.

[ Drawing back from the kisses and where his hands have settled, Derek brings them up to frame Stiles' face again. The familiar touch across the triskele only steels him further, the brush on stitches that knit together wounds that are so close to healing. After a month, he's still a righteous mess, but it was such a thrashing that it's so obviously lingering. But Stiles is there, now. It's going to get better.

He's going to get better.

Thumbs brushing up from the corners of Stiles' mouth, he scans his face, as if searching him. But he doesn't need to, not when he knows this boy with a wolf's heart. Fierce and protective and caring, smart and sharp. His touch continues up, following the shape of his cheeks. ]

I'm here, and I'm going to do what you did for me. I'm not letting you linger on a could have, or should have. [ His fingers slip back further, to settle his palms at either side of his jaw, overlapping his neck. ] You can't blame yourself for any of this.

I didn't really do anything for you. [It's quiet when he says it, as Stiles finally opens his mouth again, meeting Derek's eyes for just a second before pulling them away, looking to the side. There had to have been something else he could have done--literally all he could do was watch as Derek fell to what should have been his death.

He tilts along with his thumbs, the guilt crowding his brow softening just a little, and brings his back to lace gently around his neck, mirroring him. It's a calm, reassuring thing, to feel the steady thump of Derek's heart instead of the erratic jackrabbit of his own, and his fingers twitch a little until he can feel the soft beginnings of his hair underneath his index fingers, the scrape of stubble at the heel of his palm. It's something he's felt a million times now, whether in fake kisses or at the junction of his neck and shoulder when it's ten minutes before the alarm goes off and Stiles acts like he's still asleep, and it's probably really weird to think he missed it. He missed everything. ]

You stopped me from wallowing in misery. [ Though Stiles looks away from him after the fleeting second, Derek keeps looking at him. There's a determination to his gaze, the set of his jaw, but a softness that's never been paired with it before. Because Stiles needs to know this, to hear it and to remember it. ] You gave me something to actually come back to.

[ How they went from fake pleasantries and affection, accidental mornings waking up tangled together, to where it was honest and intentional is beyond him. But he's spent a month missing the way Stiles fits against him in the mornings, where they're both pretending to be asleep for a little longer. Missing off-key humming and absentminded chatter, whether it was to himself or Derek or Laura. The way his hair is soft and thick, how he can tangle his fingers in it-- and he does that, slipping his fingers so that the heel of his palms are at the hinge of his jaw, curling into his dark hair. ]

When I woke up in the morning, I didn't taste ash anymore. It was just you.

[ The guilt still lingers, the pain of missing his family. Missing what he used to have. But Kate is gone, has been gone, and she stopped having a sway over him when Stiles kept him anchored in place. ]

[Stiles keeps his gaze down for a little while as he speaks. It's strange having this much attention on him and it makes him squirm a little, for a minute, wanting to escape--usually it's Derek's silences that put him on edge, but this isn't exactly on edge, now is it? It's...just something that needs getting used to, his lack of self-confidence and general first instinct for doubt clouding his ability to sit here and stay.

But it's the last sentence that gets him, and he inhales quietly, turning his gaze back up to meet Derek's, the thick black of his lashes, the curve of his nose. It's a familiar face now, one whose features he could find across a room, one that he'd seen happy over his dog, soft and muted, and angry beyond belief over Kate Argent.

Kate Argent, who killed his family in fire and cold blood, Kate Argent who kidnapped Stiles (really, uncalled for) and tased Derek's dog (seriously uncalled for), who seduced him and ruined his life. Stiles heard every word of it when she had him in captivity, and the phrase "tasting ash" conjures up her face, and the way Derek would sometimes be awake in the middle of the night, gasping like he was drowning.

Stiles brings a hand up to rest on Derek's, tilting his head forward as he feels familiar fingers curling in his hair. It's nice to have it back. It's nice to have Derek back, and he mumurs.] Well, jeez, its not every day you get someone to quit smoking, too.

[Yes, okay, humor is usually how he wiggles out of these situations. But he sighs.] I didn't mean that, I meant...

[The last mission. The one Stiles didn't go on the field with him. Not that he was ever much help anyway, always tripping over things and pulling trip wires and generally being a nuisance.]

[ Derek watches his reaction closely as he speaks, taking everything in-- from the set of his brow to the curve of his lips, the way he breathes in as he looks up at him-- and memorizes it. Remembers everything about the moment. Because he could've lost this, more than once.

He lost his entire family, lost his sister not long after. Lost everything that he knew before, and so it wasn't hard for him to accept the life of an agent. Without something to lose, Derek could easily go into missions with his all, complete them in ways that some agents were afraid of doing.

And then in came Stiles, barreling into his life and cementing himself there with steadfast stubbornness and a quick tongue.

And he could've lost him, when Kate kidnapped him. Derek had felt the dread settle tight in the pit of his stomach, seeping into his entire being, seizing his heart. Because that was how Kate Argent played-- find a weak point, and destroy it completely in the worst way possible. In five, six months, Stiles had become Derek's weak point just as he'd become his anchor. It would've been a lie if he hadn't gone in, fueled by fear and anger both, to get him before it was too late.

Just like that, though, he could've lost him again with that mission. With a stupid slip up that lead to so many other problems, marked in bruises and stitches and angry scars.

Derek huffs at the awful joke, brushing his thumbs along his cheeks and looking at him still, green to brown. ]

I know. [ Despite the joking, he's not letting Stiles go anywhere this time. Not letting him wiggle his way out now. ] I know you wish you could've been there, or done something. And I can't tell you to stop, not really.

But you're here, now. You found me. That's what matters most. [ His nose brushes against Stiles', briefly. ] You wouldn't let me hold onto my guilt, so I'm not going to let you hold onto yours.

[ It's such a simple concept--"I won't let you hold onto your guilt". But it's different, different than what he'd been told so many times before, what his head has told him at least a thousand times. But Derek had this way of taking the things that Stiles felt were wrong and dropping them on their heads and shaking them until they were so upside down he'd forgotten what the problem was in the first place. It was immensely frustrating and relieving at the same time, much like the person behind the words.

He's quiet again, wrinkling his nose as Derek comes close and returning the favor, his fingers sliding across his back and finding purchase across his shoulders once more. It's a familiar grip, from dancing lessons and new years kisses, to the tight squeeze when he'd gotten out of Kate's trap and tucked his face into Derek's neck, his fingers gripping so tight at his jacket they might have turned white.

It had been such a low blow. He'd been furious with himself for letting himself get captured, and his own stubbornness combined with his already intense hatred for Kate had made him a tough nut to crack--as such, he got his ass kicked for it. Stiles his own scars now, small ones on his chest, a razor thin line across his throat, and they're kind of badges of honor. Kate never got a word out of him, just the retribution she so deserved.

Pressing forward, he kisses Derek, barely there for a second before retreating back as he considers everything; the smile on his face is small, crooked, but genuine.]

I always find you.

[ The concept is new and different to Derek, but Stiles was the one to teach it to him. Over time and with words that had started out sharp and biting, before they turned into quiet and searching. Before he got to carry out the justice that Kate had brought upon herself with the crimes she'd committed. Maybe not all of them, but at least the ones done against the Hale family, against Stiles. And he's always sought the right things to say, in these dark-lit moments where everything slows to just the two of them, and nothing else. He's never been afraid to be honest where it counts, so he says what he means here.

His familiar touch seeps into him, muscle and bone, and he sighs softly as he watches Stiles in their close space. Basks in all of it still, as he slowly lowers his grip enough that his hands feel the steady pulse beneath them, his thumbs can trace the sliver of a scar. He knows where each of them are, has touched bandage and stitch and skin over each, and felt anger and regret well up in him every time.

But they're part of Stiles, much like his own scars are. They are like every freckle and mole that he could track and trace with his eyes closed.

Much as it hurts, much as it terrified him, Derek is proud of Stiles. Proud and a little in over his head, but he doesn't feel like a man drowning. Not anymore. ]

You will. [ The smile on his face mirrors his, small and quiet but warm, turned up just barely at the edges. He tips towards him, presses it to Stiles' lips. He doesn't really pull back when he speaks again. ] Same way I'll always find you.


	Let the sky fall When it crumbles We will stand tall Face it all together

YOU GOT THIS SI.

I HOPE SO

I'll wait 5eva 4 u Sisi.

oooh mister snow, oooh

shirt pops open..???

swoon

My feels are in pain.

ugh no my babies

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