laography | i've drowned and dreamt this moment

[ 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.

[He can't help the snort that escapes him-it's quiet and amused, and the kiss breaks as his mouth spreads into a wide grin, unable to contain it.] Sniff me out with that supposed nose of yours, huh.

[It's kind of silly but it's not taking away the meaning from anything--he's happy. Hell, he's kind of ridiculously happy to have this back again. The dumb banter, the playful chatter, the way Derek seems to practically rumble instead of his own jittery vibration. They fit together like a couple of puzzle pieces, the way Derek's hands cup at his neck and his own long, awkward fingers are enough to spread neatly over the muscle of Derek's shoulders. It was something that was going to be irreplaceable, something that had left a hole in his heart as he walked on without his partner.

Stiles' grin finally drops a little, enough to a plain lipped smile, and when he presses words to Derek's mouth, they're so soft barely anyone could hear them. An I, maybe. And a you, at the end. The middle word is Derek's alone, and he drops his hands back down to press firmly over his heart, fingers spreading across a bruise and leaning his weight forward just enough, spreading his legs a little wider to redistribute.]

Every time. [ His own expression breaks into a wider smile, in response to Stiles' grin. But he can't help it, not when it's so bright and alive and there. A month without it has been completely lacking.

A month without Stiles, without the banter and chatter and jittering. Without being able to hold him, a perfect fit regardless of what position they find themselves settled in. Broad hands settle a little further down, thumbs pressed against Stiles' pulse in a gentle, claiming pressure as he takes it in. After having him at his side, covering his back, under his watch, it was bizarre to suddenly find himself going into a mission without him. But he knows, deep down, that it would have gone worse for the two of them if they were both there. Derek might have given up his reckless missions once Stiles became so integral to his life, but he can't lie and say that he wouldn't risk everything to make sure Stiles got out of that mission alive.

But in that moment, it doesn't matter. They're together again, and suddenly something tightens in Derek's chest. It constricts his heart and spreads warm through the rest of him, starting at his lips and traveling in a way that he's never really felt before. Not even with Kate, during the time that he was hanging on every word she said. His shoulders relax further, though his fingers curl at the base of Stiles' skull, securing.

There's something quiet, then. Quiet and soft and barely a whisper back, an echo but with a twist. But he means it, with everything in him, to the point that it's almost painful. ]

I'm counting on it.

[ When Stiles kisses him again, his teeth clack against Derek's front ones, and he snorts a little stupidly, his fingers splayed out against the familiar burn of his stubble. It's going to be okay. Tomorrow, there could be a mission call from Deaton. Tomorrow, there could be a new emergency or new criminal mastermind that demanded the attention of Agent Alpha and his quartermaster. And while Stiles was staying out of the field for a while--part his dad's insistence, part his own knowledge of his abilities with the weaponry he could dream up, and part Derek's insistence--he'd still be there, making comments in Derek's earpiece and supplying him with an inexhaustible amount of tools and information, so that whatever missions he went on could never go that wrong again.

But that was for tomorrow. Next week, maybe. Next month. He had a lot of catching up to do. Speaking of which... ]

I hope you cleared your schedule. [That comes out of his mouth airily, and Stiles tilts his head away from him just enough to wiggle his eyebrows, mouth sliding into a lazy smirk. It's easy to mess around, to ignore the gravity of what's happening, what's about to happen--but it's not like he's really ignoring it, either. It's there, it's out in the open (sort of), and that's really all they need, isn't it? ]

[ There's stupid, soft affection in the chuff that escapes Derek with the clack of teeth, and he shifts his hands to thread his fingers through dark, thick hair with a crooked smile. Though there isn't a doubt in his mind that he will, eventually, be asked to reenter the field, it's not going to be without Stiles there. Whether it's out on the field-- considering his initial insistence that he stay on the other side of the earpiece for a while, he doubts that'll happen for a long time yet either-- or guiding him through missions, there's no one else he'd trust to get him in and out of trouble. This is his quartermaster, and he never wants a different one for as long as he's an agent.

Cocking an eyebrow at the comment, he leans into Stiles' touch, slowly sliding his hands down along his neck-- feather light, there-- and trailing down his spine. When he gets to the small of his back, his fingers dip down a little further so he can tuck them underneath the numerous layers Stiles stacks. ] I think I can manage some vacancies for the next, oh... couple weeks.

[Which is to say, Stiles'd never trade his agent for anyone else, either. Sure, Derek's frustrating on his best days, but he's also brave, quick witted, tenaciously loyal, and not to mention kind of ridiculously good looking. Truth be told, he wouldn't have said those three little words to just anyone. Besides, no other agent in the force really laughed at his jokes.

The fingers at his neck make him shiver, just enough for goosebumps, and Stiles squirms a little from his place on Derek's knees. His hands come up and press onto his bare chest, fingers spreading out across a long, jagged stitch and tan skin, and he gladly shifts forward a little to allow Derek more room.]

I dunno if that's enough time.

Could always play it by ear.

[ To be fair, both of them are frustrating as all hell on some of their best days. Derek still finds moments where he wants to grab Stiles by the scruff of his shirts and haul him around, and yet other times he moves past the annoyances that he causes. Because for all their faults, he knows where Stiles shines-- his sense of humor, his sharp focus and mind, his determination and own loyalty. His heart. And he doesn't even give himself enough credit in some fields. (Especially when it comes to looks, which he's still trying to figure out.)

The corners of his mouth quirk up higher at the shiver, and he spreads his fingers wide, broad hands mapping the line his spine is resting at. It hikes the shirts up a little as he goes, but he plans on taking those off in a moment anyways, once he's not enjoying Stiles' own touch. ]


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

My feels are in pain.

ugh no my babies

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject