More than likely. [ They were in something's mouth, but they've been cleaned and polished since then. There's a whole process to this, Stiles, and you'll come to learn that, too. But Derek isn't particularly bothered by the look he gets for the teeth, and instead continues to follow after the betas in front of them.
The frozen trees are hardly different in appearance, but they still know that they're heading in the right direction. They don't need indicators, not when it's so ingrained into their instincts. He has doubts, that this southern-born prince will be able to pick up that same instinct even with a supposedly wildling mother, but only time will tell.
For now, he doesn't seem particularly inclined towards stabbing him yet. ]
I'm going to die by the end of the night. [ That he says a little morosely, and shifts his small pack over his shoulder. There's nothing exciting in it--just an old book of stories from Riverrun. It had been a gift from his father before he'd set off on his journey, and Stiles was pretty sure that it was going to be his last salvation of actual civilization; not to mention, a memory from back home. He brings it around front and clutches it under the cloak, holding tight.
Yeah, okay. This is really scary. He's starting to regret opening his stupid damn mouth, and the slight tremor in his hands against the book is definitely not just from the cold. Stiles is too young to die. There are too many things he hasn't done.
Even when he stops paying attention, however, he keeps up with the group, sharp brown eyes darting around and trying to remember their path. He wouldn't call it instinct--observant, maybe. ]
I didn't say that, specifically. But, the day's still young. [ Where Stiles is observant of their surroundings, Derek is observing him. He looks at the bag, considering him and his grip on the book. It certainly isn't the last piece of civilization in the North, but they don't exactly have libraries where they could use the books for warmth.
Still, once he finds out... ]
What's that you've got.
[ He's calm, when he asks, versus his quiet dryness and annoyance from before. ]
Oh no. [ No you are not taking his book. Reflexively, his arms tighten around the satchel, but he reluctantly lets his grip ease and lifts the top open, as carefully as possible to keep the new-falling snow from landing on the pages. The tome is old as anything, and he opens it just enough for Derek to see the cover--Songs and Histories of the Seven Kingdoms--before he shuts it again. ] The last vestiges of my humanity.
I don't plan on taking it, relax. [ He says it flatly, watching him and dropping his eyes down to look at the book with interest and quiet curiosity. An idle thought plants itself in his mind, to collect the books they have and bring them to his tent. As gruff as he is, and reluctant about everything as he feels, he's not cruel. Not really. ] Keep it covered.
That's exactly what I was trying to do, thanks. [ And you get your first Stiles Eyeroll (tm), head motion fully included. Naturally that makes the hood flop back off his head but you know what. Worth it.
He tucks the book carefully back under his arm, adjusting the strap. Man. This is going to be great. G r e a t.]
But with only an annoyed rumble, Derek reaches his hand up from between Stiles' shoulders to grab hold of the hood's head. He brings it roughly up to smack onto Stiles' head again, admonishing his response with restrained irritation.
It's going to be a long couple of hours back to camp. ]
[ The walk does take hours. It's hours of bickering and snapping and Stiles will admit it, the whole idea of probably dying in the next twelve hours is making him kinda bitchy.
Every barb seems to get deeper and more personal, and he snipes something about an inability to inspire much confidence as they finally make their way up to camp. It's a bitchy enough comment that he doesn't even take his time to marvel upon the camp itself. ]
[ The continued bickering and snapping and bitching really isn't working well in Stiles' favor at the moment, leaving Derek's nerves frayed and tension seeping into every muscle and bone in his body. A part of him really wants to just dump the southernborn down in a snowdrift and leave him there. He notices the betas moving further and further ahead of them the longer that the exchange goes on, almost as if they're skittish.
Not that he blames them, the anger is slowly surfacing beneath the idle aggravation.
Finally, Stiles makes one snipe too many, and he snaps his hand up to take hold of the back of his neck, pinning him against the nearest surface. It's rough, but it isn't nearly as violent as it could be. ]
[ And there it is, the moment of aggression and violence he'd honestly been expecting the whole time. Stiles' heartbeat ratchets up as he practically gets a mouth full of tree bark, already feeling it scratch up at his face, and seven hells, he's probably going to die right this very second.
Despite the fact that he's scared half out of his wits, his brow furrows and he matches Derek's expression with an impressively harsh one of his own, defiant almost, eyes brighter than ever. ]
Go ahead, kill me now, you're just gonna prove my point. [ He was right...But he would really like it if Derek didn't kill him. ]
[ Leaning in close to get a good view of Stiles' face and his reaction-- though he can smell the fear on him, Derek can see the defiance clear as day there in his eyes. His own seem to change, but for all anyone knows it's a trick of the firelights that surround the camp in spitting torches and fogged lanterns.
He scans his face, jaw set and brow furrowed as he visibly bristles, lip curling in what's initially a silent snarl. But his words come out more growled than spoken again, and his grip tightens through the thick fur of his cloak against the shape of Stiles' neck through it. ]
You know nothing. [ But just like that, his hand is gone and he lets Stiles stand on his feet properly. ] If I wanted you dead, I would have left you out in the wilds for the strays to take care of.
[ Red, red, he swore he saw it. The mere sight is enough to make Stiles swallow a lump in his throat, but he still doesn't shrink back, even at the suddenly tighter grip at his hand--
And then he's righted back to normal, and he brushes himself off. It's kind of a curious thing, really, that Derek hasn't completely offed him yet, and he's feeling a little. Confident? Underneath what is a lot of shellshock and terror.
Huh.
Before he can respond again, he just manages a "yeah", and takes a step forward to look at the camp, obviously curious.]
[ Letting out a gruff and unamused chuff, he rolls his head and shoulders, cracking his neck before he makes his way past Stiles and into the camp proper. Despite the fact it means baring his back to this stupid Southerner that he doesn't like, let alone trust, there's strangely not a prickling sensation of unease that typically comes with an untrusted person standing behind him.
Instead, he leads the way in, tension visible in the way his shoulders rest and the rigid line of his spine. It eases, just a touch, now that he's home, or what passes for home, but much of it remains.
Why he hasn't killed Stiles, he isn't sure. He's intrigued by the defiance and attitude, despite the clear smell of fear-- fearlessness while afraid is commendable at times, if incredibly stupid at others-- and oddly wants to see what else he can get out of him.
Whether it's worth the headache or not will be seen. ]
[ He's not dumb. Stiles knows that's a big deal for any kind of animal-slash-vaguely-animalistic person to do, turning their back on someone. And a part of him feels kind of bad. But hell, this is basically agreed upon kidnapping, so you know what, he doesn't feel bad at all.
His attention drifts from Derek pretty quickly, and he starts to look around the camp. It's not overtly different from any Tully host--there aren't any banners, but there are children running around, the smell of food cooking over a fire--a fire oh god. Hurriedly, he dashes out from behind Derek and sets himself near the fire, holding out his hands and trying to get rid of the bone chill that had already set in.
That's better. From here he can look around at some of the other wildlings. Most of them are cloaked in hoods similar to Derek's, and there are a few actual wolves prowling around the camp, one of which brushes up against Stiles and makes him jump half a foot and fall straight back on his ass.
[ Cocking his head away from where he's listening to Stiles behind him, the Faoladh focuses instead on responding to greetings and welcomes from his pack. Though he's still on edge and irritable, he offers them much better greetings than Stiles received. Those with hoods like the one he's temporarily given to Stiles receive claps on the shoulders or a brief clasp of forearms, quiet words exchanged while their new guest goes to warm himself up.
The passing wolves get brief touches on the shoulder, but the children receive much better greetings than even his peers. Crouching down as a group of children approach, he bows his head forward and butts it against some of theirs, listening to their chattered questions before he hears someone hitting the group. He turns, and...
Well, isn't surprised to see it's Stiles.
Despite the laughter, muffled and blatant alike, Derek ignores it and approaches, reaching calmly to catch hold of Stiles' scruff again. This time, however, it's by his own wolfskin and Stiles' Riverrun cloak beneath it, rather by his neck. Hefting easily, he rights him back onto his feet. ]
They'll do that just to see your reaction if you aren't careful.
[ Okay, first of all, ow, that really hurt. Cloak or not, it's not exactly helping his now soaking wet ass, either. And second, he wasn't expecting to get hefted up so easily--his arms windmill back and he nearly smacks Derek again, but he manages to right himself, his cheeks burning red.
He can hear people laughing, and he stuffs his hands deeper into the pocket of his own cloak, turning his gaze to Derek for half a second before turning to look at the ground, mumbling. ] Making a totally awesome rabbit from day one.
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The frozen trees are hardly different in appearance, but they still know that they're heading in the right direction. They don't need indicators, not when it's so ingrained into their instincts. He has doubts, that this southern-born prince will be able to pick up that same instinct even with a supposedly wildling mother, but only time will tell.
For now, he doesn't seem particularly inclined towards stabbing him yet. ]
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Yeah, okay. This is really scary. He's starting to regret opening his stupid damn mouth, and the slight tremor in his hands against the book is definitely not just from the cold. Stiles is too young to die. There are too many things he hasn't done.
Even when he stops paying attention, however, he keeps up with the group, sharp brown eyes darting around and trying to remember their path. He wouldn't call it instinct--observant, maybe. ]
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Still, once he finds out... ]
What's that you've got.
[ He's calm, when he asks, versus his quiet dryness and annoyance from before. ]
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He tucks the book carefully back under his arm, adjusting the strap. Man. This is going to be great. G r e a t.]
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But with only an annoyed rumble, Derek reaches his hand up from between Stiles' shoulders to grab hold of the hood's head. He brings it roughly up to smack onto Stiles' head again, admonishing his response with restrained irritation.
It's going to be a long couple of hours back to camp. ]
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Every barb seems to get deeper and more personal, and he snipes something about an inability to inspire much confidence as they finally make their way up to camp. It's a bitchy enough comment that he doesn't even take his time to marvel upon the camp itself. ]
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Not that he blames them, the anger is slowly surfacing beneath the idle aggravation.
Finally, Stiles makes one snipe too many, and he snaps his hand up to take hold of the back of his neck, pinning him against the nearest surface. It's rough, but it isn't nearly as violent as it could be. ]
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Despite the fact that he's scared half out of his wits, his brow furrows and he matches Derek's expression with an impressively harsh one of his own, defiant almost, eyes brighter than ever. ]
Go ahead, kill me now, you're just gonna prove my point. [ He was right...But he would really like it if Derek didn't kill him. ]
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He scans his face, jaw set and brow furrowed as he visibly bristles, lip curling in what's initially a silent snarl. But his words come out more growled than spoken again, and his grip tightens through the thick fur of his cloak against the shape of Stiles' neck through it. ]
You know nothing. [ But just like that, his hand is gone and he lets Stiles stand on his feet properly. ] If I wanted you dead, I would have left you out in the wilds for the strays to take care of.
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And then he's righted back to normal, and he brushes himself off. It's kind of a curious thing, really, that Derek hasn't completely offed him yet, and he's feeling a little. Confident? Underneath what is a lot of shellshock and terror.
Huh.
Before he can respond again, he just manages a "yeah", and takes a step forward to look at the camp, obviously curious.]
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Instead, he leads the way in, tension visible in the way his shoulders rest and the rigid line of his spine. It eases, just a touch, now that he's home, or what passes for home, but much of it remains.
Why he hasn't killed Stiles, he isn't sure. He's intrigued by the defiance and attitude, despite the clear smell of fear-- fearlessness while afraid is commendable at times, if incredibly stupid at others-- and oddly wants to see what else he can get out of him.
Whether it's worth the headache or not will be seen. ]
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His attention drifts from Derek pretty quickly, and he starts to look around the camp. It's not overtly different from any Tully host--there aren't any banners, but there are children running around, the smell of food cooking over a fire--a fire oh god. Hurriedly, he dashes out from behind Derek and sets himself near the fire, holding out his hands and trying to get rid of the bone chill that had already set in.
That's better. From here he can look around at some of the other wildlings. Most of them are cloaked in hoods similar to Derek's, and there are a few actual wolves prowling around the camp, one of which brushes up against Stiles and makes him jump half a foot and fall straight back on his ass.
In front of a bunch of people.
Awesome. ]
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The passing wolves get brief touches on the shoulder, but the children receive much better greetings than even his peers. Crouching down as a group of children approach, he bows his head forward and butts it against some of theirs, listening to their chattered questions before he hears someone hitting the group. He turns, and...
Well, isn't surprised to see it's Stiles.
Despite the laughter, muffled and blatant alike, Derek ignores it and approaches, reaching calmly to catch hold of Stiles' scruff again. This time, however, it's by his own wolfskin and Stiles' Riverrun cloak beneath it, rather by his neck. Hefting easily, he rights him back onto his feet. ]
They'll do that just to see your reaction if you aren't careful.
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He can hear people laughing, and he stuffs his hands deeper into the pocket of his own cloak, turning his gaze to Derek for half a second before turning to look at the ground, mumbling. ] Making a totally awesome rabbit from day one.
[ That was kind of a dumb joke. ]