laography | when the moon found the sun / when the sun found the moon

[ It was interesting, watching Stiles run around with the faolan. And it endeared the younger man to Derek, just a little. Because regardless of what his position was to be in pack-- Lupa, Beta, whatever-- the fact he was growing so close to the younger members of pack meant a lot, and was a good step in the right direction. It had the parents relaxing around him, the older siblings opening up a little more... it really was a good progression to where he needed to be.

But running around like that, when he wasn't used to the North's spring yet, meant that he was going to fall hard, and fall fast.

The Faoladh just hadn't expected it to be so dramatic, when it happened.

Melissa, of course, had immediately been on top of helping the Southron prince that her son had befriended, but Derek took over after the initial care had begun. He wasn't a nurse, like her, but he knew if he needed guidance he would have it. As it was, he sat at the edge of their furs, his wolfskin over the top of the blanket of them that covered Stiles. His eyes flicked between the book in his lap to Stiles' face every now and then, keeping close watch over him. ]

[ Stiles would be obnoxiously horrified if they'd told him this was spring. Spring in Riverrun was warm and bright, and all the trees started to come into bloom, and Moat Cailin was just starting to get warm enough to swim in-- here, this was hell. Ice cold, frozen hell. And no matter how many comments he'd made about dying here, he didn't think it would actually happen.

He's also a little bit of a drama queen. He's been in and out of consciousness for three days now, and on the fourth day, the burning fever had let up enough for his eyes to slide open, bleary staring up at Derek.

..wait. ]

...Derek? [ In his fever dreams, the touch had been his mother's.]

[ Unfortunately for Stiles, the North knows only two seasons, truly. Winter, and spring. Spring is a little warmer, a little brighter, but it doesn't last for long. It's a good thing that Stiles came when he did, because Derek's pretty sure that if he hadn't? He wouldn't have survived. At least this gives him a chance to adapt in easier weather.

Eyes lifting again as he hears his name, he shifts to set aside the book so he can lean over his Lupa. He scans his face with a colorless gaze calmly, before he brings up a hand to brush his knuckles across his brow, following the line of it then turning his wrist to feel his forehead with the back of his hand.

Still hot, but not as bad. When you feel warm in comparison to the wolf, there's a problem. ]

Looks like the worst of it has passed.

[ His brow furrows a little in confusion, and Stiles reaches forward, one of his hands finding the one on his forehead and wrapping around it, long, limber fingers curling in his. It's like he's seeking it out without thinking, his mind still foggy enough that when Derek looks up at him, he can look back, brown eyes hooded and dark circles heavy under his eyes. ]

This sucks. [ Comes his less than intelligent reply. But at least he's talking, a noted improvement from the past few days. He squints up a little at him again, fingers still loosely wrapped into his. ] What's... [ What happened. What is going on. Why can't he think right. ]

[ Without even thinking, Derek curls their fingers together easily, bringing their hands down to rest on Stiles' chest before he leans down over him. Pressing their foreheads together, he tries to be cooling without it being overwhelming, knowing that exposing him right away to something colder will probably be a bit shocking. ]

Being sick often does. [ His voice is calm and quiet, and he remains unconcerned about getting sick, himself. He's built up more than a simple tolerance to illness, over the years. ] We haven't moved camp since you literally fell ill.

[ And reflexively, his hand tightens a little in Derek's, seeking him out like it's an anchor. If he was in his completely normal state of mind this would be weird to say the least, but with the haze of the fever clouding his conscious it just felt... right. Like a couple of puzzle pieces that were supposed to fit together. He shifts his hand up just a little, so that their intertwined fingers are resting over his heart, like that's somehow better.

The cold is weird and definitely not what he's used to, and his response is a little shiver--albeit not a body wracking one like before. His eyes flutter shut again, and he tilts up just a little into the cool touch, starting to get used to it. ]

Oh. [ Quiet for a couple seconds. ] How long....?

[ Allowing Stiles to move their hands, even as he realizes how they're arranged, he settles comfortably where he's bowed over him. His nose bumps his temple, gently, and a low rumble builds in his throat and chest almost absently. This is... oddly right. Comfortable. And he can feel a relief sinking into the heart of him, as Stiles' sickness has given way to a little bit of clarity. It's a lot better than the fever-sick dreaming that's given him mumbles and sounds of misery.

The fact that Stiles is so hot in comparison to him bothers Derek, but he shifts closer to try and take some of the heat away. ]

We're on day four.

...Mmm. [ He exhales slowly, trying to force his brain to make the connections he can usually make. If Stiles' brain is usually the kingsroad, as of now, it's more like a swamp, murky and hazy--it's his only advantage in life, and the real reason he absolutely hates being sick. There are no maesters here in the North, and his knowledge of their version of medicine is slim at best, nothing at worst.

Either way, Stiles makes a noise, trying to remember. ] I was with the kids. [ Running around playing a game...] It's been four days-- [ Four days is a lot of time. He makes a shift to try and sit up, but his limbs don't cooperate, and he drops back down again.]

You'd been spending the past couple days with them. They were the ones that came to get me and Melissa. [ Derek presses their hands over Stiles' heart as he tries to sit up, though knows he's still too sick to find his coordination. Not that he really has coordination typically, but that's besides the point.

A low rumble leaves him, as he lifts his head off and away from Stiles', and he looks down at him as if assessing his current state. Better, but definitely still not completely with them. ] It was only a matter of time before illness caught up with you.

[The response he makes is more of a hum than an actual answer, and he turns over a little, just enough to lift off the blankets and readjust, head still cradled in Derek's lap. It's comfortable and cool, and his brain is definitely agreeable with the whole up close and personal with the faoladh thing.

He shifts the fingers twined with Derek's a little, absentmindedly playing with his fingers. ] It's cold. [ Captain obvious. He's shivering, even under a pile of furs. ]

...why are you here? [ It's a legitimate question. He's been nothing but an ass to the faoladh. To be fair, they haven't been that good to each other. ]

It's going to be, for a few more days. [ Without hesitation, Derek reaches his free hand out to pull his wolfskin a little higher on Stiles. He swims in it while wearing it, but fanned out the way it is makes it even more noticeable. He makes sure to keep the head away from his face, because knowing him he'd probably wind up knocking his cheek into the nose and startling himself.

His hand in Stiles', however, completely relaxes to let him do as he pleases with it. ]

You're my lupa. I'm not going to leave you alone while you're sick.

Few more months. [ Oh look, he has to be feeling a little better. He's ~~complaining~~ sassing again. Derek's right on the face thing, though, but for the moment he's grateful for the warmth of the wolfskin, shifting his shoulders and getting comfortable again. Pretty much never moving from this spot. Ever.

At the last comment, his hand drops again, still very loosely twined with Derek's, and his lashes flutter, mouth drawing into a small frown. ]

...Kind of a shit one. [ It's true. ]

You'll get used to that, eventually. For now, the fever is making it worse. [ His eyes scan Stiles' face as he listens to him, takes in his subtle shifting. He smells like sickness and misery, but the trace of spice and warmth is starting to seep back into his scent. It's a quiet relief. ]

You got sick because you were playing with the faolan. And spending a lot of your time outside, trying to figure out how the pack works. I think that says something of your progress as lupa.

Great. [ That comes out with a cough, and what is probably a small eyeroll. He's getting back to himself, to say the least. ]

The fact that I needed [ lifting his fingers out of the blankets just enough to do airquotes ] "progress" is kind of the problem.

[ Stiles is quiet for another second, almost like he's contemplative. Whatever it is, he's feeling more honest than usual, more bald-faced and willing to say things like that out loud, things like what's going to come out of his mouth next. ] ...doesn't. Doesn't explain why you didn't kill me the first day.

[ Shifting as Stiles frees their joined hands to be a smartass, Derek settles them on either side of his neck and presses his fingertips in gentle pressure against his skin. There's a roll of his own eyes, his thumbs brushing light below his ears. ]

You were dumped in the middle of the North without a damn idea of what you were doing. I think progress is more than a little warranted.

[ With the silence, followed by his thoughts leaving him, he bows forward to look down at him. It's as if he's considering the boy from the south, the boy who became his lupa. Who is still becoming his lupa. ] There's a spark to you. I wanted to see more of it.

[ Oh, that's kind of nice. Derek's thumbs track over the spots near his ear and it reminds him of his mom, for just a second, enough to make something sleepy and warm stir in his chest. He lets his hands drop again and laces them together on his chest, pondering everything Derek's saying.

For what it's worth, he was sure he'd be dead on the first day. And the day after, and the day after. He'd spent the past month or so shifting slowly from sleeping A) outside (the first day, and he would never repeat that mistake again) to B) in Scott's tent (for a couple intermittent days, before Scott felt bad and warned him about pack customs, or something), to C) barely on the edge of this "bed". And maybe that was a sign of his growth here, that he was willing to sleep beside Derek, that he was, hell, willing to be sitting like this right now.

It's kind of a weird thought--that he'd grown to maybe start to assimilate into a pack.

Stiles lets out a noise that might be a dry chuckle, shifting into his hands a little and looking straight up into his eyes, golden brown eyes on hazel. ] ...at least people thinking I'm a weirdo is consistent beyond the Wall.

I don't think you're a weirdo, so much as you're just... [ His fingertips trace along the line of his jaw on either side, smoothing them gentle over soft skin and lifting his eyes away from him for a moment as he thinks of what word he wants to use. But once he has it, he meets his eyes again-- gods, they're like liquid amber, even in a fever haze-- and chuffs softly. ] Unique. It's interesting.

[ You're interesting. His touch continues, finding the map of constellations all across his jaw and neck almost second nature at this point. He's watched Stiles before, taken stock of the marks unique to him, but he's never really looked too closely at them. Never tried to map them out. It comes almost second nature, but he doesn't question it. Not when they're having this quiet moment now between them, rather than the embittered exchanges full of sniping ]

So, northern speak for a weirdo. [ As he keeps brushing over the spots on his jaw, Stiles drops his eyes from his, shutting them again. It's weirdly intimate, this entire moment, and it makes him fidgety to get.

Scrutinized.

If that's what's going on. To be honest, he's not quite sure what's going on, and only half of that is from the haze from the fever. Instead of jerking away, he lets Derek continue, almost holding his breath. It feels so familiar, there's no reason to tell him to stop, and Stiles keeps telling himself it's because of his mother, the same way she'd tell him stories about the Warrior and the Maiden and even the Stranger up in the sky above their heads while she dressed him up in his doublets.

But it's not--he just has no way of knowing that, now.

Either way, he's pretty damn comfortable. Satisfied, even. He's holding almost completely still, a rare enough thing for Stiles Stilinski, and the tension in his shoulders has sunk down, just a little. ]

[ There's a soft chuff in response to that, eyes scanning his face as Stiles closes his own. A certain sense of familiarity has been there from the start, but he never thought to pay it any mind. Not when he was angry with what had been arranged for them. Now, in this quiet time, he has a moment to assess it. A part of him wants to drift along, track out every feature that is unique to Stiles: the pattern of moles and freckles, the shape of his jaw, his cheeks, the curve of his nose and the bow of his lips. It's strangely fascinating, and almost transfixing.

It's all intimate, the touch and how they're arranged, the way he's actually paying mind to the way long lashes settle when he closes his eyes, but Derek strangely can't find it anywhere in him to care. Not when something settles into place with him.

His shoulders even relax a little, too, as his rough fingertips still for the time being. He can feel Stiles' pulse under them, steady in its way. Compared to how it was over the past four days, that's a major relief to feel. ]

Normal isn't exactly common in the North.

Good to know I fit in.

[ There's a little more to that than what comes out at first glance. He is sort of starting to (shakily) make his way to being part of the group. The kids like him. Scott likes him, and Erica is starting to talk to him now, too. And maybe he's not gonna go killing prey and ripping things throats out with his teeth (maybe with a sword or something), but he's starting to feel a little more at home. And this, where they're just sharing a moment is helping that, too.

His traitorous mouth decides to blurt out this, though. ] Are we like, wolf married?

[.......you can't blame him for asking.At home, when someone gives you their cloak, that's, well. Signed, sealed, married. ]

[ He's starting to fit in, at least, in his own way. Which is interesting to observe, because not everyone is a skinwalker-- he's not alone in being human, but he's also strangely all right with those around him that after shifted. It makes him wonder if he realizes the true nature of the wolves that pass through camp or not, but he doesn't quite question it. Not when he's already got an interesting question presented to him.

Derek outright laughs, though it's soft even in its suddenness. Adjusting where his hands sit, he brushes his thumbs over his temples and cocks his head down at him amusedly. ]

No, we're not wolf married. Not yet. There are customs we have to go through, first to initiate you properly into the pack, then to wed us.

[ Oh no, he has no idea. That'll come later.

Brow furrowing a little as his hand passes by, he shrugs his shoulders under the blanket, comfortable enough not to flail out an answer as he opens his eyes again, looking up at the ceiling of the tent. ]

At home, when a couple gets married, the bride--y'know, in this case, but it's a general thing--gets a cloak thrown around her shoulders with the sigil of the groom's house on it. [ useless information starring stiles stilinski. He moves his hands and brushes them over the top of the wolf skin resting over his chest.]

This is...totally not what I expected. [ welp honesty is the best policy today apparently ] What kind of customs...?

That's sort of a stupid way to seal the deal. [ Just about anyone could do that. And the cloak could be removed so easily, destroyed by anything. It wasn't a lasting thing, and the concept is strange to Derek. Ink and blood was far more lasting, and there were so few ways to remove the mark after it was placed. That, that was binding.

Eyes lifting to track Stiles' hands when they move to touch the cloak, something prickles a little across his skin as if to mirror it. He can't quite feel anything that happens to the wolfskin, not in the same sense as he would his own body, but there's something that's just warm that accompanies that touch, absent as it is. ]

What exactly were you expecting? [ His hands settle close to his pulse again, drawn to and comforted by it. ] For your initiation, you go on a hunt with us. Your first kill is what marks you as pack.

[ He snorts, wow, rude. ] They don't wear it forever, genius. It's a symbol. My mom had her Tully cloak made into a quilt. [ ...It's kind of interesting getting to sit here and talk about home. No one really listened to him about it besides Scott, and the things that were so normal to him must seem really frickin' weird to Derek. ]

[ His fingers continue to brush through the wolfskin, the sensation calming, familiar almost. It's something idle to do with his fingers, a sign that maybe his strength is coming back. Stiles shuts his mouth and mutters ] I was expecting that. [ Greeeeat. ]

Symbolic or not. [ There isn't any bite to his voice, though, so he's mostly just speaking his mind rather than actually dissing the custom. One could say their customs are even more strange, or overboard, in comparison. That's what he guesses, anyways. Shifting, he takes one hand away from Stiles' skin, reaching to touch the red band around his bicep. ]

Afterwards, you get a band that signifies your connection to the pack. [ Normally the faoladh did it, but in this case he feels like it might be a better idea if he acted as support for Stiles. ]

cracks knuckles

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

no subject