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. ]
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. ]
[ 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.
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. ]
They last. [ He sounded almost stubborn, at that. His mother and his father had been happy, and everything had been absolutely perfect until she passed away. And that was what really mattered, anyway. His hand comes up with Derek's, finding the red band with a feather light touch of his fingertips. ]
...our way is less painful. [ Well it is. ] That's...just the pack, though.
The cloaks don't. This does. [ As Stiles brushes his fingers across the red band, Derek takes his hand gently to redirect it to his chest. He presses it, palm flat, against the beat of his heart beneath skin and muscle. It's steady and even, warm in the northern cold.
It makes it easier to break the news to him, anyways. ] The North has never been particularly gentle. [ Not wholly true, considering the softness that has been displayed in the pack-- what's being shown now, though he'd deny it-- but still honest to a point. ] When pack is wed, they take on each others... insignia, I suppose is what you would call them.
[ He wasn't expecting to have his hand moved, but he never flinches or anything--as it's pressed to his heartbeat, Stiles curls his fingers against his chest, feeling the steady thumping under his palm. It's...weirdly comforting, and his own speeds up just a little at the feeling (or maybe that's just from getting his hand on Derek's bare chest. He's sixteen, cut him some slack.)
His brow furrows, however, and he squints. ]
Just like the band? [ That fucking figures. ] I have to get two of them? [ He would sound ten times more incredulous if he wasn't sick, and he already sounds pretty damn incredulous--however, he's not. Overtly denying the entire marriage thing like he had been up to this point. ]
Unlike the band, you can decide where it goes. [ There's faint amusement in his tone, even as he holds Stiles' hand close to him. It's familiar and comforting in a strange way, even as his other hand feels the way that Stiles' own pulse jumps. But that's familiar, too, in its way. Something about it hurts a little, as if it's been missing for a long time, but overall it just feels right.
When did that happen? ]
It doesn't have to be as big as mine, either. [ His thumb brushes across his knuckles over his hand, almost absently. ]
[ The most obvious question (that was not really a question, more of a demand), because his curiosity is going to kill him otherwise. As comfortable as he is, Stiles is willing to move for information. ]
[ To be fair, Derek doesn't bare his back often to Stiles when they're out in the camp. Even when he does, he usually has his cloak with him or Stiles is focusing on other things around him. So he, somewhat reluctantly, removes Stiles' hand from his chest and his own from his neck, shifting to carefully lift his head from his lap. Rather than just drop him down, though, he supports him until he can pull some furs in to replace his legs, adjusting his position.
Sitting at Stiles' shoulder with his back to him, he rolls his shoulders before squaring them, showing him the full span of the triskele at the center of his shoulder blades. ]
[ That. Was definitely unlike anything he'd ever seen before, at least in the south. He was expecting an animal, an arrow, some kind of actual sigil, but at this point, he needs to get used to the idea that things here are just different. Frickin' weird, more like.
His fingers come out immediately to touch the whorls of the triskele, a little shakily. ]
A triskele. [ Rather than move under Stiles' touch, he remains calmly still. There's tension underneath his skin, but it seems more a permanent fixture than anything caused by the Southron, and if anything he actually seems to relax a little with the shaky touch.
Turning his head, he looks back at him over his shoulder, folding his arms in his lap for the time being. It keeps the tattoo even, though any small shift Derek makes seems to be connected. ]
They're fairly common in wolf packs, but this one belongs to the Hales.
Three continuing spirals. [ He's not really talking to Derek anymore, it seems--like he's trying to figure out what it could stand for. His touch gets a little stronger as it passes over each swirl, feather light. ]
[ The way his tone changes, Derek catches on fairly quickly that he's talking to himself. Working it out. His attention stays on his face as he looks intently at the mark, but he can feel every passing sweep across the whorls. ]
Spot on, actually. [ At least to him. ] Continuous unity of a pack or family, but one can rise where another will fall, regardless of what their position is.
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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.
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complainingsassing 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. ]
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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[ 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 ]
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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. ]
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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.
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[ 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. ]
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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.
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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...?
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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.
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[ 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. ]
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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. ]
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...our way is less painful. [ Well it is. ] That's...just the pack, though.
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It makes it easier to break the news to him, anyways. ] The North has never been particularly gentle. [ Not wholly true, considering the softness that has been displayed in the pack-- what's being shown now, though he'd deny it-- but still honest to a point. ] When pack is wed, they take on each others... insignia, I suppose is what you would call them.
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His brow furrows, however, and he squints. ]
Just like the band? [ That fucking figures. ] I have to get two of them? [ He would sound ten times more incredulous if he wasn't sick, and he already sounds pretty damn incredulous--however, he's not. Overtly denying the entire marriage thing like he had been up to this point. ]
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When did that happen? ]
It doesn't have to be as big as mine, either. [ His thumb brushes across his knuckles over his hand, almost absently. ]
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Let me see.
[ The most obvious question (that was not really a question, more of a demand), because his curiosity is going to kill him otherwise. As comfortable as he is, Stiles is willing to move for information. ]
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Sitting at Stiles' shoulder with his back to him, he rolls his shoulders before squaring them, showing him the full span of the triskele at the center of his shoulder blades. ]
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[ That. Was definitely unlike anything he'd ever seen before, at least in the south. He was expecting an animal, an arrow, some kind of actual sigil, but at this point, he needs to get used to the idea that things here are just different. Frickin' weird, more like.
His fingers come out immediately to touch the whorls of the triskele, a little shakily. ]
...not what I was expecting. What is it...?
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Turning his head, he looks back at him over his shoulder, folding his arms in his lap for the time being. It keeps the tattoo even, though any small shift Derek makes seems to be connected. ]
They're fairly common in wolf packs, but this one belongs to the Hales.
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Mother...no. Alpha, beta, omega. [ There we go. ]
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Spot on, actually. [ At least to him. ] Continuous unity of a pack or family, but one can rise where another will fall, regardless of what their position is.
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