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.
[ A little pleased--yeah, you bet your ass he was right--Stiles turns his gaze up to meet his eyes. He's got a million questions about things; the inner workings of these people were a mystery to him still, and everything he'd learned had to be through either experience or word of mouth, something he wasn't so used to when he'd had his mother's library at Riverrun at his fingertips.
His head's starting to swim, but he finds the top swirl and pauses on it. ] No space for an offshoot. [ What do you do with a lupa. ]
The faoladh and the lupa are two sides of the same coin. Those inside the wall often view the faoladh as the alpha and the lupa as their second-- not entirely far off, to be fair-- but there's more to it than that. They're a unit.
[ That's what you do with a lupa.
Derek remembers his parents, how Talia and Conall had been a working pair since long before he and Laura had been born. The lines between faoladh and lupa had been blurred with them, two alphas that lead the pack as one. And that was how he viewed it, and still views it now. ]
[ He takes that in for a minute, pondering. Maybe someday he'll get to that point, of being an actual member of this thing, a functioning lupa, a partner. It all seems so ridiculously far out of his range now that he snorts a little dryly and shakes his head. ]
's a long way to go.
[ Speaking of which, mother above, his head is starting to pound. Shifting forward, he lets it drop on Derek's shoulder, fluttering his eyes closed. ] Lower than an omega. Like a zeta.
That's alphabetical order, genius. [ With no heat to his voice, it's more teasing than anything. He slumps forward a little, letting Stiles rest against him without much concern. The position isn't ideal, but he's been placed in much worse before. Besides, it's probably comforting to Stiles.
He runs hot, but he's probably still a lot more comfortable than what the fever's been doing to him. ]
Zeta is sixth in line, including alpha. Omega is twenty-fourth. [ Ah, the intricacies of pack ranks. ]
In most cultures, the alphabet begins with A and ends with Z. [ That's said almost primly as he shifts again. Derek practically feels cold with the heat that's coming off of his face, and a part of him that's not so proud wants to crawl back to his former position, maybe crawl up in his lap and curl up in Derek like he's as comfortable as his body wants him to feel.
But he's more prideful than that, so he's not going to say it out loud. ]
It's from an older language that we adapted into what's used commonly now. [ Remaining stationary, for the most part, Derek lets Stiles lean on him and takes in the fever heat that's coming off him. But after a moment, he sighs-- breathing deeply, chest expanding and back rising and falling beneath Stiles' cheek-- and reaches around his side.
Taking one of Stiles' hands, he manipulates his fingers one by one to count the ranks, first tucking them into his fist before lifting them again, repeating as he needs to. ]
[ Letting himself be manhandled as necessary, Stiles turns his gaze away from his fingers and watches Derek instead, listening to him speak. It might be easier to watch, to listen, but maybe it's just a certain curiosity that lends it to looking at his face, the cut of his jaw, his long eyelashes. As he finishes his list, Stiles purses his lips, like he's thinking, head lolling listlessly back against his shoulder. ]
[ Rolling his eyes, though there's a good natured twist to it, he settles with Stiles' hand in both of his. He doesn't really do much with it, pressing his thumb into his palm and feeling the faint trace of his pulse there as he... well, essentially sits and holds his hand, simply because he can. ]
You technically don't have a rank right now, because you haven't been inducted into the pack completely. But you're not on the same level as a packless omega-- you're protected, even now. You're important even without a rank.
[ His hold on his hand shifts, and Derek slots their hands flush together, taking interest in the differences between them. ]
That really doesn't make it sound any better. [ He sounds plaintive, but at the same time, there's a small hint to his usual, sarcastic undertone--a sign for good things to come, surely.
Stiles lets his hand go ragdoll limp for a few seconds as Derek looks at them; his long, knobby piano fingers versus Derek's thicker hand. They're completely different (Derek's are actually kind of nice, Stiles looks like someone made him out of twigs), but that doesn't stop him from shifting his fingers to the right, enough to slide into the spaces between his fingers and twine their hands together.
No matter what I'd say, you'd find a way to turn it around so that it didn't sound any better. [ In return, he sounds dry, though still calm as he finds himself admiring the shape of his hands. Stiles might think he looks like someone made him out of twigs, but there's something about his hands-- his everything, actually-- that just seems right. Like yes, this is exactly how Stiles should be.
Allowing him to twine their fingers together, Derek rubs his thumb along the outside of Stiles' hand, skin rough from labor and combat whereas his touch is soft.
Hands are intimate extensions of ones self. They're used to know the world around you, in every shape and form and texture. Very rarely does the faoladh touch another person's hands with his own, but there's an easiness in this contact with Stiles. ]
Nothing you say ever comes remotely close to "better". [ He snarks right back at Derek, and really, it's kind of amazing how easy it's become to just banter off of him like this. Instead of threats and anger, there was a genuine sort of camaraderie--something like friendship--between them.
His eyes shut at the touch of his thumb, and as he moves back again, he fidgets.
Welp, might as well blurt this out now, right. ] 's uncomfortable. [ Wait. ] Not the--[ Waving their connected hands. ] the--[...awkward. gest...uring... ]
I could say worse. Much, much worse. [ A rumble of a laugh leaves him, low and quiet as he accepts the banter easily. It's gotten better, since those hours in the snow where he wanted to wring Stiles' neck. Gods, it had been tempting to just leave him in the wilds for the strays to take care of, but in the end that spark in a sea of ice had been what did him in. What had him keeping Stiles with him.
Cocking his head as he blurts out a string of aborted words and flails their connected hands, he offers him a slow blink of colorless eyes before chuffing. ]
Don't. Please, gods above, let me have my ignorance. [ Which of course means he's going to ask about it in two seconds, because he's Stiles, and cannot physically ignore being baited.
That could be a problem someday, he should really work on that.
And for once, he does in fact follow instruction, and leans off of Derek's shoulder, sitting up, a little wobbily as the whole tent spins around him. ] Seven hells. [ Holy shit he's dizzy. His hand clutches a little tighter to Derek's, like an anchor. ]
I highly doubt you'll let yourself have your ignorance. [ Waiting for Stiles to sit up, Derek moves to stand, patient for the questions that will no doubt barrage him once again. He holds his hand steady, reaching his free one to touch his shoulder and keep him from toppling over. He'll keep him from drifting.
It takes a second to figure out where to settle again, but he opts for behind Stiles, leaning against the furs that make up the head of the 'bed' against the tent's post. With a little nudge of their hands, he sits back and lets Stiles decide if he wants to lean against his chest or flop back over again. ]
[ He makes a slightly mocking expression in response to that, mostly because he knows it's true, but also because he's trying to get comfortable. As Derek shifts around he tries to awkwardly maneuver his limbs (which is hard enough normally, let alone when everything feels like lead) until he gets into a better position, which leads to him leaning backwards against Derek's chest.
For someone who's been shivering for a month, it's kind of nice to feel warm again.
Okay, now here comes the question. ]
What, in the name of the Mother, could be worse than being literally the outcast loser of a "pack" that I got thrown into.
[ Letting Stiles get comfortable, Derek settles back and brings up his free arm to hook around his middle. It's just to find a place to put it, at first, but in the end it's incredibly comfortable and just right. So he leaves it there, closing his eyes and tipping his head back for the time being.
A low laugh leaves him, rumbling up out of his chest amusedly. He could list so many things that were worse, because there are so many things that are. ]
You could have been foisted off on a pack of maneaters.
[ That is just right. There's none of the awkwardness that Stiles would have imagined from this sort of situation--rather, he just turns a little into his chest and closes his eyes, the pleasant rumbling kind of peaceful sounding under his ear. ]
I'm still kind of convinced you're going to eat me. [ His mouth twitches up in a small grin, matching his laugh.
No promises just yet. [ The rumble turns into a legitimate growl-- not a man mimicking the sound, but something that would come straight from a wolf-- before it evens out again, low and content, and then fades into quiet.
He considers their joined hands absently, angling his head to prop his chin on top of Stiles'. ] You're too sick for that right now, though.
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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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His head's starting to swim, but he finds the top swirl and pauses on it. ] No space for an offshoot. [ What do you do with a lupa. ]
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[ That's what you do with a lupa.
Derek remembers his parents, how Talia and Conall had been a working pair since long before he and Laura had been born. The lines between faoladh and lupa had been blurred with them, two alphas that lead the pack as one. And that was how he viewed it, and still views it now. ]
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's a long way to go.
[ Speaking of which, mother above, his head is starting to pound. Shifting forward, he lets it drop on Derek's shoulder, fluttering his eyes closed. ] Lower than an omega. Like a zeta.
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He runs hot, but he's probably still a lot more comfortable than what the fever's been doing to him. ]
Zeta is sixth in line, including alpha. Omega is twenty-fourth. [ Ah, the intricacies of pack ranks. ]
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But he's more prideful than that, so he's not going to say it out loud. ]
You guys are messed up.
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Taking one of Stiles' hands, he manipulates his fingers one by one to count the ranks, first tucking them into his fist before lifting them again, repeating as he needs to. ]
Alpha, beta, gamma, delta, epsilon. Zeta, eta, theta, iota, kappa. Lambda, mu, nu, xi, omicron. Pi, rho, sigma, tau, upsilon. Phi, chi, psi, omega.
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Right so. Omega then. Psi, maybe, on a good day.
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You technically don't have a rank right now, because you haven't been inducted into the pack completely. But you're not on the same level as a packless omega-- you're protected, even now. You're important even without a rank.
[ His hold on his hand shifts, and Derek slots their hands flush together, taking interest in the differences between them. ]
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Stiles lets his hand go ragdoll limp for a few seconds as Derek looks at them; his long, knobby piano fingers versus Derek's thicker hand. They're completely different (Derek's are actually kind of nice, Stiles looks like someone made him out of twigs), but that doesn't stop him from shifting his fingers to the right, enough to slide into the spaces between his fingers and twine their hands together.
Yeah. There we go. ]
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Allowing him to twine their fingers together, Derek rubs his thumb along the outside of Stiles' hand, skin rough from labor and combat whereas his touch is soft.
Hands are intimate extensions of ones self. They're used to know the world around you, in every shape and form and texture. Very rarely does the faoladh touch another person's hands with his own, but there's an easiness in this contact with Stiles. ]
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His eyes shut at the touch of his thumb, and as he moves back again, he fidgets.
Welp, might as well blurt this out now, right. ] 's uncomfortable. [ Wait. ] Not the--[ Waving their connected hands. ] the--[...awkward. gest...uring... ]
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Cocking his head as he blurts out a string of aborted words and flails their connected hands, he offers him a slow blink of colorless eyes before chuffing. ]
Sit up.
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That could be a problem someday, he should really work on that.
And for once, he does in fact follow instruction, and leans off of Derek's shoulder, sitting up, a little wobbily as the whole tent spins around him. ] Seven hells. [ Holy shit he's dizzy. His hand clutches a little tighter to Derek's, like an anchor. ]
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It takes a second to figure out where to settle again, but he opts for behind Stiles, leaning against the furs that make up the head of the 'bed' against the tent's post. With a little nudge of their hands, he sits back and lets Stiles decide if he wants to lean against his chest or flop back over again. ]
Easy does it.
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For someone who's been shivering for a month, it's kind of nice to feel warm again.
Okay, now here comes the question. ]
What, in the name of the Mother, could be worse than being literally the outcast loser of a "pack" that I got thrown into.
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A low laugh leaves him, rumbling up out of his chest amusedly. He could list so many things that were worse, because there are so many things that are. ]
You could have been foisted off on a pack of maneaters.
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I'm still kind of convinced you're going to eat me. [ His mouth twitches up in a small grin, matching his laugh.
This is kind of nice. ]
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He considers their joined hands absently, angling his head to prop his chin on top of Stiles'. ] You're too sick for that right now, though.
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