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.
You'll get Mad Human Disease. [ Apparently, he's still well enough to be a smartass, but that's okay. The growl practically shake against his ear, and he furrows his brows, trying to hide the definite two second "holy freakin' shit" look on his face. He's still not used to being surrounded by wolves, sometimes literally--and not just wolves, but direwolves, some of them almost as tall as he was--and Derek sometimes seems more wolf than human.
But it's not necessarily terror like it was at first. Being startled, definitely. It's something, because they're starting to become something. ] I'm too stringy, anyway. Like trying to eat a squirrel.
I don't know, you've got some meat on you. [ Derek is used to the wiseass comments, and instead lifts Stiles' hand in his to examine his arm as if considering it. But he doesn't move to bite him, or any other joking motions to go with his words. He doesn't need to startle him further, and despite the decidedly intimate turn this situation has taken, he's much more inclined to keep to where they are now.
When he resettles, he chuffs softly and rubs his thumb along the side of Stiles' hand again, closing his eyes.
If only Stiles knew that he was interacting with the people he's come to know, and not just any wolf or direwolf. ] I'll still pass on the Mad Human Disease, though.
That's what you think. I'm literally a hundred and fifty pounds of sarcasm and stringy bits. [ His mouth quirks into a small smile, even as Derek's manhandling his arm--he opens his eyes to look at him and watches listlessly, too tired to properly jerk his arm away. (Or that's what he's telling himself, anyway.)
As it's dropped, he closes his eyes again. In the mouth of the wolf, he's mostly unafraid nowadays, just. Jumpy. Every now and then. With his free hand, he brings the wolf skin back up over him again, and settles backwards for another fever nap, murmuring.] 'd totally serve you right. [ As he's comfortable. Stiles pls. ]
I have almost a hundred pounds on you. [ Idle observation, but he finds it almost fascinating really. It's not like he hasn't noticed their drastic size difference altogether-- and hasn't guessed how high he'd come up while in his wolf form-- but it's just... interesting, to get the actual difference.
He closes his eyes and gets himself comfortable as Stiles does, letting the wolfskin and furs insulate the sick Southorn while he essentially acts as an oven, wrapped loosely around him and settled easily at his back. ]
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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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But it's not necessarily terror like it was at first. Being startled, definitely. It's something, because they're starting to become something. ] I'm too stringy, anyway. Like trying to eat a squirrel.
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When he resettles, he chuffs softly and rubs his thumb along the side of Stiles' hand again, closing his eyes.
If only Stiles knew that he was interacting with the people he's come to know, and not just any wolf or direwolf. ] I'll still pass on the Mad Human Disease, though.
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As it's dropped, he closes his eyes again. In the mouth of the wolf, he's mostly unafraid nowadays, just. Jumpy. Every now and then. With his free hand, he brings the wolf skin back up over him again, and settles backwards for another fever nap, murmuring.] 'd totally serve you right. [ As he's comfortable. Stiles pls. ]
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He closes his eyes and gets himself comfortable as Stiles does, letting the wolfskin and furs insulate the sick Southorn while he essentially acts as an oven, wrapped loosely around him and settled easily at his back. ]
Go back to sleep, Stiles.