[ Derek doesn't like the sound of the pack melting in the drastic difference, but he thinks that it'll be a good thing for everyone to go through. There were some that'd seen the seasons the rest of the Seven Kingdoms yielded, but they were few and far between. If anything, the children deserved to see a summer beyond the Wall, the same as Stiles deserved to see his birth home again before they were actually mated.
Even with the crude joke, he laughs, low and quiet. ]
You take the faolan and the ones that stay behind when the rest go hunting. They'll ask less questions and likely let you through faster if we take another way through the Wall while you go the conventional route with the half of the pack that isn't as murderous looking.
[ He fingers a bit of the wolfskin draped over his shoulders, rubbing at the fur and the smoothed underside absently as he thinks of the safest openings for them to slip through. ]
You actually thought about this. [ Jeez. For someone who's gone from literally the worst second you could ask for to becoming sort of sub-par, Stiles is getting some seriously preferential treatment. Then again, he is a member of the ~pack~ now, gruesome murder and all, and maybe he's starting to assimilate a little better than he thought.
With a lopsided grin, he bumps his arm against Derek's--his arm slide down to meet his hand, and slides naturally into the slots between his fingers. It's an embarrassing thing to say, holding hands with the alpha and all of that ridiculousness included, but Stiles is a firm fan of "if I don't say something out loud then we don't have to talk about it", not to mention very sudden and often very stupid courage. So it kind of seems like an okay thing to do. ]
It's like you actually want to impress me or something. [ It's also incredibly distracting. ] My dad'd flip his shit. I need to send a raven..
I've been thinking about it for the past week. [ While not exactly ashamed or embarrassed to admit to it, Derek does a good job of not looking at Stiles as he does. They're still not as smooth and steady as they could be, but there's a certain... fondness that he's developed for his lupa, in the spaces between their disagreements.
He finally looks at him with the bump, eyebrows quirking up as he does. As their fingers fit together, he doesn't even think before he's curling them, anchoring himself easily to Stiles as they walk. A part of him wonders when he became so comfortable with the concept, after he spent so much time never making this sort of contact with any of his pack around him, but he figures it's better to just assume all things come back to his second. ]
Consider it a wedding present. [ He chuffs. ] You can send the fastest we have.
Aw, honey. [ Wiggling his eyebrows, he elbows Derek with the arm that's connected to his, trying to make light of a serious situation. It's nice to not focus on the fact that he definitely just killed something for the first time ever.
Which, now he's thinking about it again. Damn it. Shaking his head, he turns his attention to the thought of being home again, letting the sights and sounds of Riverrun over run the smell of blood still in his nose. It's not long before he's thinking out loud--of course it isn't, he's Stiles. ] The kids can play in the river--it's been like my favorite place in the whole world since I was four or five, and we can teach everyone how to catch fish instead of freakin' ice fishing, because that's cheating, and it's like the only thing I've ever been good at.
[ Riverrun. His hand squeezes a little in Derek's--the idea of going home is absolutely cemented in his mind now. He doesn't even freak out about the phrase "wedding present". Which is kind of impressive. ] How long is it gonna take for the arm thing to stop hurting?
[ Giving him an impressive roll of his eyes, he elbows him back before turning his attention forward. The smell of blood is still fresh, but it's not as overpowering as it was at the kill sight. What he's smelling is just what's lingering on them, as well as the faint trail left behind by the deer being brought back to where camp is set up.
But the fact Stiles isn't focusing on it and is, instead, talking about Riverrun is both impressive and better. Derek inclines his head to the side a little as he listens to him, trying to picture the only time he'd ever seen spring beyond the Wall. Summer will be far more interesting. ] You adapted to your territory, we adapted to ours. But it'll be interesting to watch Isaac try to outclass everyone before he falls into the river.
[ With the squeeze from Stiles' hand, he returns it gently, considering the question. ] No more than two weeks, so long as it's taken care of.
[ As they come upon the camp, Stiles goes quiet for a little while, after snorting at the remark about Isaac--so, so true. It's not an upset quiet. Rather, the fact that Stiles is even able to be quiet around Derek nowadays says leaps and bounds about how much their relationship has grown. But, however quiet he's being is quickly interrupted as the questions start to bubble up under the surface until he's practically bouncing with the effort of holding them back.
Half about Riverrun, but mostly about the tattoo process. He has yet to hear about anyone getting one, let alone a human, and all he heard last time was some pained screeching and howling. Which. Stiles has like zero pain tolerance so that's going to be fun.
He doesn't, however, drop Derek's hand, even as they come into the encampment. ]
[ Even if he wasn't holding onto Stiles' hand, it wouldn't take much for Derek to notice the way he vibrates in his skin. It's something he's started to associate with him attempting to hold himself back-- from asking questions, shooting snark at him, babbling, whatever-- and he has to huff out a quiet laugh before he pulls him a little closer. And it's interesting, that he's so comfortable with this, with having Stiles close and holding onto him the way he is.
The pack's noticed the change, and he knows it. He was always more tactile with the younger members of the pack, but since Stiles came along he's slowly warmed to being more open with the rest of their packmates. It's... something he's missed.
He's also missed his relative peace and quiet, but Stiles isn't all bad. ]
How does this work?! Okay, I mean, there are about a million people in the seven kingdoms and beyond with some kind of ink somewhere, but it's usually a Free Cities kind of thing, and then it's usually a slave thing, but this is obviously not a slave thing? When did it start? How are you planning on actually doing this, because every method I keep thinking about gets progressively more and more painful, and really, as much as I am totally down for the whole Be One With Your Pack, Young Tully, thing, I'm pretty sure that passing out in front of half of them is probably not the best way to start an initiation rite.
[ Finally, he remembers to breathe, and ruffles his free hand over his hair. ] Phew.
It's as old as our blood is. Packs needed ways of differentiating from one another, and showing who belonged where, or where they originally came from if they were mated into another pack. [ He does not talk about what happens when someone is outcasted from a pack, or their pack is killed. It won't be good for his nerves. ] We don't have slaves, though we do take captives for bargaining or to be made examples of, if they don't become pack.
[ There's a slight pause, as Derek debates whether or not he should admit to the method. ]
Normally the faoladh, lupa, or a guide will give the tattoo, with needle and ink. It... takes a while, but it's not as painful as some of the methods beyond the Wall that I've heard of. And Deaton has done it enough times that he knows what he's doing.
[ He pauses for a minute to take that in, chewing on his lower lip and jittering a little in place. ]
Is there a record of the different pack's symbols? I'd like to learn them. [ If there's nothing else, Stiles is voracious in his want for information--it's what, maybe, could make him a good lupa indeed. He adds, after a beat-- ] It sounds like they're like our sigils; I can teach them to you, too. Even if they're kind of useless, I think they're cool.
[ And from all of that he gets. ] So I could learn how to do that? [ Beat. ]
[ Watching him jitter with amusement, it turns into a somehow soft affection as Stiles reveals that thirst for knowledge once again. Derek has grown used to the questions, at least, and they're not as frustrating as they had been at one point. But he considers it, thumb rubbing along the shape of his hand as he does. ]
No. Not that I know of, anyways. There are some pack symbols I could draw for you off the top of my head, but we don't interact with nearly as many as there are in the North. [ But his interest is obviously piqued, as he inclines his head towards him. Useless or not, if they're to travel to Riverrun... ]
You can learn when we come back from beyond the Wall.
We'll have to pass through the territory belonging mostly to the Starks--I'm sure they'll like you, considering their symbol is a direwolf, on a gray field. [ Stiles bites at the inside of his lip, thinking, eyes directed up to the sky as he conjures up a mental map of Westeros. ]
But after that, we can take the kingsroad and cross Moat Cailin and then--[...And then home. ] Our sigil's a trout, which probably isn't a surprise, and the colors are red, blue, and silver.
[ With his free hand, Stiles digs around in the pocket of his cloak and pulls up a large cloakpin. He'd tucked it away to keep it safe from any...fluids, and now he passes it over to Derek to examine. It's a silver trout, intricately engraved, designed to look like its leaping out of the water, and he runs his thumb over his palm, a little nervously. ] ...was my mom's.
There's a Stark, here on the Wall. I've met him once. [ The packs will occasionally deal with the Night's Watch, though Derek himself tries to avoid it as much as possible. It's true, wildlings and those in black are often at odds with one another. He'd rather avoid anything happening to his packmates if he can help it.
Watching Stiles dig into his cloak pocket, he takes the cloakpin and smooths his thumb over the body of the trout. Even before he knows whose it once was, he takes care with it-- insignias are important to everyone in the Seven Kingdoms, as well as beyond-- and he has to regard it thoughtfully. But learning that it belonged to Stiles' mother, he pulls him a little closer by their joined hands. ]
Our families have been allies for eons. [ He smiles a little, recalling the tales of the river fish and the wolves his mom used to tell him--those and the constellations had always been his favorites. ] So if we have to go ahead and need an envoy, I kept all of my clothes from when I left the house.
[ As Derek brings up his dad, he quietly strokes his thumb across the side of his hand. It's not a thought out gesture so much as instinctual--he just knows the feelings, knows the ache and pain of losing your parents. His mom's death had been so hard on him--years later, he still wasn't over it. To lose both would be even worse.
He leans a little into his shoulder, not exactly sure what to say. ] Do they pass those down, normally?
It'd probably be best for you to put them on with your winter coats, anyways. Easier to identify you as Southorn, gives you more sway. [ There have always been stories about the Starks, like wolves themselves. After having see the direwolf at the bastard's side, he's fairly certain that the stories are true. They're like a pack, themselves.
Humming low in his throat, he closes his finger over the pin in his hand and considers the strong similarity between them. It's a painful one, one that he doesn't like that he can consider-- losing even just one person is driving the knife in, where losing so much of his family twisted it deeper-- but one that's there nonetheless. ]
There are some families in packs that do it out of tradition, but it's normally only when the original owner has passed on.
Yeah. [ Guess who's back back again prince stilinski's back tell a friend ] I'll try to convince them with my unending charm and obvious foreigner ways. Really got me far in the pack here.
[ Oh yes, sarcasm.
It's kind of crazy how similar he and Derek are. The more time that passes, the more Stiles starts to learn about him, about his past--from what he heard from Scott, a woman destroyed his entire life. And maybe that means a lot, now, for the fact that Derek's standing next to him, holding his hand, when he could have just ripped out his throat the minute they met and have it over with.
He's not sure what he did to get on Derek's good side, but he's not planning on changing it anytime soon.
Stiles weighs that for a moment before speaking up, giving his hand a tiny squeeze. ] ...You wear it well. I bet he'd be proud.
It has, actually, considering how quickly you charmed the faolan and their mothers. They're the foundation of the pack, and no one is more fierce than a mother. I figure if anything happened to you, they'd be on the offending party faster than I would.
[ It's half joke, half sincerity, but there's an underlying twist to it-- because if anything did happen to Stiles, it's true. Derek would be among the first to leap to the call. And it really does mean a lot, now, because he's holding him close and actually speaking without scorn about being married to Stiles.
When before all he wanted to do was send him home, were it not for the fact that Stiles' mother had wildling blood in her. He's certain he'd never known her, but Melissa had-- which likely meant that his mother and father had as well-- and along with Deaton, had encouraged the marriage.
It's interesting to think about, but Stiles' touch draws him out of those thoughts-- reflecting on his family, on how they could have met long before now, of what it all meant when a golden wolf chased a white wolf through darkness every night-- and he looks at him. ]
As your mother'd be proud of you. [ He takes the trout in his hand, carefully slipping it back into Stiles' pocket for safe keeping. ]
[ The compliment's a little unexpected, and it makes the tips of his ears turn pink. He's really not used to being anything more than the irritating southron nuisance, no matter how much time they've spent developing a rapport, and the occasional reminder that he's not, actually, completely screwing up this whole lupa thing is a little flustering. He grins sheepishly, shrugging a shoulder. ]
It's because I'm secretly five. Not much of a threat.
[ He's never really been a threat at all, not in this pack, and it's part exhilirating and part terrifying--one, that they've accepted him almost completely, but on the other, they all could have killed him with one false move. And considering Stiles' life is 90% false moves, he's thrilled he's done so well so far.
The look on his face softens a little as he glances towards the tent they've been waiting in, where Deaton is probably waiting to do some sort of unspeakable thing with this tattoo, but his jittery nerves are mostly quelled as he thinks about his mom, thinks about Derek, and squeezes his hand. ]
So, let's get the agonizing painful nightmare over with, I want to sleep forever.
[ Rolling his eyes-- almost affectionately-- Derek chuffs softly and decides not to point out the flustered look he takes on in response. But it's true, he really has become the lupa of the pack over time. Trial and error has lead him right where he's needed to be, even if there was a rocky path towards the position. And, truth be told, the faoladh's developed alongside him. He feels a little more at ease in his own pack, like he should be.
It's good to have the help, and good to have the anchor that he's apparently been lacking. The tie between him and his pack.
He looks off to the tent thoughtfully, thumb rubbing absent circles along the side of Stiles' hand as he considers the tattooing process. It hurts, he can remember getting both of his when he was younger. Those had been done with heated needles, to ensure that the tattoos would take. Thankfully, Stiles won't have to deal with that.
After a moment, he returns the squeeze and looks down at him again. ]
I don't trust your definition of fine. [ Rolling his eyes, he stares at the tent entrance for a moment, puffs out a breath, squares his shoulders, and strides forward, lifting the flap with his free hand and sliding inside.
Yeah. There are needles and all kinds of god only knows what other painful things sitting there near the fur pile, and Stiles jitters over to sit by the soft spoken doctor--the healer of the pack, naturally, is the one who everyone seems to trust with the sharp pointy instruments of death. He's not one to mince words about this either, and by the time he's settled, Derek sitting beside him, he's talking to himself about this. ]
Okay. Just needles. Just a needle. Just a really, really, really huge needle.
[ But before he can psych himself up completely--before Deaton even gets the first dot of color onto his bicep, Stiles is reminded very quickly that he's squeamish as hell, and the possibility of what's going to happen makes him, literally, faint. ]
He shares a look with Deaton, sighing heavily as he catches Stiles with his own bicep across his chest. But a soft smile twinges across his face as he rearranges where they're seated, settling behind Stiles and holding him against him with unsurprising ease by his arms around his waist.
Once he's comfortable, chin propped on his shoulder, he holds Stiles in place and lets Deaton get started. (Ignoring the amused cluck of his tongue that the healer and guide offers them as he takes hold of Stiles' arm to begin working.)
But while he inks, and Stiles is dead to the world, Derek takes advantage of the moment to quietly murmur in his ear, absent stories that Talia used to tell him and his sisters when they were distressed, when he and Laura both got their first tattoos. ]
[ Aside from the fact that he's occasionally twitching or drooling on Derek's shoulder, Stiles is blissfully conked for the rest of the procedure, if not a little after it.
And when he does, he's dreaming.
It's not the most concrete image in the world--it's strong and clear though, like he's living in the middle of the snow hushed woods where it's taking place. There's a wolf, at first, pale white and beautiful, nothing like the ones he's seen around camp, and the moment Stiles sees it, there's this inexplicable urge to run, to chase, to go towards it and catch it and hold it in his arms. His feet start to carry him, crunching in the snow, as he realizes belatedly that there are paws underneath him, golden and, his mind decides, all his, not at all foreign as he runs, runs, runs after the other wolf.
There's a desperate noise that escapes him as he gets close--he can almost reach the white one's tail, but then, out of nowhere, he's gone, vanished into the darkness, and Stiles snaps awake.
It takes him about ten seconds to fully reboot from everything that just happened, and Stiles' brain registers the pain, first. ]--Motherfucker!
[ And then, he blinks, blearily, staring up at--Derek. His arm hurts like hell, but there's also another body wrapped around his, warm and comforting, and he pauses for a moment to stare up at him with big brown doe eyes. eyes. ] ...whuh just happened.
[ There's always at least one story for everything beyond the Wall-- how the crows and ravens passed on their sight; how wolves grew close to man before they became men themselves; why the snow continues to fall, and fall, and fall-- and where written word isn't valued so much as the spoken, Derek knows as many of them as he can hold onto.
But there's been one that's stuck with him for years, and years, and years, ever since his uncle told it to him when he was young, when Laura hadn't even gotten her band yet, and Cora was still suckling. He'd listened with wide eyes as Peter had told the tale, enraptured more than ever as silver and gold wove together in his mind.
And it's been tucked away in the back of his mind, nothing more than an occasional story for his young packmates.
Until he met Stiles.
His eyes snap open from where he's closed them at the first noise that comes from Stiles, and he goes quiet, arms tightening gently around his middle. But with the exclamation, everything in him actually relaxes, an amused sound leaving him. It fades quickly, though, as he looks back at those eyes. Warm and bright, they hit him square in the chest harder than anything else has.
[ He directs his gaze away from Derek's again and looks around. Deaton is gone-his words register, and Stiles blinks, shifting around in Derek's grip in what's a subdued flail of his limbs before he holds out his right arm. Sure enough, there's a band on it, black instead of red like Derek's, and he freezes in his movements to stare at it, going from shocked to interested to appreciative. ]
Whoa. [ And then, a smile breaks out on his face instead, and he moves his arm around to try and actually look at it. ] Oh my god, awesome.
[ Eventually, he drops his arm, realizing exactly what happened--vaguely recalling the dream, and he leans backwards into Derek's shoulder, making a face. Not exactly his finest moment. ] So, I guess any manly points I won for killing something and getting a tattoo I lost in the past twenty minutes.
[ Loosening his arms once Stiles isn't moving his limbs about, Derek lifts his chin to let him move freely, watching him. Color can be added later on, between the whorls and spaces in the band, but right now it's pristine black on agitated skin.
And it's the mark of his pack. Stiles is officially pack, though he isn't officially Derek's yet.
He chuffs faintly, holding his hand on Stiles' hip and considering the comment. ]
When my sister and I got our tattoos, my mom held our hands while my dad did the ink.
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Even with the crude joke, he laughs, low and quiet. ]
You take the faolan and the ones that stay behind when the rest go hunting. They'll ask less questions and likely let you through faster if we take another way through the Wall while you go the conventional route with the half of the pack that isn't as murderous looking.
[ He fingers a bit of the wolfskin draped over his shoulders, rubbing at the fur and the smoothed underside absently as he thinks of the safest openings for them to slip through. ]
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With a lopsided grin, he bumps his arm against Derek's--his arm slide down to meet his hand, and slides naturally into the slots between his fingers. It's an embarrassing thing to say, holding hands with the alpha and all of that ridiculousness included, but Stiles is a firm fan of "if I don't say something out loud then we don't have to talk about it", not to mention very sudden and often very stupid courage. So it kind of seems like an okay thing to do. ]
It's like you actually want to impress me or something. [ It's also incredibly distracting. ] My dad'd flip his shit. I need to send a raven..
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He finally looks at him with the bump, eyebrows quirking up as he does. As their fingers fit together, he doesn't even think before he's curling them, anchoring himself easily to Stiles as they walk. A part of him wonders when he became so comfortable with the concept, after he spent so much time never making this sort of contact with any of his pack around him, but he figures it's better to just assume all things come back to his second. ]
Consider it a wedding present. [ He chuffs. ] You can send the fastest we have.
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Which, now he's thinking about it again. Damn it. Shaking his head, he turns his attention to the thought of being home again, letting the sights and sounds of Riverrun over run the smell of blood still in his nose. It's not long before he's thinking out loud--of course it isn't, he's Stiles. ] The kids can play in the river--it's been like my favorite place in the whole world since I was four or five, and we can teach everyone how to catch fish instead of freakin' ice fishing, because that's cheating, and it's like the only thing I've ever been good at.
[ Riverrun. His hand squeezes a little in Derek's--the idea of going home is absolutely cemented in his mind now. He doesn't even freak out about the phrase "wedding present". Which is kind of impressive. ] How long is it gonna take for the arm thing to stop hurting?
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But the fact Stiles isn't focusing on it and is, instead, talking about Riverrun is both impressive and better. Derek inclines his head to the side a little as he listens to him, trying to picture the only time he'd ever seen spring beyond the Wall. Summer will be far more interesting. ] You adapted to your territory, we adapted to ours. But it'll be interesting to watch Isaac try to outclass everyone before he falls into the river.
[ With the squeeze from Stiles' hand, he returns it gently, considering the question. ] No more than two weeks, so long as it's taken care of.
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Half about Riverrun, but mostly about the tattoo process. He has yet to hear about anyone getting one, let alone a human, and all he heard last time was some pained screeching and howling. Which. Stiles has like zero pain tolerance so that's going to be fun.
He doesn't, however, drop Derek's hand, even as they come into the encampment. ]
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The pack's noticed the change, and he knows it. He was always more tactile with the younger members of the pack, but since Stiles came along he's slowly warmed to being more open with the rest of their packmates. It's... something he's missed.
He's also missed his relative peace and quiet, but Stiles isn't all bad. ]
You can ask, you know.
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How does this work?! Okay, I mean, there are about a million people in the seven kingdoms and beyond with some kind of ink somewhere, but it's usually a Free Cities kind of thing, and then it's usually a slave thing, but this is obviously not a slave thing? When did it start? How are you planning on actually doing this, because every method I keep thinking about gets progressively more and more painful, and really, as much as I am totally down for the whole Be One With Your Pack, Young Tully, thing, I'm pretty sure that passing out in front of half of them is probably not the best way to start an initiation rite.
[ Finally, he remembers to breathe, and ruffles his free hand over his hair. ] Phew.
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It's as old as our blood is. Packs needed ways of differentiating from one another, and showing who belonged where, or where they originally came from if they were mated into another pack. [ He does not talk about what happens when someone is outcasted from a pack, or their pack is killed. It won't be good for his nerves. ] We don't have slaves, though we do take captives for bargaining or to be made examples of, if they don't become pack.
[ There's a slight pause, as Derek debates whether or not he should admit to the method. ]
Normally the faoladh, lupa, or a guide will give the tattoo, with needle and ink. It... takes a while, but it's not as painful as some of the methods beyond the Wall that I've heard of. And Deaton has done it enough times that he knows what he's doing.
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Is there a record of the different pack's symbols? I'd like to learn them. [ If there's nothing else, Stiles is voracious in his want for information--it's what, maybe, could make him a good lupa indeed. He adds, after a beat-- ] It sounds like they're like our sigils; I can teach them to you, too. Even if they're kind of useless, I think they're cool.
[ And from all of that he gets. ] So I could learn how to do that? [ Beat. ]
Awesome.
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No. Not that I know of, anyways. There are some pack symbols I could draw for you off the top of my head, but we don't interact with nearly as many as there are in the North. [ But his interest is obviously piqued, as he inclines his head towards him. Useless or not, if they're to travel to Riverrun... ]
You can learn when we come back from beyond the Wall.
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But after that, we can take the kingsroad and cross Moat Cailin and then--[...And then home. ] Our sigil's a trout, which probably isn't a surprise, and the colors are red, blue, and silver.
[ With his free hand, Stiles digs around in the pocket of his cloak and pulls up a large cloakpin. He'd tucked it away to keep it safe from any...fluids, and now he passes it over to Derek to examine. It's a silver trout, intricately engraved, designed to look like its leaping out of the water, and he runs his thumb over his palm, a little nervously. ] ...was my mom's.
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Watching Stiles dig into his cloak pocket, he takes the cloakpin and smooths his thumb over the body of the trout. Even before he knows whose it once was, he takes care with it-- insignias are important to everyone in the Seven Kingdoms, as well as beyond-- and he has to regard it thoughtfully. But learning that it belonged to Stiles' mother, he pulls him a little closer by their joined hands. ]
... my wolfskin was my dad's.
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[ As Derek brings up his dad, he quietly strokes his thumb across the side of his hand. It's not a thought out gesture so much as instinctual--he just knows the feelings, knows the ache and pain of losing your parents. His mom's death had been so hard on him--years later, he still wasn't over it. To lose both would be even worse.
He leans a little into his shoulder, not exactly sure what to say. ] Do they pass those down, normally?
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Humming low in his throat, he closes his finger over the pin in his hand and considers the strong similarity between them. It's a painful one, one that he doesn't like that he can consider-- losing even just one person is driving the knife in, where losing so much of his family twisted it deeper-- but one that's there nonetheless. ]
There are some families in packs that do it out of tradition, but it's normally only when the original owner has passed on.
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[ Oh yes, sarcasm.
It's kind of crazy how similar he and Derek are. The more time that passes, the more Stiles starts to learn about him, about his past--from what he heard from Scott, a woman destroyed his entire life. And maybe that means a lot, now, for the fact that Derek's standing next to him, holding his hand, when he could have just ripped out his throat the minute they met and have it over with.
He's not sure what he did to get on Derek's good side, but he's not planning on changing it anytime soon.
Stiles weighs that for a moment before speaking up, giving his hand a tiny squeeze. ] ...You wear it well. I bet he'd be proud.
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[ It's half joke, half sincerity, but there's an underlying twist to it-- because if anything did happen to Stiles, it's true. Derek would be among the first to leap to the call. And it really does mean a lot, now, because he's holding him close and actually speaking without scorn about being married to Stiles.
When before all he wanted to do was send him home, were it not for the fact that Stiles' mother had wildling blood in her. He's certain he'd never known her, but Melissa had-- which likely meant that his mother and father had as well-- and along with Deaton, had encouraged the marriage.
It's interesting to think about, but Stiles' touch draws him out of those thoughts-- reflecting on his family, on how they could have met long before now, of what it all meant when a golden wolf chased a white wolf through darkness every night-- and he looks at him. ]
As your mother'd be proud of you. [ He takes the trout in his hand, carefully slipping it back into Stiles' pocket for safe keeping. ]
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It's because I'm secretly five. Not much of a threat.
[ He's never really been a threat at all, not in this pack, and it's part exhilirating and part terrifying--one, that they've accepted him almost completely, but on the other, they all could have killed him with one false move. And considering Stiles' life is 90% false moves, he's thrilled he's done so well so far.
The look on his face softens a little as he glances towards the tent they've been waiting in, where Deaton is probably waiting to do some sort of unspeakable thing with this tattoo, but his jittery nerves are mostly quelled as he thinks about his mom, thinks about Derek, and squeezes his hand. ]
So, let's get the agonizing painful nightmare over with, I want to sleep forever.
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It's good to have the help, and good to have the anchor that he's apparently been lacking. The tie between him and his pack.
He looks off to the tent thoughtfully, thumb rubbing absent circles along the side of Stiles' hand as he considers the tattooing process. It hurts, he can remember getting both of his when he was younger. Those had been done with heated needles, to ensure that the tattoos would take. Thankfully, Stiles won't have to deal with that.
After a moment, he returns the squeeze and looks down at him again. ]
You'll be fine. Come on.
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Yeah. There are needles and all kinds of god only knows what other painful things sitting there near the fur pile, and Stiles jitters over to sit by the soft spoken doctor--the healer of the pack, naturally, is the one who everyone seems to trust with the sharp pointy instruments of death. He's not one to mince words about this either, and by the time he's settled, Derek sitting beside him, he's talking to himself about this. ]
Okay. Just needles. Just a needle. Just a really, really, really huge needle.
[ But before he can psych himself up completely--before Deaton even gets the first dot of color onto his bicep, Stiles is reminded very quickly that he's squeamish as hell, and the possibility of what's going to happen makes him, literally, faint. ]
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He shares a look with Deaton, sighing heavily as he catches Stiles with his own bicep across his chest. But a soft smile twinges across his face as he rearranges where they're seated, settling behind Stiles and holding him against him with unsurprising ease by his arms around his waist.
Once he's comfortable, chin propped on his shoulder, he holds Stiles in place and lets Deaton get started. (Ignoring the amused cluck of his tongue that the healer and guide offers them as he takes hold of Stiles' arm to begin working.)
But while he inks, and Stiles is dead to the world, Derek takes advantage of the moment to quietly murmur in his ear, absent stories that Talia used to tell him and his sisters when they were distressed, when he and Laura both got their first tattoos. ]
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And when he does, he's dreaming.
It's not the most concrete image in the world--it's strong and clear though, like he's living in the middle of the snow hushed woods where it's taking place. There's a wolf, at first, pale white and beautiful, nothing like the ones he's seen around camp, and the moment Stiles sees it, there's this inexplicable urge to run, to chase, to go towards it and catch it and hold it in his arms. His feet start to carry him, crunching in the snow, as he realizes belatedly that there are paws underneath him, golden and, his mind decides, all his, not at all foreign as he runs, runs, runs after the other wolf.
There's a desperate noise that escapes him as he gets close--he can almost reach the white one's tail, but then, out of nowhere, he's gone, vanished into the darkness, and Stiles snaps awake.
It takes him about ten seconds to fully reboot from everything that just happened, and Stiles' brain registers the pain, first. ]--Motherfucker!
[ And then, he blinks, blearily, staring up at--Derek. His arm hurts like hell, but there's also another body wrapped around his, warm and comforting, and he pauses for a moment to stare up at him with big brown
doe eyes.eyes. ] ...whuh just happened.no subject
But there's been one that's stuck with him for years, and years, and years, ever since his uncle told it to him when he was young, when Laura hadn't even gotten her band yet, and Cora was still suckling. He'd listened with wide eyes as Peter had told the tale, enraptured more than ever as silver and gold wove together in his mind.
And it's been tucked away in the back of his mind, nothing more than an occasional story for his young packmates.
Until he met Stiles.
His eyes snap open from where he's closed them at the first noise that comes from Stiles, and he goes quiet, arms tightening gently around his middle. But with the exclamation, everything in him actually relaxes, an amused sound leaving him. It fades quickly, though, as he looks back at those eyes. Warm and bright, they hit him square in the chest harder than anything else has.
But it doesn't hurt. ]
Deaton's been done for a short time now.
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Whoa. [ And then, a smile breaks out on his face instead, and he moves his arm around to try and actually look at it. ] Oh my god, awesome.
[ Eventually, he drops his arm, realizing exactly what happened--vaguely recalling the dream, and he leans backwards into Derek's shoulder, making a face. Not exactly his finest moment. ] So, I guess any manly points I won for killing something and getting a tattoo I lost in the past twenty minutes.
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And it's the mark of his pack. Stiles is officially pack, though he isn't officially Derek's yet.
He chuffs faintly, holding his hand on Stiles' hip and considering the comment. ]
When my sister and I got our tattoos, my mom held our hands while my dad did the ink.
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