Do you. [ All right, if Stiles is going to continue with his jokes, Derek figures he can return them. He steps in closer towards him as they walk, bowing his head a little and sniffing at himself notably. Not that he needs to, even without his senses he can smell the way that grime sits on him and the copper tang of mixed blood. It's mostly an excuse just to see how jumpy Stiles is, and whether he'll keep up with his steady stream of chatter, nervous or not.
Casually, he picks a little at the bandages wrapped around him, tacky with congealing and drying blood. He's trying to decide if he'll take them off or not, but Stiles isn't blind. He'll notice that he's keeping them on and inquire after their state, and he's already observed his accelerated healing rate. ] No, musicians are frivolous and distracting. You don't need music to enjoy food or company. If anything's going to accompany a meal, it's discussion.
...Allllright then, alone it is. I didn't realize I was fostering a Spartan. [ Derek is definitely intense about...pretty much everything, isn't he. He raises his eyebrows but lets them come down as he answers, and definitely jumps a little when he suddenly comes in close, but relaxes again when any intent might be gone, watching him sniff at himself like a dog and making an exaggerated "that smells disgusting" gesture in response.
Turning down the dirt path towards their living quarters, Stiles kicks off his shoes as he steps onto the cool marble of the floor and pushes open a wooden door to reveal Derek's quarters. They're about the same size as his, with a large bed and a small dresser for his clothes, as well as somewhere to store his armor and weaponry. Not huge, but not exactly Spartan, either. ] Would this be to your liking?
[ Anyone could tell Stiles that Derek was intense, although there are some that can speak differently of him elsewhere. Part of him worries about those that had become his pack in the colosseum's circle, but he tries not to focus on it right now. He needs to think about what Stiles might have planned for him, before he makes any plans himself. He has no doubt that it won't be long before he's being returned to Finnstock, given his past history, although there's something... so very different about Stiles, and he has to wonder.
He is, at least, endlessly amused in a sardonic sort of sense as Stiles jumps.
As they come into the living quarters and, specifically, his room, Derek's eyebrows twitch upwards. It's an actual bed, versus what he'd been sleeping on for the past year or so and the six prior to Jennifer's purchase. He examines everything with a critical eye, mostly taking it in with the thought of what could be used to his benefit or an intruder's, how easy the exits would be to reach from every point of the room. ] Yes.
[ Resting his hands on the doorframe, he watches Derek look around, sure he's probably analyzing it like a soldier. It wouldn't surprise him--he's obviously competent enough for that. And there are probably several things in there he could use to kill Stiles, if he wanted to, and run off, but Stiles is putting his hope--his trust--in Derek that he won't.
Smacking his lips, he drums both hands on the doorframe. He's a little awkward, and the words come out of him eventually, like they always do. ] If you'd like, you can have some time to get settled, or we can tour around the estate and head to the bathhouse before dinner's prepared. It's up to you.
I'm assuming there'll be time later to get settled, so a tour would be appreciated. [ Despite his general airs, Derek can be... polite, if at least civil. He turns to look at Stiles after assessing everything, taking stock and making note of where he would prefer to move things for his own convenience, eyebrows twitching upwards the slightest bit. He has no interest in killing the (other) highborn, though it would be far easier than any other person he's encountered in the past week.
His trust is wellfounded, if only because there's some honor left in him from his mother's teachings. It hasn't been completely beaten out of him in his fighting experience, and if you think about it in an abstract sense...
Stiles became pack when he purchased him and brought him in. It's not wholly accurate to his instincts, but the concept is still there. ]
Tour it is. [ Stiles hops a little to try and get his shoes back on and scrambles out of the way for the warrior to make his way out into the hallway. He can't get much of a read on Derek beside what he's already seen, even if he's still trying to peek around his armor to get a good look at the bandages around his stomach. They're still stained with blood, but it's far darker than it was when they originally put them on him, and damn it, he's curious as all hell. It's part of why he was hoping he'd say yes to the bath house, because Stiles likes getting answers, especially answers he can't just bluntly ask for.
Moving over, he leads the way under a trellis full of grapevines towards the bathhouse, chattering amicably. ] My father will return from his trip tomorrow, and he'll show you the training barracks for the army, although you won't be staying in them, they'll allow you to run as many drills as you feel like you can handle, train with them or... [ He waves his hand. ] Whatever they do out there. You'll meet my closest friend for that, tomorrow. There's also a paelestra out in the back, if you feel the urge to play a game-- [ His mouth twitches into a grin. ] Although I feel like that's not the case.
[ Turning the corner, he steps up into the cold room, pausing with his hands on his toga. He really shouldn't be even a little nervous about getting undressed in front of Derek, especially considering, you know, deflowering, but he shooes him on ahead anyway. ] I'll meet you in the baths shortly.
[ Watching Stiles hop in vague amusement, Derek makes sure to sidestep him so that he doesn't knock him over, entertaining as that might be. He has the grace of a newborn colt, to be entirely honest, and it's amazing that he's survived as long as he has. (Though, to be fair, he hasn't exactly been raised in the same standards that were set for Derek, so he keeps that in mind in the scholar's case.) Almost absently, as if an itch were provoked by Stiles' attempt to not stare at them, he winds up scratching a little at the tacky bandages around his abdomen. He imagines he'll just unwind them, at the very least so he can prevent the blood from drying and thus adhering to his hair and skin. Never exactly pleasant, to be honest.
Listening almost indulgently, he follows Stiles without question of their promised destination. ]
They might regret allowing me that. [ His tone is dry, if still somewhat amused. He knows for a fact he can outrun most soldiers. But his amusement turns largely towards the games comment, and his eyebrows twitch upwards again in a sort of really? sense. ] You'd be surprised what gladiators do to pass the time, after they get tired of cleaning blood off their weapons for the day.
[ Erica was a fair hand at getting them all to play games with them when they weren't training for their lives, but he couldn't say no to that. They were all he really had left as a pack, considering he wasn't actually allowed to see his sisters (or his uncle, but thank the gods for that).
Thoughts of that aside, he raises a brow at Stiles' shooing before rolling his head a little, stepping past him and working on all the intricate clatches of his armor that he could find in his sleep. If he wants him to go on ahead, then he'll go on ahead. ]
It's hard to imagine you wanting to play a game. [ He sounds a little amused, and Stiles leans back against the wall for a little and averts his eyes for. A little bit.
It's kind of fascinating to watch Derek take his armor off. Stiles has seen his dad do it a thousand times, helped him when he was smaller, and he could follow the curves of the armor like an old pro, back clutch, right shoulder, left shoulder, chest piece off, back piece off. It was easy enough to do, but he gets quickly distracted by the lines of Derek's muscles, his arms, his-- whoa, okay, Stiles, looking away now. He makes a noise that's sort of a cough to cover the kind of high pitched squawk that comes out of his mouth, and Stiles tries to busy himself undoing his toga, very slowly taking off his sandals.
Games don't always have to adhere to societal norms, and neither do the players. [ Not that he thinks Stiles is much of a judge a book by the cover type, given their interactions so far, but it's not exactly the first time he's had this discussion before. So Derek's responses are instinctive, while still being flavored by amusement.
If he realizes Stiles is staring (he does), he doesn't seem to care (he doesn't). It's not as if he hasn't had eyes on him for the better part of his life, and he simply carries on, unfazed and methodical. Despite the fact that the armor is old and worn, he sets it aside with care, habit ever since he got his first set. When he gets down to the last of his layers, he can definitely catch the shift in Stiles' scent, and he tries not to snort at him. Difficult as it is, he just focuses on what he's doing and finds where his bandaging starts.
After a moment of hesitation-- interesting, in contrast to how unflinchingly he took off his armor and now stands in the nude-- he starts to unwind the makeshift gauze. ]
I'd give you that. [ Because Derek definitely doesn't seem to adhere, either. He looks like your typical gladiator, but Stiles is very quickly learning there's a lot more to Derek Hale than meets the eye. And he likes it that way; he's like a puzzle Stiles has never been able to get his hands on.
Which, he still can't get his hands on, technically. His eyes drop down to Derek's butt when he turns around, and holy god, that should be illegal. He's pretty much frozen with his hand on his rope belt, staring slackjawed, and it's only when he starts to unwind the bandaging, Stiles snaps his mouth shut and tries to focus on what he was doing. Look at that armor, wow. Derek could use new armor, it's old and has chinks in it, and needs to have his family's crest on there somewhere, anyway.
When he gets the gauze undone, Stiles turns to look at him again, and goes a little pink at the ears, but it's distracted by the wounds--or, lack there of, and a-- ] I knew it! [ bursts out of his mouth. ]
[ Even before he became a gladiator, Derek was pretty far from the norm that most highborn lived by. And then there's Stiles, and he's largely sticking with this mostly so he can figure the teen out. There's just something there that has him wanting to sink his teeth in before it can escape, but he hasn't quite caught up to it just yet.
While his focus is cast down, turned away from him, he lets an amused look pull at the corners of his mouth because he doesn't even need to look at him to know the expression on his face. His scent pretty much gives him away completely, but it's not as if Stiles knows of his unfair advantage. Picking at the tacky bandages instead of calling him on it, he shifts a little until he can get it all off, rolling it into a semi-neat ball to be disposed of. His armor might be old and damaged, but it did well in defending him from more injuries he'd have to concern himself with hiding until they were fully healed.
Which, they are now, as Stiles notices and points out. Turning to face him, he twitches his eyebrows slightly. ] Knew what. [ He covers a patch of blood with one of his broad hands, tapping his fingertips against his stomach and testing just how wet it still is. He'd really like to get that washed off, to be honest. ]
[ What did he know again? It's pretty much drained right out of his left ear, because currently it feels like all he knows is Derek's abs. And the rest of him.
It takes him a couple minutes to snap himself back into responding, and he's feeling kind of like Scott with the way he's staring, gods. Forcing his gaze back up to Derek's face, he steps a little closer to him, and tentatively reaches out and puts a hand on the one covering his stomachs. ] Your wounds have mostly healed, haven't they? In the process of a mere hour or two.
[ Yeah that's totally what he knew! Not that he needed that large codpiece for a reason. ]
[ The fact he's trying not to laugh at his reaction and the way that all intellect drains completely out of him in a matter of seconds helps to offset the fact that he's facing someone who doesn't know what he is with evidence of what he is. There are a good number of wolves being held in the combative portions of the slave trade, despite how difficult it would seem to hold them there, but that doesn't mean people know anything about it. Derek has done well to hide this information from humans since the secret last destroyed his life.
Now, there's Stiles. His fingers twitch beneath his, and he almost draws his hand away from him. But he meets his gaze resolutely, not looking away from him. It takes a moment for him to reply, but then he offers him a slow, wolfish tilt of his head. Almost as if imitating a contemplative lupine. ]
Mostly? [ No, little lordling. It's not a mere case of being mostly healed. ]
[ Now that he's found some information, there's something else to focus on besides Derek's totally perfect anything. Mostly, he'd said. So Stiles keeps his loose hold on his hand, but turns it into an actual hold, starting to pull his hand away from the spot.
There's blood everywhere, but it's dark--dry. It catches Stiles' breath and he stares at it in absolute awe, and his right hand comes up to brush against it, watching Derek for any sort of flinch of pain. ]
Completely. [ He's flabbergasted. Brown eyes skirt the rest of the wounds left on him--thin slivers of scars, places where Stiles had watched the knife sink into him from the stands, gone. ] Apparently you didn't need my favor at all.
[ Allowing his hand to be drawn away, he keeps it relaxed in Stiles' grip and stays perfectly still as his his free hand skirts across his skin. Some of the scars are a little tender still, but not enough to cause a flinch. Not even a twitch, really, as he allows him to examine for proof of his healing ability. Not particularly wary, despite his uncertainty towards Stiles himself.
The only sign of a reaction is the way one of his eyebrows twitches the slightest bit, and Derek regards him contemplatively, head remaining tilted as if Stiles is the fascinating specimen, not him.
(To be fair, he is in Derek's eyes.) ]
There was poison on one of their blades. [ Stated matter of factly, pale eyes take in the amazement in Stiles' face. Then, honestly, as he takes his own free hand to move the human's own to one of the more notable scars: ] They don't normally heal that quickly when there's poison involved.
This is... [ What's he supposed to say? Surely some would cast him out for some kind of witchcraft. But Stiles just lets his hand be guided across his chest, long fingers finding scars influenced by some sort of poison. The answer to his unfinished question comes out in a breath, wide eyes focused on the problem at hand. ] incredible, Derek, gods! You must have some kind of blessing, to be able to heal like that! I've never seen anything like it.
[ He doesn't draw his hands away, or anything--just continues searching him, finally turning his gaze up to stare Derek in the face. There's nothing angry or horrified in his eyes at all. ] If you had truly been so gravely injured, you would not have made the walk up to the bathhouse so easily.
[ Stiles doesn't find him a monster. Doesn't claim him to be anything he's not. And Derek simply stares at him, a little lost for what to think of his new lord, because the last person to refer to what he could do as anything remotely resembling a gift had been his mother. (Peter was prone to saying the bite was a gift, what they could do was a blessing, but he never quite felt consoled when his uncle spoke what his mother did.)
He's not nearly as scarred as he should be, for having been a gladiator or slave for a solid eight years. Rather, what scars he has are scattered and scarce, but they're in places that should have certified his death. ]
I have been through worse. [ He speaks a little slowly, almost measured, as if to assess. ] Worse that would have left me unable to leave the arena, nevermind a brisk walk.
Either way--most people would have at least limped, or perhaps pretended to.
[ There's a mischievous turn up to his voice, a grin on his face, as he lets Derek's hand guide him over his heart, where a scar's rested. His studies on medical knowledge aren't really that widespread, but there's not much anyone can do to save a human heart from death, unless the gods are really in their favor, and he pauses with fingertips resting over it, enough to feel his pulse against his palm. It's a surprisingly intense moment, and Stiles' gaze flickers up to look at his face for a moment before, rather abruptly, he remembers their stance and pulls away a little, jumping back and nearly tripping over his half off toga, which he grips by the waist to keep from falling over it again.
There's more to learn about Derek Hale than he originally thought--even something else for him to figure out. ] --Shall we?
[ Narrowing his eyes the slightest bit, he tips his chin up as he looks down at him. ] I often do, but you? You would have noticed.
[ He's far from stupid, or blind, and has already pegged Stiles as being far more observant than is appreciated. His first observations when they were together in person related to his injuries, no doubt he would've been caught in the act the moment he tried to limp off.
His hand stills when he realizes that he feels the press of Stiles' long fingers against his heartbeat, steady and even and strong, despite everything he's been through. There's no way to actually detect the darkness around it, no way to feel the heavy weight that clenches around it. Derek simply looks back at him, eyes bright and sharp, before he goes jolting away from him. Something amused is startled out of him, a loud chuff of a laugh as he nearly falls over from the toga wrapped around his waist.
But rather than give him misery for it, he shakes his head a little and steps past him to enter the bath proper. ]
[ The compliment, even worded as it was, makes a pleased flush cross Stiles' face, and he nods, because damn straight. He would have. He'd noticed a lot about Derek in the mere minutes of their meeting, in the couple of hours they'd spent together. ]
I'm not the only observant one. [ Derek's smart, and he's thrilled, to be totally honest. He wouldn't have just bought a Luddite, after all. Turning his eyes away, he lets Derek enter the cold water chamber first and shimmies out of his toga only afterwards, making sure that he's long out of the room by the time he actually gets naked, and follows. From there it's the cold chamber, the hot one, and very quickly into the actual bath. Stiles stumbles into the room and practically dives into the bath--it's warm and perfect, brought in from the aqueducts and pretty much an actual slice of the heavens here on Earth.
Finally looking at Derek again, he looks down at the dirt already rising to the surface, and grins at him. ] You actually have skin under there.
[ Brow twitching the slightest bit again, Derek simply inclines his head the slightest bit in acknowledgment. But he's glad that he's not automatically been assumed to be some simpleton that was thrown into the colosseum, because it's... well, he's not going to be modest about the fact that it's incredibly far from the truth.
He tries not to roll his eyes at the fact that Stiles is stalling on stripping the last of his layers off, especially with him around. Instead, he opts to sink into the water down to his chin to get a good soak started. As Stiles essentially dives in, he closes his eyes and mouth to keep from getting splashed into them, huffing out into the warm air and shifting to sit up once the water settles more.
Rather than answer immediately, he brings a hand up and scratches blunt nails into his chest a little to see how much actually comes off. It leaves a streak of cleaner skin and hair amongst dirt and blood, and he peers down at it almost absently. ] So I do. Imagine that.
I was starting to think you wore a pelt. [ Now that the water's covering them both he's feeling back to his usual self, and Stiles scoots across the water, swimming effortlessly through and coming up close to him, stopping to snag a brush and a small bottle of the cleaning oils from the side of the bath. Rich household or not, getting a hold of soap is nearly impossible because of the lack of lye in the city--either way, the oils work well enough, and he casually squirts a little on his hands, then puts his hands on Derek's face. ]
Although it seems like you have one, after all. [ When he rubs at his cheeks, it's not hard or forceful, or even full of intent--it's just like a dumb teenager making fun of a friend, including pushing his cheeks together for a minute and snickering at the face. ]
[ Not especially paying Stiles much mind, though following his motions with his senses and the help of the water, Derek focuses more on rubbing his fingers together to try and get the gunk off of them, picking a little under his nails with his other hand and regarding them. He doesn't remember a time where he ever really had clean nails, even when he was younger. His mother often had to pick him out of the brush when he was capable of crawling, hands fisted in the earth like he wanted to root himself there. He's used to dirt, and has been used to blood since he could hold a blade without it overbalancing him.
His eyes lift when Stiles comes into his space, and he goes still as his hands frame his face. Staring at him, he scrunches his face as he rubs and pushes, not unlike a dog when their ruff is being played with in the same exact manner. He simply grunts a little, rough and just as canine. ] Head to toe.
I'm not surprised in the least. [ He grins at him and keeps pushing at his face for a minute, but leans forward a little and scrubs over his brow, too, clearing the dirt and blood and showing off tanned skin again. His gladiator's a human being after all, and you'd really think a blessing from the gods would be a little cleaner. But it's not his fault--slaves rarely, if ever, visit the bath houses even in public, and gladiators even less. People like a show--a dirty, gritty, show.
Well, whatever. Cupping his hands full of water, he dumps it over Derek's head, until that starts to run clean, too. His gladiator really is more like a wolf than a person, and it's kind of great. ] Maybe you can lend it to me once in a while.
[ Because someone is sixteen and tried so hard to grow a beard and it. Did not work. At all. He hates his life a little. ]
[ Most people aren't exactly inclined to think that wolves are blessings from the gods, but it's never a very clean life. They're part of nature, and nature isn't really known for being pristine. Not when it comes to creatures that roam the earth. Which leads to him not being overly bothered by being dirty, even when it leads to his scent being heavy and thick with dirt and blood. At least it lends to the performance.
Closing his eyes as Stiles' hands bring water over his head, he crinkles his nose the slightest bit while he starts to wash away gods know how much time's worth of dirt, sweat, and oil. A chuff escapes him, amused and short. ] That's not quite how things work, Stiles.
[ The idea of calling him lordling instead comes to mind, but he tests his name for the first time instead. Much as their exchanges are dripping in sarcasm and banter already, this is a... somewhat intimate moment, truth be told. He bites it back for now. ]
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Casually, he picks a little at the bandages wrapped around him, tacky with congealing and drying blood. He's trying to decide if he'll take them off or not, but Stiles isn't blind. He'll notice that he's keeping them on and inquire after their state, and he's already observed his accelerated healing rate. ] No, musicians are frivolous and distracting. You don't need music to enjoy food or company. If anything's going to accompany a meal, it's discussion.
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Turning down the dirt path towards their living quarters, Stiles kicks off his shoes as he steps onto the cool marble of the floor and pushes open a wooden door to reveal Derek's quarters. They're about the same size as his, with a large bed and a small dresser for his clothes, as well as somewhere to store his armor and weaponry. Not huge, but not exactly Spartan, either. ] Would this be to your liking?
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He is, at least, endlessly amused in a sardonic sort of sense as Stiles jumps.
As they come into the living quarters and, specifically, his room, Derek's eyebrows twitch upwards. It's an actual bed, versus what he'd been sleeping on for the past year or so and the six prior to Jennifer's purchase. He examines everything with a critical eye, mostly taking it in with the thought of what could be used to his benefit or an intruder's, how easy the exits would be to reach from every point of the room. ] Yes.
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Smacking his lips, he drums both hands on the doorframe. He's a little awkward, and the words come out of him eventually, like they always do. ] If you'd like, you can have some time to get settled, or we can tour around the estate and head to the bathhouse before dinner's prepared. It's up to you.
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His trust is wellfounded, if only because there's some honor left in him from his mother's teachings. It hasn't been completely beaten out of him in his fighting experience, and if you think about it in an abstract sense...
Stiles became pack when he purchased him and brought him in. It's not wholly accurate to his instincts, but the concept is still there. ]
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Moving over, he leads the way under a trellis full of grapevines towards the bathhouse, chattering amicably. ] My father will return from his trip tomorrow, and he'll show you the training barracks for the army, although you won't be staying in them, they'll allow you to run as many drills as you feel like you can handle, train with them or... [ He waves his hand. ] Whatever they do out there. You'll meet my closest friend for that, tomorrow. There's also a paelestra out in the back, if you feel the urge to play a game-- [ His mouth twitches into a grin. ] Although I feel like that's not the case.
[ Turning the corner, he steps up into the cold room, pausing with his hands on his toga. He really shouldn't be even a little nervous about getting undressed in front of Derek, especially considering, you know, deflowering, but he shooes him on ahead anyway. ] I'll meet you in the baths shortly.
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Listening almost indulgently, he follows Stiles without question of their promised destination. ]
They might regret allowing me that. [ His tone is dry, if still somewhat amused. He knows for a fact he can outrun most soldiers. But his amusement turns largely towards the games comment, and his eyebrows twitch upwards again in a sort of really? sense. ] You'd be surprised what gladiators do to pass the time, after they get tired of cleaning blood off their weapons for the day.
[ Erica was a fair hand at getting them all to play games with them when they weren't training for their lives, but he couldn't say no to that. They were all he really had left as a pack, considering he wasn't actually allowed to see his sisters (or his uncle, but thank the gods for that).
Thoughts of that aside, he raises a brow at Stiles' shooing before rolling his head a little, stepping past him and working on all the intricate clatches of his armor that he could find in his sleep. If he wants him to go on ahead, then he'll go on ahead. ]
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It's kind of fascinating to watch Derek take his armor off. Stiles has seen his dad do it a thousand times, helped him when he was smaller, and he could follow the curves of the armor like an old pro, back clutch, right shoulder, left shoulder, chest piece off, back piece off. It was easy enough to do, but he gets quickly distracted by the lines of Derek's muscles, his arms, his-- whoa, okay, Stiles, looking away now. He makes a noise that's sort of a cough to cover the kind of high pitched squawk that comes out of his mouth, and Stiles tries to busy himself undoing his toga, very slowly taking off his sandals.
Deflowering. Stop thinking about it! ]
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If he realizes Stiles is staring (he does), he doesn't seem to care (he doesn't). It's not as if he hasn't had eyes on him for the better part of his life, and he simply carries on, unfazed and methodical. Despite the fact that the armor is old and worn, he sets it aside with care, habit ever since he got his first set. When he gets down to the last of his layers, he can definitely catch the shift in Stiles' scent, and he tries not to snort at him. Difficult as it is, he just focuses on what he's doing and finds where his bandaging starts.
After a moment of hesitation-- interesting, in contrast to how unflinchingly he took off his armor and now stands in the nude-- he starts to unwind the makeshift gauze. ]
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Which, he still can't get his hands on, technically. His eyes drop down to Derek's butt when he turns around, and holy god, that should be illegal. He's pretty much frozen with his hand on his rope belt, staring slackjawed, and it's only when he starts to unwind the bandaging, Stiles snaps his mouth shut and tries to focus on what he was doing. Look at that armor, wow. Derek could use new armor, it's old and has chinks in it, and needs to have his family's crest on there somewhere, anyway.
When he gets the gauze undone, Stiles turns to look at him again, and goes a little pink at the ears, but it's distracted by the wounds--or, lack there of, and a-- ] I knew it! [ bursts out of his mouth. ]
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While his focus is cast down, turned away from him, he lets an amused look pull at the corners of his mouth because he doesn't even need to look at him to know the expression on his face. His scent pretty much gives him away completely, but it's not as if Stiles knows of his unfair advantage. Picking at the tacky bandages instead of calling him on it, he shifts a little until he can get it all off, rolling it into a semi-neat ball to be disposed of. His armor might be old and damaged, but it did well in defending him from more injuries he'd have to concern himself with hiding until they were fully healed.
Which, they are now, as Stiles notices and points out. Turning to face him, he twitches his eyebrows slightly. ] Knew what. [ He covers a patch of blood with one of his broad hands, tapping his fingertips against his stomach and testing just how wet it still is. He'd really like to get that washed off, to be honest. ]
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It takes him a couple minutes to snap himself back into responding, and he's feeling kind of like Scott with the way he's staring, gods. Forcing his gaze back up to Derek's face, he steps a little closer to him, and tentatively reaches out and puts a hand on the one covering his stomachs. ] Your wounds have mostly healed, haven't they? In the process of a mere hour or two.
[ Yeah that's totally what he knew! Not that he needed that large codpiece for a reason. ]
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Now, there's Stiles. His fingers twitch beneath his, and he almost draws his hand away from him. But he meets his gaze resolutely, not looking away from him. It takes a moment for him to reply, but then he offers him a slow, wolfish tilt of his head. Almost as if imitating a contemplative lupine. ]
Mostly? [ No, little lordling. It's not a mere case of being mostly healed. ]
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There's blood everywhere, but it's dark--dry. It catches Stiles' breath and he stares at it in absolute awe, and his right hand comes up to brush against it, watching Derek for any sort of flinch of pain. ]
Completely. [ He's flabbergasted. Brown eyes skirt the rest of the wounds left on him--thin slivers of scars, places where Stiles had watched the knife sink into him from the stands, gone. ] Apparently you didn't need my favor at all.
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The only sign of a reaction is the way one of his eyebrows twitches the slightest bit, and Derek regards him contemplatively, head remaining tilted as if Stiles is the fascinating specimen, not him.
(To be fair, he is in Derek's eyes.) ]
There was poison on one of their blades. [ Stated matter of factly, pale eyes take in the amazement in Stiles' face. Then, honestly, as he takes his own free hand to move the human's own to one of the more notable scars: ] They don't normally heal that quickly when there's poison involved.
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[ He doesn't draw his hands away, or anything--just continues searching him, finally turning his gaze up to stare Derek in the face. There's nothing angry or horrified in his eyes at all. ] If you had truly been so gravely injured, you would not have made the walk up to the bathhouse so easily.
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He's not nearly as scarred as he should be, for having been a gladiator or slave for a solid eight years. Rather, what scars he has are scattered and scarce, but they're in places that should have certified his death. ]
I have been through worse. [ He speaks a little slowly, almost measured, as if to assess. ] Worse that would have left me unable to leave the arena, nevermind a brisk walk.
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[ There's a mischievous turn up to his voice, a grin on his face, as he lets Derek's hand guide him over his heart, where a scar's rested. His studies on medical knowledge aren't really that widespread, but there's not much anyone can do to save a human heart from death, unless the gods are really in their favor, and he pauses with fingertips resting over it, enough to feel his pulse against his palm. It's a surprisingly intense moment, and Stiles' gaze flickers up to look at his face for a moment before, rather abruptly, he remembers their stance and pulls away a little, jumping back and nearly tripping over his half off toga, which he grips by the waist to keep from falling over it again.
There's more to learn about Derek Hale than he originally thought--even something else for him to figure out. ] --Shall we?
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[ He's far from stupid, or blind, and has already pegged Stiles as being far more observant than is appreciated. His first observations when they were together in person related to his injuries, no doubt he would've been caught in the act the moment he tried to limp off.
His hand stills when he realizes that he feels the press of Stiles' long fingers against his heartbeat, steady and even and strong, despite everything he's been through. There's no way to actually detect the darkness around it, no way to feel the heavy weight that clenches around it. Derek simply looks back at him, eyes bright and sharp, before he goes jolting away from him. Something amused is startled out of him, a loud chuff of a laugh as he nearly falls over from the toga wrapped around his waist.
But rather than give him misery for it, he shakes his head a little and steps past him to enter the bath proper. ]
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I'm not the only observant one. [ Derek's smart, and he's thrilled, to be totally honest. He wouldn't have just bought a Luddite, after all. Turning his eyes away, he lets Derek enter the cold water chamber first and shimmies out of his toga only afterwards, making sure that he's long out of the room by the time he actually gets naked, and follows. From there it's the cold chamber, the hot one, and very quickly into the actual bath. Stiles stumbles into the room and practically dives into the bath--it's warm and perfect, brought in from the aqueducts and pretty much an actual slice of the heavens here on Earth.
Finally looking at Derek again, he looks down at the dirt already rising to the surface, and grins at him. ] You actually have skin under there.
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He tries not to roll his eyes at the fact that Stiles is stalling on stripping the last of his layers off, especially with him around. Instead, he opts to sink into the water down to his chin to get a good soak started. As Stiles essentially dives in, he closes his eyes and mouth to keep from getting splashed into them, huffing out into the warm air and shifting to sit up once the water settles more.
Rather than answer immediately, he brings a hand up and scratches blunt nails into his chest a little to see how much actually comes off. It leaves a streak of cleaner skin and hair amongst dirt and blood, and he peers down at it almost absently. ] So I do. Imagine that.
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Although it seems like you have one, after all. [ When he rubs at his cheeks, it's not hard or forceful, or even full of intent--it's just like a dumb teenager making fun of a friend, including pushing his cheeks together for a minute and snickering at the face. ]
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His eyes lift when Stiles comes into his space, and he goes still as his hands frame his face. Staring at him, he scrunches his face as he rubs and pushes, not unlike a dog when their ruff is being played with in the same exact manner. He simply grunts a little, rough and just as canine. ] Head to toe.
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Well, whatever. Cupping his hands full of water, he dumps it over Derek's head, until that starts to run clean, too. His gladiator really is more like a wolf than a person, and it's kind of great. ] Maybe you can lend it to me once in a while.
[ Because someone is sixteen and tried so hard to grow a beard and it. Did not work. At all. He hates his life a little. ]
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Closing his eyes as Stiles' hands bring water over his head, he crinkles his nose the slightest bit while he starts to wash away gods know how much time's worth of dirt, sweat, and oil. A chuff escapes him, amused and short. ] That's not quite how things work, Stiles.
[ The idea of calling him lordling instead comes to mind, but he tests his name for the first time instead. Much as their exchanges are dripping in sarcasm and banter already, this is a... somewhat intimate moment, truth be told. He bites it back for now. ]
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