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[ 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. ]

It could be. [ Stiles doesn't react to being called by his name--if anything, the look on his face softens a little, and he lifts his oily hands up to scratch them through his hair as well, until dirt's falling out in flakes under his fingers. There's definitely something intimate about this moment, and he's coming to realize quickly that his purchase was even more than he'd bargained for, and worth every penny, every fight, every, oh, standing up and bitching to Kate Argent.

He keeps running his hands through his hair, letting the quiet fall for a couple seconds as he scrubs the dirt and grime from him. But Stiles Stilinski is not well known for being quiet, and he lasts for all of five minutes before speaks up again. ] If you don't mind me asking--I know very little of your story. The Hales are an illustrious family -- [ are, not were. ], but very well guarded. You had siblings, right?

But it isn't. [ Derek doesn't see the softening in his expression, but his own winds up relaxing as Stiles' fingers work their way into his hair. If any of his earlier behavior pointed towards him being more wolf than man, this would top them in great leaps and bounds. His chin tips down, just a touch, and he almost seems to lean into the touch. It's hard not to, not when he hasn't really had that kind of contact in... quite some time. And something about Stiles has him falling into a state of ease, at least now in the quiet moment.

Until Stiles starts chattering again, and he makes a mental note to start timing him and seeing how long his silences will last. It's fairly interesting now, but he'll probably find them grating occasionally. Remaining quiet for a little longer, himself, his voice comes out soft, eyes still closed. ] Three. Two sisters-- one older and the other younger-- and a younger brother.

[ It's like he's enjoying having his head scratched. Stiles looks downright amused as he continues scratching his blunt nails through Derek's hair, scrubbing to get all of the dirt off. It's black, not weird, disgusting blackish brown, and he lets his hands come down to scrub at his scruff, too, rubbing his palms over his neck and shoulders and slowly pouring water over them again, until it's almost methodic.

He makes a noise and nods, recalling the deaths from the fire, and scrubs at his shoulder. ] I always wished I had siblings. But the captain of the guard--Scott--he has been raised alongside me, like a brother. Not the same, though. What's it like to have sisters?

[ Really, he's definitely enjoying it. The physical contact alone would be pleasant for anyone, but kick a dog hard enough and it'll come to crave the positive touch. Derek is far from being a dog, but the concept is the same and he's been treated like one for long enough that it applies. Moving his head as Stiles' hands travel to his scruff, a brief flicker of tension comes and goes as he feels the light press of his palms along his neck. It's instinctive, but he forces it down, falling into a dazed sort of stupor.

His eyes open partway, and he looks beyond Stiles at the ceiling, distant and almost as if he's seeing through it to somewhere else. ] You are at their every beck and call, whether younger or older, for every single thing they want. [ There's a brief pause. ] Laura will be twenty-seven, I think. Which means Cora should be seventeen now. Reagan would've been thirteen.

[ Would have.

It twinges something painful in his chest at the thought, that he really had lost his family in the fire. It's hard enough to read about that pain on paper, let alone to see it sitting in front of him--Stiles can practically see the weight on his shoulders as he turns his gaze to the ceiling. His hand pauses on the side of his arm, fingers curling over the muscle, and there's not much he can really say, so he just adds, softly. ]

My mother would have been the same age as my father. [ He gets it. He knows. He can't even imagine the last time Derek even saw his family, those who still survived, and he frowns, an idea forming in the back of his mind.

He keeps scrubbing, gently, working the dirt and grime and blood off of his chest, now. ]

[ His little brother had been five when the fire happened, still following his mother around and getting underfoot, but already fighting to become a soldier like Derek had set off to. He was only a few years younger than Peter's daughter, who stole Laura's silks and dressed up in them, tried to talk Cora into doing the same with her despite the years between them.

Derek still remembers indulging all of his siblings, his cousins. Had resigned himself to his fate of indulging nieces and nephews as Laura looked to the future, though it really didn't bother him as much as he pretended it did.

The fire took all of that away, and it was his fault.

Blinking his eyes open fully with the fingers curled against his arm, he looks back to Stiles then, watching his face as he speaks. There's a connection there, now. If Stiles' family was in the same position as it is now, or even just been working up to it, he's sure Talia must have had business with them at some point. Possibly known Stiles' mother. ]

How long has it been? [ The question comes out before he can stop it, but he thinks maybe he doesn't want to. ]

Eight years. [ He sounds a little wistful when he says that, and the teenager pulls away a little to get another handful of the oil, scrubbing the dirt away slowly but surely. It gives him something to focus on, so he doesn't have to look up while he talks about his mom. ] She was Greek, and my father met her on campaign, when he was young. She taught me everything I've ever known.

[ He misses his mom more than anything, so he sort of gets that feeling. She caught the sickness from him, when he was a child--a form of a scarlet fever that had swept through much of the city when he was young. Stiles had survived--and she didn't. The guilt? That he knows. ] A long time, but not long enough.

[ Something twists in his chest for a moment, tighter than the guilt he's used to, and Derek realizes that it's sharp empathy. They lost people in the same year, regardless of numbers. Of precedence, or reason. Something still burnt out the heart of both of them, in their ways, and he knows that feeling above all else. Silent as he considers the information, he shifts to let Stiles scrub, sitting up the slightest and frowning softly. ]

Time does that. [ He lifts a hand up, looking at the nicks and scratches, the faint burns along his fingertips that could go so easily missed if you weren't looking. Dropping it back into the water, he tips his head back and sighs heavily, chest expanding with it. ] It's been as long since the fire.

My sympathies. [ It comes out automatically, and Stiles watches him look at his hand, but continues the motions as he scrubs over his arm, his shoulders, dirt and blood coming off of him in small clouds. He's doesn't look at Derek the next time he speaks up, just keeps his gaze focused on the brush in his hands, smile a little wistful, maybe even a little bitter. ]

People always say that to you, do they not? It's been years, and it's all I ever hear, my sympathies. [ He scrubs the brush over his chest, now, shaking his head, a humorless chuff coming out of his mouth. ] Sympathies won't bring her back, so it's kind of pointless. And people just say it because that's what you're supposed to say, anyway.

[ Getting some more of the oil on his hands, he finally actually looks at Derek, pressing long fingers to where his chest is sticking out of the water. ] There's not much to say besides I understand.

[ The words leave a bitter taste in the back of his mouth, and Derek frowns heavily as they settle over him. Because he has heard them, so very many times in his life, until it's worn thin and become grating and insincere. He can't help but wonder if the words taste just as bitter coming out of their mouths, truth be told.

But he looks at Stiles as he continues speaking, these words sinking in rather than raking over him. There have been many in his life that he's met that have been where he is, losing their lives and all that they valued in it. But he rarely speaks with them of their losses, rather sits in a shared silence over it. But here, he finds himself talking with Stiles about the losses he's suffered and the family that he'll never see again.

Something in his expression softens into understanding when Stiles looks back up to him, and he brings his hand up to briefly touch his wrist. ] They forget the true intention of it. Understanding is something else, and few do.

[ But I do goes unsaid. ]

More or less. [ Something feels like he might have finally reached a conclusion with his sl--no, with his warrior. There was an unspoken sort of intimacy in this moment, and Stiles swallows as his gaze flickers down to look at the hand that touches his wrist. He pushes himself away a little and runs the leftover oils through his hair instead, in a jitter of a movement that's probably nerves, like anything he'd just opened up sort of clamped shut again. And it's not Derek's fault--Stiles is a big fan of bottling his feelings, and this got entirely too close to letting them spill out everywhere. ]

So, uhm. [ He wants to know more--but it's the kind of thing that might take time. His warrior's full of secrets, and it's not Stiles' place to force him to tell them. (Well, it is, but the idea skeeves him a little.) So he grasps for other conversation, instead. ] You'll have to get fitted for new armor soon, if you'd like--and, uh, things with our crest. [ A hand comes out of the water to gesture, like he's drawing it in the air. ]

It's a fox, and the motto is--supra omnem fidem. [ Loyalty above all. ]

abita il lupo

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