laography | abita il lupo

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. ]

[ Rather than seem particularly bothered by the sudden shift, Derek simply accepts it. This is not something he wants-- the last two people he shared any part of him with had taken that trust and driven it into his chest like a knife. Looking back on the last, though, he's at least thankful that he doesn't remember as much of that year as he could've. Whatever had happened there, it had been in a fog.

Now, he watches Stiles jitter away, shifting to sit up but not pursuing him. Instead, he just takes a breath and slips under the water while his lordling tries to regain his composure and thoughts. When he comes back up, he lifts a hand and smooths his hair back from his forehead, listening.

One eye cracks open, and he watches him draw. ]

From a wolf to a fox. [ Well, he doesn't sound bothered. But there's some sort of approval in response to the motto, even if his mind lingers on the Hale's for a moment. ] We had to modify that set of armor so that it would fit, and it was still a little too small. I haven't been fitted properly since I was probably your age.

[ At least whatever awkwardness was there was (blessedly) ignored by Derek, who seemed to just let it roll off of him. Stiles isn't sure if that's because he had to or because he wanted to, but he's going to just hope it's the latter and assume it's the former, and he starts scrubbing himself clean instead, focusing on that. It gives him something to do with hands while he talks, and he glances over at Derek's chest for a minute.

Makes sense they didn't have armor that fit him--the guy was a warrior at his finest, and he doubted that they wanted him to win. ] I suppose you will be in for a treat, then. [ He makes a face. ] If you can call standing still for hours and having invasive servants up in your face a treat, but maybe that's just personal preference.

[ He does have armor--he's used it before. But as he started to grow into his gawky, awkward limbs, Stiles found it a lot easier to bury himself in the books than in the swords, and it helps him avoid arranged marriage for another year or two longer. Nobody wants a scholar--everyone wants the warrior. And sure, he wants to get married, wants to, you know, maybe have sex once or twice in his lifetime, but that's probably not happening unless he does that thing that's been on his mind the entire time back, and you know what, now would be a terrible time for those thoughts, so he abruptly speaks back up again. ] You will have free access to anything on the grounds while you are here, and free run of our territory, which stretches out into the olive groves beyond here and into the forest. I do not have any interest in collaring you, metaphorically speaking--I am not a Colosseum guard. Or an Argent.

[ It's largely the latter, although the former does linger a little at the back of his mind. Rather, Derek just decides to let it go. He has a feeling that it won't be very difficult to provoke Stiles into awkwardness, anyways, so he has plenty of opportunities in the future to tease him further. But he seems to also give as good as he gets, even if it has a different result when the wolf is the target. It's... nice, to banter with someone again. It makes him miss what he's lost, what he hasn't seen in years.

Sitting up a little more, he shifts to look down at himself, fingers tracing along old wounds and freshly healed ones. An amused sound leaves him at that, something close to a rumble that vibrates at the back of his throat and echos in his chest. ] It wasn't a treat eight years ago, I doubt it'll be a treat now.

[ Because getting fitted for his armor, for togas and tunics and every single thing imaginable because he had to be presentable as a representation of his mother, was never fun. Ever. Even when he was lighter hearted, had an easier burden and a more personable demeanor, he didn't like having people in his space that he didn't invite there himself.

He catches a quick and fleeting shift in scent, but it's there and gone before Stiles is rambling on again. Almost on impulse, his hand raises, and he brushes his fingertips over his throat with a frown. The idea of being collared was not one that set well with him, figurative or literal. ] You have my word that I'll not run off like a stray.

[ It's said dryly, but he means it. ]

abita il lupo

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