[ 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.
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.
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.
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no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]