[ 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
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. ]