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[ Swiveling an ear towards Stiles at his voice, Derek looks at him out of the corner of one of his cobalt eyes before turning his attention fully to the minotaur. He moves along after his lordling at a more sedate pace, circling around to the other side and investigating it now that it's no longer trying to rip his head off.

Faint amusement leaves him, a dark huff of it before he shrugs his great, furry shoulders at the question. It doesn't bother him, personally, but he's seen far worse in his life. But it's true; someone sent the creature after them, and he's not sure if any of those he incapacitated will still remain. There were some that could still run, some that had run.

He leans into his touch, briefly, before he noses at his hand and moves to step away. Bones crack as he moves, and it's a combination of something truly physical, something that sounds like it's beyond painful, and something more difficult to explain. Fur recedes as if he's shrugged off a pelt, and he goes from four legs to two, just as bloody as he was before-- if not more obviously so, now, where his black fur doesn't hide dark splotches of his blood, of the monster's, of the men that had been with the beast.

Now that he can do it, he spits blood from his mouth and off to the side, blue in his eyes still and some of his wounds sizzling. ]

[ Stiles leans backwards immediately to take that in--his eyes flit from feature to feature, trying to take in the entire transformation all at once, and there's an undeniable analytical spark to his gaze, half wonder and half trying to figure it out as he breathes out a soft, "amazing" unconsciously.

And then, of course, he looks too far down and squawks, flailing his arms up to cover his face before eventually just deciding on the actual wise decision of turning himself around. Senator's son Stiles Stilinski, everyone. ] --That is not what I meant by your own skin.

[ At least it's a joke. He spots a glimmer of gold a little ways away and gets up, using the distraction to return with the pieces of Derek's armor in his hands. It's easy to block the, uh, view with the huge pieces of bronze, and he crooks a smile at Derek as he carefully helps him into the ankle bracers, the waist protection. It's slow going, and he leaves the chestplate aside to keep it from rubbing into some of those wounds--they look horribly painful. Chestplate in hand, he glances at the sigil for a minute, running his fingers over the familiar crest, and looks thoughtful, before "hmm"-ing and pulling it down. ] Shall we? We can go as slow as you'd need.

[ Some amount of honest humor leaves him as he squawks, and Derek shoots Stiles' back something of a fond look before he brushes his mouth off with the back of his wrist. It doesn't completely clear away the blood, but it does something at least. It's easier to focus on that, than it is to think of how Stiles thinks of him as amazing. While it certainly isn't the first time, it's in stark contrast to how many would look at him. ]

Clothes do not come and go with the shift. [ In fact, he's fairly certain he's ruined his clothes where he could not get them off in time, but it doesn't matter. Stiles is alive and safe, and that's what matters. He looks to him as he comes over with his armor, and lets him take care of the ankle bracers as he takes care of his wrists. Part of him just wants to ask for the chestplate, but another part allows Stiles to take it as he presses his fingertips to his wounds.

A faint hiss leaves him at a particularly deep injury, and the pressure from his touch on nearby skin causes a bit of blood and what appears to be oil to ooze a little more freely for a brief moment. ] It would be best to move quickly. Someone must be sent to retrieve this beast, and those arrows were poisoned with aconite.

[ A lot of it, compared to the more diluted amount they slather the weapons of the ring with. ]

[ Stiles makes another noise because of course he was staring and there was more blood and that strange black liquid and just. Ew. Gross. He gags a little, only half exaggerated, and nods, offering his arm to his warrior with no pretense. ]

Come then, to home. [ And as quickly as possible. Their chariot isn't too far off, and Stiles has the distinct feeling that no matter what Derek's amazing healing has been able to do for him in the past, it's going to take a lot more than that this time around. His heart's pounding, with worry and adrenaline both, and Stiles shoots a look back at the minotaur over his shoulder before leading him through the forest and away from the mess with confident steps. ] Is there anything I could do for you, at home? Aconite is wolfsbane...

[ It all makes sense now. That must be killing him. The thought makes his stomach swoop in fright, and he clambers up to the chariot as fast as possible, cracking the reins as soon as Derek gets up with him and sending them flying towards home. ]

[ A dry snort leaves him at the gagging, but Derek brings a hand up to curl around Stiles' arm. It's not so bad yet that he's going to find himself stumbling, but it's good to have the contact. To know that Stiles is safe and will remain safe. Even if something else comes upon them between the wood and the estate, he's going to ensure that nothing happens.

He can hear Stiles' heart beating, but it's more reassuring than anything else. The scent of concern is there with it, and he knows it's directed towards him. But he simply moves on, heading towards the chariot with him and keeping his senses honed on their surrounding area. No sight of Scott and Allison means that they've gone ahead, so hopefully that means there will be someone sent to find the beast before it can be swept away. ]

You would need to burn wolfsbane, turn it to powder, in the hopes that it wasn't a specific concoction. But the best that can be done is washing it clean. [ He can't tell from his injuries, unfortunately. But he trusts himself in Stiles' hands, trusts him to keep him safe. ]

The bathhouse it is, then. [ The ride back itself is quiet, and not long--they weren't hunting far from the estate, which concerns Stiles even more. Whatever was out here trying to kill them was here for a reason, and concern twists in his chest, for Derek, but for his dad and everyone else as well. Their household was not overly powerful, but they did have connections, and a spoken (if quietly) dislike for the Argents--he could only really imagine what the problem was.

It could be Derek--Kate Argent, angry that she hadn't won her prize. Stiles wouldn't be surprised.

For that matter--where did they get the minotaur? Was it possible the Argents knew about Derek as well? There are about a thousand things running through his head, and the look of stormy contemplation stays on his face even as they pull up and Stiles is helping Derek to the bathhouse, shucking out of his own sandals without much pretense and mostly moving to fuss over Derek, carefully taking off the armor they'd only half put on. ] Go on, get in, quickly.

[ Nag nag. ]

[ Somehow, he has a feeling that once Stiles is appeased that he's not about to just outright die, he's going to get a barrage of questions. And some of them he'll be able to answer, those about his bloodline and what he is, what could kill him if more knew of his status as a wolf masquerading as man. But who could've attacked them, well. That was a more difficult one to pin down.

Derek thinks on it as they ride back to the estate, fingers curled securely in the fabric gathered at Stiles' lower back. It wouldn't surprise him in the least if the Argents were involved in this somehow, between their inherent need to hunt down every last lycan and their connections. How they managed to get hold of the minotaur, he doesn't know.

He just knows that if anyone could, it would be them. Especially with Kate's delight at setting everything around him alight, just to watch him suffer.

He huffs something half-amused, half-annoyed as Stiles fusses over him, letting him help remove the armor and making his way towards the bathhouse. The routine is familiar-- cold chamber, hot, bath-- and easy to go through, even as he feels a rush of pain as if every open wound is connected by fire. ] I'm going, I'm going--

[ Stiles doesn't stop fussing over him until he gets Derek in the bath part of the bathhouse, even skipping over most of the parts himself until he can get him in the water. It's not magical or anything, but it'll help to at least clean things, and he gives him a look that clearly reads "don't you dare move" before he scampers off to get changed and go through the whole process himself. It's rushed and he doesn't really take time to reflect until he steps back through the curtain to the last room. His ears redden, but otherwise Stiles is a little less embarrassed, and it vaguely reminds him of the very first time he'd taken Derek here, mere hours after he'd argued to win his contract.

They've come so far since then.

Stepping into the water without much grace, Stiles splashes his way across to Derek and gets settled in front of him, carefully cupping his hands full of water and shooting him a grimace. ] Apologies. [ Before he dumps it over the wound in his shoulder without much more preface than that. ]

[ Rather than fighting Stiles' fussing, Derek just lets him nudge him along and get him into the water. He's not about to die from poisoning, but at least it'll get the pain to abide before it gets overwhelming. He sinks into the water, and holds his hands up at the look that he gives him, letting him disappear with a mute reassurance that he's not going to move. But he does cup his hands, bring them up to try and wash the blood free of his beard and mouth, swishing the water in his mouth before turning so that he can spit it out outside of the bath water as best as he can.

This is the first time he's been truly injured and in the bath on the Stilinski estate, and it's almost fascinating to watch blood and oil ooze into the water before Stiles comes back. He barely notices the flush to his ears, because he's sloshing into his space.

And then he lets out a slow hiss of breath through his teeth at the wash of water in his wound. The sting is sharp, sudden, trying to clean out wolfsbane and blood, both his and the minotaur's. ] Gods-- they knew what they were doing.

[ His eyebrows knit together in concern as he rests his other hand on an unharmed patch of Derek's skin, trying to brace both Derek and himself as he makes a face. It's unusual to see Derek react to pain, and he has--he has a really bad feeling about this. ] It seems as though they were there for you, Derek.

[ Carefully, he repeats the process, wincing sympathetically and watching a stream of black and red disappear down his shoulder. It's become less and less gunky with each wash of the water, though, and by the time it washes clean, he's moved onto the next, then the next. There are hints of purple in the residue--the aconite, he can imagine--which Stiles pushes away with great gusto, sending a wave across the bath pool. ] We will have to post more guards around the estate, and with Erica and Laura and Cora, as well. We cannot take any chances.

[ He searches Derek's face for a second before continuing. It's slow work, but by the time he finishes cleaning the last one, he sets back a little, floating just so his shoulders above the water, and opens his mouth to say something. ] I can only imagine why they wanted to kill you, but I know better than most-- [ And he smiles at him, a little crookedly. ] You are tenaciously difficult to kill.

[ Curling his fingers gently against Stiles' hand, he remains still as he lets him wash the wound clean. It's probably the worst of them, mostly because he just outright ripped the bolt free from his shoulder and caused more damage. But in hindsight, it was probably for the best. If only he'd gotten a better look at the arrow, though. ]

They were there for more than just me. [ It isn't a realization that he likes, but Derek flicks his eyes up to Stiles' face, then the ceiling as he moves onto the next injury, then the next. There's a quick flash of blue again, startled out of him in pain and from the wolfsbane in his system. But Stiles is slowly washing it away, and he breathes out slow and shaky, thankful. ] You don't send an entire hunting party and a beast from old lore after one wolf, no matter how tenacious it is.

[ The corner of his mouth twitches a little, though it's conflicted. He wants to return the crooked smile, but worry sinks into the pit of his gut. Raising his free hand up, he cups Stiles' face gently, sweeping his thumb across his cheek, searching his eyes as he does. There's an obvious worry there, and a faint twist of guilt. He's brought this heavily down on his young lord's head. ]

Luckily for me, and perhaps for you as well... [ The touch is unfamiliar but not in a bad way--Stiles has gotten to know the softer side of his warrior very well in the year or so he'd been on the estate, but this was something he'd not yet seen out of him. He's soft with his sisters, with Erica, but rarely so with anyone else, and even with Stiles, it's muted. But here, there's something heavy in his gaze, and Stiles wants to do nothing more than sweep it away.

The wet hand he was using to clean comes up from the water again, and gently covers his, spindly fingers matching well over broader ones underneath. ] I am also tenacious. Fortuna favors the brave, you know.

[ God knows both of them could use some good luck. He returns the gaze with unbridled affection, lips quirking up a little more as he tucks his cheek into his palm. ]

You are far more than tenacious. [ There's always been a line that Derek has been hesitant to even come close to, over the past year or so. This is that line. For as tactile as he can be with Stiles, it's never been to this degree, and he's never allowed himself to really consider it in the past. Because this is his lord, and though he was born into nobility he fell far from it for a very, very long time. Half of Stiles' life, even. So he's never saw fit to embrace that warmth.

The idea that Stiles has been swept up into something like this, something greater that could get him hurt, or worse, has him realizing that maybe he should consider it. If only for a moment.

He thumbs his cheek as he tucks it against his palm, the faintest smile curling across his expression. ] Fortuna has not favored me but once.

My father prefers the term "stubborn as a mule." I've heard "obnoxious" as well. [ His smile goes mischievous and he laughs quietly, tilting his gaze to the ceiling as if he's considering the two terms before he returns it to Derek again. There's something warm and thick in his chest that's coming from more than just the warmth of the water, and it all starts at the places where Derek's skin is brushing against his cheek, at the weight in his gaze.

What he says makes his cheeks take on a light flush, just a pale pink near the cheekbones--maybe it's the path of his thumb, soft and tender and so much it's a lot to handle. ] I suppose we'll have to change that in the future.

[ He knows what he means, what he's implying, and the weight of it sits straight in his bones. ] Fortuna has already smiled upon me once, in a gladiator ring where my token flew first. This has been the start of a pattern, as father says.

Once is a coincidence. Twice is a happenstance. And thrice... [ Stiles tilts his head a little more, and curls the fingers of his other hand near his chest, letting his hand slide down to find his arm instead, resting familiar on his bicep. ] A pattern, son of Romulus. It's how I knew something was strange about you, as well...in more ways than one.

"Irritating" is also applicable. [ Stated primly, Derek lets his smile twist into the slightest grin, and it's obvious there's no heat behind it. They may butt heads frequently enough, but it doesn't change the way he feels in the slightest bit. A warmth has been weaving its way through his ribs for months now, and he's been trying to ignore it. Unfortunately-- or not, he doesn't know-- it's hard to ignore when something rekindles a burnt out space in your chest.

The expression stays on his face as he feels the flush just as much as he sees it, though it definitely softens around the edges. But he just inclines his head, blatantly wolfish, as he watches him, listens.

His hand trailing to his arm doesn't bother him in the least, despite the touch that lingers behind it across his skin. Stiles has this way of just setting something alight in him, with that bright spark that follows him everywhere. Blue bleeds into his eyes at what he calls him, but stays this time, letting Stiles watch the process and see it in far more human eyes than before. ]

And distrust in the Fates has bid me keep the token Fortuna delivered in the gladiator ring. [ It's not superstitious so much as it's a hope that it'll bring him good luck. So far? It seems to be. Bringing his free hand up, he curls his finger gently around the back of his upper arm, watching him close. ] What does four make?

[ Stiles rolls his eyes, but it's affectionate at least, and it ends in a flat stare that's mostly tempered by the fact that his mouth twitches upwards at the corners, like he can't resist the urge to smile. He's used to the insults, joking as they are--Stiles has grown to like that about Derek, that he doesn't really put up with the same level of his shit as most of the estate guards did.

He can remember the token, sees it under Derek's armor and in his casual wear too, and it burns something in the heart of him, the warmth of the hearth instead of the heat of the flame. Derek is a part of the family as much as Stiles is, as much as Scott is, and despite how strange it would be, how uncouth--he would make him a part, permanently, if he had the choice, and not in the way one might think.

No, it's in the way that his eyes drift down to his mouth, the way seeing him makes his stomach explode into butterflies. It's Derek's intelligence, his bravery, his prophecy--the son of Romulus who will change our world, and yours--that makes him murmur softly, ] Four is worthy of action.

[ And that's when he leans forward, just enough to close the distance between them and press a soft kiss to his mouth. This wasn't how Stiles imagined his first kiss with Derek to go--he imagined deflowering, imagined passion instead of love. ]

[ There's no mistaking the soft, amused affection that curls across his expression, downturning his smile but widening it a little more as Stiles tries to give him a flat look. Derek knows better than to behave the way they do in private while they're amongst others, narrowing it down to a select few people-- what was once a highborn wasn't in that standing anymore, and he's in no position to treat him the way that he does. But they've got a camaraderie, something more, and there's no denying it.

There was no denying it from the day that Derek accepted the token, wore it around his neck. He doesn't wear it now, has it tucked into the folds of his armor for safe keeping after letting the shift overtake him, because he could never dream of losing it. While he has some semblance of his pack back, his sisters and Erica, he also has a new one founded in the Stilinskis. In Stiles. And it truly is his good luck charm, or so he hopes. It's the closest he's ever let himself be to Stiles, the idea of something more.

It doesn't stop him from wanting, though. Doesn't stop him from noticing the changes that follow Stiles when they're together, the shift in sent and the upswing of his heartbeat. How they aren't synchronized, but his own will fill the spaces. A steady, continuous rhythm. He has the unfair advantage of his senses, but he's never stepped forward-- even if Stiles' sharp wit, clever eyes, and soft heart draw him in.

But now, Stiles is the one that steps forward, and part of him knows he should nudge him back, break away from the kiss.

Instead, his hand slides slowly underneath Stiles' and across his cheek, fingers cradling the back of his skull gently as he tips forward. Derek keeps the kiss soft, sharing with him that warmth that's been blooming in his chest for months now. ]

[ Highborn sons are often allowed courtesans and encouraged to explore their promiscuity, as for when they were supposed to get married, they were expected to please their wives. But Stiles wasn't planning on getting married, frankly--he had everything he ever needed right here.

At first, he'd made jokes about "deflowering", or whatever came of it. But the way Derek had recoiled, even as the joke, had made it blatantly obvious that it was never going to mentioned again, and he was okay with that. Stiles wasn't the type to force things down people's throats (literally or not), unlike some of his colleagues, and instead, he spoke to his warrior as an equal. He had since day one, honestly, because Derek had done nothing but prove himself as such.

When Derek reciprocates the kiss, it's--a little expected, but still shivers right down in his bones at the same time, tingles in his toes. There's nothing better than that, there can be no possible better feeling than that, and he doesn't deepen the kiss, either, just slowly dropping his hand from where it's cupping Derek's to rest on his chest, instead. Stiles pulls back slow, just an inch or so, and flutters brown eyes to look at him, murmuring just enough for him to hear in the quiet space between them. ] You are my champion, you know that? In an immeasurable number of ways.

[ Truth be told, for the most part Derek disregards the difference in their statuses when they're in private together. And it's easy to, given the way that Stiles treats him as an equal. Though what's really behind the reason he's kept himself separate, never acting on obvious and mutual seeming attraction, what's had him recoil from the jokes of "deflowering" that Stiles used to mention is a combination of two things:

One, Derek Hale is a broken man, has been for a solid eight years. He is tarnished and damaged, and regardless of whether anything between them would last he's believed for a long time now that Stiles deserves far better for his permanent. Two, he is a man haunted by his past. Honey and wolfsbane, mistletoe and oak.

But Stiles shined a light in that darkness. It's not completely left him, but the claws its sunk into his skin have loosened, and the wounds they've left behind are starting to heal over again.

Something in his shoulders relaxes as Stiles' hand settles against his chest, such a mundane thing by itself but something more with this kiss, and he doesn't resist when Stiles pulls back the scant space. His eyes open again, still a soft flash of cobalt as he scans his face, looks back at him as he catches what he says as if they're being shouted. ] And I am only yours.

[ In an immeasurable number of ways. ]

[ derek's blue eyes are--to put it kind of ironically, electrifying. it's something he's caught in the barest of glimpses so far, just the occasional bright blue when he's angry that had left stiles questioning every resource he had as to why a man's eyes might change color. he'd questioned derek being a demigod, a hero of the pantheon, and it was something that had made anticipation and fear and excitement twist up in his chest because heroes--heroes always had a weakness. heroes never lived to their golden years. and stiles wanted derek to live to his golden years, wanted him to stay beside him until he was too old and babbling to do anything and derek would still sit shoulder to shoulder with him until the day he passed away.

but a son of romulus meant similar things, just--with a little more favor. stiles could only hope their prophecy had been right.

his fingers curl gently against his chest, into a loose fist over his heart. this is important to stiles. it's important that it keeps beating, that it keeps his favor close, so he may never lose it.

and he meets his gaze, feels that twist in his chest again, an ache of affection so fierce that you can read it on his face, before he mumbles-- ] I would be lucky to have it always be so.

[ before his brown eyes scan over his face again, once, twice, eyebrows knitted together, and he leans in to kiss him again. ]

[ Even after a year of Stiles trying to build him back up, Derek doesn't think himself a hero. Not after everything that's happened, and not after all the things he's done in the name of surviving. Not living, simply... surviving, from day to day, despite the fact he could simply give up in the ring. He could've given up at any time in the ring, let the lions take him, the other fighters vying for his blood and their own lives who would have the honor of saying they took down the wolf of the coliseum.

But he never did. And he'd spilled a lot of innocent blood to ensure his own life would continue, and he found himself stained in it. He wasn't a hero.

And yet, much like one, he had a weakness. He had Stiles. In the past year since Stiles bought him, he's been able to live again. So he'll do all that he can to ensure that he does, too. So he can take his father's seat, explore the rest of the world around him, see old age. Live.

His hand slides down Stiles' arm, following it so that he can meet his hand, fingers curling and overlapping his. Watching him, brilliant blue on amber, it feels almost like his heart seizes in his chest at the look that crosses his expression. Something wraps around it in a vice grip, and refuses to let go. ] If that is what you wish.

[ For as long as Stiles would have him. His thumb traces along the line of his jaw as he looks at him, following a trio of stars pressed into his skin before he's tilting into the kiss to meet him. ]

[ the young lord pauses for a second in the kiss--it's soft and warm and addicting, the kind of thing that drips warmth down to his very toes, and it takes a lot of effort to stop, but it's important. his eyes light up with mischief and he taps his hand against derek's cheek once, playfully. ] I command it.

[ it's not like he often does so--stiles' "commands" are typically along the lines of "fetch me some water" or "pay attention to me" over battle commands. derek has been his adviser as much as stiles has been his lord, and the two of them worked together on most things, from politics to research to having someone to bounce his ideas off of when he was stalking up and down his room with his hands in tunic.

stiles got a lot more than he bargained for when he purchased derek hale from the coliseum, and it was better in ways that he thought. his head tilts into the thumb on his jaw, just a little, and he offers him a small, pleased smile. ]

You are in my service until the day you die. [ eyebrow wiggle. ] Whatever that may entail, do you understand me?

[ Within a second, Derek can pinpoint that mischief. He's seen it enough times by now that he knows better, can tell when he should roll his eyes or advise that Stiles get whatever thought he has out of his mind, and fast. (Not that he listens to him.) But right now, he's under the impression that he'd do anything Stiles proposed when he got that look in his eyes, and this?

This is a command he can follow. Not like the ones he'd been given before, with a woman who'd held power over him in a different way than Stiles does now. Even with such mundane commands on the regular, he follows them-- with fond amusement, or an exasperated "yes, lordling" just to watch him puff up-- and listens to him when he needs somewhere to go. Idle chatter, politics, research. Derek will always act as Stiles' ear, so long as he lives here.

A faint chuff leaves him, but so does the electric blue that fills his irises. It bleeds away, leaving only his humanity, almost colorless in the fade. Drawing his hand up, he takes Stiles', drawing long fingers down across the bristle of his beard until he can set his palm securely over the pulse point of his throat. It's a vulnerable place, even for a champion of the ring, especially for a wolf of Rome.

But he just looks back at Stiles, like he was the one that hung the moon in the sky. ]

As you command, so it will be.

[ the gesture is certainly not lost on stiles--he is literally holding derek's life in his hands. and for a warrior with his back story (the things stiles looked into when derek was away, training with the younger guards; how he'd been commanded by the argents and then another woman who, it seemed, treated him more like a person of the brothels than the warrior he was born to be. it'd taken his original ideas, of deflowering and manhood, derek's looks and skills, and thrown them as far away as possible.) to give your life is a big deal.

long fingers curl against his pulse, one by one, until he brushes his thumb against it, nothing but tenderness in the barest trace of his fingerprints. this is something he will protect with everything in his power, in the same way it's protected him. because derek has become so much more than his warrior by his side.

no, that's not big enough to describe it. his tone softens, the twinkle in his eyes disappearing just a little as he leans forward a little, and lets than hand on his pulse drift to his chin, to pull it down gently so they're eye to eye. ]

You are my survivor, do you know that? [ my survivor, my hero, my friend. and so many more words than that, but it seems like a good place to start. ]

[ Despite everything that's happened to him-- the time the Argents had spent trying to tame him like he was some wild dog in their air, the time he'd spent in and out of awareness with a woman that'd been full of tainted power, and all of his years as a fighter of the coliseum-- where one would think he'd refuse to put his life in someone else's hands, Derek doesn't hesitate to do it now. His heart remains study, an easy thrum in his chest and against Stiles' hand as he meets a brown gaze with green.

As his fingers settle, calloused more from books than a weapon and tender against his skin, he draws his own down. Despite his ability to heal, they're worn and rough, but no less soft, overlapping his fingers and following the line his boney knuckles create, until he can settle at his wrist. There, he loosely presses against his wrist, feels that jackrabbit quick heart thrumming and alive against the pale, soft skin inside his wrist. And he will do everything to ensure that it stays that way. ]

I have had no choice but to survive. [ There were always alternative, always surrender or defeat. But he meets his eye, bowing forward so there's the softest brush of their noses before the slightest touch of lips. It leads to a quiet truth, something that'd he'd realized during his stay here. Stiles holds more than just his heart in his hands-- although he does that in more ways than one. ]

It was here that I could live. [ There's a sort of wonder behind his words, breathed into the small space between them. ] You have let me live. Given me reason to again.

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