Used your powers of persuasion. [ Loftily. ] I'm sure you could've thought of something.
[ Their closer proximity causes him to straighten up a little more, though he doesn't tense up as he would around someone else, but he tries to ignore the fact that he's close enough to catch their combined scents from Stiles wearing his coat. Clearing his throat the slightest bit, he sets his hand where Stiles places it and works his jaw in a way that indicates he's trying to keep his expression neutral.
The way the corner of his mouth ticks a little, though, gives way that it's not a negative expression trying to weasel its way onto his face. Until, of course, Stiles says that and he grimaces, even as he steps to follow his movements. ] Please don't put it like that after I spent most of my time being eyed like meat.
It's okay, I have an exemplary record before this. [ Grinning a little, he absently remembers something Talia told him. All servants had to be approved by the head of the household, and when Peter had brought him up to her (as a favor for her eldest son, he'd said, which kind of made Stiles' stomach churn, because this dude was seriously up to something), they'd had a little chat in which Stiles was sure he was going to be booted off the premises in about half a second. But Talia had just told him--"make sure my son's happy."
Judging by the look on his face right now, he'd say he wouldn't be getting in trouble at all.
The thought warms something small in his chest, like a candle being lit in the night, and Stiles keeps moving, turning them around in a slow circle on the third count. 1-2-3, 1-2-3, 1-2-3. ] Oh, the suffering of being a prince. [ He says so mildly and turns them in another circle, nice and slow. ] Another metaphor, uh-- like, a big juicy steak instead of soy chicken tenders. You know, more awesome.
[ Pause. ] ...I don't know where I was going with that one.
One mark won't hurt until it turns into another, and another... [ Though he knows that Talia approved Stiles as a servant, and one that would tail him with alarming frequency (or so he thought at first), Derek doesn't know the details of his employment. All he knows is that he was dragged in from that first event he was caught in and wound up under their employ. Much as he complained at first, he's not complaining as much now. As is evident, in the way that he's following his lead.
Even when they first start, he's doing rather well rather than stepping on any toes. To be fair, he at least has some amount of experience in keeping count, and employing some amount of grace. There's more entertaining dances that he's learned, compared to the formality that they suffered through inside, but those? Those were, honestly, made up by he and his family, his sisters, more than anything else. His grandfather had taught him something that was more "follow what the music tells your heart, not your mind" but that had died with his heart. ]
I don't know where you were going with that, either. [ He's still laughing a little, though, if the tremor in his shoulders is anything to go by. Laughing at Stiles' rambling is easier than thinking about the last time he was eyed like a piece of meat and only realized it when it was too late. ]
Until I get fired. [ He laughs a little and glances down, watching Derek's feet between them. Stiles isn't exactly a killer dancer--he's got some sense of rhythm, but even Lydia had given up on him eventually. So he's watching to make sure the teacher doesn't end up getting schooled. (Even though that's probably going to happen anyway.) Humming the counts softly under his breath, he tries to focus on the dance, not the warmth of Derek's hand on his shoulder, the muscle underneath his own hand, the way their fingers seem to fit together. It's nice and probably not helping matters any.
Stiles has had a lot of time to get to know Derek since his arrival here. He's learned a lot about the prince, that a lot of his bitchy façade is mostly just pretense. It's gotten to the point now where he'll laugh with Stiles, in this way that lights up his whole face and crinkles the corners of his eyes that pretty much dazzles him every rare time Stiles gets to see it. He can't help the lopsided smile on his face, even when Derek's making fun of him, and leads the turn around another circle, giving the hand ensconcing his a squeeze. ] Not everyone can be a wordsmith like you, oh Wolf of Few Words.
You won't get fired, but they'll probably reassign you to someone who will cause less trouble for you. [ Keeping track of the count-- and then Stiles' humming as he starts-- he continues following the motions easily. It gets to the point where Derek thinks he has it figured out, as they turn and move about in the safety of the guardian outside of the celebrations, that he starts to ease his way into less following, more... not leading, but something that has them synchronized, matching. If he plans on schooling the teacher, he doesn't intend to just yet. Not when he's enjoying the closeness, the way they fit.
A quiet snort escapes him at the jab, and he focuses more on the dance than his response for the time being. The music filtering outside is enough to dance by, though he can hear it more clearly than the human he's dancing with, and that's all he knows outside of their private moment. Someone could come outside, and Derek honestly doubts that he'd notice them. He's too caught up in Stiles, the warm spice of his scent in the crisp autumn night, and the brightness of his eyes when he smiles. ] If only. Then this would be all over much faster.
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[ Their closer proximity causes him to straighten up a little more, though he doesn't tense up as he would around someone else, but he tries to ignore the fact that he's close enough to catch their combined scents from Stiles wearing his coat. Clearing his throat the slightest bit, he sets his hand where Stiles places it and works his jaw in a way that indicates he's trying to keep his expression neutral.
The way the corner of his mouth ticks a little, though, gives way that it's not a negative expression trying to weasel its way onto his face. Until, of course, Stiles says that and he grimaces, even as he steps to follow his movements. ] Please don't put it like that after I spent most of my time being eyed like meat.
no subject
Judging by the look on his face right now, he'd say he wouldn't be getting in trouble at all.
The thought warms something small in his chest, like a candle being lit in the night, and Stiles keeps moving, turning them around in a slow circle on the third count. 1-2-3, 1-2-3, 1-2-3. ] Oh, the suffering of being a prince. [ He says so mildly and turns them in another circle, nice and slow. ] Another metaphor, uh-- like, a big juicy steak instead of soy chicken tenders. You know, more awesome.
[ Pause. ] ...I don't know where I was going with that one.
no subject
Even when they first start, he's doing rather well rather than stepping on any toes. To be fair, he at least has some amount of experience in keeping count, and employing some amount of grace. There's more entertaining dances that he's learned, compared to the formality that they suffered through inside, but those? Those were, honestly, made up by he and his family, his sisters, more than anything else. His grandfather had taught him something that was more "follow what the music tells your heart, not your mind" but that had died with his heart. ]
I don't know where you were going with that, either. [ He's still laughing a little, though, if the tremor in his shoulders is anything to go by. Laughing at Stiles' rambling is easier than thinking about the last time he was eyed like a piece of meat and only realized it when it was too late. ]
no subject
Stiles has had a lot of time to get to know Derek since his arrival here. He's learned a lot about the prince, that a lot of his bitchy façade is mostly just pretense. It's gotten to the point now where he'll laugh with Stiles, in this way that lights up his whole face and crinkles the corners of his eyes that pretty much dazzles him every rare time Stiles gets to see it. He can't help the lopsided smile on his face, even when Derek's making fun of him, and leads the turn around another circle, giving the hand ensconcing his a squeeze. ] Not everyone can be a wordsmith like you, oh Wolf of Few Words.
no subject
A quiet snort escapes him at the jab, and he focuses more on the dance than his response for the time being. The music filtering outside is enough to dance by, though he can hear it more clearly than the human he's dancing with, and that's all he knows outside of their private moment. Someone could come outside, and Derek honestly doubts that he'd notice them. He's too caught up in Stiles, the warm spice of his scent in the crisp autumn night, and the brightness of his eyes when he smiles. ] If only. Then this would be all over much faster.