[ A part of him just aches at the words (or lackthereof), the vulnerability of the moment, and he never takes his eyes off of him, never looks out at the wreckage to tempt him away. It's something special they have here, something they've had for ages. No fake crushes or heartbreak, no one using the other.
Just the two of them, in front of the remains of Derek's house.
He doesn't let go until the rumbling stops, kisses the mouthed words off his lips and chases them with his own, "anytime", resisting any urge to make a stupid joke and just holding him there, anchoring, until the machines cut off and it's gone.
Just like that, it's gone.
Stiles finally lets him go, slowly lifting his hands from his ears, and looks out. The field itself is surprisingly quiet, flattened by the bulldozers but green under remaining soot and dust, and he slowly drops his hands to his pulse, giving his neck a little squeeze as he barely pulls away, waves at the contractor and turns a little pink at the back of his neck. Friend of his dad's, of course. ]
[ Pressing their foreheads together for a moment as he looks back at him, he closes his eyes for a brief moment in the slightest flinch as he hears something grinding, crashing-- the remains of his family home being dumped into a truck, almost too weighed down-- over the pulse in his ears. But then he's opening his eyes again to look at Stiles, staying locked on the whiskey brown of those big bambi eyes of his.
It's all he needs.
As the low thrum of machinery comes to an end, Derek takes a deep breath that he holds, only letting go of it after Stiles' mouth is no longer pressed to his. It helps him brace against what he's about to see when he turns his head away.
For a moment, he doesn't turn. Lets Stiles look first, wave at the contractor. The touch to his neck reassures him enough that he thinks he can do it, thinks he can turn to look at what remains. His hand slides around, curls so that the hell of his hand is near his pulse and his fingers can settle at the back of his neck. Like he's holding onto his anchor, as he finally lifts his head and looks at the field.
That's all it is. Everything is gone, loaded into dump trucks. He swallows thickly, not even thinking about how quickly word spreads in Beacon Hills. ]
[ It's weirdly peaceful looking, now that the house is gone. Empty, maybe. Like there's a great big hole left in the middle of the forest. Stiles stays quiet and lets Derek do what he pleases, slowly dropping his hand from his neck only to slide his arm around his hips, fingers curling in the fabric of his used to be too big leather jacket and tilting his head just a little to lean it on his shoulder.
It's gone.
It takes him a while to move. He doesn't want to disturb Derek--he won't judge, won't do anything but be that anchor, the warrior's shield, and when he finally does, he strides forward with purpose and picks up a stick, walking to a little bit of dirt near what he can gauge as the middle of the field, and crouching down, dragging the tip of the stick through the dust in one spiral, then two, then three. ]
[ Head turning the slightest bit, but eyes staying on what remains, Derek tucks his nose in Stiles' thick hair and just stands like that for a while. This was simultaneously the easiest and hardest thing he's ever done-- the house was gone as if it was swept aside, but it took a lot for him to be able to sign it away. Standing there with Stiles, looking at everything, he isn't sure whether the weight from his shoulders is gone or not. But it doesn't hurt, quite so much.
So it's easy to let Stiles move away, fingers loosening as he straightens a little, watches him. Curiosity gets the best of him, and he feels the pull that's between them drawing him forward after him. When his shoes scuff the flattened earth, remains of charred wood and ash, he tries to push aside the thought that he's walking across all that's left of a childhood long gone.
It's easy enough, when he sees what Stiles is doing. ]
Stiles... [ There's something strained but grateful in his voice, like he'd forgotten how to use it since he first told Stiles to meet him at the Hale house and only remembered because of this. Because of a symbol so ingrained in his life, and the boy who runs with wolves. ]
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Just the two of them, in front of the remains of Derek's house.
He doesn't let go until the rumbling stops, kisses the mouthed words off his lips and chases them with his own, "anytime", resisting any urge to make a stupid joke and just holding him there, anchoring, until the machines cut off and it's gone.
Just like that, it's gone.
Stiles finally lets him go, slowly lifting his hands from his ears, and looks out. The field itself is surprisingly quiet, flattened by the bulldozers but green under remaining soot and dust, and he slowly drops his hands to his pulse, giving his neck a little squeeze as he barely pulls away, waves at the contractor and turns a little pink at the back of his neck. Friend of his dad's, of course. ]
no subject
It's all he needs.
As the low thrum of machinery comes to an end, Derek takes a deep breath that he holds, only letting go of it after Stiles' mouth is no longer pressed to his. It helps him brace against what he's about to see when he turns his head away.
For a moment, he doesn't turn. Lets Stiles look first, wave at the contractor. The touch to his neck reassures him enough that he thinks he can do it, thinks he can turn to look at what remains. His hand slides around, curls so that the hell of his hand is near his pulse and his fingers can settle at the back of his neck. Like he's holding onto his anchor, as he finally lifts his head and looks at the field.
That's all it is. Everything is gone, loaded into dump trucks. He swallows thickly, not even thinking about how quickly word spreads in Beacon Hills. ]
no subject
It's gone.
It takes him a while to move. He doesn't want to disturb Derek--he won't judge, won't do anything but be that anchor, the warrior's shield, and when he finally does, he strides forward with purpose and picks up a stick, walking to a little bit of dirt near what he can gauge as the middle of the field, and crouching down, dragging the tip of the stick through the dust in one spiral, then two, then three. ]
no subject
So it's easy to let Stiles move away, fingers loosening as he straightens a little, watches him. Curiosity gets the best of him, and he feels the pull that's between them drawing him forward after him. When his shoes scuff the flattened earth, remains of charred wood and ash, he tries to push aside the thought that he's walking across all that's left of a childhood long gone.
It's easy enough, when he sees what Stiles is doing. ]
Stiles... [ There's something strained but grateful in his voice, like he'd forgotten how to use it since he first told Stiles to meet him at the Hale house and only remembered because of this. Because of a symbol so ingrained in his life, and the boy who runs with wolves. ]