[ While Stiles disappears off to, undoubtedly, go through the loft for bits and pieces to do the repairs with, Derek props his chin in his hand where he lays and looks down at the damage. He doesn't have the enhanced sight that Stiles does, the calibrations that render the glasses that the mechanic tends to wear obsolete-- because Stiles is more enhanced than anything he has in his workshop, there's no way he isn't more advanced than his glasses that actually do get regular upgrades-- but he can tell the general damage. Heat does a lot to electronics, biomechanics, everything. So, he's not surprised by what he sees.
Instead of poking around at it, though, he looks at Stiles as he comes back in. And then he just lets him have his hand, dropping down so that his flesh-and-blood arm is wrapped around the lump of the sweater and his chin is propped on it. ] I know that touching hot stuff means fire, smartass. I just went from wearing a glove to not and... [ Forgot. It doesn't make him much smarter, though, so he just cuts off and goes quiet for a while.
Stiles is nothing if not odd, but he's trying to piece together what makes him so human, what makes him what he is. He blows out a noisy breath after a little bit, cheek nestled in the crook of his elbow as he watches him work. He can feel the pressure, just barely now, but there's no pain from the circuits being removed. ]
I have more important things to upgrade. [ It's muttered into his forearm, quiet. ]
How is taking care of yourself not important? [ Good, he better sound petulant. The worry is only just starting to come out of Stiles' voice--it's replaced with something soft and maybe a little affectionate, if exasperatedly so. It doesn't really surprise him that Derek forgot, now that he knows. He's that kind of guy, always putting literally everything before his own needs.
Sometimes, Stiles is included in that.
He carefully picks a few pieces of ruined bioskin out of his circuits. Everything's quiet for a little while as Stiles works, quick brown eyes scanning over the broken parts. It's ruined, but not unfixable, and slowly, he starts to fix pieces, replacing and rewiring and moving throughout his arm. And if there was any doubt that he was worried--which, strange enough--then it's absolutely obvious in his tone as he pauses and rests his hand on the living skin around his elbow instead. ] What would have happened if you did this with your other hand?
[ In the end, he decides that answering that question would be a stupid thing to do. Derek's self-depreciation knows no bounds, and his self-sacrifice follows suit shortly behind on its coattails. He's had it pointed out to him more than once, been told by others that are either gone or ghosts, and it's not as if they're telling him something that he doesn't know already. But he still continues to get caught up in his work, devoting more time and energy to projects than his own prosthetic.
More time and energy to Stiles, whose memory is gone and who "wakes up" screaming sometimes.
During the silence, his eyes focus on the movement of Stiles' for some time, taking in how he scans over everything while he works on repairs. But then he pauses, and he can actually feel the warmth of his touch-- bioskin warmed by running circuitry, soft like human skin, touch more human than anyone else's he's come in contact with for a long time-- and Derek's eyes are drawn down to his other hand. His fingers flex a little while he speaks. ]
With natural pain receptors still kicking? First degree burns. With the same amount of exposure to the metal? Third degree burns, probably.
Exactly. And you didn't know, third degree burns are horrible. [ He's mostly saying that to be a smartass, but the irony's not lost that he probably shouldn't know that. Sometimes Stiles wonders, too--wakes up from dreams that aren't his confused and shaking like he shouldn't be able to. Sometimes everything in his system goes into complete and total overdrive, and his brain says "overheat" but his heart says panic attack, and sometimes it's confusing just to be Stiles. Every day comes through a fog, and the more he learns about his life with Derek, about life in general, the closer it seems his memories are, but there's still something missing.
Still--if anyone could help him fix it, it would be Derek.
The chiding reproach to his tone calms down a little, and Stiles is quiet for a little longer, another twenty minutes or so. The only sound is the soft whirring of his own circuits, just faint enough to catch if you're listening, and really, one of the only telltales that he's not exactly human. Stiles' deft fingers replace a circuit with a little sizzle, turning his pliers just so and smiling as he pulls away a bit. It still looks like a hot mess, but, he carefully presses his fingertips to Derek's artificial ones, his own bioskin to Derek's currently exposed inner roboskeleton. ] ...how's that?
Oh, trust me. I know. [ Stiles says it to be a smartass, and maybe they should question why Stiles knows it, but even in the quiet way he says it Derek means it. He knows. He's felt it first-hand, seen what it does when it's not localized to just one area, given repairs to prosthetics used to replace limbs lost to the damage. There are some days where he has phantom limb syndrome, where he thinks he feels more than just pressure sensitivity, where there's something more. It tends to be when he curls his fingers around the back of Stiles' neck, gentling and trying to soothe from whatever night terror has come for him. Whatever ghost in the system skirts across his awareness, haunting him with memories locked away.
Stiles makes him feel like a person again. If he can do anything to repay him for that, he'll fight to get his memories back. To find out everything they possibly can.
There's something soothing about listening to the sound of Stiles' systems humming and whirling, almost breathing and alive but still robotic at its core. His eyes fall half-closed as he watches him, shoulders slumping a little where he lays as he simply lets himself start to zone out-- it's easy to do, even as his mind registers what it is that Stiles' dextrous hands are doing. It's only when he feels pressure again, fingers twitching in response, that he really comes back to the moment. ] Good news is that I actually felt that.
Just the pressure, or? [ Stiles frowns as he runs his fingers over the spot again, this time a little gentler, more of a caress than just a poke to see if it's working. It's his touch that belies his emotions--he was terrified when he smelled the smoke, because he thought Derek had injured himself (again, his mind supplies) and he was going to lose him to the machines he was always neck deep in.
A part of Stiles is afraid to get his memories back. He's curious--of course he is, how could you not be?--but he likes this life. He likes the way Derek looks when he's working on his circuitry sometimes, he likes the cat that leaps in his lap and doesn't even get angry when he pets her and it makes static dance across her fur, he likes watching tv programs while Derek works on his back. This is a good life. It must not be as exciting as his old one had been, but...Stiles likes it. Loves it, even, which is something he 100% should not be able to do.
Grumbling to himself, he pulls up his tools again, bringing his knees up to the table to lay Derek's hand across it so he can try and fix it again, only pausing to open up a half put together piece he'd grabbed from the workroom and make a joyful "aha!" when he pulls out a tiny chip. There's some more fidgeting as he carefully puts it into place, and the skin around Derek's wrist ripples, changing from the odd, dull coloration of a prosthetic to match that of the rest of his arm--the change goes all the way down, blue lines crisscrossing and reforming across broken pieces until the bioskin starts to repair itself. Stiles sits back a little and practically preens as it does, too. ]
Pressure and temperature. [ Part of him is thankful that there's no pain receptors apparently operational, but Derek would just grit his teeth through it because, honestly? He's dealt with worse before. Which is a generally terrible thing, and he's been told as much before, but it's his life, he will sardonically admit. But he needs to start being more careful now, because it's not just a cat that can easily slip out to live her life somewhere much better that he's taking care of now.
He watches Stiles attentively, the lower part of his face tucked against his forearm as eyes track every movement. At first, he'd really considered Stiles both an interesting project and an absolute nuisance. He's annoying and nosy and stubborn and has something to say about everything. But he's gotten used to it, has seen the better parts-- he's clever and eager, his snark is a perfect match for Derek's, and he's rather passionate. Rather compassionate, though he tends to pretend he isn't. He is multifaceted and none of it is a generated personality. Stiles is human, more human than any person he's ever met.
A big part of him doesn't want Stiles to leave.
Keeping his prosthetic limp and letting him move it where he wants, a small smile curls across his face, hidden, when Stiles retrieves the chip. It's tiny and affectionate and he keeps it tucked away for now, before his eyebrows quirk up and his eyes follow Stiles' deft fingers, the tools he uses. There's a quiet sort of curiosity there, because he recognizes the mundane function of the chip, but then--
Stiles, once again, shows he's not just any android. Shifting his weight up a little, he twitches his fingers and watches the bioskin slowly piece itself back together, turning his hand over. ]
[ Stiles is pretty much beaming the moment the skin starts forming--his brown eyes fly over the moving lights, carefully cataloging every change and making sure that Derek's vitals don't ever change. They don't, marking it a success, and the droid basically preens as hair follicles sprout to match his other arm, as if there was no damage at all. ] You've been living in the stone age, man.
[ They've got everything these days--droids are programmed to do anything and everything, and hell, Stiles is a perfect example of that. There's a part of him that says how much he loves to work with them, but...that doesn't make any sense. He's starting to put together clues on who he might have been, or who he might know, or something--an engineer, maybe.
He shouldn't have known how to do what he just did. Stiles doesn't have any programming for engineering, but he knows, deep in his circuits (hell, in his bones) how to do it, which way his hands should go, how things fit together. It's weird and he doesn't want to think about it, because the more he figures out about himself, the more he knows he's gonna have to leave.
His smile softens a little bit, and Stiles' hand falls into his, unthinkingly. ] Good as new.
[ Slowly, Derek flexes his fingers as the flesh forms over his fingertips. The whorls of his fingerprints are almost fascinating to watch reform, because he's fairly certain he hasn't seen them there in quite some time now. They're foreign, in a way, but he eventually lifts his gaze to Stiles' face again. ] Only personally, apparently.
[ Once upon a time, maybe he'd have pulled his hand away. It wouldn't have been that long ago, in the grand scheme of things, but he still would have done it. Contact with people is one of the things he finds himself frequently avoiding it, especially at the hands-- there are so many bad memories attached to the touch-- and people have started to label him as a recluse.
Maybe he is. But he has his mystery droid, the one that's more human than anyone else he's ever met, who could leave at any point because he might remember who he is.
His fingers curl around Stiles', just that tiny bit longer but that much broader, and he practically relishes in the way that he can feel the actual pressure. The way he can feel the warmth of his circuitry against his, the friction of artificial skin together. ]
It's self repairing, for the most part. [ His thumb drifts across his palm for a second, slow and maybe a little purposeful, because he likes it, likes the feeling of artificial skin on skin, the sparks it sends into his system. He knows he shouldn't be able to feel those receptions, because pleasure receptors are just as new on the market as pain ones, but he has them, and now Derek does too.
Or, the pleasure ones, at least. He wasn't going to put in the pain ones--Derek's had enough struggle in his life. (Plus Stiles has a feeling this is not the first time he's unknowingly stuck his hand on an engine.)
But, especially with his arm fixed, Derek is a remarkable example of humanity. Droids can be anything, if they really want to be, and Stiles is an example of that, but human? Human is a step out of his grasp. A part of him thinks that he loves Derek, in the way that a droid shouldn't be able to, and another part practically begs the question of how much more he could if he were human.
How easy it would be for Derek to return it, that way.
Slowly, he pulls his hand out of his, fists them a little awkwardly in his lap. Stupid. ] That should fix all your problems.
If only I'd had that beforehand. [ There's no complaints about his touch, and he simply settles there, watching the movements of his thumb against his palm before he lifts his eyes up to look at him again. Derek doesn't think about the pain receptors, doesn't even realize that they haven't been reactivated. But it's Stiles-- if he ever notices, he wouldn't be surprised in the least bit. Because it's Stiles, and that's such a human explanation. That he doesn't want someone to experience pain, that he cares enough about someone that way that he would turn off their pain receptors.
But it's such a strange concept. He's an android, advanced as he is, but he's so ridiculously human. If he didn't know better, if he hadn't been in Stiles' insides himself, he would think that he truly was human. And that part is what gets him, even as he feels something tighten in his chest towards him.
They have constant arguments, stupid banter, quiet moments where they simply enjoy one anothers' company while Derek does repairs. They're so disgustingly domestic that it's so easy for him to forget that he's an android, and that he's not supposed to feel this way-- that neither of them are supposed to feel this way.
He lets Stiles draw his hand back, bringing his own up to rub at his wrist and feel along the synthetic skin. He nods, quietly, instead of saying anything for a moment.
But then he shifts his weight, sits upright, and cocks his head a little towards him. ] You know, I think we're overdue for going into town.
[ Stiles scoffs under his breath, a low "you think?", but for as huffy as it sounds, it's laced with something that could only be described as worry. It wasn't just a "who's going to take care of me" when he'd smelled the burnt bioskin--it was the actual, painful lurch of his heart and stomach that he may never see Derek again, may never hear him bark at him for something stupid or argue with him over answer technicalities on Jeopardy, never catch him flashing a gaze that was so warm that Stiles always thought he imagined it. That was terrifying, to the point of where he could feel his systems dangerously close to that overheat again, as if he was going to have a panic attack.
Everything was stabilized, now, and he tries to pretend that it had always been that way, that he was calm and as machinelike as he really should have been. Reconciling the side of him that he thinks might be human and the rest of him is difficult--there is no happy medium.
When Derek sits up, Stiles watches him carefully, keeping his gaze on his hand to make sure nothing goes wrong, but he speaks and his attention snaps back up towards his face, eyes flicking back from blue to amber and going comically wide. ] ...Seriously?
[ Deigning not to reply to the huffy response, Derek instead turns his attention back down to his hand as he considers it. They went from simply coexisting together in this somewhat volatile mix to actually being something like friends, to... something else. He doesn't know what they really qualify as, at this point, but it's not something that a lot of people would look well upon if they knew Stiles was not as human as he acts. There are those that "fall in love" with their droids, take things one step too far. Derek doesn't like people, makes it clear frequently, but he'd never considered that. Not once.
And then there's Stiles, who hums off-key to bad pop songs in the kitchen, who doesn't wait for the question to be fully read on Jeopardy before he answers, plays with his cat on the floor when he doesn't pay attention to either of them. Sleeps in his bed-- and actually sleeps, doesn't go into sleep mode where all of his systems ease to a halt but instead breathes and shifts and mumbles. Stiles is that real boy fairytales tell you about, stuck in the body of an android.
Derek lifts his eyes to catch his reaction, and he offers him an actual smile before he slips off the table and to his feet. ]
Dude--yes! Oh my god, that'd be friggin sweet! [ Jumping up in a jerk of his limbs, Stiles practically trips over himself to try and get up and grab another shirt that isn't totally splattered in oil-- trying to clean up after Derek's accident had not been an easy task--and he throws a grin over his shoulder as he tumbles into the dresser nearest to the bed. He doesn't really have any stuff of his own, so it's borrowing Derek's shirt for now, and he pulls a soft gray henley over his head before shuffling into a pair of shoes. ]
Can we go see a movie? Or like, go to the chop shop to look at parts, because I was working on this thing for Paige and I need-- [ He starts to list off a few absurdly complicated sounding parts, then jams his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, rocking backwards on his heels. ] No, I never wanna go, of course I wanna go now!
[ A bark of a laugh is startled out of him as Stiles trips over himself and goes to change his shirt, though Derek follows after him at a much more sedate pace to do the same. He pulls his original shirt over his head, covered in burnt marks and oil and grease as many of his work shirts are. He uses it to clean off his hands before tossing it over to where the hamper sits, and then ducks around Stiles as he goes to grab a pair of shoes to put on. While he sorts through his shirts, he absently makes a mental note to get Stiles some clothes of his own.
For as much as he likes how the droid looks in his things, he really needs his own if he's going to start sneaking him into the city more frequently. ]
We can go do whatever you want, Stiles. Just remember that we have to be careful. [ As he pulls on his own henley, he turns to look at him, reaching a hand out to tap the back of his knuckles against his chest. It feels completely human through the worn cotton, but he knows better. ] In case you're recognized in a bad way.
[ his enthusiasm is pretty damn unstoppable--stiles has literally never been out of this apartment, as least as far as he remembers. for all he knows, the rest of his life could be outside these doors, but the thought's sobering as much as it is exciting, because it would be...well, it'd be a strange life without derek in it. an unhappy one, certainly.
he didn't need a fancy mechanic to fix his parts when derek had done such a good job. but a part of stiles thought that derek needed someone to touch up his parts every once in a while, whether they were mechanic ones or normal ones.
stopping when he's pressed against, he snorts and rolls his eyes, grabbing his wrist with light fingers. ] Dude, I got this.
[ when he turns away, it's to rifle through drawers--he trots back to derek with a purple beanie and a pair of work glasses, which he pulls on and holds his hands out in a jazz hands motion. ] Indestructible disguise.
[ Mentally compiling all the things that could go wrong at all the places they could go to, he tries hard not to think that every single one of them could happen. They won't, they don't have that horrible of luck. But their luck is bad enough that at least three horrible things could very well happen.
Still, he's not going to dampen Stiles' spirits. He lets his fingers curl around his wrist, not pulling away as he would have in the first week of knowing each other. And as he turns away to go dig around-- when did he ever get a beanie?-- he just shakes his head and reaches to get his jacket.
Derek stares at him as he offers his jazz hands, and his eyebrows slowly raise. They've got this weird chemistry, but it's suddenly skyrocketed because there is just something about Stiles in those glasses that's attractive. But he shoves it down, rolling his eyes instead. ] Right, indestructible.
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Instead of poking around at it, though, he looks at Stiles as he comes back in. And then he just lets him have his hand, dropping down so that his flesh-and-blood arm is wrapped around the lump of the sweater and his chin is propped on it. ] I know that touching hot stuff means fire, smartass. I just went from wearing a glove to not and... [ Forgot. It doesn't make him much smarter, though, so he just cuts off and goes quiet for a while.
Stiles is nothing if not odd, but he's trying to piece together what makes him so human, what makes him what he is. He blows out a noisy breath after a little bit, cheek nestled in the crook of his elbow as he watches him work. He can feel the pressure, just barely now, but there's no pain from the circuits being removed. ]
I have more important things to upgrade. [ It's muttered into his forearm, quiet. ]
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Sometimes, Stiles is included in that.
He carefully picks a few pieces of ruined bioskin out of his circuits. Everything's quiet for a little while as Stiles works, quick brown eyes scanning over the broken parts. It's ruined, but not unfixable, and slowly, he starts to fix pieces, replacing and rewiring and moving throughout his arm. And if there was any doubt that he was worried--which, strange enough--then it's absolutely obvious in his tone as he pauses and rests his hand on the living skin around his elbow instead. ] What would have happened if you did this with your other hand?
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More time and energy to Stiles, whose memory is gone and who "wakes up" screaming sometimes.
During the silence, his eyes focus on the movement of Stiles' for some time, taking in how he scans over everything while he works on repairs. But then he pauses, and he can actually feel the warmth of his touch-- bioskin warmed by running circuitry, soft like human skin, touch more human than anyone else's he's come in contact with for a long time-- and Derek's eyes are drawn down to his other hand. His fingers flex a little while he speaks. ]
With natural pain receptors still kicking? First degree burns. With the same amount of exposure to the metal? Third degree burns, probably.
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Still--if anyone could help him fix it, it would be Derek.
The chiding reproach to his tone calms down a little, and Stiles is quiet for a little longer, another twenty minutes or so. The only sound is the soft whirring of his own circuits, just faint enough to catch if you're listening, and really, one of the only telltales that he's not exactly human. Stiles' deft fingers replace a circuit with a little sizzle, turning his pliers just so and smiling as he pulls away a bit. It still looks like a hot mess, but, he carefully presses his fingertips to Derek's artificial ones, his own bioskin to Derek's currently exposed inner roboskeleton. ] ...how's that?
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Stiles makes him feel like a person again. If he can do anything to repay him for that, he'll fight to get his memories back. To find out everything they possibly can.
There's something soothing about listening to the sound of Stiles' systems humming and whirling, almost breathing and alive but still robotic at its core. His eyes fall half-closed as he watches him, shoulders slumping a little where he lays as he simply lets himself start to zone out-- it's easy to do, even as his mind registers what it is that Stiles' dextrous hands are doing. It's only when he feels pressure again, fingers twitching in response, that he really comes back to the moment. ] Good news is that I actually felt that.
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A part of Stiles is afraid to get his memories back. He's curious--of course he is, how could you not be?--but he likes this life. He likes the way Derek looks when he's working on his circuitry sometimes, he likes the cat that leaps in his lap and doesn't even get angry when he pets her and it makes static dance across her fur, he likes watching tv programs while Derek works on his back. This is a good life. It must not be as exciting as his old one had been, but...Stiles likes it. Loves it, even, which is something he 100% should not be able to do.
Grumbling to himself, he pulls up his tools again, bringing his knees up to the table to lay Derek's hand across it so he can try and fix it again, only pausing to open up a half put together piece he'd grabbed from the workroom and make a joyful "aha!" when he pulls out a tiny chip. There's some more fidgeting as he carefully puts it into place, and the skin around Derek's wrist ripples, changing from the odd, dull coloration of a prosthetic to match that of the rest of his arm--the change goes all the way down, blue lines crisscrossing and reforming across broken pieces until the bioskin starts to repair itself. Stiles sits back a little and practically preens as it does, too. ]
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He watches Stiles attentively, the lower part of his face tucked against his forearm as eyes track every movement. At first, he'd really considered Stiles both an interesting project and an absolute nuisance. He's annoying and nosy and stubborn and has something to say about everything. But he's gotten used to it, has seen the better parts-- he's clever and eager, his snark is a perfect match for Derek's, and he's rather passionate. Rather compassionate, though he tends to pretend he isn't. He is multifaceted and none of it is a generated personality. Stiles is human, more human than any person he's ever met.
A big part of him doesn't want Stiles to leave.
Keeping his prosthetic limp and letting him move it where he wants, a small smile curls across his face, hidden, when Stiles retrieves the chip. It's tiny and affectionate and he keeps it tucked away for now, before his eyebrows quirk up and his eyes follow Stiles' deft fingers, the tools he uses. There's a quiet sort of curiosity there, because he recognizes the mundane function of the chip, but then--
Stiles, once again, shows he's not just any android. Shifting his weight up a little, he twitches his fingers and watches the bioskin slowly piece itself back together, turning his hand over. ]
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[ They've got everything these days--droids are programmed to do anything and everything, and hell, Stiles is a perfect example of that. There's a part of him that says how much he loves to work with them, but...that doesn't make any sense. He's starting to put together clues on who he might have been, or who he might know, or something--an engineer, maybe.
He shouldn't have known how to do what he just did. Stiles doesn't have any programming for engineering, but he knows, deep in his circuits (hell, in his bones) how to do it, which way his hands should go, how things fit together. It's weird and he doesn't want to think about it, because the more he figures out about himself, the more he knows he's gonna have to leave.
His smile softens a little bit, and Stiles' hand falls into his, unthinkingly. ] Good as new.
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[ Once upon a time, maybe he'd have pulled his hand away. It wouldn't have been that long ago, in the grand scheme of things, but he still would have done it. Contact with people is one of the things he finds himself frequently avoiding it, especially at the hands-- there are so many bad memories attached to the touch-- and people have started to label him as a recluse.
Maybe he is. But he has his mystery droid, the one that's more human than anyone else he's ever met, who could leave at any point because he might remember who he is.
His fingers curl around Stiles', just that tiny bit longer but that much broader, and he practically relishes in the way that he can feel the actual pressure. The way he can feel the warmth of his circuitry against his, the friction of artificial skin together. ]
Better than new.
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Or, the pleasure ones, at least. He wasn't going to put in the pain ones--Derek's had enough struggle in his life. (Plus Stiles has a feeling this is not the first time he's unknowingly stuck his hand on an engine.)
But, especially with his arm fixed, Derek is a remarkable example of humanity. Droids can be anything, if they really want to be, and Stiles is an example of that, but human? Human is a step out of his grasp. A part of him thinks that he loves Derek, in the way that a droid shouldn't be able to, and another part practically begs the question of how much more he could if he were human.
How easy it would be for Derek to return it, that way.
Slowly, he pulls his hand out of his, fists them a little awkwardly in his lap. Stupid. ] That should fix all your problems.
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But it's such a strange concept. He's an android, advanced as he is, but he's so ridiculously human. If he didn't know better, if he hadn't been in Stiles' insides himself, he would think that he truly was human. And that part is what gets him, even as he feels something tighten in his chest towards him.
They have constant arguments, stupid banter, quiet moments where they simply enjoy one anothers' company while Derek does repairs. They're so disgustingly domestic that it's so easy for him to forget that he's an android, and that he's not supposed to feel this way-- that neither of them are supposed to feel this way.
He lets Stiles draw his hand back, bringing his own up to rub at his wrist and feel along the synthetic skin. He nods, quietly, instead of saying anything for a moment.
But then he shifts his weight, sits upright, and cocks his head a little towards him. ] You know, I think we're overdue for going into town.
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Everything was stabilized, now, and he tries to pretend that it had always been that way, that he was calm and as machinelike as he really should have been. Reconciling the side of him that he thinks might be human and the rest of him is difficult--there is no happy medium.
When Derek sits up, Stiles watches him carefully, keeping his gaze on his hand to make sure nothing goes wrong, but he speaks and his attention snaps back up towards his face, eyes flicking back from blue to amber and going comically wide. ] ...Seriously?
[ Stiles has never been out of this loft. Ever. ]
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And then there's Stiles, who hums off-key to bad pop songs in the kitchen, who doesn't wait for the question to be fully read on Jeopardy before he answers, plays with his cat on the floor when he doesn't pay attention to either of them. Sleeps in his bed-- and actually sleeps, doesn't go into sleep mode where all of his systems ease to a halt but instead breathes and shifts and mumbles. Stiles is that real boy fairytales tell you about, stuck in the body of an android.
Derek lifts his eyes to catch his reaction, and he offers him an actual smile before he slips off the table and to his feet. ]
Seriously. We can go now, if you want.
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Can we go see a movie? Or like, go to the chop shop to look at parts, because I was working on this thing for Paige and I need-- [ He starts to list off a few absurdly complicated sounding parts, then jams his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, rocking backwards on his heels. ] No, I never wanna go, of course I wanna go now!
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For as much as he likes how the droid looks in his things, he really needs his own if he's going to start sneaking him into the city more frequently. ]
We can go do whatever you want, Stiles. Just remember that we have to be careful. [ As he pulls on his own henley, he turns to look at him, reaching a hand out to tap the back of his knuckles against his chest. It feels completely human through the worn cotton, but he knows better. ] In case you're recognized in a bad way.
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he didn't need a fancy mechanic to fix his parts when derek had done such a good job. but a part of stiles thought that derek needed someone to touch up his parts every once in a while, whether they were mechanic ones or normal ones.
stopping when he's pressed against, he snorts and rolls his eyes, grabbing his wrist with light fingers. ] Dude, I got this.
[ when he turns away, it's to rifle through drawers--he trots back to derek with a purple beanie and a pair of work glasses, which he pulls on and holds his hands out in a jazz hands motion. ] Indestructible disguise.
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Still, he's not going to dampen Stiles' spirits. He lets his fingers curl around his wrist, not pulling away as he would have in the first week of knowing each other. And as he turns away to go dig around-- when did he ever get a beanie?-- he just shakes his head and reaches to get his jacket.
Derek stares at him as he offers his jazz hands, and his eyebrows slowly raise. They've got this weird chemistry, but it's suddenly skyrocketed because there is just something about Stiles in those glasses that's attractive. But he shoves it down, rolling his eyes instead. ] Right, indestructible.