Your Heart is an Empty Room (4/5)
It’s been easier, together, since that day.
There’s a kind of understanding between the both of them that’s been reached, the space between them defined, even if they both toe the line every so often. Derek’s hesitant to say that he’s grown fond of having Stiles around - that would be admitting too much on his own part - but perhaps ‘grown-used-to’ is something he could confess to. He’s started trying to eat the meals that the boy brings him throughout the day, uses them to keep track of time, actually tries to get ready and make it down the stairs each day. So far, it’s actually working, better than any of the others attempts anyway.
There’s something about the boy, Derek can’t quite put his finger on it, which makes him want to try and be better, try and be his old self again. Maybe it’s that blind loyalty- something that’s hard not to find endearing, maybe just the presence of someone who isn’t expecting something of him, maybe it’s just finally time. In any case, he’s working on it, and that’s not a point he thought he’d be reaching any time soon.
It’s not peaches and sunshine every day. Sometimes he finds Stiles overbearing, following him around like a lost pup and always with the staring. He can’t exactly blame him, being cooped up in the house day in and day out, sometimes all on his own - Derek knows how that can drive a person crazy, but that just makes him more frustrated out of an imagined sense of fault. If Stiles was with anyone else, if he had been given to any other kind of person, he could be free to actually live instead of stagnating like he is here.
The both of them find themselves on edge, and neither are very good at controlling it. Stiles jitters about, bouncing off the walls and nearly vibrating right out of his skin. Derek is more of a slow boil, letting everything steep until he snaps and lashes out and leaves the both of them hiding out from each other. It takes Derek three weeks, but eventually, he comes up with a kind of solution.
The next time he and Stiles have to make the trek for groceries, each time as daunting as the last for some unforeseeable reason, he picks up an extra item - a non-necessity. Stiles doesn’t notice, and he’s glad for it. Though it was his own plan, the very idea of it makes him anxious, and he has no clue how to go about actually setting the whole thing in motion. He has to work himself up to it, and he probably never would be able to if the little android was around questioning him about it, trying to figure out his motives. Curiosity killed the cat, and Stiles was an alley stray if he ever did see one.
Derek waits for the perfect day, where the both of them are comfortable around each other, where it’s not raining sheets outside, where he’s got a shadow of the courage he used to possess. It’s a drizzly Tuesday. They’ve been mulling over bowls of oatmeal with the gentle patter of morning moisture against the glass. Derek finds it easier to eat when Stiles does too - the both of them doing it for the benefit of the other. It’s been mostly silent, but in an easy fashion, having not much to say, but not feeling like the quiet had to be filled.
Derek takes one look at the boy across from him, happily tapping his socked feet against the hard wood floor, and banging his spoon against his bowl to some unheard jaunty melody, and he knows it’s time. He stands, without pretense, and holds his hand out for Stiles to take, only more firmly articulating with it when he’s given a questionable look. Stiles takes it, somewhat hesitantly, and then Derek leads them out the back doors, shelters them from the light rain beneath the slight overhang of the roof. He takes the pack of cigarettes from his back pocket, unopened, but crumpled still from having been housed there the last couple days.
Drawing out one each for them, he mumbles, “It’s a bad habit, but it’s something I’ve always liked. Helps me think.” He hands one over to Stiles, can see the human part of the boy dim as he gets that far off look that means he’s evaluating something. While he waits for Stiles to come back to himself, Derek lights up, takes a deep lungful of the menthol, and holds, only letting it out once the boy turns to him again, brows furrowed.
“Just try it, you never know.” He touches Stiles’ wrist and lifts the filter to his mouth, waiting until the boy holds it there before withdrawing to flick at his lighter. “Breathe in when I put it to the flame.” Stiles nods, cigarette wobbling in his lips, before concentrating on the tip of it, where the paper is beginning to burn, serious as the grave. His first breath is shallow, and he immediately breathes back out, not coughing and sputtering like most, but instead clearly misunderstanding the concept.
“You’re supposed to hold it in a while, let the smoke settle in your lungs.” Derek shakes his head, more out of a peculiar fondness than anything else, and takes another drag of his own, demonstrating the proper duration, loving the thrill the nicotine sends jolting through his body. He wonders if the chemicals will affect Stiles at all - probably not - but still, he knows people who just go through the motions, like with the electric contraptions, and that was enough.
Stiles nods, tries again, but he’s paying more attention to Derek’s reaction than what he’s actually doing. “This is meant to be soothing, intimate. You’re trying too hard. Let go.” Derek turns to look out into the trees, focusing on his own cigarette and hoping it will encourage Stiles to give it the pause it’s intended to be. Smoking breaks were a pause on life for him, that moment just after you’ve inhaled, a time where you can just focus on the simplicity of the act.
They stay out there long enough to each have an additional smoke before Derek ushers them back inside. Stiles seemed to only marginally understand it more, but he figures that that too will come with time. He can’t help the small amount of encouragement that he offers up, trying to quell the bit of guilt he can see Stiles harboring. “One day at a time.” It figures the one thing he gives back to Stiles would actually be considered bad for him.
Perhaps he can teach the purpose of it while he goes about the mechanics of smoke rings, the difference between brands and flavors, the reasoning behind only having two a day. Even if Stiles never truly gets it, Derek is glad that he made the effort.
It’s the first piece of him that he’s willingly shared with someone since, and it feels like a load off his shoulders.
~~~
Communication between the two of them can be a bit tricky.
At first, Derek’s notepad had seemed like an efficient and quietly brilliant fix, but quickly it became a source of never-ending agitation for the both of them. They get flustered, Derek raging at Stiles and then having to wait while he furiously scribbles out his reply, most of it illegible, and the tapping of Stiles’ impatient foot as he tries to decipher the chicken scratch bringing them closer to the edge. They have to buy ten or more every time they go to the store, and Stiles’ makeshift recycle bins in the house are always overflowing with the crumpled up sheets.
It doesn’t take long for them both to realize it’s not working, but it’s Stiles who comes up with the solution. One night there’s a power outage and they take refuge in the lookout - where light from the moon makes it so that they’re not tripping over everything, bruising their bodies and pride fumbling in the dark. Stiles sits down on his bed, tucking his legs in and patting the empty space next to him.
Derek eyes him suspiciously, not unused to Stiles’ particular brand of trickery that often results in mind-numbing levels of embarrassment while the kid tries to comfort or take care of him in increasingly ridiculous ways. At the desperate look in his eyes, the brief glitch of glowing amber, he trudges over, throwing himself down on the sheets and looking up at the android with a look of resignation. He has no idea when he started giving in so easily, but it’s probably going to be the death of him.
Stiles grins, always so genuine, and scoots down the bed so that he’s level with Derek’s torso. He raises a finger - silencing the question on Derek’s lips - and tears a piece of paper out of his notebook, heavily smudged, having been waiting for the right time to deliver. ‘I think I can teach you sign language.’ Derek raises a skeptical eyebrow, can feel a chuckle building, but pushes it all down when he sees the hope clear on Stiles’ face.
He looks back at the paper, pushes himself up to sit, and turns to Stiles again. “Are you sure?” The boy nods enthusiastically, tamping down his enthusiasm when it only earns him a glare. “I don’t know…” Derek tenses up, knowing that Stiles is just trying to make things easier on the both of them, but he still feels like this is a test, one that there’s a very real possibility of failing. The other boy has given so much of himself, so readily offers it up, and what if he can’t even give back this one simple thing?
He doesn’t realize he’s drifted into worry until there’s another piece of paper being waved in front of his face, Stiles making what he probably assumes are a facsimile of puppy eyes beside him, always unknowingly over-exaggerating his attempts at expression. ‘We’ll take it slow. One day at a time.’ Derek - he almost… smiles - forces himself to keep it down, but buries his face in his hands just in case. “Fine, fine, fine!”
He can feel Stiles bouncing around on the bed, decides to wait out his excitement and see if the boy will tire himself out a little bit before they start in. It’s a solid three minutes of victory celebration before Stiles pulls his hands away from his face, keeps them, places them in his lap. Derek swallows thickly, aware that the android has thrown that switch, that he is all seriousness now.
Stiles doesn’t let him have his hands back, instead mouthing, ‘the alphabet’, before pressing his fingers into each desired shape, holding it out, comparing it to his own. They move all the way through the letters, motions starting to accompany shapes the further they work in, and Derek can already feel himself getting lost. He tries to hold back the panic as they make it to the end and all he can remember is z and the hook of j.
He’s just about to pull away, make an excuse or maybe just get angry for no reason and perform a tactical retreat, when Stiles starts all over again. Pausing when they circle back to c, he shares a look with Derek, smiles small and sweet, runs his fingers along Derek’s with just the barest pressure. Together, they exhale, and try again. For hours Stiles works with him, for once just as patient as he needs to be, as always never demanding a single thing.
By the end of the night, Derek knows how to sign his own name and Stiles’ and get most of the letters if given enough time to mull them over. He’s proud of himself, proud of what he’s accomplished, and for the first time in a long time, feels like he’s really come somewhere since his self-exile. He signs ‘Thank you’ and then takes the time to spell out ‘One day at a time.’ when Stiles gives another of his one-sided hugs.
~~~
Cooking is something they can do together, something that they both already know and feel comfortable in.
If Derek were a different sort of person, a sappier sort of person inclined to believe in and express clichés, aka Stiles, he might say that it gave them a sense of unity, that it symbolized their willingness to give, the ability to heal. He’s started eating almost regularly again, finds himself enjoying the food and sometimes even eager to see what’s next. They weave in and around each other when they work together to make a meal, Stiles still solely in charge of breakfast, but dinner almost always becoming a group affair.
Signing is still coming slowly, but they’ve developed shortcuts of their own, have gotten able to read intent in each other’s glances, work seamlessly when they need to. They read from the dozens of hand bound cookbooks Stiles had compiled in his head, one night when he was bored, and then printed off at a local copy store while Derek was getting groceries. Neither of them question when this became a thing for them, how easy it was to fall into, how it isn’t any work at all.
The trips to the store didn’t take long to inspire weekly meetings, discussing what they needed and wanted for the next few days. From there they started plotting out meals, talking about favorite dishes, things they’d always wanted to try (more eclectic and charmingly mundane on Stiles’ side ‘How can Rice Krispie treats be crunchy and gooey at the same time? That doesn’t make sense.’).
After cooking together, the actual meal is usually silent, but pleasant. They express their opinions on the success of the recipes through non-verbal cues - Derek using pleased slurps and smacks of his lips while Stiles dramatically pats and rubs his stomach, sometimes literally licking his plate clean just to watch Derek roll his eyes. Then it’s outside to share a cigarette, trying to outdo each other with the shapes that they can make, usually devolving into just trying to blow large amounts of smoke into each other’s faces.
Dessert and dishes are interchangeable, depending on the size of the meal. Stiles washes, Derek dries and puts them away. There may or may not be water and suds fights when Stiles “accidentally” sloshes water over the side of the sink onto Derek’s socks.
It all serves to wind the both of them down as the sun sinks and evening sets in. They’ve settled into a routine of retiring to the couch - watching whatever’s on TV, reading silently, practicing signing. It’s comfortable. It took them long enough to get there, but it’s still shaky. The rule around it all is to never question anything, to never disturb this precarious house of cards they’ve built. If they start to question what it all means, how they’re affecting each other, where they’re going, it will crash to the ground spectacularly.
aybe avoidance isn’t the best tactic, but at the very least they don’t have to lie to themselves