FIC: a voice beats through the noise like drums
Title: a voice beats through the noise like drums
Author: inlightofvisa
Rating: PG (for language, a slashy situation)
Genre/Pairing: H/C (methinks it qualifies), Derek/Stiles pre-slash if you squint with your gay eye (it's the right one)
Spoiler: S1
Warnings: There be washings. Like, washing. Like, no clothes and there is nudity and body parts vaguely referred to. Also there is blindness.
Word Count: 1777
Summary: From a stray plot point on tumblr, which then accosted my brain and forced its way out through my fingers.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, not even the idea, because I am the opposite of awesome. And Batman. (Gold stars if you get the reference. And then we must be friends.)
A/N: Title is from the song "The Queen" by Lady GaGa. Extra points for you if you got that without me needing to tell you. And if you got the ref in the disclaimer (both of them, even) then four for you, Glen Coco. You go, Glen Coco.
---
“I’m the Alpha now.”
As soon as the words echo from Derek’s mouth, his vision goes dark. He stands up, attempting to keep his cool while he hears Scott, Allison, Stiles, and the hunters dissipate.
“Scott?” he whispers, loud enough for the younger werewolf to hear. “Are you there?”
Nothing answers him, aside from the quiet shush-shush of the forest and the groans of his house. Derek can feel his heart scream to life, suddenly deciding it’s running a marathon. He sniffs the air, trying to glean a picture of what’s going on. He smells pine, dirt, rotting wood, and rotting bodies. He tries not to vomit as he trips his way through the forest he claims to know so well, to the house of the only person whom he feels he can trust.
-*-*-
Stiles tells his dad good night, giving him a hug before rushing up the stairs and flicking the lights on. And then not screaming. He makes only manly noises, and the noise he made when he sees Derek groping blindly for his chair was pretty manly, if he did say so himself.
“Derek, what the hell are you doing here?” Stiles hisses, sliding his chair closer for Derek to find. He looks at the man a little strangely when it takes him a couple times to find purchase on the chair, fumbling as he sits. Gone is his lupine grace, and that’s when Stiles knows something is horribly, horribly wrong. “Derek, are you okay?”
Derek looks up at him, his eyes slightly glazed over.
“I’m guessing I made it into your room, Stiles,” he mumbles, facing a little bit to the left of Stiles’ face. “I’m blind.”
“You’re blind,” Stiles repeats, staring at Derek stupidly. Derek nods, his head resting on his forearms.
“No, I’m just faking all of this,” Derek growls, his lips sucking into a pout. Stiles can’t believe it. The sourwolf himself is in his room, cracking funnies and pouting at him. Pouting. If Stiles survives the evening (or the rest of the week, for that matter) he’s telling everyone that Derek freaking Hale pouted at him. And then he’ll die happy. Or close to it.
“Well, I guess you can crash here for the night,” Stiles says awkwardly, his shoulders tensing up like springs. “Considering that two people died on your property less than two hours ago.”
Derek nods glumly, not moving from his spot on Stiles’ chair. He sighs, mopey teenager sighs, and Stiles’ mother-hen instinct kicks in.
“Let’s get you up,” he says gently, hoisting Derek up by his armpits. The man stands slowly, not as straight-backed as normal as Stiles walks him to the bathroom. “I want you to take a shower, I’ll get things straightened out for you.” He realizes right as the bathroom door snaps shut that Derek doesn’t know anything about the shower.
-*-*-
It’s only once the door closes with a snick and Derek can clearly feel the cold tile underfoot that he realizes that he doesn’t know how what the bathroom looks like. He has no idea where anything is. He stumbles around for a bit before knocking his side particularly hard on a hard edge that he presumes to be a counter. He winces and slams back against the wall. He almost doesn’t notice Stiles pad back into the bathroom if it weren’t for the slight wave of scent that overwhelms him.
“Derek,” Stiles says softly. “Reach out your hand.”
Derek does so, and feels Stiles’ soft, spindly fingers meet his. He feels Stiles running his hand down lower and lower, and-
“I need you to trust me.”
Derek bites his lip, his feet starting to feel agonizingly hot on the frigid tile. He nods slowly.
“Okay.”
His hand continues to slide down Stiles’ sides until he feels material. He rubs his fingers, feeling the substance slowly. It’s soft, gritty, but rubbery. It…
“You’re wearing a swimsuit,” he says, breathing a sigh of relief.
“Of course,” Stiles says. Derek can smell something roll off the boy in pulses, but he can’t quite identify what it is. But, he relaxes, lets himself be vulnerable because he knows, he knows that Stiles won’t hurt him. Derek strips out of his clothing, hesitating a bit with his boxer briefs.
“I’m not looking,” he hears Stiles say. He doesn’t detect any blips in heartbeat, and he slips out of his underwear, letting it drop to the floor with a noise that sounds like a breath. “Give me your hand.”
Derek reaches his hand out again and lets himself be led.
“Step.”
He lifts his left leg higher than usual, and then his right leg. The floor feels different-it has a residual wetness and it smells… comforting. Even the bathroom in his burnt-out shell of a home doesn’t smell like this. Doesn’t feel like this.
Derek hears the water before he smells it and braces himself for the impact.
“Let me know if it’s too hot or cold,” Stiles says from somewhere in front of him. Wait, in front of him? That means…
Derek feels something lukewarm run down his hand from where it’s still holding Stiles’ tightly. Maybe a little bit too tightly. He loosens his grip.
“It’s… lukewarm,” he says, hesitating. “Could you make it warmer?”
He can feel Stiles nod-his wet hair brushing accidentally (he thinks) against his chin. The water from Stiles’ hand gets a little warmer.
“Tell me when,” Stiles says, and the flow of water gets increasingly more warm. He’s surprised by the little noise he lets escape from his throat. “I guess that’s the right temperature for you, big guy.” Derek can feel himself blush. There’s a click from somewhere and then Derek can feel hands in his hair. He jerks a bit before remembering who’s with him.
“Relax,” Stiles says. “It’s just me.”
Stiles’ fingers work thoroughly through Derek’s hair, and the man can feel the tension from the night fall from his shoulders, down to where the drain gurgles at his feet.
“Move a bit towards my voice,” Stiles says, and Derek suddenly feels a spring of water engulf his head. “Make sure you keep your eyes closed.”
Derek squeezes his eyes shut until Stiles tells him otherwise, signaled by a slightly smaller hand in his own.
“I’m going to wash you,” Stiles says quietly. Derek doesn’t even need his sense of smell to hear the trepidation in Stiles’ normally confident voice.
“I trust you,” he responds, his voice rumbling in his chest.
Stiles lets go of his hand but then they both suddenly return, scrubbing gently at his skin, everywhere. Hands work lower and lower and Derek can feel himself responding to the touch. Because it’s Stiles. He chuckles nervously, but Stiles doesn’t make an indication that he’s noticed. Stiles pats him on the arm and the warmth of the water is gone and replaced by the shock of cold air.
“All done,” he hears Stiles says as he lets himself be led out of the shower. He feels a towel, soft yet comfortably scratchy surround his waist. He frowns and pulls the towel out of Stiles’ grip.
“I think I know myself well enough to towel off,” he says a bit more gruffly than intended. The bathroom door opens and closes, and then Derek is blind. Completely, utterly, blind.
-*-*-*-
Stiles snags a towel on his way out of the bathroom and back to his room, shucking off his wet swimsuit and drying himself off. He can’t believe how hot and bothered he is, because Derek, Derek… trusted him.
It had been the hardest thing to maintain his cool, keep his breathing and heartbeat even while Derek had gotten completely aroused by his hands soaping his entire body (to be fair, Stiles had given Derek a full-fledged warning... what was the opposite of rape? Did that exist?) because seriously? Stiles is allowed to be the bundle of hormones here. He’s the teenager, he’s freaking sixteen, not Derek. Derek is not allowed to be hormonal, to show attraction to…
“Shit,” Stiles curses, running his hands down his face. Derek Hale, sourwolf, twice-accused murderer is maybe attracted to him. So he is attractive to gay guys. Stiles does an internal victory dance before remember that Derek is still in the bathroom, for the most part disoriented because there was no way that he figured out the bathroom layout in two minutes.
-*-*-*
Derek sniffs the air and moves his hands around him in a circle, attempting to decode the blackness. He’s done toweling himself off and has pulled on something to keep himself looking at least half-decent (they at least feel like his boxer briefs). He hears the doorknob click and he freezes.
“Derek?” Stiles says, padding into the bathroom again. “How are you doing?”
Derek nods.
“I’m doing fine. All dry.” He reaches his hand out, and Stiles takes it, leading him back across the hallway (the carpet isn’t as cold as the tile, but fuzzier and just the wrong side of room temperature. He didn’t even know it was possible for his toes to get cold) and into Stiles' room. Derek lets himself soak in the boy's room through all of his other senses. It smells overwhelmingly like Stiles, and it feels… safe.
“Stiles,” he croaks, tugging on the boy’s hand.
“Yeah?”
“I’m going to need to stay here until I can see again.”
He can hear Stiles’ breath hitch.
“Oh, um… okay.”
“I can try and stay somewhere else if I’m burdening you,” he says quietly. Derek isn’t expecting anything from Stiles, given all the troubles he’s put him through already. So, of course he’s shocked when Stiles voices his assent.
“No, you sourwolf, you can crash here until you can see again.”
He can hear Stiles’ smile, and a smile sneaks its way onto his lips.
“Thanks,” he says, eyelids drooping. Stiles leads him to his bed, letting him slide under the covers. Derek smells a bit of hesitation before he feels Stiles against him in the bed, a warm weight that’s surprisingly comforting.
-*-*-
Stiles’ mind is racing at lightspeed now that he’s in his own bed with Derek. Who’s just basically the largest bed of coals ever. No pun intended. He finds himself reaching for Derek’s hand, stroking across his knuckles.
“You okay?” he whispers. He feels the man nod.
“Thanks, Stiles.”
And Stiles is right about to respond, thank you very much, before Mr. Sourwolf just plows right on through.
“I’m not used to needing help, Stiles,” Derek rumbles slowly, his breath catching as he turns to face Stiles’ face. “I’m not used to getting it.”