(no subject)
sailing paper airplanes (across the room at you) (1000 words, Teen Wolf, Derek/Stiles, for picfor1000 [my photo]) (also on AO3)
"Going somewhere?" Stiles asks, and Derek answers "No" automatically, doesn't bother looking up. He's spent the better part of a couple of hours leafing through a book Deaton gave him, something he said belonged to the family. From what Derek can tell, it's mostly history and lore, but it doesn't seem familiar at all, and it's old and dusty enough that it's making his nose itch.
He's been peripherally aware of Stiles rattling around the loft the whole time, the same way he's always aware of Stiles-listening to him settle in one spot, get up and move around, settle in a different spot, over and over again; listening to him running his fingers over the spines of books, opening and closing doors and drawers, sticking his nose where it doesn't belong and trying to do it quietly, as if Derek can't hear everything he's doing anyway. It's not like this is the first time Stiles has been here, but he seems perpetually amazed that Derek has things. ("Normal-person things! Bookshelves! Forks! Chairs that actual people-and, uh, wolves-can actually sit on. A coffee table! A Chemex, you hipster!" Stiles had said, sounding scandalized and delighted.) Truthfully, Derek's kind of amazed, too: that he's been back in Beacon Hills long enough now to have accumulated stuff, when he never expected to be. That Stiles is one more unexpected thing the eddies of Derek's life have swept close.
Somehow, between trying to survive and trying to protect his pack and trying to figure out what the hell he was doing, he settled. He probably should have realized that's exactly what was happening when he finally carried the box of Laura's stuff up to the loft, the same box that's been hiding in the Camaro's trunk all this time. Derek couldn't just get rid of it, but he hasn't been able to bring himself to look through it yet, either. He will, eventually. There's nothing in there that can't wait.
Stiles isn't patient, especially with knowledge, with secrets. He's been poking into the corners of Derek's life since everything started, trying to understand werewolves; trying to understand the place that he's carved out for himself smack in the middle of the whole mess, no matter what Scott or his dad have to say about it; trying to understand Derek (good luck with that, says a voice in his head that sounds a lot like Laura's).
Derek looks up from the page he hasn't been reading, finds Stiles still standing awkwardly in front of him, holding something in his hands, says, "Wait, what?"
Stiles flaps whatever he's holding in the air between them, and Derek can see that it's paper, can see that it's-
"Tickets?" Stiles asks, as if he hasn't already worked out what they are-two plane tickets, departing from JFK what seems like a lifetime ago. Of course he found Laura's box, probably made all that noise to distract Derek from the fact that he'd been snooping through it.
Stiles fidgets with the tickets, and it means that Derek can watch his hands instead of his face-folding the paper over and over, pressing the creases flat with his thumbnail-when he opens his mouth and the story spills out. Laura wanted to go someplace new, to get away from anywhere that had any memories attached, any baggage, any responsibilities, just for a while. And Derek was angry and scared and didn't believe there was anywhere he could escape feeling that way, even as he desperately hoped there was. And he would have done whatever Laura-his alpha, his sister, the only thing in the world he had left-wanted, anything to make her happy and maybe ease a little of his own crushing guilt.
Derek watches Stiles's fingers move, hears himself explaining that she'd picked Iceland because she liked cold places, liked scarves and mittens, and she had guidebooks and a whole list of things she wanted to do and see, volcanoes and hot springs . . .
"Take down a reindeer, add it to her life list?" Stiles interrupts. Derek feels a laugh huff out of him, and when he finally looks up at Stiles again, he has a funny half-smile on his face. "Maybe."
Stiles holds out his palm, and resting in the cup of it are two little paper airplanes, and Derek thinks about the alchemy Stiles has in his fingertips, the way he can light up the dust of a dead tree and make it something more.
He stands and takes the airplanes, finds an empty spot for them on the bookshelf closest to him, sets them down gently and lets each one tip onto a wing. He can feel Stiles behind him, can feel him moving closer until there's something like electricity humming between them, all the fine hairs on the nape of Derek's neck standing up, and then Stiles is reaching out, touching the tips of his fingers to the back of Derek's hand.
Derek takes a deep breath. He doesn't want to run. Maybe it's not so hard to give something willingly instead of waiting for Stiles to dig it up and drag it into the light.
They rattle the bookcase when they stumble back against it. Stiles is staring at Derek's mouth, and Derek feels his own cheeks flush hot. Their noses bump before they fit together at a better angle, and then Stiles is opening his mouth to Derek's, and that's familiar, like Stiles is trying to get in the first word and the last word and all the words in between. Derek can feel the shapes of them against his lips, can feel the press of Stiles's fingers against his skin, learning the slope of muscle and bone like he's searching for more secrets, like he can touch Derek and turn him into something new.
Derek kisses his own words back into Stiles's mouth, not going anywhere, and it's a kind of promise, and Stiles's fingers tighten, sure, like he believes.
_____
It's not like I have a crush on you
and instead of writing my five-paragraph essay
I am sailing paper airplanes across the room at you-
it's not that I can't wait for the lunch bell
to see your face again.
It's not like that. Not exactly.
-Billy Collins, "The Flight of the Reader"
"Going somewhere?" Stiles asks, and Derek answers "No" automatically, doesn't bother looking up. He's spent the better part of a couple of hours leafing through a book Deaton gave him, something he said belonged to the family. From what Derek can tell, it's mostly history and lore, but it doesn't seem familiar at all, and it's old and dusty enough that it's making his nose itch.
He's been peripherally aware of Stiles rattling around the loft the whole time, the same way he's always aware of Stiles-listening to him settle in one spot, get up and move around, settle in a different spot, over and over again; listening to him running his fingers over the spines of books, opening and closing doors and drawers, sticking his nose where it doesn't belong and trying to do it quietly, as if Derek can't hear everything he's doing anyway. It's not like this is the first time Stiles has been here, but he seems perpetually amazed that Derek has things. ("Normal-person things! Bookshelves! Forks! Chairs that actual people-and, uh, wolves-can actually sit on. A coffee table! A Chemex, you hipster!" Stiles had said, sounding scandalized and delighted.) Truthfully, Derek's kind of amazed, too: that he's been back in Beacon Hills long enough now to have accumulated stuff, when he never expected to be. That Stiles is one more unexpected thing the eddies of Derek's life have swept close.
Somehow, between trying to survive and trying to protect his pack and trying to figure out what the hell he was doing, he settled. He probably should have realized that's exactly what was happening when he finally carried the box of Laura's stuff up to the loft, the same box that's been hiding in the Camaro's trunk all this time. Derek couldn't just get rid of it, but he hasn't been able to bring himself to look through it yet, either. He will, eventually. There's nothing in there that can't wait.
Stiles isn't patient, especially with knowledge, with secrets. He's been poking into the corners of Derek's life since everything started, trying to understand werewolves; trying to understand the place that he's carved out for himself smack in the middle of the whole mess, no matter what Scott or his dad have to say about it; trying to understand Derek (good luck with that, says a voice in his head that sounds a lot like Laura's).
Derek looks up from the page he hasn't been reading, finds Stiles still standing awkwardly in front of him, holding something in his hands, says, "Wait, what?"
Stiles flaps whatever he's holding in the air between them, and Derek can see that it's paper, can see that it's-
"Tickets?" Stiles asks, as if he hasn't already worked out what they are-two plane tickets, departing from JFK what seems like a lifetime ago. Of course he found Laura's box, probably made all that noise to distract Derek from the fact that he'd been snooping through it.
Stiles fidgets with the tickets, and it means that Derek can watch his hands instead of his face-folding the paper over and over, pressing the creases flat with his thumbnail-when he opens his mouth and the story spills out. Laura wanted to go someplace new, to get away from anywhere that had any memories attached, any baggage, any responsibilities, just for a while. And Derek was angry and scared and didn't believe there was anywhere he could escape feeling that way, even as he desperately hoped there was. And he would have done whatever Laura-his alpha, his sister, the only thing in the world he had left-wanted, anything to make her happy and maybe ease a little of his own crushing guilt.
Derek watches Stiles's fingers move, hears himself explaining that she'd picked Iceland because she liked cold places, liked scarves and mittens, and she had guidebooks and a whole list of things she wanted to do and see, volcanoes and hot springs . . .
"Take down a reindeer, add it to her life list?" Stiles interrupts. Derek feels a laugh huff out of him, and when he finally looks up at Stiles again, he has a funny half-smile on his face. "Maybe."
Stiles holds out his palm, and resting in the cup of it are two little paper airplanes, and Derek thinks about the alchemy Stiles has in his fingertips, the way he can light up the dust of a dead tree and make it something more.
He stands and takes the airplanes, finds an empty spot for them on the bookshelf closest to him, sets them down gently and lets each one tip onto a wing. He can feel Stiles behind him, can feel him moving closer until there's something like electricity humming between them, all the fine hairs on the nape of Derek's neck standing up, and then Stiles is reaching out, touching the tips of his fingers to the back of Derek's hand.
Derek takes a deep breath. He doesn't want to run. Maybe it's not so hard to give something willingly instead of waiting for Stiles to dig it up and drag it into the light.
They rattle the bookcase when they stumble back against it. Stiles is staring at Derek's mouth, and Derek feels his own cheeks flush hot. Their noses bump before they fit together at a better angle, and then Stiles is opening his mouth to Derek's, and that's familiar, like Stiles is trying to get in the first word and the last word and all the words in between. Derek can feel the shapes of them against his lips, can feel the press of Stiles's fingers against his skin, learning the slope of muscle and bone like he's searching for more secrets, like he can touch Derek and turn him into something new.
Derek kisses his own words back into Stiles's mouth, not going anywhere, and it's a kind of promise, and Stiles's fingers tighten, sure, like he believes.
_____
It's not like I have a crush on you
and instead of writing my five-paragraph essay
I am sailing paper airplanes across the room at you-
it's not that I can't wait for the lunch bell
to see your face again.
It's not like that. Not exactly.
-Billy Collins, "The Flight of the Reader"