Slow Fading Scars
Title: Slow Fading Scars
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Derek/Stiles
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: None
Word Count: 1200
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: He heals like a werewolf in slow motion.
AN: Written for the 'cuddling' square, for hc_bingo.
Derek had tried to bandage them. But Stiles wanted to see them, wanted to be able to see them every time he looked down. He wanted to watch the torn skin on his wrists scab over, wanted to watch it bruise, and then pale again. Until everything was healed. Like a werewolf in slow motion. Though for all that Stiles wants to see that happen, he knows he hasn't looked at them as much as Derek has. He hasn't been as careful of them when moving, reaching, slowly stripping his shirt free. Pain is really good at forcing you to remember, whether you want to or not.
Even hours later, cuts seen to, bruises acknowledged, bloody clothes dumped in the trash - because the blood never, ever comes out. Even here, in the semi-darkness of his room, on the mattress Derek likes to generously call a bed. Derek can't stop looking at them, almost touching them but always restraining himself every time his fingers stray too close. His eyebrows are dented together, as if he thinks he can scrub the wounds, and the darkening skin away if only Stiles would let him. Stiles doesn't like it, doesn't want to see that expression on Derek's face every time he gets hurt. Because he's not breakable. He bruises, and he bleeds, but he heals eventually. He always heals eventually. Though it took him a while to accept that this life comes with its share of bruises, and cuts, and unpleasantly painful experiences now. He doesn't - he's still not always good with it, he'll admit that much, and it's never easy.
But Derek is worse since...since Stiles became something he worried about.
Stiles shifts a little, moves his arm into the curl of Derek's fingers. There's an indrawn breath, and the fingers close, just hold his arm for a minute, thumb circling. Until Derek's moving them up, smoothing against the part of Stiles's wrist where the skin's thin and bright with veins. There's still a little blood there, dried over, and it hurts when Derek strays close to the slow-forming bruises. But Stiles doesn't say anything.
"The scrapes aren't even that bad." Stiles knows that's not what bothers Derek, what bothers him is that they're still there. Not just that though. Never just that. "It wasn't your fault you know. You can't take responsibility for every bad thing that happens to the people around you." It's not the first time he's said it, and it probably won't be the last.
"They took you because you're mine," Derek says, somehow angry at Stiles for not admitting it, as it's proof that makes it his fault somehow. "How is that not my fault? They wouldn't have -"
Stiles cuts him off with a noise and a shove.
"You're a possessive dick, I'm not yours." He's joking, mostly. But Derek clearly doesn't appreciate it. "I'm yours maybe ten percent of the time, at best," he amends, and manages not to roll his eyes, just. "And it still isn't your fault. I'm pretty sure I decided to be involved in your supernatural drama of a life of my own free will. Because, to be honest, you kind of need the help."
Derek doesn't say anything to that, he just moves a little closer, curls over him. His fingers trail back down to Stiles's elbow.
"Yeah, you won't be throwing me around any time soon, waiting for things to heal is a bitch when you're not a werewolf, huh."
Derek scowls at him, because clearly his ability to tell when Stiles is joking is broken.
"I wouldn't," he says roughly, he sounds offended that Stiles would even suggest it. He's barely touching him now, fingers just resting on his skin.
Stiles sighs, because clearly they're not having the same conversation, or maybe they are but they're having it from the wrong angle.
"No, I know," he says, laughs a little, because when are they ever in the same place. "You're thinking depressing thoughts. They go with your depressing face."
"You think this is funny?" Derek sounds physically pained, and there's the promise of anger there. There's always anger when Derek doesn't understand something, defensive and sharp. It's still hard for Stiles to get through. But they're working on it.
Stiles shoves him back far enough that he can turn to frown at him.
"Dude, I know it's not funny, it was in no way funny, I was there. But it's not the tragedy you're turning it into. Yes, I got caught, and I got strung up and smacked around a little. But they didn't get anything they wanted out of me. I have your back too, you know that."
Derek shakes his head, frustrated that Stiles doesn't understand how that makes it worse. Only it doesn't, it really doesn't.
"You shouldn't have to."
Stiles gives an irritated snort and slips out of Derek's hands.
"Bullshit, that's what we do, isn't it? Besides I have people other than you that have my back," Stiles reminds him. "That look out for me. Other people I'm working on protecting. I don't save all my stoic badassery just for you."
Derek breathes against the side of his throat, because it's true. Stiles is prepared to do whatever he has to, for any of his friends, even the ones he doesn't really like all that much if he's honest - which maybe makes him stupid, he doesn't even know. It's just who he is. Derek knows him well enough to know that. He'll never make him stop, no matter how many grumpy faces he pulls.
"Just stay here for a while," Derek says eventually, where he's half curled into his back now.
"Is this your aggressive, semi-threatening admission that you want to cuddle?" Stiles guesses.
He can hear Derek's glare, his eyebrows are very loud, even when you're not looking at them. Because it's obvious he thinks he's being mocked. Stiles doesn't want him to move though, doesn't want him to leave. He only has, like, eighty percent control of what comes out of his mouth sometimes. But he didn't mean to make that sound anything like as bad as it came out.
Derek doesn't move away, he stays where he is, fingers looped round Stiles's arm again, curling tight and squeezing, in a way he can't seem to help, that he maybe doesn't even notice.
"You don't have to justify it you know," Stiles says quietly. "Because I've had a shitty day, and maybe I want it too. It's just - it's not something we do, so I didn't know if it was something you'd even want. But I'm good with it, if you did."
Derek doesn't say anything to that, though the next time Stiles moves into a more comfortable position, there's an arm thrown round his waist, loose like it's pretending that maybe it's just fallen there. But when Stiles doesn't offer any sort of judgment it draws tight, fingers curling under his waist, and pulling him back, until Derek is a long, warm weight all along his back, thighs pressed tight against the back of his own, breathing into the curve of his throat.
Stiles wants to say something, something about how completely ok with this he is, or maybe just to point out that this would be good all the time, it's not something Derek has to ask for, or stomp his way awkwardly around. But he's too afraid that something else will come out instead, that he'll mess it up somehow. So he doesn't say anything at all, he just lets Derek fidget around the wounds on his wrists, the bruises on his arms, and when he gets sick of that, the bare skin of his stomach, under his shirt.
"You can stay as long as you want," Derek offers. It's not loud, and there's an uncertainty to it that tells Stiles that wasn't what he meant to say at all. Or maybe that he meant something else entirely. But Derek's forehead is pressed against the curve of his shoulder, heavy and warm. Stiles figures they're both bruised enough for one day, they can deal with the difficult stuff tomorrow.
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Derek/Stiles
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: None
Word Count: 1200
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: He heals like a werewolf in slow motion.
AN: Written for the 'cuddling' square, for hc_bingo.
Derek had tried to bandage them. But Stiles wanted to see them, wanted to be able to see them every time he looked down. He wanted to watch the torn skin on his wrists scab over, wanted to watch it bruise, and then pale again. Until everything was healed. Like a werewolf in slow motion. Though for all that Stiles wants to see that happen, he knows he hasn't looked at them as much as Derek has. He hasn't been as careful of them when moving, reaching, slowly stripping his shirt free. Pain is really good at forcing you to remember, whether you want to or not.
Even hours later, cuts seen to, bruises acknowledged, bloody clothes dumped in the trash - because the blood never, ever comes out. Even here, in the semi-darkness of his room, on the mattress Derek likes to generously call a bed. Derek can't stop looking at them, almost touching them but always restraining himself every time his fingers stray too close. His eyebrows are dented together, as if he thinks he can scrub the wounds, and the darkening skin away if only Stiles would let him. Stiles doesn't like it, doesn't want to see that expression on Derek's face every time he gets hurt. Because he's not breakable. He bruises, and he bleeds, but he heals eventually. He always heals eventually. Though it took him a while to accept that this life comes with its share of bruises, and cuts, and unpleasantly painful experiences now. He doesn't - he's still not always good with it, he'll admit that much, and it's never easy.
But Derek is worse since...since Stiles became something he worried about.
Stiles shifts a little, moves his arm into the curl of Derek's fingers. There's an indrawn breath, and the fingers close, just hold his arm for a minute, thumb circling. Until Derek's moving them up, smoothing against the part of Stiles's wrist where the skin's thin and bright with veins. There's still a little blood there, dried over, and it hurts when Derek strays close to the slow-forming bruises. But Stiles doesn't say anything.
"The scrapes aren't even that bad." Stiles knows that's not what bothers Derek, what bothers him is that they're still there. Not just that though. Never just that. "It wasn't your fault you know. You can't take responsibility for every bad thing that happens to the people around you." It's not the first time he's said it, and it probably won't be the last.
"They took you because you're mine," Derek says, somehow angry at Stiles for not admitting it, as it's proof that makes it his fault somehow. "How is that not my fault? They wouldn't have -"
Stiles cuts him off with a noise and a shove.
"You're a possessive dick, I'm not yours." He's joking, mostly. But Derek clearly doesn't appreciate it. "I'm yours maybe ten percent of the time, at best," he amends, and manages not to roll his eyes, just. "And it still isn't your fault. I'm pretty sure I decided to be involved in your supernatural drama of a life of my own free will. Because, to be honest, you kind of need the help."
Derek doesn't say anything to that, he just moves a little closer, curls over him. His fingers trail back down to Stiles's elbow.
"Yeah, you won't be throwing me around any time soon, waiting for things to heal is a bitch when you're not a werewolf, huh."
Derek scowls at him, because clearly his ability to tell when Stiles is joking is broken.
"I wouldn't," he says roughly, he sounds offended that Stiles would even suggest it. He's barely touching him now, fingers just resting on his skin.
Stiles sighs, because clearly they're not having the same conversation, or maybe they are but they're having it from the wrong angle.
"No, I know," he says, laughs a little, because when are they ever in the same place. "You're thinking depressing thoughts. They go with your depressing face."
"You think this is funny?" Derek sounds physically pained, and there's the promise of anger there. There's always anger when Derek doesn't understand something, defensive and sharp. It's still hard for Stiles to get through. But they're working on it.
Stiles shoves him back far enough that he can turn to frown at him.
"Dude, I know it's not funny, it was in no way funny, I was there. But it's not the tragedy you're turning it into. Yes, I got caught, and I got strung up and smacked around a little. But they didn't get anything they wanted out of me. I have your back too, you know that."
Derek shakes his head, frustrated that Stiles doesn't understand how that makes it worse. Only it doesn't, it really doesn't.
"You shouldn't have to."
Stiles gives an irritated snort and slips out of Derek's hands.
"Bullshit, that's what we do, isn't it? Besides I have people other than you that have my back," Stiles reminds him. "That look out for me. Other people I'm working on protecting. I don't save all my stoic badassery just for you."
Derek breathes against the side of his throat, because it's true. Stiles is prepared to do whatever he has to, for any of his friends, even the ones he doesn't really like all that much if he's honest - which maybe makes him stupid, he doesn't even know. It's just who he is. Derek knows him well enough to know that. He'll never make him stop, no matter how many grumpy faces he pulls.
"Just stay here for a while," Derek says eventually, where he's half curled into his back now.
"Is this your aggressive, semi-threatening admission that you want to cuddle?" Stiles guesses.
He can hear Derek's glare, his eyebrows are very loud, even when you're not looking at them. Because it's obvious he thinks he's being mocked. Stiles doesn't want him to move though, doesn't want him to leave. He only has, like, eighty percent control of what comes out of his mouth sometimes. But he didn't mean to make that sound anything like as bad as it came out.
Derek doesn't move away, he stays where he is, fingers looped round Stiles's arm again, curling tight and squeezing, in a way he can't seem to help, that he maybe doesn't even notice.
"You don't have to justify it you know," Stiles says quietly. "Because I've had a shitty day, and maybe I want it too. It's just - it's not something we do, so I didn't know if it was something you'd even want. But I'm good with it, if you did."
Derek doesn't say anything to that, though the next time Stiles moves into a more comfortable position, there's an arm thrown round his waist, loose like it's pretending that maybe it's just fallen there. But when Stiles doesn't offer any sort of judgment it draws tight, fingers curling under his waist, and pulling him back, until Derek is a long, warm weight all along his back, thighs pressed tight against the back of his own, breathing into the curve of his throat.
Stiles wants to say something, something about how completely ok with this he is, or maybe just to point out that this would be good all the time, it's not something Derek has to ask for, or stomp his way awkwardly around. But he's too afraid that something else will come out instead, that he'll mess it up somehow. So he doesn't say anything at all, he just lets Derek fidget around the wounds on his wrists, the bruises on his arms, and when he gets sick of that, the bare skin of his stomach, under his shirt.
"You can stay as long as you want," Derek offers. It's not loud, and there's an uncertainty to it that tells Stiles that wasn't what he meant to say at all. Or maybe that he meant something else entirely. But Derek's forehead is pressed against the curve of his shoulder, heavy and warm. Stiles figures they're both bruised enough for one day, they can deal with the difficult stuff tomorrow.