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verity(continued)
three
Derek woke up in the dark, disoriented, blinking into nothingness.
The mattress under him was firm, the bedding worn cotton. When he reached out beside him, there was a drop to the right, but a warm shape on the left that resolved into Stiles when Derek inhaled, took in his familiar, Stiles-y scent underneath something sharp and antiseptic. His arm. Right.
"'s okay," Stiles slurred into the pillow next to him. "Safe. Sleep now."
"Okay," Derek said, turning toward Stiles, closing his eyes.
The second time Derek woke up, he was more alert. He checked the phone in his pocket, shielding the screen with his hand so he didn't wake Stiles with the light; it was eleven, he had a few texts from Laura, predictable. Florence Yi had picked them up from the police station, bought them breakfast, and interrogated them until it was nearly noon and Stiles was visibly starting to nod off between direct questions. Then they'd crashed in the guest bedroom at the Yi den, a sprawling ranch house on the southwest edge of Cupertino.
Door's ten paces to your right, Actaea said, sounding sleepy. She'd had a long day, too. If you want—
Thanks, Derek said.
Derek found the guest bathroom easily enough, set off down the hallway toward the bright light he thought might be the kitchen. Lindsay was sitting at the table with a light-haired woman he didn't recognize, poking at a steamed bun, Yun resting at their feet. "Hey," she said, tilting her head back to see him. "You're up. Rachel, Derek; Derek, Rachel. Want some bao?"
"I'm good," he said. "Water—"
"I'll get it for you," Rachel said, getting to her feet. "Sit down. You're our guest."
Lindsay yawned. "That's right. You're not even a guestage anymore, our moms have conferenced and Stiles's friend Boyd drove your Volvo up, took back his Camry."
Derek sat down across from her, accepted the glass of water Rachel held out to him. "That's—that was nice of him."
"Nice of you two to come down and help me out, too," Lindsay said. She'd changed into pajamas since he last saw her, pants printed with ducks and matching t-shirt stretched over her round belly. "I feel all full of maternal pride, you don't even know. Last time I saw Stilinski, he was drunk and crying into my arms about how Java is Satan, blah blah blah, but he's good out in the field. You were both great."
Rachel dropped back down in the chair next to Lindsay. "She means 'thank you.'"
"Don't put words in my mouth," Lindsay said, smiling at her wife.
—
Stiles was awake when Derek came back into their room, still lying on his back, holding his phone up with his good arm. Lark was at the foot of the bed, her head resting on his ankles. "Hey," Stiles said, glancing over at Derek.
"Aren't you afraid you're going to drop that on your face?" Derek said, closing the door behind him. In the dark, the backlight on the phone was just strong enough to turn Stiles's face into a washed-out, blue-tinted beacon, guiding Derek toward him, pulling Derek in.
"Already did. Twice."
Derek climbed up on the bed and prised Stiles's phone from his fingers. "Stop hurting yourself."
"I want to go home," Stiles said. He sighed, shifted against the mattress. "Can we go home now? I know it's—our days and nights are all confused, I just—"
"Yeah," Derek said. "We can go."
—
The trip back to Beacon Hills was easier in the dead of night, the temperature dropped and the breeze cool. Stiles reclined his chair as far as it could go so he could rest the whole way, Lark at his head. Derek even dug out his dad's worn cassette of Close to the Edge as a concession. He kind of liked the title track, even if Actaea didn't.
This is boring, she said, resigned, thirty seconds in.
This is still birdsong, Derek pointed out.
Like I said.
They were making good time, but Stiles's face was tight with discomfort by the time they hit Fremont. "Already taken the good drugs," Stiles said when Derek asked. "Can't have any more."
They need us, Actaea said.
Derek took a moment, thought about it. Okay.
When Actaea climbed up on the backseat and rested her head on Lark, it all washed over Derek: Stiles's pain and Lark's exhaustion at trying to take on some of it, the way both eased at Actaea's touch. Lark whimpered softly in relief. That erotic charge was still there, but dormant, letting Derek give comfort and Stiles receive it. "You—you're okay with this?" Stiles said.
"Go to sleep," Derek said, swapping Yes for Sarah McLachlan.
The rest of the way was easy. In the passenger seat, Stiles dozed; in the back, Actaea and Lark stayed curled together, wrapped up in each other. Derek could feel something bright and new twining in his chest as he drove, north and northwest, slowly but surely toward home.
three
Derek woke up in the dark, disoriented, blinking into nothingness.
The mattress under him was firm, the bedding worn cotton. When he reached out beside him, there was a drop to the right, but a warm shape on the left that resolved into Stiles when Derek inhaled, took in his familiar, Stiles-y scent underneath something sharp and antiseptic. His arm. Right.
"'s okay," Stiles slurred into the pillow next to him. "Safe. Sleep now."
"Okay," Derek said, turning toward Stiles, closing his eyes.
The second time Derek woke up, he was more alert. He checked the phone in his pocket, shielding the screen with his hand so he didn't wake Stiles with the light; it was eleven, he had a few texts from Laura, predictable. Florence Yi had picked them up from the police station, bought them breakfast, and interrogated them until it was nearly noon and Stiles was visibly starting to nod off between direct questions. Then they'd crashed in the guest bedroom at the Yi den, a sprawling ranch house on the southwest edge of Cupertino.
Door's ten paces to your right, Actaea said, sounding sleepy. She'd had a long day, too. If you want—
Thanks, Derek said.
Derek found the guest bathroom easily enough, set off down the hallway toward the bright light he thought might be the kitchen. Lindsay was sitting at the table with a light-haired woman he didn't recognize, poking at a steamed bun, Yun resting at their feet. "Hey," she said, tilting her head back to see him. "You're up. Rachel, Derek; Derek, Rachel. Want some bao?"
"I'm good," he said. "Water—"
"I'll get it for you," Rachel said, getting to her feet. "Sit down. You're our guest."
Lindsay yawned. "That's right. You're not even a guestage anymore, our moms have conferenced and Stiles's friend Boyd drove your Volvo up, took back his Camry."
Derek sat down across from her, accepted the glass of water Rachel held out to him. "That's—that was nice of him."
"Nice of you two to come down and help me out, too," Lindsay said. She'd changed into pajamas since he last saw her, pants printed with ducks and matching t-shirt stretched over her round belly. "I feel all full of maternal pride, you don't even know. Last time I saw Stilinski, he was drunk and crying into my arms about how Java is Satan, blah blah blah, but he's good out in the field. You were both great."
Rachel dropped back down in the chair next to Lindsay. "She means 'thank you.'"
"Don't put words in my mouth," Lindsay said, smiling at her wife.
Stiles was awake when Derek came back into their room, still lying on his back, holding his phone up with his good arm. Lark was at the foot of the bed, her head resting on his ankles. "Hey," Stiles said, glancing over at Derek.
"Aren't you afraid you're going to drop that on your face?" Derek said, closing the door behind him. In the dark, the backlight on the phone was just strong enough to turn Stiles's face into a washed-out, blue-tinted beacon, guiding Derek toward him, pulling Derek in.
"Already did. Twice."
Derek climbed up on the bed and prised Stiles's phone from his fingers. "Stop hurting yourself."
"I want to go home," Stiles said. He sighed, shifted against the mattress. "Can we go home now? I know it's—our days and nights are all confused, I just—"
"Yeah," Derek said. "We can go."
The trip back to Beacon Hills was easier in the dead of night, the temperature dropped and the breeze cool. Stiles reclined his chair as far as it could go so he could rest the whole way, Lark at his head. Derek even dug out his dad's worn cassette of Close to the Edge as a concession. He kind of liked the title track, even if Actaea didn't.
This is boring, she said, resigned, thirty seconds in.
This is still birdsong, Derek pointed out.
Like I said.
They were making good time, but Stiles's face was tight with discomfort by the time they hit Fremont. "Already taken the good drugs," Stiles said when Derek asked. "Can't have any more."
They need us, Actaea said.
Derek took a moment, thought about it. Okay.
When Actaea climbed up on the backseat and rested her head on Lark, it all washed over Derek: Stiles's pain and Lark's exhaustion at trying to take on some of it, the way both eased at Actaea's touch. Lark whimpered softly in relief. That erotic charge was still there, but dormant, letting Derek give comfort and Stiles receive it. "You—you're okay with this?" Stiles said.
"Go to sleep," Derek said, swapping Yes for Sarah McLachlan.
The rest of the way was easy. In the passenger seat, Stiles dozed; in the back, Actaea and Lark stayed curled together, wrapped up in each other. Derek could feel something bright and new twining in his chest as he drove, north and northwest, slowly but surely toward home.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-02-16 12:42 pm (UTC)Overall though - beautifully written.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-02-16 05:48 pm (UTC)I originally intended this to end in porn, but by the time I got to the end, I thought it was kind of unrealistic. Stiles has a gunshot wound! He needs warm fuzzies, not sexy times! So, uh, porny sequel, probably. :D
And thank you.