Derek is moving but Stiles is still; it feels like it should be the other
way around. He needs a few moments but he soon identifies the
strange, metallic aftertaste lingering about his tongue —- hurt. It’s
one he should be familiar with, only he hasn’t felt it in this place in
so long that in the context of it all - the big, tall windows, the small,
utilitarian TV, the (their, their, their) couch placed so oddly by the
twisting stairs Stiles knows is the perfect place to read in the wan-
ing evening sun, sometimes alone, sometimes with someone else
with their shoulder against your knee, listening to you read aloud.
Don’t act like this is okay.
He wants to interrupt, wants to be childish, wants to shout, to stomp
his foot, to demand the truth, because Scott told him whose guise
the shifter took, because Derek must know that he knows, because
he used to share these things with Stiles.
It’s not okay.
And yet he doesn’t. So Stiles swallows the metal in his mouth, and
follows suit, keeping a minimum physical distance between them,
since another sort had already made itself known.
Tell me it’s not okay.
It’s okay.
”Oh, yeah, let’s take our cues from a show where they end up
getting a delicious acid and dead person smoothie everywhere.
Yeah, Mr. White! Yeah science!”
❝ They also didn't have a direct
connection to the morgue & it's resources. ❞
Which, thanks, Ms. McCall! She'll be undoubtedly exasperated
over the ordeal, & likely fuss over those involved, but it'll happen.
It has to. Just another day in Beacon Hills, right? All things
considered, tonight was t a m e.
Outside, where the air is crisp & cool, Derek feels a knot of
tension unfurl in his chest, & he can breathe a little easier. He
glances at the moon, feeling a natural wash of comfort, & finally,
FINALLY, he admits,
❝ It looked like Kate. I don't know what's worse THAT,
or the fact that we still don't know if she's really dead or not. ❞
It's the lack of confirmation that torments him, keeps him awake
at night. How could he possibly feel safe with her on the prowl, as
low as she may have to lie?
He swallows his voice again, repressing the need to spill his
thoughts & worries. They won't serve a greater purpose. Then,
❝ We'll wait until Scott's taken care of the others, transport them
all at once. when you say no blood on the upholstery, does
that include your trunk, too? ❞
A small smirk, feeling foreign but genuine, pulls at his lips as he
gives Stiles a questioning hitch of his brows, expectant. He's sure
as hell not using his car.
kianamaiart
gummygunk
areudirty
theartofmadeline
turnnoffyourmind
