OTA; various locations and times

[mensrea]

A) You know when you’re drowning you don’t actually inhale until right before you black out.

There is a bear. There is a bear chasing a screeching human boy. There is a bear chasing a screeching human boy who is hurtling toward you at Mach 5. This is happening. This is actually happening. 2AM in London is a strange time.

B) It’s like no matter how much you’re freaking out, the instinct to not let any water in is so strong that you won’t open your mouth until you feel like your head’s exploding.

( PRE August 8 )

Located in downtown Sutton, there is a string of terraced properties. One of said properties happens to belong to Stiles’ grandparents, both of whom immigrated from Poland decades ago. This is where the American teen has been staying for the past three months, though the trip is due to end in only a few days. Soon, he’s expected to return home to Beacon Hills, to high school and feigned normalcy and the only friend he ever knew before London.

The hour is late. Stiles sits in an open windowsill of his makeshift, temporary attic bedroom. There’s a lacrosse ball in his hand, which he tosses up and down while gazing sightlessly up at the sky. Maybe he drops the ball, only for it to roll over to you on the sidewalk or street. Maybe you know him personally and decide to call up to Stiles. Maybe a print-out of his flight itinerary flutters to the ground. Maybe the window is empty yet open, and you pay him a visit by climbing the nearby tree.

He could probably use the company tonight.

C) Then when you finally do let it in, that’s when it stops hurting.

( POST August 9 )

The days blur by after August 9th for Stiles. Sherriff Stilinski is beyond furious that his underage son refuses to return home, and has threatened to get a court order. In response, Stiles has threatened to vanish without further contact. Shockingly, this did not instill his dad with the confidence that Stiles is mature enough to live alone in a foreign country. But the damage has been done; as a dual citizen of the United States and Poland, Stiles has all the rights in the United Kingdom of an EEA resident. Unless his health or safety is compromised, there’s little the Sheriff can do. During a somber Skype call, Scott told him that the Sheriff even contacted Rafael—Scott’s absentee father in the FBI. Stiles is worried, is sick to his stomach at the thought of how much this must hurt his dad, of how emotionally taxing the ordeal must be for the overworked man. If anything happened to the Sheriff because of this…

Diligently he researches the steps for settling in the country for the long term, pays an extraordinary amount of money he doesn’t have to submit forms and paperwork. Fortunately, he qualifies to reside in the EU for an extended period because he’s working for Apollo. Small mercies.

Stiles can be found in libraries, police stations, governmental buildings, and cafés. You’ll likely find him poring over documents, scrambling to fill them out and organize them in cheap, manila folders.

D) It’s not scary anymore, it’s… it’s actually kind of peaceful.

( POST August 12 )

Spring heralded the arrival of Stiles Stilinski in London. Then, he had expected to remain in the United Kingdom only through summer before returning to California for his senior year of high school. Now, he has made concrete plans to settle here in the Underground by becoming a member of the East End Pack and eschewing a high school diploma. The decision to stay had not come easily—and the cost of that decision will likely haunt him for years to come. But Stiles is determined to put aside his dread and doubt. Dogs can smell fear, after all.

And Stiles is currently walking seven of them. Dogs, that is. Honestly, it’s more like they’re walking him.

See, the thing is…werewolves? Not particularly quick to put their trust in some skinny, fidgety human who dared break into their den. Derek may have brought him into the fold, but Stiles knows it’ll take more than an alpha’s word to soothe the pack’s ruffled feathers—er, fur. Gaining respect in East End, however, has proven troublesome. No one is willing to bring him along for territory patrols because he’s such a liability. In fact, no one is willing to give him any responsibility at all because he’s such a liability. It totally sucks, though he supposes he can understand the reasoning. Still, he’ll need to integrate somehow. What better way is there to worm into someone’s heart than to help take care of their dog?

Abbott Mill has many dogs. Like, a stupid amount of dogs. Since werewolves have a natural affinity and influence over canines, they make excellent guardians of pack territory. The choice breeds are fairly predictable: German Shepherd, Rottweiler, Doberman Pinscher, Great Dane, Tosa… There’s even a breed that’s illegal in the country without a license, which is tucked in the back of Stiles’ pocket. Of all these large and powerful breeds, it is unsurprisingly the tiniest dog that poses the most problems—a goddamn Shih Tzu, the beloved pet of East End Pack’s biggest, burliest member. This dog was sent to Earth from the bowels of hell itself, born with a mission to personally drive Stiles to insanity. He thinks it’s some kind of Napoleon complex, really. Or maybe it’s the name. Boo-boo, the Shih Tzu in question, turns to look at him with black, beady eyes as if aware of his thoughts. Then the dog lifts a leg and pees on an old woman’s foot. All while staring at him.

You can find Stiles “walking” these dogs in any of London’s eastern boroughs. The dogs have as much respect for the human as their owners do, which is to say they’re yanking him along like he’s a flesh-and-blood toy slinky. If you’re a vampire, you may want to keep your distance. These hounds can easily tear their leashes out of Stiles’ hands if they catch a whiff of the undead.

( If you prefer brackets over prose, I’ll follow suit! PM me if you’d like to plot out a specific starter for your character! c: )

Comments

[mensrea]

The low baritone of that voice sparks a charge in the air. Stiles ceases his struggles almost as instantaneously as the werewolves hone in on Derek. Still held in place, he takes the moment to glance askance at their expressions. He’s unnerved by what he sees: singular intensity and regard conferred to a man whom Stiles has challenged adamantly. It’s a sharp reminder of just how powerful Derek’s position in the Underground is. If any of these men and women were aware of what he’s said to their alpha in the past…well, Derek may tolerate his idiotic audacity, but he knows the pack wouldn’t be so generous. Shame darkens his features, and he drops his gaze to the floor as he’s eventually released. The pack steps away from him. He thinks that he might prefer to be strangled as opposed to facing Derek, an uncomfortable impression of vulnerability creeping down his spine. Yet he forces himself to swallow that trepidation, turn around, and look up.

Stiles doesn’t flinch when their eyes meet, but it’s a near thing. Never has there been a point in time where Derek has stared at him like this, with the cold hostility and contempt of a stranger. It scalds him, and he doesn’t know what to do with the sudden, unbidden hurt except to bury it. The stark knowledge of how unwelcome he is here, of how blatantly he doesn’t belong—Stiles’ meager self-confidence erodes until it has been utterly extinguished. He feels so young, so stupid. Breath caught in his chest, choking him, he stares back at Derek helplessly. The alpha inspects him thoroughly, presumably incensed that Stiles would dare break into the mill wearing these clothes. A terrifying prospect occurs to him; what if Derek demands he strip immediately, return the shirt and jeans? Right in front of the pack, like some little bitch who deserved to be put in his place. He wants to trust that Derek isn’t so cruel, but he can’t reconcile the man he knows with the alpha of East End.

“Do you really think you have a place here?”

When he’s finally addressed, Stiles finds that he has nothing to say. Melancholic insecurity seizes him, squeezing vocal chords shut tightly around the heart lodged in his throat. What is he doing? Why did he come? Does he seriously believe he’ll be forgiven, be accepted? “You’re pushing me, Stiles!” the Sheriff had screamed during one of their last arguments, back in that outdated kitchen. “You’re really pushing me!”

Eerily quiet, Stiles goes as he is directed and enters the elevator car. The four walls are too crowded, igniting a shiver of hysteria in him that he savagely stomps out. His inhaler has been abandoned, left behind with the vigilant pack. He doesn’t ask for it back, doesn’t dare to open his mouth. Rebuked severely by his own conscience and anxiety, Stiles remains desperately silent.

[viduation]

Behind them, the doors slide shut, rickety and worn as so much of the place is. Derek hasn't minded that; slowly, he has been learning this place as home - at least, as close to such a thing as he can surely ever come. London is a far cry from Beacon Hills, and when Laura had been killed he'd been struck with a flight response, but - thankfully, he was given responsibility, and thankfully, that kept him here, grounded, stronger. At least, he's hoped as much. Over and over again, Stiles' words have rang in his head, until they feel imprinted on him like a motto. Even now, they hang in the air between them. Heavy. Stifling. Derek wonders, again, why he's driven to do this, to lead Stiles deeper into his sanctum, to hear him out on whatever offer or suggestion he might have. His bitterness is severed by the change in the air, the desperate sense of something that rolls off Stiles. Glancing sidewards at him, Derek breathes in, knows he is terrified.

His brow furrows. On their first meeting, their second, he'd only been too happy to evoke terror in the human, a fool's hope he'd held of protecting him. Now, he's forced to wonder. An unmistakeable urge to reassure flourishes in Derek's ribs, but he does not yield to it, too angry and intent on maintaining his control to show a suggestion of softness. At his sides, his fingers flex, but do not reach.

It's for the best, anyway - he's never been great at support.

It isn't a long trip, but it feels like it. Stuck in the little room with the scent of panic roiling around him, sweat cooling on his skin, time becomes something thick and slow, syrupy. Derek balls his hands into fists and endeavours to wait it out, fixing his eyes on the shifting floors. Awkward is a mild term for the atmosphere, confining and uncomfortable as it is. Derek tells himself it's on his terms. He's controlling it. It's fine.

Eventually - a relief, honestly - the doors creak open again, and Derek steps out. The space is not as big as the ground floor, but is nevertheless wide and open. There's a wide wooden table. A few chairs. A few doors. A leather jacket hanging by the lift. Aside from that, nothing fills the room but light.

Derek thinks this suits him better.

He strides forward, and only when he's reinstated comfortable distance between them does he turn, does he acknowledge Stiles' presence outwardly. The quiet that lingers in the wake of his movement is, this time, not for effect - he's just at a loss. It contorts his expression for a breath, a blink, and then he tosses Stiles his backpack.

"So, what? You're returning them?" He nods at Stiles' ill-fitting attire. At any other time, it might be amusing, but right now he just itches with the desire to get this over with.

[mensrea]

Oppressive, heavy silences such as this are a novelty for him. Generally, he opts to fill them with humor or chatter. But even Stiles understands that there’s a time and a place—this is neither. By his sides, both hands spasm incessantly. The slack and careless body language he is so infamous for has been substituted with a wooden tension stiffening every limb. He fixes brown eyes on the elevator doors, on their watery reflections, and waits. When they arrive at the top floor, Stiles has managed to subvert an untimely panic attack and yet remains shaken, unfocused.

The loft is scanned briefly, performed on a perfunctory reflex; he doesn’t register anything that he’s looking at, forgets each detail instantly. Apprehension is rewiring his cognizance harshly, likely impacting his ADHD. As soon as the backpack is returned to him, he digs through it for medication. Adderall might only worsen the effects, sharpen this vague, blurry panic into a fine and obsessive edge. Stiles dry swallows the pills anyway, fingers trembling.

"What?" he asks in confusion, voice cracking. Once he realizes what Derek’s referring to, he shakes his head vehemently. "No. Wait, no, I mean—y-yeah, I’ll give them back. But that’s not why I came."

Belatedly, it dawns on him that he’s addressing the floorboards. Stiles wets his lips, a nervous gesture, and then warily glances up at Derek. That stormy expression has his eyes skittering away almost immediately.

"I just… I wanted to tell you…"

This went so much more easily in his head, hours and hours ago—back when Derek was just Derek to him, a guy with no humor and terrible communication skills and a really sweet camaro. The fact that Derek was alpha of East End Pack had been an abstract, indefinite detail. Stiles had accepted it at face value without ever really believing it, until today. And while he’s hardly the type to offer respect to authority simply because it’s demanded, the situation is different. Derek is different.

"I’m sorry." The words are small, tired. "About what I said. I’m sorry. It was shitty and I was out of line. You… You didn’t deserve that. So I’m sorry."

But it doesn't feel like enough.

[viduation]

Were it not for such boons as a heightened sense of smell, Derek might doubt the human standing before him. It is difficult, to say the least, to equate this ragged, rigid figure - rabbit in headlights, deer before wolf - with the ever-moving, insufferably restless Stiles that he knows. Almost, Derek leaps to a conclusion he's been driven to once before: a curse, a hoax. But Stiles is Stiles, and something - many things - are wrong, and Derek feels his own unease crawl up his back, scratch at his shoulders like the thickets of the preserve did when he was young. It is concern that has his eyes narrow, his eyebrows drawing down further. Somehow, he feels remiss. Responsible. The claim that he has staked in Stiles, by his birthplace and his background, have left him with a defensiveness that does not just seek to protect himself. He looks at Stiles, tries not to question, tries not to wonder - and does, anyway.

He's never been good at that.

Stiles gulps down pills, and Derek tenses. Water, he thinks. Water, and has Stiles eaten, and is that necessary? He voices none of these things, acts on none of his impulses but those which armour him in distance. You're not making sense, he almost barks at him, largely from his own impatience - but he doesn't voice that either. Instead, with a long, slow breath - the type that is usually to steady - he allows some measure of his anger to seep away. He doesn't doubt that Stiles is here to ask for something, to needle at something else, but the kid is so damn spooked that even Derek finds himself drawing back. He waits. This time, it's less about effect, and more about patience.

If nothing else, Stiles has balls. He'll hear him out, even if only to throw him out on his ass - so Derek tells himself, as the worry settles deeper and deeper in his skin, a twisting knife.

When the apology comes, it is met at first with absolutely nothing. Derek's expression and manner remain unchanged. He's waiting for a laugh. He's waiting for Stiles to try something, even if he doesn't know what. He's girding himself for another twist, and when it doesn't come - when it doesn't come it knocks Derek for six. Eyebrows shooting upwards, he stares at Stiles with an almost comical expression of shock.

He's lying. He has to be. This is the lead up to a wheedling suggestion or request. The words I'm sorry are like a foreign language to Derek, difficult to get his head around, difficult to accept. The only explanation is some ulterior motive, he tells himself, over and over, but there is nothing - nothing - in Stiles' that suggests a lie or any kind of deception. His heart still races, but it's the same staccato that it's been since he came in.

Derek is tempted to throw him out, just to avoid the whole goddamn headache. He doesn't. Instead, he watches Stiles with a guarded look painted clearly on his face.

"You came here... To tell me that?"

[mensrea]

Jaw tense, Stiles fixes the far wall with a blind, glassy stare. The sheer incredulity Derek challenges his intentions with only serves to further agitate already frayed nerves. Affected by stress and insecurity, it seems to him that the werewolf’s tone is one of accusation. Like it is beyond Derek’s comprehension that Stiles would waste his time with paltry apologies. This man is the alpha of the most powerful pack in London. He probably had expected a message from the fae regarding the state of their unofficial alliance. Instead, he’s saddled with teenage melodrama from a human who thinks that anything he said mattered. That anything he will say matters.

"Yeah," he mutters, fingers clenching convulsively around the backpack. "Where’s your bathroom? I’ll change, give you your clothes back, and then get out of your hair."

There’s a part of him that reasons he’s done all he can, that he can depart from London now without any regrets where Derek Hale is concerned. Whether or not the werewolf accepts his apology is beside the point. Stiles swallowed his pride. He did the right thing. The Sheriff would be proud, he thinks. Time to cut losses and escape from this hellhole.

Except it’s never so easy. In spite of himself, Stiles has grown to…well, he’s not sure. Like is too strong a word and tolerate is better suited for people like Sasuke. Maybe—maybe he’s grown to appreciate Derek. Countless arguments spanning spring and summer, yet they worked well together. For all his threats, the werewolf has shown time and again that he was invested in keeping Stiles safe. The clothes on his back are proof of that. And Stiles ruined that tenuous friendship with a few cruel words, designed specifically to wound. The truth is…as much as Stiles had wanted to show Derek that he had a place in this world, that he could be useful…so too does he want to make amends properly with the man.

What can he say? Stiles is selfish. He doesn’t pretend otherwise.

[viduation]

It's not the first time that Derek hears something in Stiles' tone, sees something in his demeanor, that makes him suspect he's been misunderstood. By now it's reflexive, almost expected, the way it is with just about everyone these days. The sediment of recognition sinks, settles, and Derek's eyes cast wildly up and down Stiles' form as if somewhere in the worn, weary lines of him he'll find a response that works.

Naturally, there's nothing. Although he is still waiting - largely due to stubbornness and hard-learned experience - for the kickback, the question, the realization that it will not be coming makes itself more and more apparent, no longer a slow, hesitant possibility but a rushing avalanche, unavoidable. Derek feels his shoulders run tight with his urge to turn away. Right now, his expression is too telling, his stance too deceitful of emotion - but turning around won't fix that, and while Derek tells himself he owes Stiles nothing, he has to acknowledge that it's not strictly true. Pressing his lips into a thin line, Derek wonders how in the hell he's meant to respond to this.

Thankfully, Stiles has given him an out. He does turn now, though it's with a short, beckoning wave of his hand, a silent order to follow. The tattoo on his back is a stark black brand on his skin. Bare footed, he pads up the staircase. The old metal is sturdy and without rust, but creaks underfoot all the same.

It's a space equally sparse as the first. There's a wardrobe, a bed beneath the tall window, another door - the only thing marring the minimalism is a bookshelf, almost full.

Derek jerks his head towards the door. It's easier than speaking.

[mensrea]

The sudden movement forces him to finally refocus his eyes. Blinking owlishly, he looks up to watch as Derek walks away. Brown eyes hone in on the tattoo, the symbol dark and harsh against even the man’s relatively tan skin tone. He wets his lips, studying it intently as muscle ripples beneath it. From what he understands on werewolf healing abilities, that tattoo shouldn’t be possible. Fascinated, Stiles commits the simple lines to memory. The sight of the symbol has piqued his curiosity, though he knows he’s lost the right to interrogate Derek about anything right now.

Stiles gazes in the direction the man is walking, spots the spiral staircase, and then hesitates. Unease wrinkles his forehead. All the closed doors on this level, and he’s to believe that none of them lead to a guest bathroom? Temptation to strip right where he stands very nearly wins him over. He can employ the clumsy, albeit impressive tactics he learned in boys’ locker rooms to avoid showing more skin than necessary. Take off the shirt without removing his sweatshirt, sit down behind his backpack to remove the jeans. This way, at least, he doesn’t have to follow Derek, doesn’t have to travel deeper into the wolf den.

Bottom lip nursed between his teeth, Stiles moves. He trails after the other man gingerly, wincing as his sneakers squeak loudly on the metal steps. When he reaches the next level, he examines his new surroundings only long enough to realize this is Derek’s bedroom. His anxiety spikes yet again. It feels like an invasion of privacy. Like he’s intruding on the man’s personal life. Normally he wouldn’t be bothered by such social faux pas. But Derek has made it abundantly clear that he’s not welcome here.

Stiles skirts uncertainly around the werewolf to enter the only adjacent room. In the bathroom, he gives the space a cursory inspection before glancing back at Derek.

“Right. Uh, I’ll just—”

A pause, and then he slowly closes the door, as if half-expecting Derek to stop him.

[viduation]

And as the door closes, Derek watches, as if half-expecting to stop him himself. No protest comes, however - just before Stiles' watchful, tired eyes disappear behind the door, Derek turns away again. For a moment, in the not-quite-silence that follows, he stands and does nothing, merely curls his hands in a small show of fidgeting. His shoulders roll, the shrug tight with uncertainty. He glances back at the door. It remains closed, and provides him nothing. From behind it, he can hear Stiles shuffling around.

Sucking down air, and giving a decisive nod towards nothing in particular, Derek heads back downstairs. With Stiles' presence now out of sight, even his own sprawling loft feels claustrophobic. The words I'm sorry stick in his head just as insidiously as Stiles' accusations had in the first place - but Derek feels even less capable of handling this. Anger, viciousness; these are things he knows intimately well. By comparison, an apology might as well be kid gloves. Despite his reflexive desire to be away from people, away from everyone right now, he knows that going down to see his pack will do him good. At least make him feel like he can clear his head. And besides, he doesn't doubt that they're still milling around, curious about what happened.

It's heartening, he thinks, but when the elevator opens on the ground floor and he sees that, yeah, most of them are still around - some even attempting to look nonchalant - he doesn't say as much. Instead, he keeps it simple, swift. Stiles isn't a threat, had told them the truth. It crosses his mind to say that in future, he's allowed entry, but in the end he keeps it to himself because right now he just doesn't know.

And, when the inhaler is presented to him, he gives them a chewing out for being stupid - they're not animals, they can recognise basic medical equipment. God.

It's a welcome, but largely ineffectual distraction. Even if the subject was not Stiles, Derek finds his mind returns to the human repeatedly, up all those floors and changing in his bathroom. He apologized, and Derek is getting annoyed that he keeps denying expectation. In the elevator ride back up to his floor, he huffs to the empty space and glowers at his murky reflection in the old metal wall. It's exasperating how often he's having to wonder what to do with Stiles Stilinski, especially when he never just takes the easy option.

In the moments before the doors shift open, Derek seriously considers just hitting the down button in order to stall for time. But the idea is distasteful in its cowardice, and this is his own damn apartment, and Stiles had apologized and Derek is left feeling stupid about it.

Inhaler in hand, he heads back upstairs, and this time he goes quietly.

[mensrea]

Click. The door is shut without interference, and yet Stiles lingers there. Long, pale fingers splay flat across the frame, a flimsy blockade against a werewolf. Only once his head stops swimming drunkenly does he back away, bag held before him like a shield. But it seems that Derek is content to leave him to his own devices. Exhaling wearily, Stiles drops the bag and then leans heavily against the vanity. The Adderall is beginning to kick in, signaled by a wave of drowsiness he rarely experiences when taking medication; he probably shouldn’t have skipped lunch. He glances up at the haggard young man in the mirror and grimaces, hurriedly dropping his gaze to the sink.

While Stiles may be an anxious individual by nature, this evening has been an extreme example. It has to be due to fatigue and guilt, he decides, knuckles white where he clutches the edge of smooth marble. Nothing a good night’s sleep can’t fix, or a month’s worth. With a shaky sigh, he rakes a hand through his disheveled hair before turning on the faucet. The cold water helps wake him up a bit, helps ground him in the present. It occurs to him that he should have taken off the borrowed t-shirt before splashing water on his face, but he figures this is the least of his crimes against Derek Hale.

He strips, pulling on a spare outfit he packed in the bag. This, more than anything, comforts him; tugging his own shirt up, he breathes in the scent of Beacon Hills, of his dad and of Scott. Just a few more days, then he’ll be home. The reassurance rings hollow, for reasons he refuses to examine too closely right now, so he occupies himself with needlessly folding Derek’s jeans. He’s stalling and the knowledge of that rankles.

“C’mon, Stilinski,” he hisses at himself, shouldering the backpack. “Get a goddamn grip.”

There’s no one in the bedroom. Unsure, Stiles hovers in the threshold as if unwilling to enter the space again without permission. Where the hell did Derek go? The clothes are dumped carelessly on the foot of the bed in a bout of aggravation. Not even ten seconds later and he’s refolding them, grumbling under his breath. Be the bigger person. What does it matter if Derek didn’t wait? Stiles said his piece. Figuratively (and literally, on second thought) washed his hands. Okay, maybe it stings that the guy has so little regard for Stiles that he couldn’t be bothered to stick around. That’s life. Time to move on.

Except he doesn’t. Impossibly curious despite the circumstances, the teen makes a slow and thorough circuit of the bereft room. If the bed wasn’t obviously broken in, he might suspect Derek never even uses this level of the loft. Stiles rubs at his chest, an absent and unthinking gesture. He can’t help but think that the empty and naked space isn’t actually a minimalist style. No, this…this is a reflection of Derek’s own emotional state—reminding Stiles why he’s here, what he said to the werewolf, how much the man has lost. I’m sorry. It really isn’t enough.

When Derek returns, his arrival goes unnoticed. Standing in front of the book case, Stiles holds Heart of Darkness in one hand and a piece of jewelry in the other, which he has raised to the light.

[viduation]

It isn't surprising, really, to find Stiles rooting around what little effects he has on show. Derek would be angry, but he finds himself reassured by the sight of Stiles studying his things - he may not have seen him in a position like this before, but he knows him well enough by now to know that he's prying, observant, nosy, and if he's honest with himself it's heartening to see Stiles acting like Stiles, rather than some muted imprint, paper thin and paper white. The silence stretches on as Derek stands, unwitting and unthinking in his watchfulness. He's hesitant to break the stillness, largely thanks to his own cowardice. Even if Stiles isn't at ease right now, the quiet is so much less tense.

But, it can't last - Derek can't allow it to. He has Stiles' inhaler, and Stiles is looking at his stuff, and besides, he's not going to be kept out of his own room by fear of conversation. The huff of breath may be enough to announce his presence. It may not. Either way, Derek doesn't care to go unnoticed any longer.

"That was my mother's. Moonlight jewellery only works for one werewolf."

There's a softness in his voice, a lowness, that speaks of hesitance, of something tentative. Derek isn't sure why he says this; Stiles doesn't need to know and therefore, why bother? Maybe it's to assuage some of his own guilt, some of the sense that he now owes Stiles in response to his apology. Derek still can't determine how to respond to that, but this - this is easier, at least. Something to focus on, to work with. As he crests the stairs, he does not stop walking, does not maintain the carefully measured distance of before. Instead, he walks towards the human, his expression still and searching.

When he's within reach, he draws to a halt, awkwardness settling in his limbs as though his skin doesn't quite fit. He feels, almost, like a gangling teenager again, all uncertainty and restless nerves. Truth be told, Derek isn't sure how far he's come from that stage of his life, but the breadth of responsibility is greater now. Even where Stiles is concerned. Do something, he tells himself.

Slowly, like he's remembering how to move, waking from sleep, he holds out the inhaler. A peace offering, maybe. He does not look up.