undergrounds | Game Opening: May Ball

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Game Opening: May Ball

LET'S GET THIS PARTY STARTED.

It had to be done.

Welcome all to the Redbright Institute's May Ball! This evening is a celebration of the Institute's achievements over the past year. Students aged 16 and above can attend on their own, while younger students must be accompanied by a parent or guardian. Meanwhile, friends and guests of the Institute are invited as a gesture of friendship and harmony between the various factions.

Rules and etiquette
• This is a black tie event. Formal attire is required.
• No weapons. This is a school, there are children present. Any weapons or objects that could be used as weapons will be confiscated.
• No drugs or alcohol. Obviously. Don't try to sneak any in.
• No violence.

There is security within the school and present at the event. (In fact, if your character is a member of the Redbright Institute, you could have them acting as security if you want.) They will respond to and put a stop to any trouble.

Places to go
The main action takes place in the large Assembly Hall. This is where the Chancellor Sylvia Redbright will give her address. It's also where you can party later on. The disco is family-friendly – not exactly a rave, but the kids will love it.

Drinks and snacks are available in the dining hall. The drinks are non-alcoholic. Vampires, no need to worry about your cravings: blood cocktails are provided! They're given in good faith on the assumption that you won't be snacking on anyone else tonight.

Just off the dining hall, one of the classrooms has been converted into a chill-out area. The lights are off, the desks and chairs have been replaced by beanbags and there's a table in the corner with a chocolate fountain, marshmallows and strawberries. A video of young witches taking part in various night-time rituals (they mostly seem to involve chanting and bonfires) plays silently on the screen.

One of the lecture theatres has been opened up to showcase students' work from the past year. On the screen you can watch a slideshow of notable events and achievements. Strangely enough there aren't many people in this room.

Outside, there is a giant chessboard on the lawn. The pieces are made of plastic and can easily be moved around. Why, you ask? Why not, is the answer.

Finally, a large marquee has been set up in the quad. This is the adults-only area, with wine and cocktails served at the bar, nibbles available at a few high tables dotted around and a sophisticated atmosphere. No children under 18 allowed. (Note that the legal drinking age is 18.)

Timeline of events
20:00 – Doors open.
20:57 – Sunset.
21:15 – Sylvia Redbright makes her address in the Assembly Hall.
22:00 – Disco in the Assembly Hall. The DJ has atrocious taste.
01:00 – Disco stops. The event officially ends.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ he can admire the fact that there's something steely and hard in Stiles' eyes, rather than something meek and dismissive. although he can smell the fear on him, although he has him effortlessly pinned, Stiles maintains an angry determination that's impressive.

it's also really goddamn annoying, and Derek is far more focused on the latter than he is on anything else. Stiles isn't taking any of this seriously enough, isn't taking him seriously enough, and Derek should care little about one kid's stupidity and maybe that's the most riling thing about it, that he isn't pack --

god he's irritating. Derek's expression, previously all aggression and warning, is now a far more petulant sort of scowl as he's forced to keep Stiles up. it's not difficult, but it's presumptive, and Derek knows it's being done solely to piss him off and Stiles still isn't taking any of this seriously enough.

he shakes him once, roughly, for good measure, but it's more reproach and less violence. ]

So what happened to you then? See one too many glasses full of blood?

[ or is it just that he can't even handle drinking? the scorn is unreasonable, but Derek is scraping together what he can get. ]

Learned enough to stay out? [ if Stiles is so scared, he thinks he should have. fear should keep him alive. ]

[ Teeth rattling noisily in his skull, he abandons all previous intentions of forcing Derek to support him in order to clutch desperately at the man’s forearms and get him to quit shaking Stiles. Pushed up against the school building like this, every movement scrapes the back of his head on the raised, grainy texture of the wall. Definitely not pleasant. He nips at Derek’s skin with his nails just to reinforce how little he appreciates the rough treatment. ]

Blood?

[ Wow, it literally had not occurred to him before this moment that those glasses were not filled with wine. Neither he nor his father have ever had much use for alcohol that wasn’t the hard stuff, so he simply took it for granted that’s what red wine must look like. Blanching, he focuses his gaze on the bar in the distance and tries not to feel queasy. Unfortunately, between the werewolf boxing him in and his previous intoxication, his stomach is anything but settled. ]

Okay, blood or not, I’m here.

[ And as he speaks, he regains a measure of confidence; it steels his words, hardens his tone. ]

You need to learn that I’m staying. I already told you—this? This is my world too. I…I have as much a right to be here as you do! So back off.

[ Stiles punctuates the emphasis with a shove. ]

[ as dawning starts to pale Stiles' face, something like triumph curls Derek's mouth. it is not an expression that reaches his eyes or brings any warmth - rather, he looks grim and set, like the only value in this is that it should make a point, his point, all the more difficult to ignore. he does not release him yet, but in the wake of Stiles' realization he keeps him steady, holds him still.

even if Stiles keeps talking and Derek wants, badly, to shake him again.

a sneer quirks in his scowl, the what is it to me going unsaid. Derek believes in that flippancy, that disregard, even if his own actions are doing everything to say otherwise, even if it speaks of a disconnect that Derek won't acknowledge. he's wholly willing to blame his intent on Stiles' own stupidity, to ignore the memory of his mother speaking of guardianship, of duty.

he lets go of him. while the shove has done nothing, either to make him move or to encourage him to drop Stiles, it does show a certain amount of courage that Derek both admires and dislikes. slowly, pointedly, he looks down to his chest, where Stiles' hands had been, and then back up to his face. his eyebrows raise, questioning, really? - and then lower. ]

Right? This isn't about right, Stiles! None of this is. Do you really think you have a place here? Do you want a place here?

[ riled, he rolls his shoulders, willing his tension away through means that don't involve further physicality. ]

This is going to get you killed. Do you want that?

[ Newly released, Stiles finds his footing and then makes an attempt to edge around the werewolf. Escape is hardly his intent; the intense confrontation has grappled him, honestly. He would just prefer to reconstruct the personal boundaries that Derek never seems to respect. Who knows what it is about this guy and his need to corner people, but it begs a few well-deserved albeit cliché jokes. Stiles doesn’t voice any of them. When a cool, brisk breeze slides in to greet his sweat-damp back, he’s simply relieved that the man isn’t throttling him anymore. Until the moment shatters with the werewolf’s response. ]

Yes, Derek, [ he fires back, all mock patience as if speaking to a particularly idiotic child. ] I want to get killed. Sounds like a great time to me. I mean, what else could a teenage boy want? To protect the people he loves, maybe learn more about the situation that encompasses his life? Nah, let’s not be stupid. To die. Yep, it’s definitely a death wish. So, now that we’ve got that covered, wanna ask any other profound questions, hmm?

[ The sarcasm is to be expected, but the vitriol takes even Stiles aback. Faltering in the wake of his outburst, he plants both hands on his hips and glances away sullenly. Do you really think you have a place here? Even without the wall against his back, he’s still cornered. With a few careless words, Derek has drawn from the well of Stiles’ insecurities and drowned him. ]

It’s funny. [ It’s anything but. ] You seem to think that it’s more dangerous here than it is back home.

[ And when he finally returns his gaze to Derek, it’s with a wretched look that’s seen both too much and not enough in the past year. ]

[ Derek's eyes track him, as though watching for any attempt to bolt, but he does not attempt to stop him from moving. there's a certain amount of acceptance conveyed in this, in how he allows Stiles to find his own footing and his own space, but those are details that Derek himself is unlikely to consider. he simply holds his ground, and lets Stiles have his.

almost immediately, when Stiles replies, he regrets it - that patronizing tone makes him want to toss him back into the wall. his foot lifts to take a step towards him, to herd him back again, but this time he stops mid-step. his foot lowers. somewhere between what else could a teenage boy want and the unsaid accusation in the words encompasses his life, Derek stopped short. at first, he isn't even aware of it, just stands there dumbly with his hands at his sides, unable to figure out the turn his thoughts have taken before he's thinking about the nemeton and brassy curls and leaving practice to a stern-faced cop.

Stiles falters, and so too does Derek. unaware of how neatly he hit his mark, he stands engulfed in the flood of his own thought. his muscles flex, all pent up energy. he looks away and then, slowly, back to Stiles. his angry tirade has been bled out of him by the bitter nostalgia tightening his chest, and his attempts to scrape it back together are fruitless. pinned with that gaze, Derek finds himself uncomfortable. ]

It's dangerous enough.

No shit, dude. I don’t need you to tell me that. I only spent the past year helping my best friend through his shifts alone because there was no one else to tell us what the hell was happening! But I get it, okay? I get it. “Look at this kid,” you must be thinking. “A light breeze would probably take him out. He can’t handle this.” Well, screw you!

[ Pent-up frustration drives Stiles into pacing back and forth. A thousand mile stare has his eyes cloudy and distant, because his mind is far, far from the present moment. Derek may not be the true source of this anger, but he now serves to be the catalyst. Conflict bleeds the color from Stiles’ countenance, his lips white and thin. It doesn’t take long for the other partygoers to provide them with a wide berth. ]

What is this even to you, huh? I don’t get it. You don’t know me. So, is this some kind of pissing contest? Maybe a territory thing, because I smell like another werewolf? Do you get off on putting me down and telling me it’s “for my own good?” I don’t—

[ Stiles wants desperately to reiterate, if only to convince himself, that he belongs here. That his home is with this community. And yet he feels like he’s lost that claim. Over and over, he hears Derek’s incredulous demand ringing in his ears, shaking loose all the doubts that have festered for too long. The truth is…Scott is doing fine on his own now. He doesn’t need Stiles to help. Lydia probably hasn’t even noticed his absence, or cared. His father only sent him away to keep him from making a mess of things. A sharp surge of hysteric despair grips him, clawing at his throat, and he’s almost sick from it. At the last second, he whirls away from Derek—this time to escape—and slams right into a plastic chess piece. Together, they topple over onto the lawn. ]

[ Derek is not cowed by guilt as the knowledge that that's pretty much exactly what he'd been thinking - rather, he's still focusing on everything else that Stiles is saying. it is stupid, and unreasonable, and Stiles sure as hell isn't blaming him because why would he want his help for it, but hearing of a young werewolf stuck puzzling things out on his own, in Beacon Hills, feels like it's something to lay at his own feet, a failure of his own making, something to be held accountable for.

Stiles is not the only one now a world away. Derek stares off, eyes unfocused.

if nothing else, Stiles' continuing rant forces him back to the present, though it still seems quiet, muted like he's hearing him from another room. as though Stiles has grabbed hold of him, he is drawn once again to him. his eyes narrow, though the reaction is more belated than it ought to be. and, when Stiles spins on heel to leave, when Stiles suddenly tumbles forwards, Derek is for once too slow to stop it. hand closing on empty air, the quiet crumbles away. Stiles thumps onto the lawn.

Derek's still holding his hand out. flexing his fingers, he swiftly retracts it like he hadn't just failed to catch hold of him.

what is one werewolf across an ocean to him, anyway?

he looks down at Stiles, attention spiked not only from the sudden motion, but from the jerk of his heartbeat, loud in Derek's ears, the shift in his scent. his hand flexes, like he might pull him up. instead, it closes into a fist.

what is this even to him? he's not certain. ]

There's a lot more at work here.

[ his voice is quieter than it was before, lacks all his bared teeth and ready claws. ]

Edited 2015-06-06 02:26 (UTC)

[ Although mortifying and totally detrimental to his earlier point about being able to handle himself, the fall does have its uses. For one, it manages to yank Stiles out of the downward spiral of teenage angst and misery rather effectively. The view is nice, too. So he just stays there like that; supine on the lawn, partially draped over an oversized rook piece, staring up at the dark sky overhead. For a time, he can even pretend that Derek doesn’t exist. It’s almost peaceful.

When Derek speaks, Stiles nearly doesn’t hear him. The words are hardly whispered, but there’s still blood pounding in his ears from the tumble and he’s more accustomed to the werewolf snarling or yelling. Slowly, he picks up his head to find the man, frowning in his direction. It occurs to him that he still hasn’t gotten an answer about why Derek keeps picking on him, but he doesn’t push the issue yet. ]

Okay, sure. But what makes you think I’d be any better off by staying away?

[ Stiles pushes himself up onto his elbows now, absently kicking the rook out from under him. His ass hurts from where it was digging into his bony backside. ]

If someone doesn’t help, it’ll affect more than just— [ The supernatural, he wants to say. He doesn’t. Instead, for perhaps the first time, he actively excludes himself emotionally from the group. ] —than just you guys. I can help. Get that through your skull.

[ fraught with tension, Derek huffs a sigh. it does little to ease up his posture, or his expression, but he does avoid launching into another little rage. his storm feels too contained by Stiles' hands for his own liking, but where the kid can incent him so easily to fight fire with fire, his resentful kind of calm leaves its own impression. Derek looms over him, but it's less the threatening, oppressive thing it's usually been and more considering, more uncertain.

his frown, naturally, lingers.

there's a lot that comes to mind as a response. a lecture, for a start, on how staying can absolutely make him better off, make him safer. knowledge is power and power is dangerous when you can't handle it, can't handle the threat that inevitably comes with it. and, when his mind sticks on Stiles' determined I can help, Derek's first thought is how. but that doesn't make it to his mouth. none of it does. instead, he watches Stiles like he's simultaneously a pain in the ass and an absolute puzzle, and asks: ]

Why?

[ one friend, an ocean away - that doesn't seem like a reason to Derek. not when Stiles claims to know the danger. ]

[ Moonlight casts Derek’s near palpable shadow over him, and Stiles is momentarily struck wordless by the sight. This is an alpha werewolf, framed by the cold satellite that somehow manages to be more earthly than the actual human it has cursed. Throat bobbing, he does an unconscious but perceptible once-over of Derek before climbing unsteadily to his feet. They’re the same height, he notes, and yet it feels like he’s severely diminished in the man’s presence. Stiles doesn’t know how to change that, but he’s resolved to meet Derek head-to-head. ]

Nope. Why you.

[ The answer to Derek’s question is one that Stiles shies away from, even to himself. With a huff, he leans down to right the fallen rook piece. Why? Shouldn’t it be obvious why someone like Stiles would be so desperate to help where his help is not wanted? Expression dark, he returns the rook to its original starting point. And then does the same for the remaining pieces. He’s barley even aware of what he’s doing. ]

You owe me an answer, big guy. Why are you making my business yours, huh? C’mon, I know that cro-magnon look is just skin deep. Use your words.

[ Stiles is egging Derek on, trying to distract them both. Why. His hand lingers on a white pawn, fingers curling. Do you really think you have a place here. No, but he wants to. Somehow, he’ll prove his worth—to Lydia, to Scott, to his dad. He’s been warming the bench all his life, and he can’t continue on like that anymore. Stiles has to help. He has to. ]

[ - of all the petulant, childish, damned stupid responses -- Derek hears the why you and replies with a massive roll of his eyes, accompanied by a jerk of his shoulders that says he's done, he's had enough. but he doesn't move away. instead - eyes fixed on Stiles, tracking every absent-minded motion - he stays firmly rooted where he is, and if Stiles is barely aware of what he's doing, then Derek is barely aware of how he watches. he steadfastly ignores the question shot at him - at least, he ignores it up until Stiles continues to speak.

his mouth opens to snap at him, to state that he knows what he's doing, how he's avoiding the answer, but it doesn't come. instead, his teeth clamp down on the potential cruelty. his frown deepens. despite Stiles' opinion on the matter, Derek is - for the moment - quite sure in his belief that he owes him nothing; not after Greenwich, not after tonight. and yet, this comfort does not bring the dearth of obligation that he thought it would, that he thinks it ought to.

maybe that's because of how it makes him question himself.

the answer is not one that Derek needs to think about, but that's not as reassuring as it usually would be. as he stands there, Derek once again considers leaving, because there's no need for him to say anything, no right through which Stiles has won an answer. once again, however, he fails to put distance between them.

hand coming to land on the same white pawn, an inch from Stiles' own, he leans close to his ear. he's got a mole under it that Derek never noticed before.

Derek's voice lowers to a whisper, a breath. ]

If I hadn't, you could be dead already.

[ there it is: his non-answer. ]

Edited 2015-06-08 00:27 (UTC)

[ Breath hitching sharply in response to the close proximity, Stiles jerks away as if burned—first with his hand, then with his entire body. He nearly knocks over another piece in his clumsy scrambling: a knight. As every fine hair along the nape of his neck stands erect, he slides around the chessman to leverage it as a physical barrier between them. The skin around his ear feels overly sensitized now, still prickling from the warm exhalation that had fanned out over it. He’s so perturbed by the lingering sensation that he rubs the side of his head against his shoulder. ]

Th-that’s not…a threat, [ he remarks slowly, distracted and unsettled. The observation seems to surprise him. ] But the weird way you worded it… Wow, you’re really terrible at this, aren’t you?

[ And that’s the exact moment he realizes the truth of it; Derek is awful at verbal articulation of his intentions. Thoughtful, Stiles replays past conversations with this new insight in mind. While it in no way excuses the guy’s barbaric behavior, it at least reassures Stiles to know Derek isn’t trying to actively hurt him; just the opposite, in a backward kind of way. ]

I can’t believe— Like, you seriously think that constituted “using your words?” Can we stop to appreciate how much you could have avoided by simply being clearer in your explanations? Oh my god.

[ Overwhelmed with exasperation (and irritation, honestly), he leans on the knight piece heavily and shakes his head. ]

How are you even the alpha? That has got to be asking for seriously ugly diplomatic incidents.

[ his initial sense of victory is tragically short-lived. the way that Stiles is reeling one moment, careful and sharp the next, is impressive, would be admirable if Derek was not finding himself on the receiving end of a too-piercing gaze and too-knowing voice. even from Stiles' tone alone, Derek can feel his hackles rising, can feel uncertainty roiling through him all over again. nostrils flaring on a deep breath, he stares at him, absolutely incredulous - until the words start to sink in.

all over again, he's frowning, brow furrowing into a tight knot. defensiveness makes his shoulders draw close. he can't argue that yes, he's absolutely, entirely terrible at this - but the fact remains that he isn't sure what the this in question really is, not with Stiles. his questions have a way of throwing him off. it'd be skillful, but Stiles isn't artful, and that only makes it more bewildering.

he feels as though Stiles can see through him, can piece him together, and it's unnerving in a way that little else can be. drawing back from him, violence pulls his arms tense, has him clamping his jaw down on a sound more wolf than man.

his mouth opens to snap at him, to tell him in no uncertain terms that he doesn't have to use his words around him, that there's no need for him to grant Stiles anything, that he doesn't need to explain. it never comes. he hears how are you even the alpha, and suddenly his open mouth isn't angered but dismayed. he gapes at Stiles with an open, wounded look, looking past him and seeing his alpha lying broken, his sister in pieces.

his sentencing feels all the more absurd when Stiles questions it, all the more difficult to ignore the churning uncertainty that's gripped him since their deaths. where he longs for the comfort of his fury, he instead finds that his anger has burnt out. dragging his eyes off Stiles, he shakes his head, feeling like - or maybe wishing for the alternative - that he's just come out of a bloody fight. ]

Do what you want. [ turning abruptly on heel, he starts to stride away from him. ]

[ In an unexpected turn of events, their roles have been reversed and it is now Derek trying to flee the conversation. Stiles watches with a sharp scrutiny that is predatory in its own way; he’s struck a nerve, and files away information on this weak point for potential future use. Perhaps it shouldn’t come as a surprise to find that Derek fosters insecurities about his position as alpha—but up until recently, Derek Hale was merely the name associated with a local tragedy, a creature lurking in the night more monster than man. The fact of the matter is: Stiles hasn’t really had reason to consider Derek as an actual human being. Now that he’s been given a glimpse of the man’s humanity however, he wants to press, he wants to push. More than anything, he wants to understand. ]

Derek!

[ Stepping around the knight, he stands between two pawns and then has an idea. ]

You know how to play?

[ Unless Derek turns around, he’ll miss the wide gesture indicating the chess board. ]

[ what can you possibly want is what first floods his mind when he hears Stiles call his name. however, despite his own dismissal, the sound of Stiles shouting after him has him stopping short, foot coming down mid-step. now rooted where he is, he attempts to sift through possibilities of what might come next, what pointed, needling question might follow him, might spur him again to walking.

it's a train of thought cut when Stiles' question does come, but it's far enough from what he expected that, at first, he forgets the chess board behind him and has no idea what Stiles is talking about. he stares dumbly, first straight ahead, and then turning to Stiles.

his frown is suspicious, which is a subtle change from frustrated. ]

Why? [ it's an unnecessary question, though. Derek stands there, and knows why Stiles is leading him to a challenge. it's about learning the same way that all of his nosy, prying questions are.

Derek doesn't want to hang around here, but he still doesn't move to leave again. ]

[ The rush of sly satisfaction he feels when Derek actually halts is dizzying. There’s a dangerously addictive sense of power that stems from this, he recognizes—identifying correctly just how to manipulate someone. And though he may lack a nefarious purpose, he fully intends to take advantage of the pattern he’s observed in how Derek interacts with others. Stiles thinks that maybe he isn’t the only one here desperate to prove something. ]

Holy crap, are you capable of ever answering a question? No, wait!

[ Definitely not the time to run his mouth. Struggling to swallow down a handful of dry, quippy digs that he’s sure Derek won’t appreciate, he approaches the opposite side of the board where the werewolf stands. Even bolstered by his recent insight, he gives the other man a wide berth. ]

How about a deal, okay? You play me and, if you win, I’ll go cold turkey—no more sticking my nose into all this stuff.

[ There’s no telltale blip in his heartbeat. He’s not quite lying, after all; should Derek win, Stiles will undoubtedly be too busy sulking to dive right back into the heart of the Underground. But once he’s through licking his wounds, all bets are off. ]

Sound good?

[ Expression innocent, he eyes Derek tentatively. He doesn’t believe that the werewolf will simply walk away, at least not before being provided Stiles’ terms of the bargain…which Stiles has strategically withheld. Had he laid it all out on the table, he suspects Derek may have said something cliché and tedious like, “No deal.” This way, while hardly foolproof, the other man is drawn back into the conversation whether he wants to be or not. C’mon, Stiles wills him, palms damp. Ask me. ]

[ naturally, as soon as Stiles opens his mouth again, Derek lifts his foot to keep walking. and, once again, he's halts when instructed. as that realization dawns on him, he bares his teeth at the empty space in front of him. he'd be wholly resolved to leaving now, just to spite him. he would be. but Stiles has made him curious, and he's never been good at ignoring challenges.

looking back over his shoulder, he watches Stiles move, approaching but never coming close, like Derek is a particularly dangerous beast. he's not sure if that appeases him or not. reluctantly, he turns back to face him. his arms fold, resolute in stance if not in mind. however, in spite of his prickling frustration, he smiles. it's small, sharp, perhaps suggestive, dangerous in a vague, distant way.

those sound like good terms. but even without a sign of lying, Derek thinks they're too good. ]

I don't believe you, [ he says, a flat kind of earnestness in his voice, just coloured by thin humour. compared to mere moments ago, he sounds composed. considering. he is interested, even if he thinks, however honest Stiles might be in his word, that he won't be able to uphold his end of the deal for more than a day.

his head tilts. Stiles' stupidity is, he's coming to understand, far lesser than he thought. that's irritating. it's also interesting. the idea of playing into his hand has him seething, but the anger feels distant.

knowingly, Derek takes the bait. ]

And what about if you win?

[ Hook, line, and sinker. Too easy. Stiles should be immeasurably pleased that he continues to pique Derek’s narrow interest. ]

Hold up. You don’t believe me? What’s that supposed to mean!?

[ Except he’s not. As far as villainous masterminds go, Stiles could probably use a few pointers about staying on task. Admittedly, this could be considered part of his quirky charm as well; he’s genuinely defensive about a suggestion against his character that he knows to be accurate. ]

What, you don’t think I could manage it? Is that it?

[ Stiles realizes belatedly that he’s marched right up into Derek’s personal space. Uncertainty flickers over his countenance before indignation resumes rein over his irrationalities. His arms are folded over his chest, a mirror to Derek’s body language. ]

I could totally do it. I’d go cold turkey and never look back. [ If he had been hooked up to one, a lie detector would go off the charts at this point. ] Okay, okay. There would be some sneaky backwards glances. Could you blame me? I’m only human, dude!

[ the easy distraction is something that Derek finds simultaneously irritating and placating; right now, struggling for purchase, even throwing Stiles off his point feels like a minor victory. as Stiles strides up to him, his chin tips up, eyes glinting in challenge. in a far cry from his previous, tightly-wound anger, Derek snorts a laugh. the sound is clipped, but the amusement is genuine. ]

That's exactly what it means, Stiles. [ closeness has him lowering his voice again. he looks at Stiles, still suitably riled by the whole stupid situation, because believe him, he'd much prefer Stiles to keep his nose out of things - he's simply aware that that's not an option anymore. ] There'd be backward glances for a day, and then you'd pick up where you left off.

[ he pushes a step forward. ]

You didn't answer the question.

Hellooo pot, allow me to introduce you to your long-lost cousin, kettle.

[ Creases emerge along the material of the tuxedo, betraying the tension that stiffens his body at the approach. This time, he holds his ground. ]

If I win…you fill in the gaps for me about werewolves.

[ Considering what he could have requested, these terms may come as unexpected. There’s a solemnity to his frown now though, like this is highly important to him. Over a year has passed since Scott was bitten, and yet they still lack all the pieces to the larger puzzle, there’s still so much that they simply don’t know. If he could arm Scott with that knowledge…maybe find out if there’s a cure… ]

Well?

[ that leads to Derek treating Stiles to a particularly theatrical roll of his eyes, but Stiles holds his ground and Derek doesn't push further. drawing to a stop again, he waits for Stiles to speak.

when he does, a moment passes wherein it does feel unexpected. Derek's on the cusp of asking why when he realizes that he already knows. even without their first conversation, the gravity of it is written into Stiles' face.

Stiles isn't asking because he's nosy (though he is) or to be irritating (though he is). Stiles is asking because, across an ocean, his best friend is still struggling with his newfound gift. while time has passed and the friend is still alive and that bodes well, Derek finds that he understands. he gets it.

after a brief silence, which has Derek's smirk sliding away to something graver, he nods. the game has suddenly become worthwhile. ]

Alright.

…Seriously?

[ Brought up short by Derek’s apparent willingness to humor him, he balks at the werewolf. After a moment, his eyes narrow. ]

You’ll do it? Promise me.

[ Stiles doesn’t know Derek well enough to not cover his bases here; it doesn’t make sense to him that the man would agree to these terms while aware Stiles wouldn’t hold up his side of the bargain. ]

[ huffing at Stiles' doubt, he resumes scowling at him. ]

It's a deal.

[ I promise sounds too gentle, too soft in his head, so he assumes Stiles will settle when he manages to bite down the reflexive I said yes, didn't I? as he walks back to the chessboard, he brushes past him, speaking over his shoulder. ]

Black or white?

White, [ comes the immediate answer, unabashed in claiming the advantage. ] Black suits you more anyway, big guy.

[ Refusing to take his gaze off Derek lest the man vanish into the night, he slowly walks backwards to his side of the board. There’s no way he’ll squander this opportunity. As an alpha, Derek must have some useful information to provide. If Stiles were an honorable sort, he would encourage his opponent to redefine the deal’s terms in the chance Derek wins. He doesn’t; not only does he highly doubt that outcome, but he’s also fine with the bargain being totally lopsided. ]

Hope you're not a sore loser.

[ Stiles moves a pawn forward. ]

[ the corner of his mouth quirks, but the levity doesn't last longer than a breath. Stiles' response only makes it more apparent that he's a conniving little shit. Derek thinks he'd prefer it if he was really just an idiot.

still, he's less dour than he was - the irritation in his expression has ebbed, replaced with a serious, thoughtful look. it's been a long time since he really played, and Stiles seems to currently possess a rare confidence that suggests the odds might be stacked against him.

although his eyes flick up to Stiles in annoyance at the remark, he's quick to resume watching the board, even when the pieces are all in place.

make your move, Stilinski. ]

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