helenish:

[one] [two] [three] [four] [five]

After the first day or two, Derek will admit to no discomfort, and does not reduce his schedule of obligations nor retire early. Stiles typically rises before dawn to work and doesn’t bother to eat until luncheon, but after the festival, he finds himself opening the door of the morning room where breakfast is laid every day for the family and high counsel, and had been roundly ignored until Derek arrived.

Derek is alone, seated at the end of the long table, the sun streaming through the long windows, dappling his dark hair. He’s wearing the sling still, his jacket unbuttoned over his shoulder, but managing eggs and toast nimbly with one hand. The room is long and narrow, the carpet very thick, and Derek blinks when Stiles rounds the corner of the table and pulls out a chair, his fork hanging in the air.

“May I?” Stiles says.

“Of course,” Derek says, putting his bite of eggs in his mouth, and Stiles sits down and reaches for the teapot.

“It’s—“ Derek begins

“You needn’t—“ Stiles says, at the same time, and breaks off. “Sorry, you were saying?”

“No, I—what were you going to say?” Derek says.

“Only that you could take some time to recover,” Stiles says. “Rest. There are no requirements on your time.”

Derek eyes slide down to his plate. “Yes, I know,” he says. “But I am feeling very well.”

When he turns his head, Stiles sees the remnants of the bruise on his jaw, small, but very deep, fading purple.

Later in the day, at the end of a long meeting reviewing training rosters and guard rotations, walking some of the fortifications, Stiles tells the captain of the guard, almost casually, that the next person who does injury to Derek will answer to him.

And then, oh, I don’t know, it’s probably the Queen’s birthday, which is a national three-day holiday and of course grueling and terrible for Stiles, who still misses her terribly, but has to look brave and handsome and give a speech and dedicate a bridge in her name, but it’s the first time he’s ever done it with Derek, who doesn’t make him talk in the carriage between events and is just there, at his back, or walking beside him, looking around at the bridge and asking the stonemasons question after question to give Stiles a moment of peace, and at one of the interminable events, leans in in and says he’s afraid he’s growing tired, his arm… and Stiles makes their excuses and they leave early, and Stiles doesn’t remember until they’re back at the castle and Derek’s swinging down out of the carriage using his bad arm, that Derek hasn’t worn the sling in a week and a half, but wore it today, white and stark against his dark green coat.

“Why did you—“

“You looked tired,” Derek says, shoulder lifting in a shrug, and Stiles smiles for the first time all day, a little tired, but real, full of admiration and relief, and that’s how Derek ends up in his rooms, with Stiles making him toasted cheese on bread the way his mother used to when he was very small, sitting in front of the fire in stocking feet, their cheeks warm, and Derek wants to kiss Stiles badly, wants Stiles to reach for him, but Stiles doesn’t. The toasted cheese is delicious and Derek says so, and they talk until past midnight, not about—their families, not directly, not about much at all, until Stiles’ eyes are drooping, and Derek’s yawning and Stiles sends him to bed.

But—Stiles shows up for breakfast, more often than not, until there’s an extra place set for him as a matter of routine, the tea he likes in the warmer, and he talks over some of the stupid headaches of statecraft with Derek, asks him what he thinks, and Derek says, first, frowning at his bacon, oh, he doesn’t know, the Hale lands were—small, it never came up—and Stiles keeps asking, makes a map using cutlery and a toast warmer and a folded napkin until Derek offers an opinion, first fairly timidly and then later with more confidence and it probably snows at some point in here and Stiles sees Derek with snowflakes in his hair and eyelashes and it takes his breath out of him, what he wants with Derek, and he resolves to say—something, to ask, at least, but he doesn’t quite ever get to it, and then Derek bursts up to his study at four in the afternoon, knocking hard on his door, and when Stiles answers the door, Derek is in a leather jerkin, scuffed boots, a smudge of dirt of his face, and declines to come in, says only—

“Am I not permitted to train with your knights?”

“Of course you are—certainly you may, if—” Stiles says, blinking. He had assumed Derek would be out of training for at least another week or two, but Derek’s well, and moving easily, and glint-eyed furious. “I looked only to your safety—“

“I’m not going to be hurt—“

“You already were hurt,” Stiles says. “I only—“

“Reminded them that I’m your possession,” Derek snaps out.

“I didn’t say that,” Stiles says. “I’ve never said that, that’s not—“

“You don’t have to,” Derek says. “They won’t fight me, not really, they won’t even—speak to me in the same way, when all I am is a—“

“I’ve given you no cause to make such an accusation,” Stiles says.

“Haven’t you?” Derek says, and Stiles, infuriated, reaches out, and brushes his fingertips just beneath Derek’s jaw, puts his thumb against Derek’s lower lip, presses gently, nudging Derek’s lips open. Derek lips part in shock, and then he jerks his face out of Stiles’ grasp and takes a step back, another, bright flags of color in his cheeks.

“Don’t—“ he says.

“There, see?” Stiles says, a small grim smile playing around the corner of his mouth. “Your affairs are your own.”

“Thank you,” Derek says numbly, after a moment. He won’t meet Stiles’ eyes.

“I’ll speak with the captain of the guard,” Stiles says, feeling sick with regret, wanting to apologize and not able to get the words past his lips.