helenish:

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

It’s early evening when there’s a soft knock on the door adjoining their rooms. Derek is writing a letter, having solved the problem of not being able to hold the paper down by pinning it down with a small, ornate statue he appropriated from a niche in the hallway.

“I wondered, um—if there was anything you required,” Stiles says. He leans one shoulder against the doorframe, doesn’t cross the threshold, but Derek sees him taking it in, the new made bed, the fire burning high, freshly tended.

“No, nothing, thank you,” Derek says.

“If you were in pain, I could—“

“I saw the medic not an hour ago,” Derek says, laying down his pen. “And the maid came with new bed linens and footman, with lunch and then tea, and tended the fire as he came.”

Derek’s tone is wry, but warm, and when Stiles says,

“I couldn’t be certain which of your servants you’d let off for a holiday—“ Derek smiles, huffs a soft, silent laugh. There’s a pause. Derek looks down at the letter, and Stiles says, “I won’t keep you, then—“

“I’m finishing this and going to sleep,” Derek says, “I have an early morning tomorrow.”

“Doing what?” Stiles says.

“I’m um—attending the Chard festival in Lynn-on-Marsh“

“That’s a day’s ride from here,” Stiles says.

“I’ll take the carriage,” Derek says, although he’d been planning to ride.

“You’re not well—“

“I said that I would go.”

“I’ll go, then,” Stiles says. “Surely I would be an adequate replacement.”

“You,” Derek says. “You’re going to tour the fields and light the bonfire—“

“That seems to be within my capabilities, yes—“

“And judge the chard-stuffed dumpling competition and crown the chard princess?” Derek says.

Stiles laughs, and then he sees Derek’s face, and says, “oh, that’s, you’re serious.”

“Of course you have much more important work here,” Derek murmurs.

*

He leaves at dawn, knowing Stiles has a critical meeting with court advisors that can’t be rescheduled. He assumes Stiles wasn’t making a real offer, and he’s stung, still, by the mocking look on Stiles’ face about the dumplings. He knows it’s not—important work that he does, maybe not even needed, but there’s no reason not to answer the carefully written letters village officials send—to him, addressed to him now, and they ask him to come, there’s no reason to say no, and it’s nice to feel wanted, to have some place where he’s welcomed, where he can feel that he’s doing some measure of good.

Stiles catches up with him by midmorning, riding a tired-looking horse, swings up into the carriage looking wind-blown and irritated.

“I said I was coming,” he says, collapsing back against the cushions.

“I didn’t, um, think you were—“

“Yes, right, clearly not,” Stiles says. “But here I am.”

SO they do the whole thing, the festival stalls and the farm tour and Stiles shoves his hand up under Derek’s good arm when he starts to stumble on the walk back to town and catches him Stiles sets his sleeve on fire while lighting the bonfire and they eat their weight in chard dumplings at the high table at the end of the festival tent (hastily furnished with another chair, probably a huge wooden thing with uncomfortable carvings from the Mayor’s house—no one was expecting Stiles to come, but they scramble to make a place for him) and crown the chard princess, who is six, and after that their duties are discharged and there’s nothing for them to do but sit and talk and listen to music and watch the dancing—no diplomacy or difficult negotiations or cold toast eaten past midnight trying to write-up a battle roster—and they bend towards each other to talk in the lantern light, argue over the last dumpling.

It’s past sundown when they leave. Stiles falls asleep in the carriage, his face soft and young and handsome in repose, and then Derek falls asleep too and wakes up as the carriage grinds to a halt in the courtyard and finds himself with his thigh pressed up along Stiles’ and Stiles awake, watching him with an indefinable look on his face.

Stiles thanks Derek, as they walk up; he hasn’t been—done anything like that in a long time, so—thank you.

“You invited yourself along,” Derek reminds him, feeling warm and light and probably as though he shouldn’t have eaten quite as much as he did, and Stiles laughs and wishes him a good evening and they part as friends.

helenish:

[one] [two] [three]

It should be noted that Stiles kneels to help Derek with his boots, and that his fingers are deft and quick on the laces, easing them open wide and then gently tugging the boots off Derek’s feet without jarring his shoulder, that his shoulders are broad and graze the insides of Derek’s knees as he kneels between them, his head bent, lashes dark on his cheeks.

That Derek struggles his trousers off in the water closet, wincing, bracing his hip against the cold stone wall and trying not to move his arm, listening to Stiles moving around in the other room, the rattle of the poker, the sound of sheets rustling on the bed.

That Stiles’ knuckles brush against Derek’s ribs, his waist, as he gets Derek settled and draws up the bedclothes, an incidental touch that makes a hot electric thrill run through Derek and he shivers.

“Sorry,” Stiles says. “Too cold?”

“A little,” Derek says, and when Stiles gets an extra blanket from the oak chest against the wall, the back of his neck is red.

helenish:

[one] [two]

Stiles learned from watching his parents that love is a danger, that deep love is the loss of self. His father was—undone, with the death of his mother, and it fell to Stiles to pull together the pieces, at sixteen, at seventeen, to speak with his father’s advisors and manage diplomatic relations, to balance the treasury and pretend none of it was his work, that he was merely being provided with carefully moderated responsibilities. His father has been—better, these last years, but takes every opportunity to be away from the castle—on diplomatic visits or on border patrol, leaving more and more of the responsibility of governing the kingdom to Stiles.

He’s always been almost grateful for the fact that his marriage will be a diplomatic alliance, and Derek blindsided him from the beginning. Stiles avoids Derek, as much as he can, tells himself that Derek is off limits, but he never expected to have to watch his entire kingdom fall love with a man whom he—respects. Has nothing but admiration for.

Stiles isn’t stupid, he’s not unaware of the way Derek leans in towards him, brightens up when Stiles speaks to him, it’s not as though he doesn’t see the stricken look on Derek’s face when Stiles rejects his advances. He knows he’s making a fool out of himself over Derek, that he’s the worst kind of callous jackass, and he can’t seem to stop himself.

After leaving Derek in the hallway, Stiles peels off his jacket and scrubs down his face in the sink, stares at his empty, tired face in disdain. Derek offered and Stiles turned him down; the matter is closed and there was no call for Stiles’ petty cruelty.

They have a lunch meeting the next day, scheduled some days ago. Derek’s knock is markedly more hesitant, and he smiles less, sitting stiffly at the table, pushing his food around his plate. Stiles finishes with the business portion of the meeting before putting down his fork and clearing his throat awkwardly.

“I’d like to apologize,” he says, “for last night. It was ill done of me.”

“You need not,” Derek tells his plate.

“I’ve no right to intrude on your—private affairs,” Stiles begins, but Derek cuts him off,

“You’ve every right,” he says, voice harder than Stiles has ever heard it. Stiles says nothing, and Derek folds his napkin, says, “may I take my leave of you?”

“Yes,” Stiles says, and Derek is at dinner that evening, smiling and laughing with an important dignitary, doing his job, but—without realizing it—Stiles had grown used to saying their farewells to their guests and ambling up to the east wing together, speaking a little, letting the convivial atmosphere of dinner spill over, comparing notes, but tonight Derek is tense and silent, walking with purpose.

“Are you—unwell?” Stiles ventures, at the top of the staircase. Derek pauses, says,

“No,” and then “Is there anything else you require of me?”

“No,” Stiles says, and Derek nods and takes his leave.

That’s how it is between them, for weeks. Stiles sees Derek at state events, often, in their shared hallway, and Derek smiles and puts his hand on Stiles’ arm in public and moves away from him as quickly as he can when they’re alone again. He sees Derek sparring sometimes, and Derek is quick and strong and graceful, self-deprecating in victory and laughing in defeat, dragging his helm over his head and scrubbing his hair out of his face, so that’s—all of Stiles’ knights are loyal to Derek now and that’s—

Stiles says nothing until Derek dislocates his shoulder, and someone goes and gets Stiles, who watches, stone-faced, as the medic fashions a sling and helps Derek (who is pale, but smiling bravely) to stand. Stiles accompanies Derek back to his room, looks around angrily when Derek’s valet isn’t already there to help him to bed.

“It’s his mother’s birthday, I sent him home to the farm for the week,” Derek says, the second time Stiles opens the door to the hallway to check.

“Who’s been—“

“Do you think I can’t dress myself?” Derek says. “Not all of us were born into such an exalted position,” and Stiles shuts up and kneels to unlace Derek’s boots. The medic had cut off his tunic and shirt and when Stiles’ hands hover helplessly in the air at Derek’s belt, Derek says,

“I can, um—“ and turns into the water closet while Stiles builds up the fire.

Derek comes out wearing only pajama bottoms, and his shoulder badly swollen, bruised dark, and Stiles is—he knows how to help someone whose skin hurts to touch into bed, how to fluff up pillows and set them up so a person can sit up in bed without their neck hurting, knows to set up a pitcher of water and glass in easy reach, and does them all for Derek, and when Derek thanks him, he can’t quite keep the surprise out of his voice, and Stiles grins at him, a little sad and stark, says,

“Don’t worry, I’m still mostly completely useless.”

And he has dinner brought up and they eat on trays in Derek’s room, with Derek only remembering that there was supposed to be a (fairly important) dinner that evening when they’re almost done, and Stiles is unconcernedly eating his last dumpling.

“What of the dinner?” Derek asks, and Stiles says, he sent their regrets, of course.

“You could have gone without me,” Derek says.

“No, I don’t think so,” Stiles says, and Derek didn’t know he was so important to Stiles’ work and to the diplomatic efforts of the kingdom, and feels himself sort of starting to smile, not just because they gave him a big mug of honey wine doctored with willowbark and his arm doesn’t hurt at all anymore.

“It wouldn’t be seemly,” Stiles says, “For me to make an appearance with you so recently injured. I would be expected to be at your side.”

“Oh,” Derek says, realizing the warm glow in his chest is all honey wine, and nothing else. He says he’s starting to feel sleepy, and Stiles adds another long to the fire and clears their trays onto the sideboard and leaves him, and Derek stares out the window for a long time before he finally falls asleep. 

helenish:

[one]

OKAY OKAY OKAY OKAY SO, 

Derek is no stranger to disappointment—to being a disappointment, and just chokes it down, he’s not—it’s not Stiles’ fault that he doesn’t want Derek, and Stiles is faultlessly polite and considerate, and has clearly given instructions that Derek is to be provided with every comfort, and of course Derek has a staff (handpicked by Stiles from those he knows to be loyal and protective, but Derek doesn’t know that) and they’re a little cold at first, because probably Derek is—he’s trying his best, but he wasn’t really trained to be a Prince Consort and makes mistakes (his gruff guard/handler actually yells at him for eating that sugar-dough ring, doesn’t he understand that the kingdom has enemies, that he placed himself in danger, that for him to be hurt would make the royal family—make Stiles look weak and ineffectual until Derek’s pale with remorse.)

They’re just waiting for him to drop his company manners and become the selfish, entitled noble who’s getting a free ride, because they know Stiles was unhappy about the marriage, was forced into it by circumstance. They assume Derek’s useless and spoiled, but it slowly becomes clear to them how much that isn’t the case, as, Derek takes on all the thankless, boring diplomatic jobs, touring foundries and hospitals and sinking his faultlessly shined boots into six inches of mud, presenting spelling prizes at schools, visiting soup kitchens and orphanages; they’re long days and Derek has to smile and smile and meet people and ask after them and their families for hours and Stiles hated every minute of it, always gritting his teeth through it, visibly exhausted and cross by the end of the day, but you’d never know it from the way Derek smiles at everyone, asks questions about irrigation or cow cross-breeding or educational philosophy or stew recipes, Derek Hale stirring cornmeal hash in a peasants kitchen or just happening to be there the day that one of the cows goes down in the boggy grassland at the edge of the pasture and wading in with the farmer and one of the neighbors and his guard to shoulder the cow out, all of them soaking wet and streaked with mud by the end.

No one knows how lonely and unhappy Derek is still, what it feels like to host dinner parties with Stiles, to be a blocked hour on Stiles’ calendar for preparation, when Stiles tells him about all the guests and what they need from them (financial support or troops, permission to cross their holdings, goodwill, to let them down gently for a request from the King while not losing their friendship—the King is at the warfront and Stiles is left to manage the homefront by himself) and they talk while walking in the garden sometimes, sometimes, or over a late snack in the little kitchen Stiles has attached to his quarters where he can boil a little pot of tea on the hob and make toast, and Stiles quick low laugh and how quickly he learns what Derek likes, how Stiles looks, tired around the edges, shirt undone at the throat, rolled up at the cuffs, the frayed slippers he wears, how he makes Derek laugh as he explains, how Stiles makes him feel as though he’s worth something, that Stiles relies on him for this.

In public, Stiles is—very attentive, and in private he’s charming and sly and makes Derek’s pulse quicken when their hands brush by accident, and the door between their rooms stays closed.

MEANWHILE, Derek’s handlers stop being Stiles’ handpicked staff and start being fiercely loyal to Derek, start to know him. Derek has terrible nightmares, still, and can’t sleep after them, so he’s yawning in the carriage one day, and his handler (this guy needs a name, I picture him as the second-in-command of Stiles’ guard who considered it a demotion to be nursemaiding the prince consort all over the kingdom but did it out of his sincere loyalty to Stiles, a young, burly handsome dude who comes from a huge family, let’s call him Thomas) anyhow, Derek apologizes and said he was short on sleep the night before and then Thomas politely says nothing, and Derek stares out the window, clearly exhausted and bereft. It’s a long carriage ride and Thomas struggles with it for some miles before saying that it’s not his place, but if the Prince is—

“He’s done nothing, it’s me,” Derek says, tonelessly. Later, on the way back, he asks Thomas to forgive his impropriety, that he spoke out of turn, and Thomas, who has known Stiles for years and years, wonders what he’s doing to Derek, comes at him more roughly than usual when they spar, and eventually lets something slip about how Stiles could spend some more time with the Prince Consort, who has few friends here.

and well, Thomas is young and light-hearted and comes from a large family—he would understand Derek better than Stiles (a solitary only child of a difficult pregnancy) ever could, and Thomas is good and kind and loyal—

“What a good thing he has you then,” Stiles says, and walks out of the ring, doesn’t—smash his gauntleted fist into Thomas’ handsome face. What right does he have, he’s laid no claim to Derek for all he’s imagined it, pulling Derek against him on the worn couch in the corner of his study where they plan for dinners, taking Derek’s mouth in a kiss when they’re walking back from the ballroom after having made their exit from another social obligation and Stiles has had too much wine and grown reckless.

He stops Derek with a hand on his wrist after the next dinner, just before Derek turns to go down the hall to the entrance to his room.

“I—“ Stiles says, and Derek stops, eyes going to Stiles’ bedroom door, and there’s a hot breathless moment between them when Stiles thinks about opening the door and walking Derek back and pushing him down on his bed, parting Derek’s lips with his own, but instead he says that Derek is free to do what he likes, but that he trusts he’ll be discreet.

“What?” Derek says, and Stiles’ jaw hardens, and he says,

“I mean, when you take a lover, take care that no one else finds out about it,” and then opens his door and goes into his rooms, leaves Derek standing alone in the hallway.