He never thought Derek would be so gentle.
Derek has always been rough edges, or at least it seemed— broken, jagged pieces of glass too dangerous to get near. But glass is ultimately the perfect metaphor, because Derek is fragile. He falls asleep to Stiles’ voice chatting over the phone, brings Stiles coffee because he knows he’s studying, and tears up when they watch sad movies. He always asks if Stiles is okay with what he’s doing when they have sex, and holds him close afterwards, carding his fingers through his hair with a look on his face that scares Stiles— frightens him because no one has ever looked at him like that and he wonders if that’s the same look on his face when he gazes at Derek. He wonders if he’s that fragile, too. He wonders if he’s capable of breaking Derek.
Sometimes Derek tries to hide it, like the sharp, glistening edges of glass ward away touch. He masks fear under dry humor and sadness under anger. He won’t admit that Scott’s brotherly friendship with him means the world to him, that the Sheriff’s acceptance of his character is so important, or that he’s making tentative steps towards friendship with the Argents. He won’t say that he misses his family, or that he’s still guilty about Boyd and Erica. He won’t tell Stiles he’s terrified of screwing things up with their relationship, but Stiles can see it reflected back in those small, simple, affectionate actions that Derek doesn’t think twice about performing. He can see the cracks that haven’t broken away yet, and wonders about them— wonders if there’s a way to fix it all.
All he knows is that he’d suffer every cut, every splinter digging into his skin, every painstaking hour piecing things back together to make it happen.
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