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The scent of nerves is a thrumming counterpoint to the bold, particular words spilling out of Stiles' mouth, nailing down any hopes of the defendant gaining bail — or even freedom from the four walls of prison, at this point — against the wall of never-fucking-ever.
Derek is both proud of his husband, and concerned. Stiles is a terrific lawyer, his cases built on honest people and illegally-paved leeways that's for a good cause. Sort of like Harvey Specter, Stiles likes to insist when he's on a much-deserved ego-trip (not that Derek would often admit to those ego-trips being appropriately warranted). He has almost a decade of being a competent lawyer under his belt, and his whole life of being the mouthy kid with enough randomly specific facts floating in his mind that no one can ever out-argue him. Mostly. Not so surprisingly, John doesn't fall under that category, and neither does Derek, with some particularly dashing wins under his own belt.
Stiles does looks good in a tux, and it is a travesty that he detests them. Still, on Derek's whim, Stiles wears them, tailored to perfection on him, and this particular thought isn't doing him any good at the moment.
He's in a court room watching his husband nervously yet stylishly take-down another money mongering scoundrel, with more than a dozen people in the room, and close to a hundred (last that he saw before managing to get inside himself) outside, reporters and journalists and some activists actively rooting against the defendant, Mr. Smith. Such a common name for a common evil, the lust of greed drowning morals, sculpting contracts out of those who cannot know better.
Stiles' mind tells him often, he's told Derek, that Stiles is a fraud. An immoral man wearing the mask of a moral one. Acting under the blind angel, the oath a string of words that are his playground, and the law merely suggestions to his conduct. But Derek is an activist himself, on the day he's not working at Hale's Howls himself, his family's little diner that is perhaps not as little anymore. And in both cases, he's close to the people Stiles has saved, has directly or indirectly impacted.
Stiles sees the side of him that does the worst for the best. He sees the conduct of his own self and only a glimpse of the result. But Derek sees it all: the long nights where his husband wouldn't come to bed, someone else's livelihood more important than his own health; the panic of not finding just the right evidence, just the right information, to win the important cases (and all cases are equally important), as well as the triumph of having found the ace up his sleeve; he sees the glow of doom morph into a shine of hope on the client's faces, the win in the court of law only the beginning, and not the end that Stiles makes them to be, still, even though he's gotten better to view himself over the years.
Self-doubt lingers, and Derek knows, personally, just how difficult it is to make it evaporate. Stiles is the one with the words, the one with the right timings of the correct gestures, the one to break solemn moods with, perhaps, insensitive jokes. They're always surprising, but never unwanted, and it is why Derek feels at ease with Stiles.
Stiles is the love of his life, the moon of his existence, his anchor. He grounds him. A steady hand and rooted footing, a constant companion.
Derek tries to be the same in return. Which is why he's here on a Sunday morning of all things, in formals himself, watching the defendant's lawyer run himself ragged to prove his client's innocence, Stiles' cool and collected facade starting to fracture. The nerves aren't only in his scent, now. His lips are a thin line, eyes hard and unforgiving to the untrained eye. Derek recognizes the nervous tic of chewing his lips, and the scrambling behind his eyes.
The other lawyer has just finished speaking, and though he's not a lawyer himself, Derek understands enough to know it was a good argument. Even the defendant himself is smirking, like he's the cat with the canary.
The judge looks between Stiles and the other lawyer, Kevin. "Both of you present a strong case," she says, voice devoid of emotion. She's simply stating a fact, truly the neutral third party in this scenario. "We shall break for 30 minutes, so that you may regroup, and then I will state my ruling."
And there it is, Derek's chance. Once the judge has dismissed everyone for the time-being, he makes his way towards his husband, who is rifling through his papers like it's gonna jump up and magically become whatever it is he wants it to be.
"Stiles." He doesn't listen, doesn't even twitch. His hands are fast, moving across the table he's calling his at the moment, where his papers and other stuff are. "Stiles," Derek calls again, and this time, he moves forward, closes the gap he'd kept in honor of the place (and the reprimand they keep getting every single time, without fail. Now, Stiles will hardly even come close to him in here, always at least one hand distance away).
That gets Stiles' attention.
"Whoa! Derek, I love you, but we don't know each other here, okay?"
"You're being ridiculous. I'm your husband, I'm here to support you, and I can damn well cross your personal space." Right now, Derek chooses to take Stiles' hand from the table. He squeezes them once, in silent comfort, and despite a token protest, when he pulls Stiles, there's no actual resistance. Stiles hugs him, tight, and he feels the tension melt away, right under his hands.
"We'll get another reprimand." Stiles' sigh is spoken right into Derek's neck, and he chuckles, moves his hand up and down, down and up, and keeps doing it against Stiles' back.
"So?"
In a fit to argue his point, Stiles attempts to pull back from the embrace. Derek doesn't let him.
"Stiles, just. Let me be here for you."
That has his husband relaxing back into his hold. They stay like this for a minute or so, right until Stiles starts pulling back again, and this time, Derek lets him.
"Gotta find the ace," he says, mouth quirked-up into a semi-sad, semi-grimacing manner. The scent of nerves isn't as sharp, now, most of it freed through the physical contact, but it's still there. Derek doesn't like it.
"You will."
Stiles snorts. "Right. I've worked on this for a month, and I fucked it up, but in 30 - well, less now - minutes you think I can figure something out?"
Derek can point out that Stiles has done much more in only 10 minutes and less, but then an idea strikes him, and he grins. Can't even suppress it, as he imagines the reaction he'll get for it.
"Why do you have that on your face?" Stiles has killer survival instincts (something Derek has worked extremely hard to inculcate in him, so he's proud of it), and he should be weary. Derek with a grin is a common happenstance at the Stillinski-Hale residence, but only ever in private. Public displays of The Grin only apply when he's about to do something innately annoying, or amazing, and thus vex Stiles, who is generally the vex-en, and Derek is generally the one who has to attempt his best to not keel over from the abundance of embarrassment, love, or laughter, or all three, simultaneously, that those scenarios generate. So, Stiles is afraid for the right reasons.
"No reason," he lies, voice deliberately low. There are no werewolves here, so he knows he's not being eavesdropped on. But he wants to be. He can hear the shuffle of feet, the people who left coming back in, so he pauses, and inhales the tantalizing shift of Stiles' scent from sharp, acidic vinegar to the dulled version of petrichor - Stiles' base scent with a little bit of extra tang, his curious nature threaded into his being.
A bit more shuffling, more people filling in; even the Judge seems to be coming back, though there's more than 15 minutes left in the break.
He raises his voice, loud enough that everyone in the room will be able to hear clearly. "I have something that will relax you, baby," his words cause Stiles to flush, probably wrongly thinking something inappropriate. (He can hear Kacy, one of the police officers who knows them well enough to know their antics, mutter to her partner-in-force, a new officer, "There they go again. I swear, these two make me want a love like that!" She's angry about it, too). Before Stiles can protest, or Kacy can come to take him away, he continues, still loud, "I have some drugs to help calm you down."
"What the fuck?" Stiles' response is comically endearing. It's not even subtle, the way he attempts to check if Derek is enchanted. His eyes even glows the lightest of violets, just a blink-it-and-you-will-miss-it shade of it, as he does so. Thankfully, everyone is distracted by Derek admitting to having drugs inside a court, the executionary home of the laws, to pay Stiles any attention.
Derek doesn't reply. Instead, he fakes rummaging around in his pants, which are bit tight to comfortably rummage in, but he does the act for his audience of one. Nothing comes out of his pockets when he removes his hands, and Stiles' eyes follow them when Derek brings them both near his lips, blows a kiss onto them.
"Here, my love for you. The power of this addiction will help you through this trial."
It's the silliest thing he's ever done in his life.
Stiles doesn't do anything for a moment. In that split nanosecond, Derek regrets doing it, but then, Stiles' hands slap against his mouth, a high-pitched giggle leaving his shaking body.
Derek's grin softens, and he inhales again: strong petrichor, with notes of sunlight, and Christmas. An odd combination otherwise, the cold and sun and rain, sweet and earthy, but it's perfect to Derek. Everything is, when it comes to Stiles.
Stiles is still shaking, laughter overpowering stillness (or almost-stillness in his case), but he lets his hands make the universal motion of "grabby hands." Derek blows another kiss, and one more, for good measure. This time, Stiles catches the kisses in his own hand, puts them on his table, over the scattered papers, and makes do as if he's creating a line of cocaine, like they do in the movies.
Then, as if he's a crackhead, Stiles snorts them in. Inhales deeply, sighs loud and deep, and relaxes his body as if the love-drugs are actually having an instantaneous effect on him.
Now, it's Derek's turn to laugh uncontrollably, his body the puppet of his love for this man in front of him. Stiles is smiling, now, soft and gentle, just for him, and he's moving forward. Derek matches him, the one step forward, hand on Stiles' waist. Leans in.
"NO! Not again."
The loud reprimand has them both sheepishly pull back. Kacy thunders towards them, eyes them both with anger.
"I am not doing more paper work on this! How many times should I arrest you for indecency in a court before you two learn a lesson?"
Stiles rubs his neck, turns towards his table and papers. Derek is left to fend for himself.
The bastard.
"Sorry?"
"Derek Hale, that is an insufficient word for the torture you and your husband inflict on me every week -"
Whatever she wants to say next is cut-off by the familiar sound of Stiles finding his ace. Kacy glares at him, and Derek swears he hears even the judge try to stifle a giggle at the scene. She's always so impartial, a stoic statue, always professional. Perhaps Kacy does have a point - this is not the ground for him and Stiles to be romantically indecent.
"What do you have to say for yourself, Stilinski?"
"That the drugs worked and my husband is the best?" Stiles shoots him a glance, as if asking for help. Derek raises his eyebrows in a, "Really?" way, and Stiles pouts, silently pleading for help.
"He's gonna win this case thanks to me?" Derek tries, and Kacy crosses her arms.
"You mean, your drugs?" Derek can feel his ears turning pink. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but perhaps the whole love-drug thing should have been private. Maybe outside in that diner, which is almost always empty at this hour, but then he remembers this is a high-profile case, and that there's reporters outside.
Thankfully, Stiles saves him. "But it worked! So all is good now. I should prepare for this. Derek, why don't you go and sit? We can... talk... at home?"
"That was the least convincing innuendo I've ever heard, and on weekends, I deal with teenagers trying to do things at the Kissing Point."
Kacy is right, of course.
Derek mumbles, "Home," and hopes that is enough of a reply to let him off the hook. No dice. Stiles goes back to preparing, in the 5 or so minutes he has left, while Kacy walks him back to his seat, once again reminding him of the do's and don't's of this place.
Derek has only heard it a 100 or so times before.
Still, Kacy's lecture is worth it. Stiles wins the case, capitalist greed takes a backseat for once, and the smile he gets to witness on his husband's face is a million times brighter than the sun.
It dims a little, though, when the judge eyes him, and then, astonishingly, Derek after her ruling. Her face is impassive, but her words are clearly laden with amusement: "Indeed, love and drug have the same amount of words. Practically the same thing, if you look at them, addictive."
Derek tries to hide in his seat, but is unsuccessful; He is truly glad this trial is over. (And that he gets to talk after this with Stiles, in the privacy of their home).