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He didn’t sketch very often. At least, not anywhere people could see. But the sight of Stiles sprawled across his bed, fast asleep with his head cushioned against Derek’s legs made the artistic side of him thrum with the unmistakable urge. The dim lighting from outside the open window caressed the curves of the younger man’s face, the sharper angles of his jaw and cheekbones appearing to be softer, warmer than usual. These days there was always a sort of tension in his face, underneath the smiles and determination, and Derek didn’t know how to make it go away. He wasn’t good at it -- at understanding the needs of other people, people he cared about -- and so he rarely tried. The most he could do was let the boy draw from him when he needed strength, to be his tourniquet when he was wounded.
It was nice, to see him so relaxed. A small, barely there smile passed over Derek’s face as he slowly reached out, tracing the shadowed areas of his partner’s face with the pad of his thumb before deciding that it wasn’t quite enough. Carefully, so as not to disturb Stiles, Derek leaned over to his bedside table and pulled out a worn sketchbook from it’s depths. Foregoing the small packet of charcoal -- it was too dark and heavy for what he wanted -- he curled his fingers around a relatively new stick of graphite and drew it out, placing it to the side as he flipped through old sketches to a clean page.
Derek soon fell into an easy rhythm, fingers making familiar strokes across the page. Some short -- for the shock of soft brown hair on Stiles’ head -- and some long and smooth, for the narrow taper of his waist, the sweet bow of his mouth, the stretch of his legs. Each stroke of the graphite was done with care, shaded in with all the love and tenderness he couldn’t show. Derek drew the tired lines around the boy’s eyes and wished he could will them away. Drew each and every scar on his body, hardly needing to look to know where they went. He'd spent hours mapping them out in bed, lazy and loose after sex. They showed just how strong Stiles was, just how much he'd overcome.
God, he was so sappy. If Stiles could hear his thoughts right then, he’d probably laugh, ask if any wolfsbane had gotten into his system. Snorting, the Were softly blew across the paper to get rid of any dust, then continued darkening lines and pulling the piece together cohesively. He was pretty proud of the way it had turned out. Running the graphite over the drawing’s features one more time, Derek mimicked the movement of his hands with his eyes, drinking in the sight of the boy for another moment before finally setting down the stick and closing the sketchbook. He laid it on the bedside table and bit back a yawn, shuffling down to lie flat on his back in bed.
Snuffling, Stiles registered the movement and adjusted in his sleep, leaning his head on Derek’s chest and wrapping an arm and leg around his body with a deep sigh of content. The edges of his mouth tugged up with warmth and he murmured his lover’s name softly as his cheek and jawline were caressed by rough, blackened fingers.
“Goodnight, Stiles.” Derek murmured in his ear, eyes heavy with sleep. “I love you.”
Tomorrow, he would leave the sketchbook open on the coffee table for Stiles to find and hope that it could convey what he could not. Hope that the aching, all-encompassing love he'd poured into it would reach him. He wasn’t one for words. Stiles didn’t get to hear ‘I love you’ nearly as much as he should. But hopefully, through these small gestures and actions...he’d be able to give the boy all he deserved.
Eventually.