Whisky Warm

by AngelisIgniRelucent

The bones in his fingers are longer than they should be, and the flickering is almost like an apology.

Spider-webbing bones so delicate they're like strands of eggshell, covered over with a gossamer skin.

Frenetic fingers flitting about, an endless flurry of motion, tapping a rhythm on the steering wheel to gesturing wildly as he speaks. The bones in his fingers are longer than they should be, and the flickering is almost like an apology.

Lips so pink they're almost red, never ever still – constantly talking, or eating, drinking, chewing food like it's the last he'll have and sucking obscenely on straws.

Then there are his eyes. Amber and warm, like whisky by the fire on a winter's night. Quick and sharp – fox's eyes. They never miss a thing – certainly not the way Derek's been staring.

Stiles grins, tongue running over his teeth. Reaches out a finger. Crooks it.

Derek gulps.