Derek Hale turned out to be terrifying, and terrifyingly beautiful, all stubble and spiky hair, and tight shirt. His office was odd, all pale blue walls and for the most part after introducing himself, he let Stiles settle himself, watering all the weird cacti around the room. Either the guy had been given Cacti by someone near and dear to him, or he had a serious fixation. Maybe the psych needed a psych?
Stiles wandered to sit down in front of the desk thing, putting his coffee on the table, and getting comfy. His bones always ached these days, and he always felt the chill.
“What can I do for you, Stiles? That’s what you prefer to be called, right?” Doctor Hale was still watering a particularly nasty cactus on the window sill.
“Stiles, yeah. What do you mean? Mr...uh, Hale.”
His head turned, eyes intense but kind on Stiles’ face. “Derek.” Then he went over to the huge plant in the corner. “Generally people who come here have a problem that they want to straighten out. What’s your problem?”
Stiles picked two joined pieces of lego out of the box of toys by the desk, clicking them apart and together again. “I don’t have a problem.”
Derek’s eyebrows rose, as he crouched to water something on the desk. Stiles couldn’t help follow the movement of his thigh muscles under the trousers with rapt attention. “Oh?”
“It’s just the Doctor, and my Dad. Sheriff Stilinski, you know him, right?” Stiles was clicking the pieces at a much faster rate, and just looked up in time to catch the soft wistful expression on Derek Hale’s face.
“Yeah, I know him.”
“They think I’m losing too much weight. My Dad and Doctor Thompson.” He stared down at his lap, trying to calculate how many centimetres round his thighs might be. Maybe he could buy a tape measure after school, there certainly wasn’t one at home.
“Your Dad thinks that?” Derek asked, checking the water level in the plant pot. “So they want to help you put on some weight?”
“Mhmm.” Stiles replied, listlessly, finally dropping the pieces back into the box when his fingertips hurt. He picked out a small troll doll, twisting it’s head around.
“What do you want?” Derek finally paused, looking at him properly, leaning over the desk. His expression was open, like he...like he cared. Holy shit, Stiles nearly started laughing. When did his opinion start to matter?
“I dunno. What do you mean?”
Derek sat on the desk, picking the dead flowers off a small plant behind the cactus. “Well, if you decide to come here, and have therapy, with me, what do you want out of it?” His eyes rose to Stiles’s at the end of the question, waiting expectantly.
The boy just shrugged, pulling his coat closer around him.
“Do, you...want me to get to know you?” Derek asked, softly, glancing up at the ceiling for a moment.
“What for?” Honestly, he just wanted to go out, and be running. He wanted to not see Scott, or his Dad, and their sad dissapointed eyes, or this hot stranger being on egg shells with him. He wanted out.
“So you can tell someone your feelings, your thoughts? Your fears.” He was the right distance to be looking kind, and not overwhelming, face open. “So you won’t be so alone and distant from everyone?”
Stiles stared for a moment before clicking the dolls head round the other way. There was a little bit of silence. “What if I don’t know what my problems are?”
Standing, Derek moved round the desk, to put his hands in his pockets. “Hopefully we can find them out together.” He sat into the chair, and the material made a soft noise as the air went out. Stiles hoped one day chairs would stop making that noise under him. He’d touch the world, but effect nothing, weightless. “We won’t see your problems clearly today, but we’ll see signs of them.”
“Like what?” Suddenly he’s curious, wants to prove this guy wrong, being a little violent with the dolls head. He’s a little wound up. It’s hard taking medication on an empty stomach.
“Like being uncomfortable. Like not being able to eat, like not being able to stop eating.” Derek steepled his fingers. “How many times a day do you vomit?”
“I don’t.” Stiles said, almost immediately.
His eyes went severe. “Stiles, listen. If you don’t want to tell me something, just say, but don’t lie to me. Because if this is going to work, I’m going to have to invade your privacy as much and as often as I can. The only way I can help you is by knowing.” He lifted his hands, giving him a small smile. “There are no right or wrong answers in therapy, only the way you feel. So, what do you think?”
His expression was a little scandalized, but at the same time, Stiles was leaning forward. Maybe he did want a talking diary. Maybe someone should know how he felt. Maybe he wanted that.
“You wanna come back? Say, twice a week?”
He looked around the room, at the dolls house behind him, with the Mommy and the Daddy and all the baby dolls, all in their neat rooms. And then at the fish tank, and the bright little tails flicking in the greenery. “Yeah, I guess so. Beats TV.”
In the gym, Stiles ended up back in the class, standing behind the others. The blonde guy leading looked in a bad mood, barking orders at everyone. “Hey, you! At the back! Pick it up, will you? And get those jumpers off, I want to see the lines you’re making.”
Stiles froze. “It’s...it’s cold.”
“Look kid, conform or get out. Go change. I’m not running a kindergarten here.”
So he left, blinking, and breathing hard, knuckles white, to the laughter behind him.
Stiles first proper session with Derek, they both bought coffee in the foyer outside, and Stiles was opening his, sat in front of the desk. Derek was comfortably sipping his coffee, relaxed in the other seat.
“You want some sugar for that?” He offered, watching as Stiles was about to take a sip.
“Uh uh. I had them put it in when we got it.” Stiles took his sip, cheeks already hollow and shadowed as he sipped.
Derek watched him for a moment, eyebrow raised. “Coffee shop gives you little packages when you ask for sugar..”
And he had to snag it, didn’t he? He couldn’t let them go on in near blissful ignorance, huh? Stiles left his coffee on the table to go and look at the fish, dragging his fingers along the glass. “You tricked me.”
“You lied to me.” Derek replied. “If you don’t want sugar, say so.” He stayed at the desk, colouring in a kiddies picture of a dog. “Don’t lie to me, please.”
It comes out without him really thinking about it, scraping his nail down the glass. “You’re just trying to get me fat.” And then, kneeling painfully in front of the tank, “Anyway, sugar is bad for your pancreas.”
Derek rolled his eyes, and scribbled the dog’s eyes in red. “I am not trying to get you fat, I’m trying to keep you out of a hospital.”
Stiles drummed his fingers on the glass. “I don’t wanna talk about that.”
“What do you wanna talk about?”
Slowly, he got up, and slammed the door closed on the dolls house. He walked around the room, his back to Derek.
“Have you put any weight on this week?”
Stiles aimed a kick at a chair, watching it crash onto the ground. His voice was raised, he knew it. “Can’t we ever talk about anything besides my freakin’ weight?”
“Sure. Sure? Like what?” The psychologist put down his crayon, watching him.
Stiles went back to tapping at the fish.