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tamingthemuseTitle: frontier [4/?]
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Prompt: 502 - blatherskite
Warnings: Some kind of bastardized western/ABO hybrid AU. (Vaguely inspired by the time period of Hell on Wheels.) Will be Derek/Stiles. Hand-waving of US History.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 500
Summary: Stiles names Derek’s horse. (And no, that’s not a euphemism.)
Disclaimer: It’s all lies and I own nothing.
-- = --
It took four days for Stiles’ hesitance to speak faltered. They had made idle conversation over meals and before bedding down for the night, but the boy had been quiet since leaving Casper. Every now and then throughout the day, they would walk beside the horse to give the animal a break and to stretch their own legs. Stiles would wander a little bit ahead or sometimes lag behind when something caught his attention and he inevitably veered off the rutted path of the the trail to investigate. He never strayed far, stayed well within Derek’s earshot, however unknowingly.
Later in the afternoon of the fourth day, as they paused at a narrow yet swift-running creek to let the horse drink and fill up their own water skins, Stiles approached him slowly. “I’d meant to ask before,” he said, “but what’s your horse’s name?”
The chestnut gelding nosed along the creek edge looking for grass, ignoring Derek and Stiles completely. “He doesn’t have one,” Derek said, crouching down up-stream from the grazing horse to refill another water skin.
“He must,” Stiles insisted.
Derek stowed the skins in the pack he was carrying while they walked. “The man I bought him from never offered one.”
“But surely you’ve been calling him something.”
Standing, Derek shrugged. “He responds perfectly well to commands without having been named.”
Clearly disappointed, Stiles huffed before making his way over to the horse, careful not to spook him. He stroked his broad hand from the horse’s shoulder down to his flank. “Well,” he started uncertainly, “perhaps you’d let me name him, then?”
Derek pretended to give the idea thought but knew he’d give in to Stiles the moment the question had left the boy’s mouth. “I suppose,” he sighed. “So long as you don’t name him ‘Horse.’”
Stiles laughed and turned on him with a grin and bright eyes. “What do you think of Ulysses? When we first came to America, my mother read anything she could find to learn and practice English. She loved poetry, the way the words sounded, how sometimes they rhymed or had a beat like a song. She’d make it a game, sometimes, teaching me. There’s a poet, Tennyson, and that’s one of his poems—Ulysses. He’s a traveller, so it’s fitting, right? That we’re on this journey, and, well.” Stiles looked away, ducking his head as his cheeks flushed darker beneath the faint color there already from the cold.
“You know,” Derek said, fighting back a smile at Stiles’ embarrassment, “there’s a general that fought in the war on our side—for the weres and other supernaturals—named Ulysses. Ulysses Grant. We probably would’ve lost if not for him.”
Stiles looked up at Derek, eyes wide with something like surprise, as though he’d expected a different reaction than the one he’d received.
Derek stepped up beside him, next to the horse, and settled a hand on the animal’s twitching withers. “Ulysses seems fitting all around.”
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Prompt: 502 - blatherskite
Warnings: Some kind of bastardized western/ABO hybrid AU. (Vaguely inspired by the time period of Hell on Wheels.) Will be Derek/Stiles. Hand-waving of US History.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 500
Summary: Stiles names Derek’s horse. (And no, that’s not a euphemism.)
Disclaimer: It’s all lies and I own nothing.
It took four days for Stiles’ hesitance to speak faltered. They had made idle conversation over meals and before bedding down for the night, but the boy had been quiet since leaving Casper. Every now and then throughout the day, they would walk beside the horse to give the animal a break and to stretch their own legs. Stiles would wander a little bit ahead or sometimes lag behind when something caught his attention and he inevitably veered off the rutted path of the the trail to investigate. He never strayed far, stayed well within Derek’s earshot, however unknowingly.
Later in the afternoon of the fourth day, as they paused at a narrow yet swift-running creek to let the horse drink and fill up their own water skins, Stiles approached him slowly. “I’d meant to ask before,” he said, “but what’s your horse’s name?”
The chestnut gelding nosed along the creek edge looking for grass, ignoring Derek and Stiles completely. “He doesn’t have one,” Derek said, crouching down up-stream from the grazing horse to refill another water skin.
“He must,” Stiles insisted.
Derek stowed the skins in the pack he was carrying while they walked. “The man I bought him from never offered one.”
“But surely you’ve been calling him something.”
Standing, Derek shrugged. “He responds perfectly well to commands without having been named.”
Clearly disappointed, Stiles huffed before making his way over to the horse, careful not to spook him. He stroked his broad hand from the horse’s shoulder down to his flank. “Well,” he started uncertainly, “perhaps you’d let me name him, then?”
Derek pretended to give the idea thought but knew he’d give in to Stiles the moment the question had left the boy’s mouth. “I suppose,” he sighed. “So long as you don’t name him ‘Horse.’”
Stiles laughed and turned on him with a grin and bright eyes. “What do you think of Ulysses? When we first came to America, my mother read anything she could find to learn and practice English. She loved poetry, the way the words sounded, how sometimes they rhymed or had a beat like a song. She’d make it a game, sometimes, teaching me. There’s a poet, Tennyson, and that’s one of his poems—Ulysses. He’s a traveller, so it’s fitting, right? That we’re on this journey, and, well.” Stiles looked away, ducking his head as his cheeks flushed darker beneath the faint color there already from the cold.
“You know,” Derek said, fighting back a smile at Stiles’ embarrassment, “there’s a general that fought in the war on our side—for the weres and other supernaturals—named Ulysses. Ulysses Grant. We probably would’ve lost if not for him.”
Stiles looked up at Derek, eyes wide with something like surprise, as though he’d expected a different reaction than the one he’d received.
Derek stepped up beside him, next to the horse, and settled a hand on the animal’s twitching withers. “Ulysses seems fitting all around.”
