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There was a glorious smell coming from the pot Scott was holding. Derek could feel the warmth wafting towards him, carrying a wave of spices. For a moment he was five years old again, listening to the rain coming down outside his family home, watching his mother setting down his favorite soup in front of him.
Derek was yanked out of the memory by Scott asking, “So just spray this stuff around my house under the moonlight, right? And that should keep the pixies away?”
“Yeah,” Derek growled. “What is that?” he asked, pointing at the pot.
Scott grinned, lifting the lid, and Derek’s senses were assaulted again. His wolf stirred within him, the thoughts matehomewantmatemateamatehome beating in his head. Derek sniffed, trying to ignore how much the soup smelled like home—
“Stiles’ famous chicken noodle soup,” Scott said, and Derek’s inner wolf howled matematehesoursoursoursfeedsustakescareofus while Derek settled for grunting and staring down Scott. Scott lidded the pot, beaming like an eager puppy. “Yeah, Allison’s sick, so I’m going to bring this over to her. I mean, Stiles isn’t letting me get credit for his soup but I’m still get to take care of her.”
Derek grunted in response, trying not to imagine Stiles cuddling up to him and feeding Derek his homemade soup while he lay sick in bed.
Scott’s eyes were glazed over a bit, and he rambled on, “It’s really too bad werewolves can’t get sick, it would have been great to have her fawning over me if I caught it from her. Or we could be sick together in solidarity!”
“You’d have to suppress your healing factor,” said Derek, “And you don’t really have enough experience for that.”
“Oh,” said Scott, placing the pot of soup in his car and lovingly fixing the seatbelt on it. “Is that useful? Should we include that in our training?”
Derek stared at Scott, a sudden idea blooming in his head. “Yeah, it can come in handy in certain poisoning scenarios or dealing with witches. I’ll keep it in mind; once we’re sure the pixies won’t come back.” He waved Scott off, heading to the Camaro. “Make sure you take care of that tonight!”
Scott yelled back in response, driving away, leaving Derek alone to figure out how to do this.
It had started—well, Derek didn’t know when it started exactly, when he started noticing Stiles and wanting him. His inner wolf had whispered mate when he first smelled Stiles in the woods, but Derek shoved that attraction as mere lust and pushed it into the back of his mind. But as time went on, it became apparent to Derek that it wasn’t just a lingering physical draw, it became how Stiles quickly became the center of the pack, his apt for research and cleverness getting them out of sticky situations, it was how kind and open he was and how he had fit himself so neatly into Derek’s life he couldn’t see it without him.
The problem was, Derek had no idea how to go about initiating anything and he often was just left feeling frustrated and jealous anytime Stiles paid attention to anyone else.
Like the time Stiles threw a pack of Batman-themed band-aids into the shopping cart the last time they were at Target, and Derek had rolled his eyes at him but paid for them anyways because Stiles claimed, “Batman will make the owies go away faster. Plus they’re cool.”
Then a few days ago Derek witnessed Stiles gently placing one of his precious Batman band-aids on a stoic-but-silently-suffering Lydia Martin after a recent skirmish with the pixies. They had all been scratched up, but of course now only Lydia was still wounded.
Stiles brought her heavily bandaged arm, now decorated with a Batman band-aid, and kissed her dramatically on the wrist. “Milady,” he said, with a flourish, “Your injuries have now been graced by the Dark Knight. He will guard you and speed up your healing!”
Lydia laughed, but Derek seethed internally. His inner wolf whined pathetically.
Derek scowled, glancing around the grocery store. Yesterday he had seen three different people with that flu that had been going around. Why was everybody healthy today?
His phone buzzed, with a text from Isaac, saying he found the likely spawn location of the pixies in the woods.
Finally they could get rid of this problem. Derek forwarded the coordinates of the location from Isaac to everyone in the pack, noticing out of the corner of his eye a small boy sneezing in the next aisle. Derek darted towards the boy, who was curiously looking at different types of cookies.
Derek concentrated, suppressing his healing factor in his mind. It wasn’t as hard as he made it seem to Scott, but it did take a lot of practice to be able to control his automatic healing abilities so he could pass for a normal human if injured.
The boy was sniffling now, giving Derek a weird look while wiping at his running nose with his hands. Derek glanced around for his parent and then turned to the boy. “Do you need help getting something?”
The boy smiled shyly, pointing at the cookies on the top shelf. Derek grabbed them and offered to him, then shook his hands (both of them) enthusiastically.
“Thanks,” said the boy, sneezing loudly again.
“Thank you,” said Derek.
Keeping up with suppressed healing powers was no problem at all, as long as Derek continued to concentrate on it. Hopefully the germs he had picked up were incubating now, and he would soon be incredibly sick. It had just begun to rain, too, so maybe he should just hang outside for the rest of the night. That should definitely work.
Derek checked his phone, and found a few texts from Stiles saying they should attack the pixies tomorrow night, since they would be weakest at that phase of the moon, and the rain should stop them from reproducing today anyways.
Derek sighed a bit. This pixie problem had been ongoing, annoying, and incredibly dangerous. Especially to the human members of his pack; so far Lydia had already been injured. Derek definitely did not want Stiles to get hurt.
The rain was falling faster now, and his clothes were sticking to his skin. Who knew how long this storm would last; if it stopped raining, the pixies could start spawning again and create more havoc. Even if they were all weak tomorrow, it would be easier to deal with fewer of them today.
Derek made the decision and ran off towards the woods.
“He’s here!”
“Oh my god, Derek!”
Hands, touching his face. Derek coughs, and something vile spills out of his mouth. He tries to move, and pain courses through his body.
“Derek, you idiot, I can’t believe you came out here by yourself,” there’s a familiar voice talking over him and Derek’s head is resting in something warm. He breathes in and his entire chest hurts. Slowly he opens his eyes and looks in to warm brown ones. Stiles. Stiles, who is looking at him with a combination of concern and exasperation. Stiles, who is holding him in his lap. Derek turns his head a little and presses his face into Stiles’ torso, breathing in the scent.
It feels kind of perfect, actually.
Derek passes back out.
He wakes up in his loft, in his bed, swathed in bandages. It doesn’t hurt so much to move anymore, but moving his arms and legs slightly make him wince.
Derek can hear humming and the sounds of chopping from his kitchen. A familiar, delicious scent wafts in the air.
Derek looks down at himself; his arms and legs are bandaged heavily in sterile white gauze. They are also dotted with Batman band-aids. He grins for a moment in spite of himself.
“Hello?” Derek calls out.
Stiles pops into the room. His eyes light up and he grins, and then he drops the grin and tries to frown, crossing his arms.
“I can’t believe you! Going after the pixies on your own! You almost died!”
Derek grimaces at the pain he feels coming off of Stiles in waves. Derek starts to try to explain his reasoning, but what comes out instead is a huge sneeze. He pauses, then tries, “I’m sorr—AACHHOO!”
Stiles stares at him incredulously for a minute, leaves, then returns with tissues and a wet cloth.
“I’m still mad at you,” says Stiles, climbing on the bed. “Isaac freaked out last night when you didn’t come home, and you’re lucky I know you and your self-sacrificing crap so well that we figured you tried to attack the pixies on your own.” Stiles hands Derek the tissues, who accepts them humbly and wipes his nose. The wet cloth is placed on his forehead and Derek can feel Stiles’ hand holding it to his head.
Derek breathes in while Stiles continues to talk. The warmth of his hand on his head, Stiles’ familiar smell on the bed next to him, the comforting feeling of being taken care of, all of it encompasses Derek in a warm glow.
“If you’re wondering why you aren’t healing quickly from the scratches, Deaton thinks it might be because the pixie blood got in your cuts too,” Stiles says.
“Mmmh,” Derek mumbles, warm and content.
“I made you soup,” says Stiles, looking intently at Derek. Derek stares back, his heart beating rapidly. His face feels warm. He is so close to Stiles he could count his eyelashes.
“Thank you,” Derek breathes. “It smells goo—“ he descends into another sneezing attack.
“You know whats funny,” Stiles tilts his head, “Is how you got sick in the first place. I mean, the pixies didn’t bleed on you until after you started fighting them. You know, which explains why your cuts and scratches took forever to heal. But we found you only a short while after and there weren’t any sick people running around the woods.”
Derek freezes and stares at Stiles in horror. “I didn’t mean—I don’t know how to—ACHOO!”
Stiles grinned mischievously. Oh my god, Derek realizes. He knows. He is going to mock me and make fun of me forever for this, Derek thinks. A quick flurry of images runs through his brain; Stiles laughing at him, trying to let him down easy, looking at him with pity.
Derek is definitely going to maim Scott for telling him.
Stiles suddenly leans in and presses a kiss to Derek’s lips.
Derek groans and pulls him into a tight embrace.
“You’re such an idiot, Derek,” Stiles says, kissing his face furiously.
“You’re the idiot,” says Derek, holding him close. “You’re going to get sick.”
“Worth it,” Stiles whispers into his ear, carding his fingers affectionately through his hair.
Derek smiles softly and holding Stiles feels like coming home.