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As Miguel pulls sideways and he loses his footing, toppling off the curb and half into the street Derek thinks, ‘It’s just one of those days,’ right before his palms connect with rough pavement and he feels something cutting into them.
And it truly is one of those days. Where nothing goes right. Where the coffee machine spits hot water angrily at him, and Laura loses her shit after a budget meeting, and two of his students are removed from his second hour for getting into a physical fight, and then he gets a call from Miriam’s preschool letting him know she’s got a fever and needs to be picked up.
So it’s just sort of par for the course that he’s at the bus stop and there’s a group of teenagers—he thinks they’re teenagers, he’d be willing to bet half his salary they aren’t older than Freshmen in college—who are distracted by Miguel. They’re at the bus stop and he counts down from ten in his head, and almost smiles to himself when inevitably one of them asks, “Is that a seeing-eye dog?”
He sighs instead, and contemplates explaining the difference between the name of a guide dog company and the service dog, but then he figures there’s no real point and says, “Yeah, he is.”
“So you’re like…blind?”
He bites the inside of his cheek for a minute and then says, “Yep.”
“That sucks. I’m sorry.”
And it’s not like he hasn’t heard that before. It’s annoying every time, and part of him wishes that sighted people were required to pay some disability-pity tax to everyone they’re ‘sorry’ for, but they’re not and there’s no real point in getting all ranty about it. Especially after a day like today.
So he just says, “It’s really not that big of a deal.” Then he sticks one earbud in his ear and hopes that’s the end of things.
Which of course it’s not.
Because on the bus one of them says, “Does your dog get treats? Like…does he like lunch meat? Because I have this sandwich I’m not eating…”
“He can’t have food or treats when he’s working,” Derek explains, his jaw only slightly tense. He tries for a smile but it feels tight on his face. His hand moves from Miguel’s leash to the harness in a sort of protective gesture because it’s not the first time he’s had to fend well-meaning dog lovers away from him. “Just like he can’t be pet while he’s on duty.” He knows he sounds tense and kind of rude now but damn it he just wants to get from the bus to Cora’s to home so he can feed his kid and get her to bed.
The teens don’t say anything else, but he hears one whisper, “Isn’t that like animal cruelty, forcing your dog to work like that and you can’t even give it a treat. What’s the big fucking deal, anyway? Why do they let people do that?”
And part of him wants to explain how damn spoiled and loved Miguel is, and how he’s not just a dog, he’s literal family and he means more to Derek than most things. But what’s the point.
He just ignores it again, and hopes it goes away again.
But it doesn’t.
Because the teen decides to feed Miguel the ham anyway, and well…there’s only so much obedience a dog really can have and Miguel sometimes gets distracted.
Like with the meat. Which means Derek falls and busts his lip and his ribs, and he’s aching all over, and he can hear feet hitting the pavement because of course the kids aren’t going to stick around when they’ve realized their absolute colossal fuck-up.
Derek can hear cars, but they’re far off which means he has enough time to get back onto the sidewalk. Miguel whines and nudges him in apology and Derek huffs, putting his face into Miguel’s fur to let the dog know he’s okay. Then he stands and takes the harness again and he gets back on course to Cora’s.
He tastes blood on his lip and his ribs hurt like a bitch and he knows he probably looks like he got into a damn bar fight all because some kids couldn’t take no for an answer.
Cora is, as expected, royally pissed off and ready to march down the street with pitchfork in hand to skewer some teenagers. But Derek instead waves her off and gathers his sleeping daughter onto his shoulder. He doesn’t fight Cora when she insists on walking home with him—he appreciates her taking Miriam’s things, actually, and he also appreciates that she doesn’t stick around.
The thermometer chirps out that Miriam’s fever has gone mostly down, which probably means it’s just some gross virus, so he puts her to bed with a fresh dose of Tylenol and then he gets to the kitchen to microwave himself leftovers when he hears the front door open.
He freezes, then remembers it’s Stiles, who was at a teaching conference most of the day. He hears Stiles’ chattering trail off when he walks into the living room, and he knows it’s his face.
“Who did it?” Stiles demands, just like his damn sister.
“I fell,” Derek says.
“Okay,” Stiles replies slowly, and Derek can more feel the way the floor bows under Stiles’ steps than he can hear the footsteps, but he’s prepared for when Stiles’ arms go around him.
He’s not prepared for the pain, however. “Shit,” he hisses.
Stiles wrenches his hands back. “What happened.” It’s not really a request, and Derek feels a stab of annoyance because it’s just been a long day and having to recount the teenagers again is just a lot.
But he does. Because he knew if Stiles got hurt, he’d expect at least some explanation. “I don’t think it’s anything major.”
“Do you want me to look at your ribs? I took a couple of first aid classes you know… for the internship thingie. CPR and everything…”
“I don’t think I need CPR,” Derek deadpans.
“Yes, thank you captain obvious,” Stiles snarks back. “I might be able to tell if they’re broken. I’ve had a few broken ribs from lacrosse.”
Derek shrugs, then lets Stiles take his hand and pull him into the bathroom where Stiles claims the light is better. He sits on the toilet seat lid, cold even through his work pants, but he doesn’t fidget as Stiles’ fingers work at his buttons, and then lift his under shirt to reveal his torso.
Stiles’ fingers are warm, thank god, and they’re gentle enough, but the pressure still stings and he sucks a breath in through his teeth.
“I don’t think anything’s cracked or broken,” Stiles says after a long moment of poking at him. “But uh…you’re going to have some nasty bruising. Do you want me to drive you to the ER just to check it out?”
Derek sighs, and gently pushes Stiles’ hands away so he can tug his shirt down. “I really can’t. Mimi’s got a fever, and I can’t miss class tomorrow. It’s just been…” He bows his head, and his forehead touches Stiles’ chest which feels just…so nice. So comforting. He just wants to curl up there and exist forever. “It’s been a day.”
“Aww babe. Look, let me like…I don’t know, do a food thing? I’ll go get some soup or something, and you can just chill on the couch until Mims wakes up. Soup is good for colds, right?”
Derek snorts, then says, “Go to the deli up the street, you know, on the corner of seventh?”
“Yeah,” Stiles says.
“Get her the chicken soup,” Derek says. “And I want pastrami. Extra meat. Maybe falafel on the side? Comfort me with food,” he demands, then delights in Stiles laughing, in Stiles touching his cheek and drawing him in for a kiss careful enough not to pull at his healing lip.
“Yeah, yeah. Spoiled ass,” Stiles mutters, but he helps Derek stand up with minimal pain, then even gets him an ice pack. Normally Derek hates when people do shit for him, but this feels like a boyfriend spoiling him, not like an implication he can’t take care of his own bruising. And it’s been a really long time since Derek let anyone fuss over him.
He doesn’t hate the way Stiles tucks him into the throw blanket on the back of the couch. He certainly doesn’t hate the way Stiles kisses his forehead, then his nose, then a drawn out one to his mouth. “I’ll go easy on you tonight, tiger,” he says with promise.
Derek snorts and shoves at him. He can hear the jeep puttering down the driveway, and down the street.
---
Miriam is awake but pretty low affect when Stiles finally gets back. She perks up a little when he walks in the door, and she gets excited because he heats her soup and serves it in her Moana bowl, and Derek gets his sandwich and one of the fizzy grapefruit drinks Stiles remembered he loved.
They snuggle together under Derek’s crappy guest comforter with Miriam between them, and Stiles is flipping through Netflix trying to find something they can all stand to watch that hasn’t been played four-hundred and eighty thousand times in the last three days.
“Oh! Quest for Camelot. Tell me you love this one.”
Derek snorts, and Stiles huffs.
“Come on! Blind protagonist who kicks ass and doesn’t get a magical cure in the end? He stays awesome and blind, and gets the girl?”
Derek hums, but it’s only because he likes fucking with Stiles. “I don’t know. The music is kind of…eh.”
“Leanne Rimes, dude! Retro. Iconic.”
“God, is the nineties really retro?” Derek complains, but Stiles takes that as a yes and he puts the movie on. Miriam hasn’t really been into it, but she doesn’t turn it down often because she likes dragons and sword fights and magical jungles.
It doesn’t have audio description but frankly that’s kind of a relief considering he just kind of wants to let his brain fade into white-noise.
Derek eats, then ends up dozing with Miriam as Stiles lets Miguel out, then cleans up after them. Derek’s chest is starting to feel tight, and he’s only really half aware of Miriam leaving his arms and being put into her bed.
When he sits up, his head swims and he grips the arm of the couch before he falls over. Stiles is there and his hand is almost too cool against him. “Oh god, I don’t feel well.”
“You’re burning up. Come on, big guy. Meds and bed. You’re also calling in sick tomorrow.”
“That’s not an option,” Derek mutters, but the more he moves, the worse he feels, and fuck. Cesspool children and their germ-sharing nonsense. Being a teacher is such a curse sometimes.
“It is an option if I text Laura and tell her you’re snuggling right into your death bed,” Stiles declares as Derek kicks off his pants and falls onto his cool pillow in just his boxers and under-shirt.
“You’re so dramatic. Just…do me a favor and grab me the bottle of Advil from the medicine basket in the pantry. Then you should get out of here.”
“What?” Stiles asks, and sounds genuinely confused, and maybe a little hurt. “Do you really want me to go? I mean…I mean I totally can, you know. I get it, shit’s not fun when you’re sick but…”
“You can’t afford to miss days,” Derek says. His throat’s starting to feel scratchy. Great. “You can’t get this.”
“News flash,” Stiles says, and then his hand touches Derek’s chest lightly, “but if I’m going to catch this, it’s already too late. I put my tongue in your mouth. All up in your mouth.”
“Stiles,” Derek groans.
“God you know I love when you say my name,” he says, and gives Derek’s thigh a light slap before pushing up from the bed and heading down the hall.
Derek knows he should be more annoyed, should be more frustrated, but instead he just feels loved and cared for, and almost afraid because this is so much of what he’d always wanted for himself. A partnership, someone who just wanted to co-exist the way couples did without everything being a big damn production.
And right now it feels like that’s exactly what he has.
He’s afraid, because he’s not often this lucky. At least, not with love, and this feels like it could really, really be something.
Stiles returns with room temperature tap water and the bottle. Derek checks the braille label, then pops two into his hand and swallows them down. “I need to get up in a few hours to check Mimi.”
“I’ll set my alarm,” Stiles says. “I’ll take first shift. I’m not tired yet, and I have some studying to do. You can take the next, okay?”
And there’s this moment, soft but kind of profound because this is it. This is what normal parents do. They’re a team, and they trade off, and it’s just…a thing. It’s just standard. And he’d always wondered what it might have been like to have another parent at home, to have someone else to trade off with, and to take an hour or two of pacing with the screaming newborn.
It’s four years later, and he weathered that all himself, and honestly he thought he was never going to want to share these things with anyone else. After all, he’d worked so hard to get here all on his own that he thought it might feel like cheating. But it doesn’t.
Stiles crawls in next to him, and Derek curls his body against him. Stiles is siting up with a book on his lap, so Derek slings an arm over Stiles’ waist and buries his face against his ribs, and lets the warm touch bring down his fever, and comfort him.
It’s just…nice. That’s the sort of magic of it. It’s not complicated, and it’s not some fairytale trying to convince him it’s going to be all Disney songs and never fighting, and forest animals doing their laundry or whatever. And that alone is a thought that comforts him, even as Stiles’ hand slips into his own, and holds tight as he drifts off to sleep.