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Saturday mornings at Derek’s loft are the busiest, because his betas and Stiles have made it a habit to sleep over on Fridays after their weekly pack nights. Derek gets up with the sun, goes for a jog, and then comes back and fumbles around in the kitchen until something edible is somehow created. Boyd wakes at some point and makes himself a breakfast fit for a king, which he shares with no one. Then, when the morning is reaching closer to noon, Erica, Isaac, and Stiles wander down, looking like they haven’t slept in a year, despite getting more sleep than anyone could possibly need.
Today is no different. Derek is in the kitchen, staring at the carton of eggs on the counter, when Erica and Isaac walk in sluggishly, sporting crinkled pajamas and sleep-mussed hair.
“Whatcha doin’, boss man?” Erica asks, going up to Derek.
“I want to make an egg, but I’m not totally sure what I’m doing,” Derek replies.
“What kind of egg?” Erica asks.
“The one with the liquid yolk.”
“Pan-fried, poached, or soft-boiled?”
“Not boiled. I want the yolk to be runny .”
“Yeah...soft boiled is runny.” Isaac insists.
Derek just stands there, staring at him in confusion.
“I think you mean hard-boiled,” Erica says.
“Since when were there two different types of boiled eggs?” Derek asks, exasperated.
Erica and Isaac stare at him, mouths open.
“Jesus,” Erica groans, rolling her eyes. “Stiles!” she shouts into the other room. “Come get your man!”
A few seconds later, Stiles stumbles into the kitchen with a gravity-defying case of bedhead, blinking blearily.
“What’d he do now?” Stiles asks with a fond sigh.
“I just wanted an egg,” Derek says defensively.
“What kind of egg?” Stiles asks.
“The, you know—” Derek splutters. “The normal one!”
Stiles squints at him, one eyebrow arched.
“See what we’re dealing with here?” Isaac asks.
“All kinds of eggs are normal eggs, Derek,” Stiles says, and then pauses, eyes growing wide. “Unless...wait, are dragons real? Do you have a dragon egg hidden somewhere in this loft? Tell me you’re not making dragon omelettes.”
Derek sighs and rolls his eyes.
“No, I mean the ones that come from chickens.”
“Okay, but that doesn’t answer my question. Are dragons real, and if so—”
“You know, I’m actually getting pretty good at poaching eggs,” Isaac says thoughtfully.
Stiles pauses mid-ramble, sticking a pin in the dragon debate because they are so circling back to that. Because yeah, he’ll be damned if dragons are real and he doesn’t end up with his very own Toothless.
“Oh really?” he asks, turning to Isaac. “It’s been a while since I’ve made them.”
“What the fuck is a poached egg ?” Derek asks, eyes narrowed.
“It’s like boiling them, but without the shell,” Isaac supplies.
Derek looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm.
“Why would anyone do that?” he asks, incredulous.
“Because it’s delicious ,” Erica says. “Why do you breathe ?”
“But how— how does that... work ?” Derek asks.
“It’s easy,” Stiles says. “You just crack one into a pot full of water and wait about three minutes. They’re awesome on toast.”
“Oh, but make sure the water isn’t, like, boiling , because it’ll rip the eggs to shreds,” Erica notes. “Think bubbling, not boiling.”
“There’s a difference ?” Derek asks.
“Yeah. Boiling is big bubbles. What you want is small bubbles,” Stiles says.
“You wanna see the bubbles rising to the top, but not enough to make, like, waves , y’know? You don’t want it looking angry ,” Erica says.
“I’ve been boiling water with the small bubbles my entire life,” Derek says quietly.
Stiles leans forward, draping an arm around Derek’s shoulders.
“It’s okay, that’s a good way to cook food,” he says reassuringly.
Derek shrugs him off and rolls his eyes.
“Simmer,” Boyd perks up from the kitchen table.
They all turn to look at him, eyebrows raised.
“What you mean is that you’re supposed to bring it to a simmer ,” Boyd clarifies.
“What?” Erica asks, confused.
“Never mind,” Boyd sighs, shaking his head and turning his attention back to his breakfast. Derek turns back to face Stiles, Isaac, and Erica, a bewildered expression on his face.
“I’ve literally never even heard of poaching eggs before,” he says.
“What, were you raised by wolves, or something?” Stiles quips, fighting back a smirk as Derek levels him with a withering glare.
“There’s also eggs in a basket, where you fry up the egg right in the middle of the toast,” Isaac offers up, hoping to drag their attention back to the conversation so he doesn’t have to endure another round of flirtatious bickering.
“Derek isn’t advanced enough in the art of the egg for eggs in a basket,” Stiles chuckles. “Our Sourwolf needs to start off with baby steps.”
“Pro-tip: a spoonful of vinegar helps keep everything together when poaching,” Isaac advises.
“That’s great, but can we move on from poaching?” Derek asks. “That’s not what I want.”
“Hold on—” Erica says. “You put vinegar in your eggs, Isaac?”
“It helps,” Isaac shrugs.
“But at what cost ?” Erica exclaims. “Derek, sweetie, please don’t put vinegar in your eggs. All you need to do is stir the water a little bit before you drop the egg in.”
“The egg doesn’t taste like vinegar,” Isaac protests.
“If you can’t taste vinegar , then you shouldn’t be allowed to make any contributions to this conversation,” Erica decides. “I’ll bet your eggs taste like shit.”
“Wait, doesn’t Boyd, like, actually cook?” Stiles realizes, turning to look at him. “Why aren’t you helping us? You are literally a chef.”
“I don’t like eggs,” Boyd insists, completely straight-faced as he shovels a whole fried egg into his mouth.
“That right there!” Derek says, pointing to the golden-yolked egg speared on the end of Boyd’s fork. “I just want one with the fucking yolk on top. It shouldn’t be this complicated.”
“Oh, that’s a fried egg,” Erica says.
“I— sure, whatever the fuck they’re called,” Derek groans, throwing his hands into the air.
“Okay, so you’ll need a frying pan,” Erica says.
“Yeah, thanks. I know that much,” Derek grumbles.
“Well, you didn’t know that three types of eggs even existed before this morning, and you’re twenty-six years old, so I had to make sure,” Erica teases.
Fixing Erica with a weary glare, Derek reaches into the cupboard and withdraws a pan, places it on the stove, and sets the burner to the highest setting.
“No,” Stiles and Erica admonish at the same time.
Derek turns back toward them, frowning.
“I haven’t even touched an egg yet,” he grouses. “How can I possibly have already done something wrong?”
“If you want a crispy edge, you can set it to medium — but a high temperature will burn the shit out of your eggs,” Erica explains.
“Which will smell and taste horrible,” Isaac confirms.
“Yeah, always use a lower setting,” Stiles agrees. “Put a little butter or oil in the pan to coat the bottom, then crack the egg as close as you can to the pan so you don’t fuck up the yolk.”
“If the egg has a lot of fat, I usually wiggle the pan a little bit to let it droop, or the white won’t set right,” Erica says.
“Once the egg is in the pan, all you’ve gotta do is wait until it goes from a clear liquidy sort of slime to fluffy white, and you’re all set,” Stiles says. “And hey, if the yolk gets messed up, just turn it into scrambled eggs.”
Derek stares at him like he’s just rattled off instructions in a dead language.
“This is ridiculous,” he says. “I should’ve just cracked one into my protein shake like I usually do.”
Everyone in the room, even Boyd, who’s been pointedly ignoring this idiotic conversation, looks on in horror.
“I’m sorry, what the fuck did you just say?” Stiles gasps.
“You eat them raw ?” Isaac asks, lip curling in disgust.
“Who are you, Gaston ?” Stiles teases.
“Jesus, Derek,” Erica agrees. “You aren’t Rocky .”
“I— oh my god, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to kiss you again,” Stiles says, miming vomiting over his shoulder.
“Shut up,” Derek says defensively.
“No seriously, dude,” Stiles says. “That’s nasty .”
“That’s like eating a raw chicken embryo,” Isaac grimaces.
“I mean, it’s not like it’s fertilized ,” Erica corrects. “It’s more like a...chicken period .”
“Oh my god ,” Derek huffs, shoving the carton of eggs back into the fridge. “I’m never eating eggs again.”
Derek storms out of the kitchen to sulk in his bedroom, leaving Stiles, Erica, and Isaac to stand there for a moment, lips pursed to keep from bursting out laughing, and then—
“Wow, I never thought cooking lessons could be so eggshausting ,” Erica quips, smirk giving way to a full-blown shit-eating grin.
“Doesn’t even know what a poached egg is; thought we were going to have to eggsile him,” Isaac tacks on with a snort.
“Yeah, but what he lacks in cooking skills, he makes up for in looks, so I figure, eh, omlettin’ this slide,” Stiles says, and the three of them burst into giggles.
Amidst peals of laughter, Boyd makes his way over to the kitchen sink, carefully setting down his plate, and turning to make his way out the front door.
“I hope you’re happy,” he says, addressing the three of them with a reproving look on his face, and then his lips quirk into a wry smile. “Our poor alpha’s in there having an eggistential crisis.”