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May: An Apartment Full of Artichokes
"-and she's a second year at culinary school, so I know for sure she's not a vampire. Again. Too many courses in Italian."
"You don't need my permission to date someone, Stiles." Derek looked down. Not only had he dropped a stitch, he'd dropped it two rows back. Fuck. At least Stiles was just on speaker this time and couldn't see him fail at a basic purl. ("Just try it, Der. You need a hobby that isn't growling at teenagers. People are starting to talk.")
"Not asking permission, D. Just giving you a heads up. Like we've agreed to do, oh alpha my alpha. Because we're a team, and it goes both ways, right? Right?"
"Thanks for keeping me informed, Stiles."
"Hey, man, no problem. Anyway, Lien and I are talking about getting an apartment together. That way I have somewhere to stay while I finish off a few jobs and she gets to live somewhere with a kitchen."
Derek dropped his needles.
"You want to move in with a girl you've been dating for less than two months?"
"We hooked up one time. I don't think the erotic tension's so high that it'll ruin our ability to make a chore chart. Lien's a bro. Last week she took me to the pho place in the state and then I told her about my favorite fry truck; now we have an unshakeable food bond. Plus her aunt's a witch, so-"
". . . she knows you're a witch? Stiles-"
"Not my fault! Not my fault. She saw my smudge sticks and crystals when she was at my place. My people know her people, Derek; she's been vetted. She's cool. Definitely not trying to murder me or anyone I know. Plus she's gonna teach me how to cook."
"You know how to cook."
"Yeah, and I have no idea how any of you are staying alive without my mad skills-with-a-z. But now I'll learn how to cook professionally, from a super-hot semi-professional chef. Stiles Stilinski, pack MVP. High-five!"
Derek could feel a headache coming on, which had absolutely nothing to do with Stiles moving in with one of his occasional hook-ups and everything to do with totally reasonable concern over his future emissary's safety.
"Does this mean you aren't coming home this summer?" How much feigned disinterest was too much feigned disinterest?
"I will absolutely be back for most of July. Depends on how soon I can wrap up this whole translation gig. Uh. Speaking of which . . . can you spot me some cash? Lien and I found a place but I need money for the security deposit. I can pay you back next month! I will sell literally hundreds of 'good luck' charms during finals next week but we're definitely going to be sniped if we don't take the place right now. The building's got in-unit laundry machines, Derek. I know people who would do dangerous things, filthy things for their own dryer."
Derek bit back the words 'my money is your money'. They'd had that argument often enough when the pack was sending out college applications; some of those wounds were still fresh. "'I charge seven percent interest."
A week later Stiles sent him a photo of some noodles and a salad, captioned 'pasta puttanesca: the official pasta of sex-workers ;) artichokes are in season big guy! eat their hearts out (after rubbing with lemon)'.
Derek's stomach growled.
September: Eggplant Lasagna is Good Against Lamias
"-leftovers never make it out of your wolf den alive, buddy, but if you could make a second pan for my dad I would be eternally grateful. Nothing earns you brownie points with the boss like a free dinner, my dude."
Derek laughed. "If I need brownie points from the Sheriff, I'll just bake him brownies."
"You wouldn't dare."
True.
"Seriously, big guy, if I catch so much as a whiff of cocoa- "
"Stiles," Derek huffed. "I promise I'll bring your dad all the eggplant lasagna his fridge can hold. Just. Just tell me about the drama professor. Do I need to fly out to the East Coast for a hunt or what."
"Right, right. Keep your pants on. Not that I wouldn't love to see the cavalry, but you can call off the pups of war. I mean, well, Professor Katsouras is definitely a lamia. Very much a snake woman. Astonishingly befanged, as previously noted. Literally no one's surprised; the Stilinski detective instincts remain flawless. But turns out she's got a truce going with the Greenbrier pack! Which yours truly did not predict. Actually I think the whole thing might have been a test from Penrose. Hey, did you know-"
Derek drowsed a little on his stool while Stiles free-styled a lecture on the history of mythical creatures in the arts.
Yesterday, the pack's new kitchen had still reeked of fresh paint and sawdust. Today, the smell of roasting eggplant had finally covered it up.
He could breathe again.
They should cook more often, Derek thought. And maybe invite the Sheriff over.
Stiles probably hadn't even told his dad he was stalking a dangerous mythical creature. If he couldn't make the boss brownies . . .
"-forgot to wring out the spinach, so don't fuck that up-"
The first batch of lasagna was under-seasoned and a little burnt around the edges. Derek still polished off half the pan before Boyd made it home to ask about what smelled so good.
December: C is for 'Couldn't make it :(' Cookies
Stiles didn't make it home for Christmas.
He did seem genuinely depressed about it (which made Derek's stomach churn) even though he was bailing on them to drive up to Vermont with his mentor and investigate a haunted ski-lodge. Erica had shouted '"Holy pianola, Batman. you are literally living out my Scooby-Doo Christmas dreams," over Derek's shoulder into the Skype window, and then shoved him out of the way so she and Stiles could talk about the Mystery Inc. gang for two hours straight. That seemed to cheer Stiles up, especially when Derek 'accidentally' outed himself as a Pup Named Scooby-Doo fan.
It was for a worthy cause.
Having most of the pack home for winter break did a lot to ease the ever-present itch under his skin. Alpha problems. All those pack bonds pulled taut as bowstrings had finally relaxed. There was still an ache in Derek's ribs where Stiles should have been, but-
-but he, Boyd, and Cora went out into the Hale woods and cut down a pine tree that barely fit through the front door, and-
-and Erica made everyone go ice-skating, where they all watched in awe as Malia somehow pulled off a triple-axel, and-
-and Isaac brought home his roommate's copy of Settlers of Catan and insisted everyone play in their pajamas, and-
-and Kira and Scott took everyone out caroling so Derek had time to actually wrap gifts and brought them back at two in the morning, tipsily demanding figgy pudding, and-
-and Cora and Isaac got into such a loud shouting match over tinsel arrangement that Boyd picked them both up and threw them out the front door into a snowbank, and-
-and Melissa showed up early for Christmas dinner to drink wine in Derek's kitchen and criticize his knife skills, and-
-and The sheriff called Derek 'son' three separate times and insisted on carving the roast beast himself, and-
And a pair of packages arrived on Derek's doorstop a day before Christmas: a sugary crate marked 'PACK' and a second, smaller box with 'For the birthday wolf ONLY!!! PAWS OFF!! This means YOU Catwoman!!!!' scribbled in glitter gel pen on a festive gift tag sticker.
Inside, the birthday wolf found a pair of neatly wrapped books, three recycled Danish butter cookie tins, and a polaroid of Stiles grinning like a loon in the scarf /hat combo Derek had spent a month knitting for him. The paperback copy of Hogfather had a post-it stuck to the front: 'puppies get the DVD because they're illiterate savages' and a little inky '<3'. Derek's own heart leapt embarrassingly at the sight of it.
The tins were full of dense gingerbread wrapped in wax paper. Stiles had made good on previous threats; he'd punched out cookies with a wolf-shaped cookie cutter (where had he gotten a cutter with sideburns?) and used licorice Twizzlers to give each one a set of angry eyebrows.
(Derek set a shot of the cookie with the bushiest eyebrows as his new cell background.)
The gingerbread was dense, spicy, and delicious. And there was something there underneath the ginger and clove; every thick slab was dusted with the magical energy that had crackled off Stiles even before he started his apprenticeship. (And powdered sugar.) Derek could taste salt, ozone, caramel . . . and a sudden longing to hear Stiles' voice.
"Are you busy? I, uh, we just got your packages. Wanted to say thanks. How's the undercover mission going?"
" . . ."
"A baby yeti? Scott'll never forgive you if you didn't get pictures. Mm? I'm making some hot chocolate to wash down all this gingerbread. Uh-huh. What about eyebrows? I don't know, Stiles; I didn't notice."
" . . ."
"Didn't even last an hour. Isaac wants more of the ones with the Hershey's kisses, Boyd wants your sugar cookie recipe, and Malia's got a whole list of demands. They miss you."
" . . ."
"Yeah. Me too. I miss you, too, Stiles."
April: Blooded Wards and Cherried Waffles
"- I texted Cora the map of where I put the runes, but they'll still need alpha blood every new moon to stay fresh and strong. Just a drop in the center, and, Der, promise me you won't cut open a major artery because you got mad at your wolverine healing factor again; Scott'll show you - oh, Lien's back! Did you get the eggs?"
Stiles disappeared from in front of his laptop and came back hauling groceries and his roommate.
"Derek, Lien. Lien, this is Der, literally the only Cali friend I have that can boil water without burning it."
Lien waved. She was petite, pretty, and her tank top showed off a running start on her set of chef tattoos. The bare arm she wasn't using to wave was wrapped tight around Stiles' back.
Derek struggled not to growl at her. He could feel his fangs poking at his gums like he was fourteen again.
"Are you the one who bought him the waffle maker for his birthday?"
"That was Isaac. He also bought me a waffle maker, but it's back home. So I can make post-graduation waffles for him."
"Well, tell Isaac thanks from us!"
Stiles leaned in. "Lien's going to make these for her girrrlfrieeeend. Breakfast in bed; very romantic."
"Keep my lady's name out of your mouth, Stilinski." She gave him a little shove. Derek didn't even notice if she got handsier. The magical word 'girlfriend' was ringing merrily in his ears. "So I've never made bánh kẹp lá dứa myself but we get them all the time when we visit my granny in Da Nang and they're supposed to be pretty easy. Did you get the pandan extract okay? Stiles wanted me to mail you some."
"They had it at the farmer's market."
"Cool." Lien started measuring flour and Stiles scooted back on camera, this time sitting backwards in a rolling chair.
"We went to the farmer's market, too," he said, showing Derek a bowl of dark, glossy cherries. "My job's making compote. We thought it'd look pretty on green waffles."
Derek said, "You're guying to let this guy boil alcohol in your kitchen?"
Lien flashed him a grin. "Stiles was right! You're funnier than you look."
"And he's already pretty funny looking."
Derek met that one with an eye roll. Stiles stuck out his tongue, then plucked a cherry out of the bowl, and popped it into his mouth whole. "Check it out, I finally figured out how to do the knot thing with my tongue."
Christ.
Here lies Derek Hale. Killed by his own emissary with nothing but a cherry stem from two thousand miles away.
Seeing how Stiles' forearms flexed as he stirred coconut milk into the batter didn't help. Neither did watching him dexterously crack eggs. Neither did the sounds Stiles made when he took his first bite of a waffle sandwich with vanilla ice cream and hot cherry compote. If that apartment didn't have thick walls the neighbors were going to phone in an obscenity complaint.
Derek was going to be eating secret waffles for the rest of the week; any werewolf with a working nose would know exactly how Derek felt about . . . 'cherries' from just a whiff of the batter. Maybe he should leave off the ice cream. Except . . .
Stiles had made it look (and sound) really damn good.
. . .
What the hell. He'd add a few extra miles to his next run.
June: Rhubarb Pie with a Big Scoop of Self-Reproach
Stiles was so busy finishing two separate degrees that he hadn't had time to Skype cook with Derek in weeks. The only reason Derek even knew he was alive was because Stiles kept sending him links to turkey chili recipes with captions like 'yum :D' and 'invite my dad over'.
He missed Stiles' attention just slightly less than he would have missed one of his lungs.
And that was before he found out Stiles wouldn't be coming home after graduation.
"I thought Penrose said you could finish your apprenticeship online!" Scott elbowed his way to the front of the crowd gathered around Derek's laptop. "Stiles! Doesn't she know we need you here? Bro. Tell her we need our emissary back!"
Derek had never appreciated Scott more.
"I'm not happy about it either, pals," Stiles condoled. He didn't look happy, or even awake, which made Derek feel even worse. One more problem Stiles' alpha couldn't solve. "Penrose isn't letting me go until I ace my practical. She's worried I'll strike us all down with lightning. Pfft. Ridiculous."
"Solution," Malia interrupted. "We kidnap you both; you finish wizard school here."
"She would kill you in your sleep and pin your hide to the wall as a warning to the others. Look, I'm going to pass advanced potions if it kills me. I'll have plenty of time now that I graduated. And sleep's basically optional if you have enough of that sweet, sweet caffeine elixir. You mundanes may refer to her as 'coffee'."
"Stiles."
Stiles ran a hand over his face. "Just a few more months. What price a few all-nighters if they get me home before Christmas?"
So. Fine. Stiles would spend a few more months working around the clock to prove to his tutor that he was ready to do magic unsupervised. Derek could pick up a few extra shifts at the station. That way they'd both be busy. And if they were both busy Derek wouldn't be tempted to pester Stiles into wasting his study time by teaching Derek how to spice meatballs.
Not that Stiles couldn't take breaks however he wanted.
He just.
He just hadn't expected Stiles to waste time with a week-long graduation trip. Especially not after he hadn't even let the pack fly out for the ceremony ('I know, like, fifty people who gonna film it. We should save the party for when I'm actually free'). But it was no problem for him to go off to a lakeside cabin in upstate New York with a car full of 'friends' none of them even knew-
-which was fine, of course. It was great. Stiles deserved a vacation. He'd been busting his ass off for Derek's for the pack's sake. A week in some dank, mildewy cabin was the least he deserved. Derek could have taken him somewhere nice-
He hadn't even known there was a trip until photos started showing up in the group chat. There Stiles was, shirtless, laughing, surrounded by half-a-dozen other scantily clad ex-coeds in front of a lake, holding a cheap beer and a plate of pie. 'rhubarb is still the best pie scott :P'
Would it have killed Stiles to make a few less attractive friends? Every single one of these kids should have been too busy studying to work out; yet somehow they all had chiseled six-packs. Even Stiles, who had always had the muscle tone of a drowned whippet, had a pair of visible abdominals poking out from above his cargo shorts that Derek was trying very hard not to stare at. He felt like enough of a creep already.
When was the last time Derek had seen his own abs?
After he listened very hard to make sure he was alone, Derek lifted his shirt and frowned bitterly at the soft mound of dough that had appeared where a washboard once lived.
Stiles had done this to him, with all his food blogs and recipe testing and insistence that Derek snack with him during late-night calls. Morning jogs had no power against the walking, talking, tripping temptation that was Stiles Stilinski. And now Stiles would probably roll back into Beacon Hills with a surprise twenty-two year old fiancé(e) because he had been too good for Derek even before Derek turned into the world's first fat werewolf, flirting with senility as he tipped over the edge of thirty.
And now Derek wanted pie.
Fuck.
December, Again: Stiles' Secret Sernik (And Derek's Not-So-Secret Crush)
Stiles made it home for Christmas.
His plane touched down a few weeks before Derek's birthday. The pack had to take three separate cars to the airport so they'd have room for all the 'Welcome Home' signs. (Derek's living room floor was now mostly made of glitter.)
In a fit of desperate cowardice, Derek put on the thickest sweater he owned.
After the longest twenty minutes of Derek's life, someone finally shouted "There he is!" and Stiles was running down the tarmac to dive into a crowd of shouted werewolves like it was a mosh pit.
There was a lot of hugging (and some crying). Stiles hugged his dad, he hugged Scott and Boyd and Cora, he hugged at least one complete stranger just trying to get through the crush. Eventually the sea parted before Derek, who crushed him into his chest and buried his face in Stiles' neck.
"Whoa, sure, get in there, big guy. It's good to see you, too. Boy, are you cozy. Did you knit this sweater yourself? Is this a cashmere blend? Are those thumb holes? Jesus fuck, D, you are killing me."
Derek was too scent-drunk to process a single word.
Stiles was home.
A few days later Stiles kicked everyone out of the pack house. "Derek and I - stop making that noise - Der and I have very important alpha/emissary stuff to talk about. Shoo."
"You heard Mom, kids," Boyd pushed a protesting Scott and Malia out the door ahead of him. "He and Dad want some alone time."
"Fuck off, Vernon."
Boyd fucked off.
"So," Derek leaned back against the front door, just in case. "What do we need to talk about?"
"What? Dude. Nothing. We're baking a 'Congratulations, Stiles!' cake and I don't want to share it with that bunch of hyenas. Grab your coat - I left all the ingredients in the jeep and I need a big, strong werewolf to carry them in for me."
"I've only made twaróg twice before yesterday," Stiles admitted, unpacking a carton of eggs, "but I think it came out okay. Assuming I remember what it's actually supposed to taste like. This was my mom's favorite dessert," he added wistfully.
"My mom hated baking," Derek said. Stiles gave him one of those understanding looks he saved for Derek, who thought he might melt. Or kiss Stiles. Or-
"Beeteedubs, you have to swear on your life not to tell my dad about this; I have been lying to him about this recipe for years. 'Sorry, pops, it's not in mom's recipe box! She must have been making it from scratch. Let's have kutia instead!' If he knew how to bake one of these he'd be dead by the end of the year."
Derek looked down at the pile of butter, cheese, and sugar Stiles had unloaded onto the kitchen island. "Cross my heart."
Sernik was a demanding recipe. Cooking in person with Stiles was flat-out dangerous, and not just because it meant he had access to knives and an open flame. There was lot of elbow and shoulder touching. Stiles' long fingers hovered instructively over Derek's as they made spare pie crust into a clumsy lattice. Once, he instinctively reached over and brushed a streak of flour off Stiles' cheek. No apron in the world could fix the kind of mess Derek was making of himself.
"This actually has to cool before we can eat it. How about a movie?"
"Sure." Where was the rest of his pack? Had they all fallen off a cliff somewhere?
"I'm going to pick something seasonal," Stiles thumbed through the DVD binder. "Hey, who bought The Shop Around the Corner? Jimmy Stewart's a real dish in this. Don't you think he's dishy?"
"He's tall," Derek conceded, bristling.
"I've heard Lubitsch called this his best film. They shot it in-"
Stiles kept looking at him. Casting Derek, quick, furtive little glances as Stewart went on about the charms of his pen-pal. Like he was about to say something but kept chickening out. Maybe he had something on his face. Maybe he was sitting here like an idiot with eggshell in his beard.
"Do you mind if we pause-"
"No! Nope. Nada. Actually the cake's probably cool by now, should we. Do you want." Stiles wriggled on the couch, inching towards Derek's side. "Or. Uh. I was thinking. know what? Sernik is a heavy, heavy food; what if you let me suck you off before we eat? I hear post-coital cheesecake's-"
Derek was frozen like a deer in Roscoe's headlights.
"What." Derek swallowed. Stared. swallowed again. "What."
Stiles was turning a bright, blotchy red.
"Unless you don't - sorry, fuck; that sounded, like a zillion times smoother in my head. Are we not . . . I really thought we were on the same page with this one. Right? I wasn't imagining all that cross-continental sexual tension. I know we never said anything because I was stuck thousands of miles away and I didn't want to make it weird. Also there were a lot of babes at my college. But for like, the past year I've been thinking - okay, if I graduate and we're both single that's it. That's us."
Stiles thumped his head against the back of the couch. "Of course, I also thought I was going to use the plan. This was not the plan, D. I swear to Hecate I was going to wine and dine you the way you deserve but then I got off that plane and you looked so goddamn hot in your stupid fluffy sweater that I haven't been able to think straight-"
"I'm not."
"What? Straight? Dude, I know."
"No, I'm not-" Derek cleared his throat. The beard and the sweaters must have been really good camouflage. "I'm. . . Stiles, I've put on at least thirty pounds since you started college."
Stiles goggled at him. "Oh, thank fucking god." He scooted even closer until he was almost sitting in Derek's lap. "Dude. Isaac told me you were freaking out about a diet or something. I thought he was just fucking with me. Okay, so you're not - you're not shooting me down, you're just . . . adorable."
"What does that even - what are you doing."
"Der. Der, look at me." Stiles grabbed both sides of his face. "Holy shit, your beard's so fucking soft - focus, Stiles. Listen up, dummy. I'm not saying I never had a fear boner for the 2007 model Derek. I think Scott popped a couple of fear boners for Derek Mark-Whatever. But you were rough back then, my dude. Old Derek might've been a sexy bad boy, but he spent ten hours a day doing angry pull-ups and he looked like a guy who didn't know what sleep or hydration even meant. The elders call that a hot mess."
Stiles unhanded Derek's face and rested his palms gently, almost reverently, on Derek's stupid hand knit sweater. "But now? In the year of our werewolf lord 2014? After all the knitting and therapy and gainful employment in the service of the community? You look so good, D. All soft and warm and well-rested and well-fed. You look healthy. Like you drink eight glasses of water and eat three square meals a day. You look-" Stiles took a breathy pause and gazed down at Derek from under his long, Bambi lashes. "You look like somebody loves you."
Oh.
"Oh." Derek was too busy recontextualizing the implications of tri-weekly Skype dinners (full of heavy-handed references towards Stiles' roommate's girlfriend) to come up with a better response. "I."
"Der? Der-bear? Babe? You in there? Do I need to get out of your lap?"
Derek grabbed onto Stiles' hips so hard that they found bruises there the next morning.
"Hold on."
His voice was hoarse with surprise, but Stiles was in his lap, and he had one hand curled around Derek's neck, he was smiling hopefully at him, and - "After you went through all that trouble to turn me into a comfortable seat for your bony ass?"
Stiles hit him in the face with a throw pillow.
But he kissed it better.