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“My elbow is killing me,” Stiles groans from the living room.
“You been jerking it too much?” Scott asks, the leer obvious in his voice.
Derek, grabbing snacks in the kitchen, really wishes he wasn’t hearing this conversation.
“Dude, no,” Stiles huffs. “I was tenderizing a lot of chicken last night.”
Scott laughs. “Isn’t that what I just said?”
Derek rolls his eyes, goes back to grabbing the chips and fruit.
“That wasn’t a euphemism,” Stiles says good-naturedly. “I was making chicken cordon bleu.”
“From scratch?” Scott says, sounding surprised. He’s a big fan of prepackaged meals and takeout. “Why?”
“It was, um,” Stiles says, his voice dropping lower.
Derek hesitates with his arms full of food, unsure if he should join them.
“Something my therapist recommended. She suggested I find something to do that required concentration, something hands-on. So, I decided to try cooking. My dad could use more home-cooked meals, anyway,” Stiles says.
“Cool,” Scott says enthusiastically. “I want to try some. Is it hard to make?”
Derek smirks, decides it’s probably safe to go back.
“Fairly,” Stiles says, standing to help Derek put the snacks on the table. “But I like a challenge.” He rips open a bag of chips, then winces, grabbing his elbow.
“Let me see,” Derek says, and gently cradles Stiles’ arm in his hands. He carefully probes all around the joint of Stiles’ elbow, intent.
“Well, what’s the verdict?” Stiles asks, one eyebrow raised.
“I can try to fix this,” Derek says. “But it’s going to hurt, and I won’t be able to take the pain away.”
“All right,” Stiles says easily. “It hurts all the time anyway.”
He sits back down on the couch, and Derek goes with him, settling close.
“Relax your arm,” Derek says, gripping Stiles’ bicep. “And don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he smirks, right before digging his thumb into the top of Stiles’ elbow.
“Ow!” Stiles hisses, trying to twist away.
Derek is completely unmoved, just continues to apply a constant pressure. He gives Stiles a pointed look.
Stiles visibly tries to relax his body. “I just wasn’t expecting it to hurt like that,” he says defensively.
“Like what?” Scott pipes up, leaning forward interestedly.
“Like a hot coal,” Stiles grits out, still hunching away a little. “Why can’t you take the pain away?”
“Because I need to know when it stops,” Derek says calmly.
“Stops?” Stiles says, disbelieving. “How is it ever going to—oh,” he says in surprise, cutting himself off. “Did you let up?”
“No,” Derek says, trying not to smile. He waits patiently.
“It stopped hurting,” Stiles says, sounding shocked. “Completely.”
“Good,” Derek says. “Time for the next muscle,” he says, moving his thumb over.
“Another one?” Stiles says dramatically, but he leaves his arm in Derek’s hands.
He ends up leaning back on the couch, eyes closed and face pinched, as Derek applies pressure to various points of his elbow.
“I need some oil for this last part,” Derek says. “But we’re almost done. Hold on.”
He returns moments later with his little container of coconut oil. He spreads some around Stiles’ elbow, then up his arm and all the way to his shoulder. He follows the path with his thumbs, digging in and sliding in long strokes up Stiles’ arm.
“Oh,” Stiles groans in surprise. “This doesn’t hurt.”
“No,” Derek says with a little smile. “I’m just smoothing everything out, making sure there aren’t any more trouble spots,” he says, gentling his touch even more.
“You really seem like you know what you’re doing,” Scott says, still watching with interest.
“I do,” Derek says, with one last stroke up Stiles’ arm. “I studied sports medicine in college.”
“Wow, really?” Stiles says, sitting up and looking more alert.
“Really,” Derek says, amused. “Try moving your arm, see how your elbow feels.”
Stiles moves it around tentatively at first, then becomes more confident. “It doesn’t hurt!” he says happily.
“It will tomorrow,” Derek says pragmatically. “It’ll feel pretty sore, and you’ll definitely need to ice it tonight. I’ll text you and remind you, okay?”
“Okay,” Stiles says agreeably. “Will do.”
*
It starts a precedent with the pack.
Lydia stops by when she pulls a muscle in her calf, politely asking Derek for help as she limps in.
Allison comes in next, with some back pain from doing awkward archery positions.
Derek tries to help them as best he can, and they are effusively grateful when they walk out. It gives him a good feeling, knowing he can help his pack like this, while doing something he enjoys.
*
Stiles, though, is the one who comes back most of all.
“Derek,” he calls as he lets himself in. “I need your skills.”
“What did you do this time?” Derek asks, raising an eyebrow.
“I hurt my shoulder at lacrosse practice today,” Stiles says. “Coach was in a bad mood, and he made me be goalie.”
“You did a lot of awkward flailing, didn’t you?” Derek asks, amused.
“I was totally professional and skillful,” Stiles answers, grinning. “Completely indistinguishable from a star athlete.”
“I’m sure,” Derek says wryly. “All right, take off your shirt.”
Stiles hesitates for just a second, but he pulls it over his head anyway. He stares at Derek, nervously crossing his arms over his chest.
“Is there a specific place where it hurts?” Derek asks.
Stiles waves his hand vaguely in the direction of his entire shoulder. “Kind of all over?” he says. “It’s hard to tell.”
“Okay, let’s see if we can figure it out. We’ll do a range of motion test. Copy me.”
Stiles moves his arm in every position and direction he asks for, wincing occasionally. He prods different areas of Stiles’ shoulder, noting the places that are tender.
“Well, I can work on this,” Derek says. “But you’ll have to lie down, and I don’t have a proper table. Do you mind using my bed?”
Stiles looks a little flustered at that, staring at Derek for a moment. Then he looks away, clearing his throat. “It’s, uh, that’s fine,” he says quickly.
“All right,” Derek says, leading him to the bedroom.
It’s when he gets Stiles settled comfortably face down that he realizes he may have made an error in judgement. Stiles looks so good, stretched out half-naked on his sheets.
It’s not something he’s likely to see again after he finishes therapy, so he takes a moment to really look, drinking in the relaxed lines of Stiles’ body.
He’s beautiful.
Derek shakes himself out of it, reminds himself that Stiles is here for his help, not his longing.
He grabs his pot of oil and pulls a chair up to the bed, sitting down near Stiles’ shoulder.
“You ready?” he asks, hands hovering.
“Yeah, go ahead,” Stiles mumbles into the pillow.
Derek lightly spreads the oil across Stiles’ shoulder, then does a few sweeps with his fingers, re-finding all the problem spots. He presses his thumb against the first knot he finds, trying not to laugh at Stiles’ dramatic groan of pain.
Then he moves to the next one, and then the next. Each area of irritated muscle seems to lead to another. He pushes against the muscle of Stiles’ upper shoulder, feeling it pop like a rubber band when he runs his thumb over it.
“Ow!” Stiles huffs, giving him a dirty look.
“It’s not supposed to do that,” Derek says, gently palpating around it.
“Duh,” Stiles says. “That really hurt.”
Derek rolls his eyes. “What I mean is, the muscle shouldn’t react like that. It’s at rest, it shouldn’t be carrying that much tension.”
“Oh, no,” Stiles says glumly, obviously already knowing what to expect.
“Yep,” Derek says. “To get it to loosen up, I’m going to have to put pressure on it, possibly for thirty seconds or more.”
“All right,” Stiles says with a sigh. “Bring it.”
Derek does. “You have a lot of trigger points in this area, and they definitely didn’t all happen today. So how long have you actually been in pain?” he asks.
“Uh,” Stiles says, clearly trying not to squirm under the pressure of Derek’s thumb. “I think it started when I knocked out that creepy beta with my baseball bat. It doesn’t hurt all the time, but lacrosse practice sure doesn’t help.”
Derek nods. He remembers that night well. He’d beat the rival alpha he’d been fighting and hurried over, expecting to rescue Stiles.
Instead, he’d found him standing over a bloodied, unconscious beta, casually spinning his bat. It had been a moment of revelation for Derek, realizing that Stiles really could take care of himself, even in a dangerous world filled with supernatural creatures.
He’d given Derek a sly look, and nudged the beta with the toe of his sneaker. “Want to take out the trash?” he’d said, sharp and confident, and Derek had found himself weirdly turned on.
His attraction to Stiles had become a pretty consistent problem after that.
Derek pulls himself back to the present. “You need to start stretching,” he says. “And you let this injury go a long time, so it’s going to take several sessions before it really gets better,” he says.
Stiles makes an affirmative noise. “That’s cool, I trust your methods. My elbow hasn’t bothered me at all since you worked on it.”
Derek digs into a particularly tender spot, and Stiles yelps. “You’re going to be sore, probably for several days,” he says. “And once you recover, you’ll need to come back for another treatment.”
Stiles nods casually, but Derek can see how tightly his hand is clenched in the sheets. He hates that he’s hurting Stiles, but he knows it’s for a good reason.
“I have to talk to get through this,” Stiles says. “So tell me, is anyone else taking advantage of your skills?”
“Allison and Lydia both came by,” Derek says. “None of the others really need my help, since they have their healing. Though Isaac likes to come by for tension-relief therapy for his hands.”
“Oh,” Stiles sighs when Derek gently soothes a sore spot with his thumb. “What’s that like?”
“I just use pressure points to release tension, then give a light massage. A lot of people find it soothing,” Derek says, moving to the top of Stiles’ shoulder and digging in.
“Mmm,” Stiles says, tilting his head to look at Derek.
“Now you want one too, don’t you?” Derek asks teasingly.
“I—” Stiles says, flushing. “You don’t have to. You’re doing more than enough for me,” he says, burying his face back in Derek’s pillow.
“All right,” Derek says easily, because Stiles seems unsure, and Derek doesn’t want to push him. “I’m almost done, just a few more minutes,” he says reassuringly.
Stiles just nods.
*
Stiles calls him the next afternoon.
“Derek,” he groans over the line. “I’m so sore!”
“I did warn you,” Derek says, tucking the phone against his shoulder so he can keep chopping vegetables. “It’ll feel better once you ice it.”
“I’m doing that right now,” Stiles says. “I’m still waiting for it to work, though. I figured you could distract me.”
He’d never admit it, but the idea that Stiles thinks he’s distracting enough to reduce his pain warms Derek’s heart.
“Did you play today?” he asks, pouring chicken broth into a pot.
“Nah, I skipped out,” Stiles says. “That’s the benefit of being a benchwarmer. If you don’t show up to practice, Coach usually doesn’t remember that you’re supposed to be there.”
“That’s one outlook,” Derek says, amused. “I hope you remembered to do your stretches.”
“Of course,” Stiles huffs. “I wouldn’t let you down. Though honestly, I was so achy I could barely do some of them.”
“That’s normal,” Derek says, beginning to slice up the chicken. “You’ll start feeling better after tomorrow. Then you can come back for more, if you want.”
“Yeah of course,” Stiles says. “I want to feel better, even if it hurts in the beginning.”
Derek hears some rustling over the line.
“My shoulder is starting to get numb, and just in time. My ice pack is melting,” Stiles says. “Hey, what are you up to?”
“Just making dinner,” Derek says, washing his hands.
“Oh, you cook too?” Stiles asks excitedly.
“Sometimes,” Derek says. “Mostly I just make a big pot of soup and eat it all week.”
“I do that too,” Stiles says. “So my dad has leftovers to take to work. If you don’t mind, could I have some of your recipes?”
“Sure,” Derek says. “I’ll give them to you next time you’re here. What kind of stuff have you been making?”
He finishes cooking dinner to the sound of Stiles talking about chicken cordon bleu and brown rice casserole and beef stew.
*
“I actually feel a lot better,” Stiles says a few days later, strolling into the loft. “It hardly hurts at all now.”
“Well, we’ll see if we can get it to not hurt at all,” Derek says. He gestures to the bedroom. “You ready?”
“You know it,” Stiles says, stripping off his shirt and flopping down on Derek’s bed. “I did really well at practice today.”
“Oh, yeah?” Derek says, warming the oil in his hands before spreading it on Stiles’ shoulder.
“Well, I must have,” Stiles says, grinning. “Coach told me he wants me to play first line Friday night.”
“That’s great,” Derek says, meeting Stiles’ gaze. “I’ll try to make sure you’re not too sore,” he says, carefully probing Stiles’ shoulder with the tips of his fingers.
“It’s still a few days away,” Stiles says, dropping his head onto Derek’s pillow. “So I should be fine.” He peeks up at Derek. “Are you gonna be there?”
“Of course,” Derek says. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Good,” Stiles says happily, then winces when Derek pushes at a knot at his shoulder blade.
Derek waits patiently for Stiles to tell him when it stops hurting, then moves on to the next one.
“Wow, that’s really painful,” Stiles says in a flat monotone.
Derek knows it’s a coping mechanism. Stiles likes to be sarcastic, even about his pain.
“Does it radiate anywhere?” he asks.
“What do you mean?” Stiles says, squinting up at him.
“Well, is the pain localized right where my thumb is, or does it spread out anywhere?”
“It actually, like, hurts too much to tell,” Stiles huffs.
Derek eases up the pressure a little, curious.
“Oh,” Stiles says in surprise. “It does!”
“Where?” Derek asks, because that’ll be another area he needs to work on.
“It goes right under my arm, and then up, all the way to my collar bone,” he says. “Weird.”
“Not really,” Derek says. “Muscles are an interconnected system, intended to work together. And you need to take better care of yours,” he says sternly.
Stiles grins up at him. “I certainly will, now that you’re here to help me.”
Derek pushes Stiles’ face back down to the pillow before he can see his smile. “Do you get headaches?” he asks.
“Uh, sometimes,” Stiles says, muffled by the pillow. “Why?”
“I have a theory,” Derek says, bringing his oil-slick hand to the back of Stiles’ neck. He palpates along the vertebra, searching. When he finds a bunched-up muscle he lightly presses with his thumb, and Stiles jolts.
“How about that?” Derek asks. “Does that radiate?”
“Yeah,” Stiles groans. “Right up to the top of my head.”
“I figured,” Derek says. “You have a lot of tension here.”
He moves his thumb to another knot, and Stiles flinches again.
“That one goes all the way out to the end of my shoulder,” he mumbles.
Derek lets up the pressure. “I can work on this, and you’ll feel a lot better, but…” he says, trailing off as gently squeezes the back of Stiles’ neck.
“But what?” he asks, tilting his head to see Derek.
“It’s going to hurt. More than the others,” he hurries to say, when Stiles opens his mouth to comment. “It’ll be constant and unrelieved, and that’s the pain people have the most difficulty enduring. It’ll be intense,” he warns.
“That’s okay,” Stiles says. “I trust you.”
Derek feels his whole body flush at that, but he just nods at Stiles and begins.
“Okay,” Stiles gasps after a few seconds. “Okay, can I talk through this? I’m going to have to talk through this.”
“Sure,” Derek says, his thumb unyielding on Stiles’ neck. “What do you want to talk about?”
“Anything,” Stiles says, irritably kicking one of his feet against the bed. Then he looks guilty. “Sorry, it’s hard for me to keep still,” he says.
“It’s fine,” Derek says. “Whatever helps. Just don’t bite me.”
“What?” Stiles says, his look of disbelief apparent, even though his face is half-buried in the pillow.
So Derek launches into the story of the college baseball player who got aggressive while Derek was working on his ac joint.
“He didn’t tell me he’d gotten a cortisone shot there just the day before, so of course it was really tender,” Derek says. “I started putting pressure, because I could feel a knot, and he just bit me!”
“Oh my god,” Stiles says, laughing. “That would only happen to you.”
“It was ridiculous,” Derek says. “I mean, I’m the werewolf. If anyone should be biting anyone, it should be me,” he says, moving his hand to a new spot on Stiles’ neck.
“How’d you react?” Stiles asks, still snickering.
“Had to do my best human impression,” Derek says, rolling his eyes. “I jumped back and covered the bite with my hand, so no one could see it healing. Some of the other players reported it to the coach, and the guy almost got kicked off the team.”
“Almost?” Stiles says, one eyebrow cocked.
“Well, there was no wound,” Derek says, laughing. “So there was no proof. And it was the first time he’d done anything like that. So instead of being ousted, he had to apologize to me. But he was too embarrassed to do it in person, so he wrote a very formal letter instead,” he says, grinning. “The team was cracking jokes about the whole thing for weeks.”
“I’d imagine,” Stiles says with a muffled laugh. It cuts off, though, when Derek moves his hand to the base of his skull. “Tell me some more stories,” he says quickly.
“All right,” Derek says. “I once knew a basketball player who thought squats were an exercise intended only for women.”
Derek dredges up every funny story he knows, even those he’s only heard second-hand. He finds himself a little rusty, because he’s had no reason to say light hearted things for a long time.
But it feels good. To be helping Stiles, and even relieving some of his pain, in a different way than usual.
It feels good to be happy.
*
Derek goes to the game.
Stiles plays great, and Derek is surprised at the number of times Stiles seeks him out in the stands, eyes darting, grinning when he finally spots him.
Derek yells and cheers, shouting every time Stiles makes a play.
He keeps getting looks from the guy next to him, though, and it starts to make him edgy.
“You should have brought a sign,” the guy says suddenly.
“What?”
“A sign,” the guy says like it’s obvious. “It’s what my daughter does when someone she cares about is playing. She makes a sign.”
“Oh,” Derek says in surprise. “Maybe I’ll bring one next time.”
*
Stiles calls him the next morning, before he has to go to school. “I’m pretty sure my head is going to fall off,” he says dramatically. “I keep forgetting how sore my neck is. Then I turn my head to look at something, and boy, do I remember then.”
Derek finds himself smiling. “Take an ice pack with you,” he suggests.
“Also,” Stiles cuts in. “I had a freaky dream last night, where a guy turned into a werewolf because he bit you,” he huffs.
That startles a laugh out of Derek. “Do your stretches,” he says, shaking his head.
“I will. But since it’s your fault,” he says teasingly, “you should totally come over this afternoon and take my pain away.”
“I should, huh?” Derek says, raising an eyebrow even though Stiles isn’t there to see it. He’ll know anyway.
“Yep,” Stiles says cheerfully. “Then you can help me make dinner, too.”
“Wow, who could resist such an invitation?” Derek says dryly. “We’ll see.”
Stiles laughs. “It’s fine. Pretend you have to think about it.”
*
Though he’d sounded confident on the phone, Stiles still looks surprised to find Derek waiting in his bedroom.
“Hey,” he says brightly, dropping his backpack by the door.
Derek almost doesn’t catch his wince, but it’s there. “How’s the neck?”
“It hurts. All the way down to the bottom of my shoulder,” Stiles says tiredly. “I convinced Scott to do a pain-drain at lunch, but it didn’t last long.”
Derek nods. “That doesn’t surprise me. It works best with constant contact.”
“I figured. Come on, let’s go downstairs and get the soup going. It’s gotta cook for more than an hour, and I want it to be ready when dad gets home.”
“All right,” Derek says, standing from the bed and following Stiles to the kitchen.
He helps chop vegetables and measure ingredients, working smoothly with Stiles. He sets the lid on the pot once they get it boiling, and then helps clean up the mess they made.
“Okay,” Stiles says. “Timer’s set, let’s go back upstairs.”
They end up stretched out on Stiles’ bed, watching a movie on his laptop. Derek cups his hand around the back of Stiles’ neck the entire time, gently massaging and draining the pain away.
Stiles must find it soothing, because it’s not long before his head is tipping against Derek’s chest as he falls asleep.
He’s still there when the Sheriff gets home.
Derek looks at his fond expression, and accepts his invitation to stay for dinner.
*
Despite how much he complained about his neck, Stiles just keeps coming back. He tells Derek he feels better than he has in a long time, and that makes Derek feel good all over.
He’ll work on whatever hurts that day, tries to soothe old injuries and past aches. He can’t fix everything, of course, but he tries.
He gets used to having Stiles in his space, can’t help savoring his presence.
“Hey, Stiles,” he calls from the couch as Stiles lets himself in.
“Hey,” Stiles says in return, flopping down next to him.
Derek sticks a bookmark in the latest tome he’s reading, sets it on the coffee table. “What’s up?” he asks, because Stiles looks worn down, tired.
“Um,” Stiles says, looking at him blankly for a moment. “Uh, it’s my wrist,” he says, quickly holding it out. “I think I strained it.”
Derek takes Stiles’ arm, gently runs his fingers over the muscle there. “Stiles,” he says carefully. “You don’t have to make up a reason to come over here,” he says, continuing his light massage.
“I, um,” Stiles starts, and Derek feels him tense up, lets him pull his arm away. He stares at Derek, assessing, then ducks his head. “So, my therapist encouraged me to start a hobby, and I picked cooking.”
“Right,” Derek says encouragingly, taking a deep breath and purposely relaxing his posture. He tries not to smile when Stiles subconsciously mimics him.
“And it’s been helping. But she also suggested that I would benefit from human contact,” Stiles says, then hesitates.
Derek nods, waiting, giving Stiles the time he needs.
“And I think that it does help. But it works best,” he says, flicking a glance Derek’s way, “when it’s you.” He shakes his head. “Even the painful therapy stuff. You know that night we watched a movie together? That was the best sleep I’ve gotten in a long time.”
Derek has a lot of things he wants to say, but he can’t find a way to express them right now. “Come here,” he says softly instead.
Stiles’ head comes up at that, a look of surprise replacing the one of embarrassment. “Really?”
Derek does let himself smile then. “Yes, really,” he says, holding his arms out invitingly.
Stiles is in his space faster than he would have imagined possible. He curls up against Derek’s chest, wraps his arms tight around Derek’s waist. He fully relaxes then, his body radiating contentment.
Derek holds him close, lets one hand card through the soft hair at the back of Stiles’ neck. Stiles sighs at that, and his eyes flutter closed.
Derek starts running his other hand soothingly across Stiles’ back, and doesn’t stop until he dozes off.
*
So it becomes a thing.
Stiles leans against Derek during pack meetings, snuggles with him during movie nights.
He even begins staying with Derek on the weekends. He spends his time sprawled across Derek’s bed, or laying on the couch with his head pillowed on Derek’s thigh, catching up on the sleep he’s missed all week.
Derek keeps expecting the Sheriff to burst in some Saturday, full of accusations, but it never happens. He sends Stiles home every Sunday happy and well-rested, and he supposes that’s enough.
All the contact is helping Derek’s own case of touch-starvation, and he spends his days feeling lighter, more content. Less at odds with the rest of the world.
So it’s wonderful, but it’s also terrible.
Because this is pretty much everything Derek’s ever wanted, but he knows it’s only temporary.
He’s trying to enjoy it while he can.
Then Stiles starts coming over even more often. He starts talking about the future, about his plans. He decides to attend Beacon Community in the fall, and brainstorms with Derek about career options and degree requirements.
Derek can’t help feeling relieved that Stiles isn’t going away for school.
Most of the pack is sticking around, actually, and it makes Derek feel settled, like he belongs. He feels like he has a home again.
Sometimes, he and Stiles cook together on weekends, trying recipes or making things up on the fly, and Derek loves it. He loves the look of delight on Stiles’ face when something they make turns out really good. Loves the look of accomplishment Stiles gets when he masters something new.
Really, he just loves Stiles.
Derek is lightly massaging Stiles’ shoulders one afternoon when he suddenly turns, a serious expression on his face. “Derek, I never know how much you do because you want to, and how much you do because you feel like you should.”
“What?” Derek says, confused, his hands stilling.
“Like, I love the touching, I love the contact,” Stiles says, looking pained. “But sometimes I feel like I’m getting the wrong idea, and I don’t want to do that. That’s not fair to either of us.”
“The wrong idea about what?” Derek says, feeling a bit of trepidation.
Stiles shifts all the way around then, and Derek lets his hands fall away. “I really like you,” he says. “And all of this, it’s making me feel like I have a chance, when I really don’t.”
“Don’t have a chance?” Derek repeats. “A chance a what?”
“Being with you,” Stiles says quickly, ducking his head.
Derek feels his heart race. “Stiles, everything I’ve been doing…I’ve been doing because I’m in love with you.”
He watches a multitude of expressions cross Stiles’ face, but he finally settles on a tentative smile. “I’m in love with you, too,” he says, sounding breathless.
He wraps himself around Derek, gently kissing him on the neck. “I feel like I’ve been in love with you forever,” he murmurs, his lips soft against Derek’s skin. “And I was so afraid you were doing all of this out of obligation.”
“No, never,” Derek says softly. “I loved helping you, loved spending time with you. I was wishing it could go on forever,” he says, a little embarrassed.
“Forever, huh?” Stiles says, pulling back enough to meet Derek’s eyes. He grins, tipping his head forward and giving Derek a lingering kiss on the lips. “That sounds pretty good to me.”