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Derek is not a delivery driver. Derek works in publishing and he does not need 10% tips on overpriced pizza, nor does he need minimum wage. Derek especially does not need to put extra miles on his camaro or stress the suspension driving too fast over poorly paved roads so said overpriced pizza doesn’t go cold.
Laura, however, does not care about any of those things.
“I’ll fucking disown you, Derek, I swear to God,” she threatens. Derek can hear the clattering of pans in the background, “Goddamnit, Theo! In the fucking oven, not under it!” she continues without pausing, yelling at someone who is definitely not Derek.
“Call Cora,” Derek suggests flatly, tucking his phone between his shoulder and ear to bang out another passage of the translation his working on.
“Cora’s working,” Laura retorts, making Derek huff.
“So am I,” he points out, pausing in his typing to readjust his phone. He’s pretty sure he can actually hear Laura roll her eyes.
“Cora works set hours. I need you, Derek. Tom quit, Cindy got a goddamn DUI last night, and Teri no-called, no-showed me. It’s Friday, delivery orders are stacking up. Get your ass down here. Now,” Laura demands. Derek sighs all-sufferingly, saves his translation, and snaps his laptop closed.
“Half an hour,” he grumbles.
“Ten minutes,” Laura shoots back, and hangs up.
When Derek arrives at the ridiculously named Hale of a Pie (“Shut up Derek, the food is good, nobody cares about the fucking name!”) fifteen minutes later, Laura is up to her elbows in sauce and the girl on the delivery phone at the station next to her looks like she wants to hang herself as she punches in an order. Laura doesn’t so much as look at him, just points to the stack of boxes on top of the oven, delivery tag stuck in each one, and then to the pile of hot bags stuffed under the cutting table where a bulky black kid with biceps the size of Derek's thigh is wielding a knife the length of Derek’s forearm. He slices, boxes, and tags three more pizzas before adding them to the stack on the oven in the time it takes Derek to bend and retrieve two hot bags.
Halfway through shoving three boxes into one slightly greasy insulated bag, Derek sniffs, and immediately grabs a paddle to pull a large cheese just on the edge of burning out of the oven. He slides it onto the waiting cardboard insert for the guy to slice.
“Thanks, man,” the guy nods, just as a woman with a massive blonde ponytail and deadly winged eyeliner sticks her head in the kitchen door.
“Laur,” she calls, “The kid at table five is getting antsy, where’s my large cheese?”
“Here,” the guy responds, spinning it onto a tray and shoving it into her hands.
“Boyd,” she mock-gasps, “My hero.” She pecks his cheek and disappears out the door again. Boyd blushes, ducks his head, and turns back to the pizza table, where Derek has unloaded what looks like a small veggie, two large margheritas, and a medium Hawaiian.
“Goddamnit, Theo!” Laura screams, as a lanky kid with over-gelled hair scrambles out of the employee bathroom at the back of the kitchen, “Fucking ovens!”
“Sorry, sorry,” Theo mumbles, taking the paddle back from Derek and attempting to share a commiserating look. Derek glares, and Theo quickly refocuses his attention on the ovens. The girl at the phone station finally hangs up. The phone immediately begins to ring again.
“Why do people let their fuckin’ kids order? That shit is not cute,” she grumbles, picks up the receiver, and says in a tone so falsely bright it’s chilling, “Hale of a Pie, this is Hayden, would you like pick-up or delivery tonight?”
“It’s a madhouse in here,” Derek observes dryly, leaning against the pizza prep fridge and reaching in to snag a handful of olives.
“Yeah,” Laura agrees, eyes never leaving the dough she’s tossing, “And you’re getting flour all over your ass. Take the fucking deliveries and get out of my sight.”
Derek drops his olives back into their container and twists to see a line of white powder running across the seat of his black jeans.
“Shit,” he swipes ineffectually at it as Laura splashes sauce on the stretched dough with one hand and gestures towards the pizza ovens behind her with the other.
“The fucking pizzas, Derek!” she shrills. Derek holds up his hands in mock defeat.
“Going, going.”
Boyd has piled five more pizzas on top of the oven and Theo nearly brains Derek with the pizza paddle as he reaches for them. Derek glares again. Theo gulps, Boyd hands Derek two more hot bags. The woman with the eyeliner reappears just as Derek finishes bagging up all the pies, and is just beginning to wonder how the hell he’s going to carry them outside, let alone fit them into his car.
“I do love a damsel in distress,” she observes, snagging three of the hot bags from Derek and marching out the back door. Derek is almost certain he locked his car before coming in, but by the time he makes it outside, the passenger door is open. Eyeliner bends the laws of physics and manages to fit all five hot bags onto Derek’s passenger seat.
“Drive fast,” she advises before shoving a zippered bank bag full of small change into his hands, and sauntering back inside. Derek sighs. The camaro is going to smell like garlic for a month. It takes him nearly an hour to drop all fifteen pizzas and get back to the shop, by which point there are twenty more pizzas stacked on top of the oven. Derek sighs again, and reaches under Boyd for the last two hot bags. It goes on and on like that until nearly 10 p.m. Closing time draws ever nearer, and when Derek returns from his latest run, Laura is pouring herself, Boyd, Hayden, and Eyeliner beers from the kegerator while Hayden pours out shots of what smells like rubbing alcohol. Theo is nowhere to be seen. There’s one large pizza on top of the oven.
“Take that,” Laura nods at it, “Come back, sort out your drawer, and you’re free. Salud!” They all clink their plastic shot cups together and knock them back.
“Where’s Goddamnit Theo?” Derek asks, glancing at the address on the ticket as he bags up the box. Not too far, a couple miles from the shop in a nest of dead-end streets Derek’s been to a few times already.
“Goddamnit fired,” Laura shrugs, pulling an industrial sized roll of saran wrap from a shelf above her station to begin cover ingredient containers, “Can’t follow a simple instruction like ‘Tell someone if you need to leave your station,’ can’t fucking work here.”
“Fair,” Derek nods, patting the Velcro flap of the hot bag closed. Hayden scoffs and eyes him over the rim of her plastic beer cup. Derek cringes under her stare, backing a step or two towards the door.
“You’re nineteen,” Laura hip checks her, “He’s thirty. And also my brother. Go do some fucking work.”
“You let me drink,” Hayden points out as Derek strides for the door.
“Yeah, because Erica is driving you home and I’m irresponsible, but not that fucking irresponsible,” he hears Laura shoot back as he pulls the door shut. One more run, and he can go home and wash the pizza grit and grease off. One more.
The address isn’t hard to find, a tiny house at the very end of a dead end street, just as Derek suspected. There’s a small bike with training wheels abandoned across the path to the front door that Derek has to dodge, but that’s far from the worst thing he’s nearly run into tonight. He presses the button for the doorbell, shifting on his feet. No sound rings through the house, so he knocks. And waits.
And knocks again. And waits some more. Derek is just about to give it up as a bad job and head back to the shop when the door opens. There’s nobody there.
“Uh,” Derek peers into the darkened entry way.
“Down here,” an unimpressed voice says and Derek looks down to find a boy of about seven or eight with a mop of unruly blonde hair and a pair of huge brown eyes staring back at him, arms crossed over his chest.
“Uh,” Derek says again, “Where’s your adult?”
“Where’s my pizza?” the kid counters, uncrossing his arms to hold out one demanding hand.
“That’ll be fifteen fifty,” Derek retorts, holding the hot bag far out of reach. The kid huffs.
“DAD!” he screams, “DAD, get up, the pizza guy wants money!”
“Jesus,” Derek rubs at one ear with his free hand, “Aren’t you a little young to be answering the door by yourself?”
“Aren’t you a little old to be delivering pizzas?” the boy sneers as a pair of socked feet and then the legs attached to them appear around the corner. They’re long legs, clad in too-short plaid pajama pants that reveal knobby ankles above the line of his fuzzy, low-cut socks. Above the pajamas is a comically oversized sweatshirt and the dazed, flushed face of a man with at the very least a low-grade fever.
“Matthew Scott Stilinski!” the man rasps, managing to convey a tone of severe disapproval, “Apologize! Right now.”
“Sorry,” Matthew intones, not sounding sorry in the least. He’s crossed his arms over his chest again, and is looking at Derek expectantly.
“Sorry dude,” the man says, slim fingers pushing a twenty into Derek’s hand, “He’s hangry. I fell asleep after work, slept through dinner time, and forgot to feed my kid like an incredibly irresponsible unfit parent and he ordered the pizza himself. Which means he’s grounded for a week, but he’s getting dinner, so that’s something, I guess.”
“Uh,” Derek nods vaguely, tugging the hot bag open, “Sure.” Matthew’s eyes light up at the sight of the box Derek pulls out, but the man’s face goes shockingly pale.
“Oh, shit,” he mumbles, making Matthew’s eyes brighten even further.
“Swear ja-” he starts to say, reaching for the box. The man throws one large hand out to catch the door frame as he sways, and then vomits all over Derek’s shins.
“Ugh, Dad, grooooooss!” Matthew whines, although he sounds thrilled about this turn of events. He flips open the pizza box and crams a slice halfway into his mouth, staring up at both his father and Derek like he’s watching a particularly interesting documentary. Derek stares down at his legs for a moment, mentally bemoaning that the camaro will now smell like garlic and vomit, although the puke does seem to be mostly water. Small blessings.
Derek looks up just in time to see the guy’s eyes, which match his son’s, roll back in his head as he pitches forward and faints into Derek’s shoulder. Derek’s arm comes up to catch him automatically, wrapping around the deceptively slim waist underneath the swath of sweatshirt.
“Dad!” Matthew shrieks, dropping his half eaten slice back into the box, and then the box to the ground as he reaches for the man’s limp hand.
“He’s fine,” Derek assures immediately, halfway convinced that he’s lying to a child, “Head rush from the fever. Can I bring him inside?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Matthew lets go of his father’s hand and reaches down to rescue the pizza, scurrying out of Derek’s way as he maneuvers one hundred and sixty odd-pounds of passed out stranger through the doorway.
“The couch is here,” Matthew calls unnecessarily: the whole house is four rooms, an open space with three doors off of it and a squat, squashy looking couch marking the line between kitchen and living room. The couch is piled with blankets, a half-empty bottle of Nyquil on the coffee table along with several empty mugs. Derek lays the guy down on the couch as gently as he can, Matthew hovering at his shoulder with the pizza box still clenched in his small hands.
“Hey Matt, what’s your dad’s name?” Derek asks, reclaiming the pizza and setting it on the table as he crouches beside the man’s head.
“Stiles,” Matt answers, making Derek quirk an eyebrow. Everything he knows from his five minute interaction with this kid tells him his chain is being yanked, but the anxiousness obvious on his face says otherwise.
“Stiles,” Derek tries, patting his clammy cheek gently, “Stiles, wake up.”
“Dad,” Matt joins in, tugging on Stiles’ hand again, “Daddy!”
“’M up,” Stiles groans, twisting his fingers to lace with his son’s, “I’m up, Matty. ‘S all right.”
“Can I call someone for you?” Derek asks, making Stiles’ eyes fly open as he struggles to sit up, to place himself between his son and the stranger in his house.
“What-” Stiles starts, and then his eyes fall on the pizza box and he relaxes. “Shit,” he breathes, “I puked on you.”
“Swear jar!” Matt pipes up, mouthful of pizza again. Stiles grimaces.
“I, um, there’s paper towels in the kitchen or I think some clean towels in the bathroom, if you want to clean up,” Stiles mumbles, gesturing vaguely and avoiding Derek’s eyes.
“It’s fine, they’ll wash,” Derek brushes the offer away. The watery vomit is halfway dry already anyway. “Can I call someone for you?” he repeats.
“No,” Stiles sighs, “My dad is on-shift and my best friend is on his honeymoon. Matt will be fine; he’s got food, he can reach the sink for water, and if he goes to bed without brushing his teeth it isn’t the end of the world.”
“I’m more concerned about you,” Derek admits, reaching for Stiles’ face again to put the back of his hand against a burning forehead, “You’re really hot.”
Stiles blinks, a blotchy flush that doesn’t look entirely fever induced crawling over his cheeks.
“I mean-” Derek starts, only to be cut off as Stiles pushes his hand away, shaking his head.
“I know what you meant. Matty, can you get Daddy a cup of water, please?” Stiles requests, eyeing the pizza Matt is chomping on like it’s personally offended him. Which, if Derek is guessing right about the smell setting off the puking, it did. Matt tromps off into the kitchen and Derek takes the opportunity to move the pizza out of Stiles sight line and onto the counter.
“Not to overstep my bounds here but, uh, you seem like you could use some help,” Derek observes as Matt sloshes a cup of water into Stiles’ trembling hand.
“Thanks, Matty. Go eat at the counter, please,” Stiles says, ignoring Derek’s comment entirely.
“But-” Matt starts, glancing suspiciously at where Derek is standing between him and his pizza.
“Matthew,” Stiles mouth pinches into a warning look. Matt heaves a dramatic sigh but shuffles his way over to the short breakfast bar where Derek put his dinner.
“It’s pretty late for a kid to still be up,” Derek points out as Stiles sips his water and nestles himself down into his blankets.
“It’s pretty weird for the pizza guy to still be here,” Stiles grumbles, “Matt’s eight, not four. It’s late, but he’ll pass out as soon as he’s done eating,” Stiles presses a hand to his stomach with a wince. He looks at the cup of water still in his hand, and then at the coffee table forlornly. Derek rolls his eyes and takes the cup from him, placing it on the table and then dragging the setup within arm’s reach.
“Yeah,” Derek agrees, shrugging “But if you get up to go puke in the middle of the night you could pass out again and brain yourself on something, do some actual damage.”
“Did you just invite yourself to stay the night?” Stiles asks incredulously, but Derek has elected to ignore him, moving over to where Matt is still shoveling pizza into his face.
“Pretty good stuff, right?” he questions, nodding at the pizza. Matt eyes him warily but nods.
“My sister makes it, it’s her restaurant,” Derek leans his crossed arms on the counter, “But she’s had me so busy tonight I didn’t get to eat dinner either. Do you mind sharing?”
“Sure,” Matt swallows, “That’ll be two bucks.”
Stiles chuckles from the couch as Derek raises an eyebrow at Matt.
“How do you figure?” he asks, snagging one of the few remaining slices over a squawked protest.
“The whole thing was $15.50 and it has eight slices, so that’s almost 2 dollars per slice. I rounded up,” Matt explains, attempting to snatch the pizza back out of Derek’s hands.
“Your dad puked on me,” Derek counters, “And he paid for the pizza. I think I’ve earned my share.”
He eats half the slice in one bite and Matt glares mutinously at him, but doesn’t argue. He throws the crust of his last slice back into the box instead, yawning as he hops off his stool.
“Dad,” Matt leans over the arm of the couch to kiss Stiles’ forehead, “Are you okay?” he whispers, throwing another narrow eyed glance at Derek.
“Yeah, buddy,” Stiles smiles wanly and reaches up to ruffle Matt’s hair, “Go brush your teeth and get into your PJs, okay? Call me if you need help.”
“I can do it, Dad,” Matt rolls his eyes, sliding socked feet over the wooden floor to one of the doors off the living space. As soon as he’s gone, Stiles bolts off the couch to heave into the kitchen sink. The small amount of water he drank comes up, but nothing else even as he continues to dry heave.
“Easy,” Derek murmurs, running a soothing hand up and down his spine. Stiles groans miserably, fingers clenched on the countertop.
“Why are you even still here?” he pants, resting his sticky face on the blessedly cool steel of the sink lip. Derek shrugs as he pulls a paper towel from the roll mounted above the sink, flicking on the tap and dampening it.
“If I wait long enough to go back to the shop, my sister’s nineteen year old employee won’t have another opportunity to ogle and flirt,” he explains, swiping the paper towel over Stiles’ forehead, chin, and available cheek. He drops the paper towel into the sink and then drags his fingers through Stiles’ greasy, sweaty hair, scratching gently at his scalp. Stiles huffs out half a groan, sinking further against the counter.
“Eugh,” he scowls exaggeratedly, “Why don’t you just have your sister fire them? She’s the boss, right?”
“I would,” Derek snorts, moving his hand down to massage the back of Stiles’ neck “But I don’t actually work there. I was just doing Laura a favor tonight.”
“Knew it,” Stiles breathes, eyelids fluttering shut, “Terrible pizza delivery guy, couldn’t possibly be your job.”
“Mm,” Derek agrees even as he slips his arm carefully around Stiles’ waist, “C’mon, you can’t sleep here.”
“Can too,” Stiles argues, but goes easily when Derek tugs him upright and starts to lead him back to the couch.
“Brushed my teeth!” Matt announces as he bursts back out of the bathroom, a white-blue stain down the front of his t-shirt.
“Pajamas,” Stiles points towards a different door, knees buckling as Derek nudges him back onto the couch, “then bed.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Matt scoots across the floor again, yanking open his bedroom door with enough force for the knob to leave a small dent in the drywall. Stiles winces.
“You should go to bed too,” Derek points out, “I can sit here for a bit, make sure he falls asleep.”
“But I just sat down here,” Stiles whines, looking at the distance between the couch and his bedroom door like it’s a marathon. Derek opens his mouth to point out that other than his trip from the couch to the sink, Stiles hasn’t moved himself around much since Derek arrived, but he’s cut off by the ringing of his cell phone. He digs it out of his pocket and frowns at Laura’s name on the screen.
“Hello?”
“Oh, good, you aren’t dead. Where the fuck are you?” Laura demands. Derek sighs, drags a hand through his hair.
“There’s a situation,” he hedges, making Laura scoff.
“I’d like to close this place up sometime tonight,” she scolds, “Bring me my fucking money.”
“The drawer can wait until tomorrow,” Derek insists, glancing over to where Stiles appears to have dozed off, water cup back in his hand and threatening to spill all over the blankets. Derek rescues it at the last second, making Stiles jerk awake again.
“’M up!” he slurs, limbs jerking and nearly knocking the cup out of Derek’s hand, “Totally not passing out on my kid, again.”
“Dad!” Matt shrieks from his room, “I can’t find my Ninja Turtles shirt!” There’s a loud thump, followed by a succession of several more, quieter thumps. Stiles squints at his son’s open bedroom door, chewing on the corner of his mouth.
“It’s in the laundry, Matty, please pick something else,” he calls finally, which is met with a wordless cry of frustration.
“Derek, what the fuck is-”
“Laur, I gotta go. Just assume the drawer is balanced, okay? I’m not exactly in need of your 500 bucks in petty pizza money,” Derek assures her, and hangs up before she can protest.
“Stay,” he presses a hand to Stiles’ shoulder where he’s attempting to flounder up off the couch and heads for Matt’s open bedroom door.
“Hey,” Derek leans as casually as possible in the doorway, “What’s up?”
One of the drawers of Matt’s small dresser has been yanked completely free of the runners, turned upside down on the floor. Matt is kicking his way through a pile of t-shirts, stomping as loudly as his small feet will allow.
“I want my Turtles shirt!” Matt demands, crossing skinny arms defiantly over his chest, “And my dad.”
“Your dad is resting, and your Turtles shirt is dirty. What about,” Derek scoops the nearest shirt up off the floor and shakes it out “Lightning McQueen?”
Matt gestures emphatically at the Splinter fleece pants he’s already got on. Derek sighs.
“And I don’t suppose you’ve got Mater themed pjs around?” he guesses, and Matt shakes his head.
“Dad!” he calls around Derek, “Can the pizza guy leave now? Dad!” Matt stomps his foot hard, and Stiles jerks awake again.
“Why is the pizza guy still here?” Matt demands, making Stiles blink slowly at him.
“I... dunno. Pizza guy?” Stiles raises his eyebrows at Derek, who glares at them both.
“Derek, and because you appear to desperately need some help. I’m the best you’ve got tonight, kid. Pick a t-shirt, and get in bed,” Derek says sternly, folding his own arms over his chest and looking pointedly at the mess Matt’s made of the floor and his wardrobe, “Is this any way to help your dad out when he feels bad?”
“Don’t guilt trip my kid, that’s my job,” Stiles huffs from the couch. Derek ignores him.
“Fine,” Matt grumbles, and yanks the t-shirt out of Derek’s hand to tug it over his head.
“Thank you,” Derek tells him sincerely as he squirms under his blankets. Matt just scowls at him, but Derek disregards it in favor of crouching to reset the drawer and dump the armload of shirts back inside. When he straightens up again, Matt has the plaid comforter covering his tiny twin bed yanked all the way up to his chin, small fingers curled over the edge.
“Door open or closed?” Derek asks, one hand already reaching for the knob.
“Open,” Matt retorts, as if Derek is some kind of oblivious idiot who can’t be trusted alone with his father.
“All right,” Derek agrees easily, backing out of the room and leaving the door open a few inches, “I’m going to help your dad to bed and I’ll be out here for a little while if you need anything, okay?”
Matt scoffs at him, rolling over so his back is turned towards the door and squirming further under his blankets.
“Right,” Derek sighs, and spins to find Stiles asleep again, his head tipped back over the arm of the couch with his throat on display. Derek swallows, a hot flush burning up the back of his own neck, and then quickly shakes it off.
“Stiles,” he nudges Stiles’ shoulder gently, “C’mon, you’ll hate yourself in the morning if you sleep like that.”
“I hate myself now,” Stiles moans, dragging himself into a semi-upright position and blinking blearily around.
“Stupid Nyquil and it’s stupid ‘parents don’t take the day off’ campaign. That shit does not work as advertised, I’ve been off all afternoon,” he grouses as Derek hauls him up off the couch, sliding one arm around Stiles’ rib cage and using his free hand to pull Stiles’ arm over his shoulders.
“You know the Nyquil is supposed to put you to sleep, right?” Derek smirks, grappling Stiles’ bedroom door open and dumping him only sort of carefully onto his mattress.
“Shuddup,” Stiles mumbles, dragging himself up towards his pillows with a grateful moan. Derek detours back to the living room, gathering the blankets up off the couch to spread them over Stiles who is, once again, asleep. His eyes flutter open as Derek drapes the last of the blankets over him, tucking them tightly around Stiles’ bony feet.
“Sorry about Matty,” he murmurs, kicking the blankets free and tugging them up around his throat, “His mom flaked on visitation last weekend and I promised to make it up to him with movies and mini-golf this weekend, which is now obviously not happening. He’s always been a worrier, and it makes him grumpy when he can’t do anything about it. Plus he’s always been particular about his pajamas, something about the theme of his dreams, I don’t know. Just... sorry, Derek.”
“It’s fine,” Derek reassures, clenching the fingers of one hand into a tight fist to keep from dragging them through Stiles’ hair again, “He’s a lot like my little sister when she was a kid.”
“The one that owns the pizza place?” Stiles asks around a yawn, sounding halfway hopeful, which makes Derek snort.
“No, the one that bounces at The Gentlemen Caller downtown,” he snickers.
“Typical,” Stiles huffs, “But, like, listen, thanks for your help. You really don’t need to stay, we’ll be fine.”
“I’m sure,” Derek says dryly, pacing quietly out of the room. He leaves Stiles door open a crack as well, moving around the living room to gather up all the abandoned cups and mugs to pile in the sink. The last few slices of pizza go into an off-brand Tupperware he finds after a thorough search of the cabinets and then into a fridge stocked with juice boxes and gogurts. Derek washes the dishes and sets them in the drying rack before wiping down the counters. One newly cleaned cup gets refilled with water and set on Stiles’ nightstand next to a heavily snoring Stiles, along with his Nyquil and a few chewable Pepto tabs Derek found in the bathroom.
By the time Derek is finished tidying, it’s well past 1 a.m. and he has half a dozen increasingly irate text messages from Laura on his phone. He deletes them without reading them: it’s not as if he’s going to pocket her profits and if he made a big enough mistake with someone’s change to impact his drawer, he’s got the money to cover it. Derek ducks his head into Matt’s bedroom, but Matt is snoring away as well, albeit not as loudly as his father.
With one last glance around the relatively clean living area, Derek snags the marker from the whiteboard hanging on the freezer door to scrawl his name, number, and an offer of movies and mini golf for all three of them when Stiles is feeling better, if they’re is so inclined. It’s too high up for Matt to erase if he wakes up before Stiles, although Derek doesn’t doubt he’d find a way to disappear it if he tried.
Derek wakes up late Saturday morning (early Saturday afternoon, really) to another string of profane messages from Laura that include an embedded Rihanna video, and one from an unknown number asking if Derek is free to have his ass handed to him by an eight year old with a personalized pink putter next Friday evening. Derek definitely is.