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Stiles stopped stirring and turned in Derek’s arms so their faces were inches apart. He took in the expression on Derek’s face, looking for any sign that he was being sarcastic. Instead he saw complete sincerity and a smudge of pasta sauce on his top lip where he’d tasted it a few minutes earlier. Stiles wiped it off and dabbed his fingers on a piece of kitchen roll.
“Why would you want to learn how to cook? You have me.” He asked, tilting his head to the side and watching curiously as Derek struggled for words. Derek struggling for words wasn’t a new thing, it happened at least half a dozen times a day, so Stiles wasn’t too worried. He went back to stirring the sauce and checking the spaghetti while Derek got his head straight.
“It doesn’t seem right,” Derek said at last, leaning on the counter next to the stove.
“What doesn’t?” Stiles prompted him, grimacing as the spaghetti crunched between his teeth. Yeah, so not entirely cooked yet. Jesus, there was al dente and then there was so-undercooked-you’ll-break-your-teeth.
“You always cook for me... I should cook for you.”
“Doesn’t it kind of ruin the point if I’m the one teaching you, though?” Stiles reasoned, pulling a baking tray full of meatballs from under the grill and cutting one open. The meat inside was still juicy but not pink. Derek would be happy and Stiles wouldn’t get food poisoning – they were cooked to perfection. “Besides, I don’t mind, I like cooking for you... In the least house-wifey way possible.”
“But I want to cook for you,” Derek said, his voice dangerously close to whiny. It only got like that when he really, really wanted something and Stiles wasn’t giving it... Something like cookery lessons, for example. “I’m useless otherwise and-”
“Dude, hold on,” Stiles interrupted before Derek could go into full ‘I’m a terrible person and everything I touch dies’ mode, “You are not useless, okay? Seriously, how many times have you saved my life? I’m alive because of you. I literally owe you my life and I would give it happily so don’t talk shit about not being worth anything because you have more than earned your keep for the rest of your life, even if that’s creepy Wolverine length.”
“But Stiles-”
“Derek,” Stiles mocked his tone, adding his own sassy head movements, “If you want to learn how to cook that much then I’ll teach you, but if you’re only doing it because you want to be worth something then fuck that shit because you already are, okay?” He drew a deep breath and ran his fingers through his hair. “Okay, come here,” he pulled Derek in by his belt loops and kissed him quickly, half a second of lips touching, then he fished another strand of spaghetti from the pot, tearing it in two and passing half to Derek.
“What-?”
“Taste it and tell me what you think,” he started lifting his own piece to his mouth and then saw the sceptical look on Derek’s face, “What? This is how my mom started me off. The foundations matter. You have to know how to cook spaghetti before you can make a carbonara.” He repeated his mother’s words to Derek then folded the spaghetti into his mouth. Derek did the same. They stood chewing for a moment and then swallowed at the same time. “So?”
“Over seasoned,” Derek replied immediately. “You put less pepper in this time, though.”
“Of course; you complained last time. Besides, everything is over seasoned to werewolf taste buds. I tried to feed Scott chilli the other day and he literally almost blew up,” he laughed at the memory of Scott’s red face as he desperately reached for the yoghurt, watched by Stiles and Allison who were almost passing out from lack of oxygen because they were laughing so much. “I was a little heavy handed with the cumin.”
“I can imagine,” Derek said, barely holding back his smile.
“What else?” He gestured to the pot again.
“It’s still a bit tough, but good otherwise.”
“Over seasoned and tough, but good otherwise?” Stiles clarified, smirking a little. “Remind me why you thought I was the best teacher?”
“It’ll be good when it’s done,” Derek pointed to the sauce, “The sauce is sweet, it’ll balance out the acidic tomatoes and the salt in the spaghetti and the meatballs will add protein to make it a balanced meal. And I know you’ll put basil on top. I don’t see how that makes a difference, though, you always pick it off straight away.”
Stiles stared.
“Careful, you’ll use your quota of words for the day,” he teased after a few seconds. He tipped his head to the side and used his eyebrows to show just how baffled he was. “You’re right, on all counts. The basil doesn’t really do anything, but it’s what my mom taught me, so that’s how I do it,” he shrugged like it meant nothing and like Derek couldn’t feel how sad talking about his mom made him. Derek didn’t call him out on it though and Stiles took another moment to marvel at how far their relationship had come since the beginning. “Try again,” he pulled out another piece of spaghetti and broke it.
~~~
The next night, Stiles showed Derek how to make chicken pie with a proper latticed top and everything. It had the added benefit of a 45 minute baking time, which they wisely spent making out, Stiles sat on the countertop with his legs wrapped around Derek’s waist and his fingers clenched in his dark hair.
Stiles couldn’t help thinking that the pie didn’t taste anywhere near as good as Derek.
~~~
The day after that was goulash and Stiles actually trusted Derek enough to cut the onions, which he did pretty well, even if he spent an inordinate amount of time obsessing over getting them the same size. Stiles watched carefully, repositioning Derek’s left hand until it made a bridge over the halved onion so he wouldn’t slice his fingers off.
He happened to like Derek’s fingers how they were, thank you very much.
~~~
It took a whole fortnight of Stiles showing Derek how to chop vegetables and cook pasta and make sure the white sauce was just right before adding cheese until Derek asked if he could make dinner. Stiles agreed but insisted they do it at his place so he could step in if necessary, even if he wasn’t familiar with the recipe Derek had found: chicken korma with pakoras and onion bhajis.
Stiles’ mom had never liked Indian food and so never taught him how to cook curries or anything, but Stiles loved Indian takeout and Derek knew that korma was his favourite. The pakoras were a complete new addition, but definitely one that Stiles was open to.
The bhajis went in the oven first with the timer set for 14 minutes, which Stiles thought was awfully precise. Derek then set about chopping the onions, his hand forming the perfect shape without a second thought. Stiles smiled like a proud dad at his son’s first football game.
Derek turned to the stove and visibly steeled himself. He turned the dial of the smallest hob and hesitated for a split second before pressing the ignite button. He’d struggled with the hob since day one, not coping well at all with the open flame. Stiles figured that once it was covered by a pan and out of sight, Derek could pretty much ignore it, especially with Stiles’ mouth rather skilfully distracting him.
“You’re broadcasting,” Derek muttered a minute or so later while Stiles grinned from the breakfast bar behind him.
“I don’t care,” Stiles said, shrugging and taking another sip of his orange juice, practically bursting with pride. Silence fell again until the timer beeped and Derek took the bhajis out of the oven, carefully setting three on each plate on the counter. “I swear you have OCD or something,” he watched as Derek arranged the bhajis into neat clusters on the side of the plates.
“I want it to be perfect,” Derek sighed.
Stiles’ heart melted just a little bit.
Derek lifted the pan off the stove and spooned precisely cut cubes of chicken onto each plate, dribbling the sauce carefully over the top like one wrong drop could end the fucking world. It was adorable. Stiles let it slide without comment because if Derek wanted tonight to be perfect then he, Stiles Stilinski, eternal bench-warmer and pack researcher, would be the best damn date Derek could ever wish for.
~~~
“Ugh, that was so good. I’m never getting takeout again, it’ll never be as good,” Stiles said from where he was slumped over the breakfast bar, watching Derek washing the dishes. It wasn’t like Stiles was being lazy, he had tried to help, but each time he so much as looked at the dish towel, Derek had growled at him to sit down and shut up until he eventually complied and waited for him to finish. “You almost done there?”
“Done,” Derek replied, hanging the towel up and closing the cupboard doors.
“Good,” Stiles said, hauling himself up and then kissing Derek full on the mouth, not caring one bit that they tasted of curry and orange juice. He’d tasted worse. Like that one time Greenburg tried to make out with him at the graduation party and tasted like a diseased skunk had died in his mouth. Stiles was distracted from that particular train wreck of a though by Derek’s tongue doing sinful things. He groaned a little and pulled Derek towards the stairs. “Up. Now. Bed. Yeah. You know what I mean.” He mumbled between kisses.
“No I don’t. Tell me,” Derek whispered back, breaking away and licking one long, unbroken trail up Stiles’ neck. Stiles shuddered and lost any semblance of dignity he’d tried to retain. Derek knew how turned on he was, what was the point of pretending?
“Fuck me. Now.”
“Right now? Against the wall?” Derek smirked. To anyone else, Derek looked totally unfazed by Stiles’ demand, but there were sparks of red playing around his pupils and his teeth were just a little too sharp when they nipped at Stiles’ earlobe.
“If you want. Lube’s in the bedroom though,” Stiles shot back. Derek was gonna tease? That’s great. Stiles was gonna tease right back and if there was a tiny bit of hope that Derek would, in fact, screw him against the wall, then who was here to tell?
Derek growled and lifted him easily. He got them both up to Stiles’ bedroom without breaking their significantly hotter, wetter, wilder kiss and threw them both onto the bed. Stiles took a moment to appreciate the frantic look in Derek’s now fully red eyes before he heard the click of a cap and he let himself drift away, feeling deliciously full in all the right places.