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“DEREK!”
Derek can hear the front door slam. He puts down the dish he was washing and dries his hands, because that’s Stiles’ don’t make me search the entire house for you voice. It’s easier to just come rather than have a grumpy Stiles complain that Derek’s always in the last place he looks.
“Why are you yell—” Derek stops in his tracks when he sees Stiles, looking like a lobster with the sunburn from hell. It’s covering practically every inch of bare skin and Derek would make a joke about the way Stiles is waddling like a pregnant woman if it weren’t for the expression of sheer pain flashing across Stiles’ face right now.
“I fell asleep,” Stiles says in way of explanation, walking past Derek towards the bathroom down the hall.
Derek follows him, already digging a large bottle of aloe out from beneath the sink. They’ve had sunburn mishaps before—it’s Stiles, there’s no way to avoid trouble when he’s around—but never to this extent.
“Why didn’t Scott or one of the guys wake you up?” he asks.
“They decided to go surf farther out, but…you know.”
“Yeah,” Derek agrees, because ever since their escapade in the pool with the kanima, going into water deep enough for their feet not to touch the bottom is a big thumbs down. Derek is about to direct Stiles to sit on the toilet lid, but even sitting seems like it’d be a chore for him right now.
“Why don’t you go lay on the couch and we’ll do this there?” Derek suggests.
Stiles hums his consent, shuffling slowly to the living room. He examines the couch for a few moments, as though trying to decide the best way down, then decides to go all out with a general faceplant into the cushions. Derek finds an empty spot at Stiles’ hip to perch and rests his free hand gently on Stiles’ ribs. The pained whine Stiles makes into the cushions cuts Derek to the core, since Stiles is always the last person to complain when he’s hurting. In fact, if Stiles is complaining, it’s usually not serious; it’s only when Stiles’ incessant rambling goes quiet that Derek finds cause to legitimately worry about him.
“I know, baby,” Derek soothes, drawing the pain of Stiles’ burns up into his arm until all that’s left is a small ache. He can literally feel the tension drain out of Stiles as the extreme tenderness is replaced with minor discomfort and Stiles relaxes into the cushions.
“Better?” he asks.
“You are a werewolf god,” Stiles intones, his voice muffled by the couch.
Derek laughs, used to Stiles’ brand of hyperbole. But he’d much rather be called a god than a sourwolf, so he’ll count it as a win. Instead of responding, he simply dumps a massive glob of aloe onto Stiles’ back without warning. Stiles practically leaps off of the couch.
“Dude! What the hell! That’s cold!”
“I know,” Derek smirks, but his hands are gentle as he rubs the aloe into Stiles’ skin, his hands lingering on the familiar pattern of moles on Stiles’ back.
“Since it’s looking like you’ll be immobile for at least the next twelve hours, why don’t you pick a movie and I’ll drop by Redbox later?”
“Ah, man, Derek,” Stiles says with a frown. “I forgot about date night.”
Derek can’t help the smile that creeps across his face because, yeah, they’re that couple. They plan their dates out and Derek looks forward to it because it means that they’re going out alone. The pack can’t come over and suddenly invade their personal time or interrupt them if they want to spend their entire meal making bad puns and playing footsie under the table. It’s also the only time Derek can get Stiles out of his never ending wardrobe of plaid shirts and hoodies, but damn it’s so worth it to see Stiles in a crisp open-collared shirt that shows off those tempting collarbones.
“Don’t worry about it,” Derek tells him, rubbing the back of Stiles’ neck. “We’ll just have a night in.”
“You promised me cuddling tonight,” Stiles whines. “I can’t cuddle when I’m practically an invalid.”
“Then you can just lay on top of me,” Derek says easily, wiping away the last of the aloe on his hands. He demonstrates this by laying down and maneuvering Stiles until he’s spread out across Derek’s body.
“Me laying on your incredibly rock-hard abs does not count as cuddling,” Stiles argues, but he rests his head on the pad of Derek’s shoulder anyway. “Although…I bet I could beat the world planking record tonight if we do this long enough.”
Derek rolls his eyes. “I’ll call Guinness in the morning.”
“Man after my own heart.”