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“Are you going to bitch this much every time I take you somewhere?” Stiles asked, slouching in his seat. He frowned at the table, brow wrinkled and eyes so freaking sad Derek wanted to offer him every single thing he’d ever want just to make him never have that expression again. And that, that was what had gotten them here in the first place, wasn’t it?
Derek dropped his gaze to his own plate. “I’m ruining this.”
Stiles exhaled slowly and sat up. “No. Okay. Do you want to use a fork instead?”
“You’re not.”
Stiles snorted. “That’s because I’ve been using chopsticks since I got bored in the library in third grade and the librarian made me find something to do. Use the fork. It’s fine. Stop making murder eyebrows at me. What else is wrong?”
“I literally don’t know what any of this is,” Derek admitted. He’d just taken whatever Stiles told him to take and now he didn’t know what a single thing on his plate was. And, okay, maybe he wasn’t exactly an adventurous eater, but he liked knowing what the hell he was eating.
Stiles grinned. “That’s why I’m here, asshat. Okay, here. This is a mango salad. You like mangos a lot so I think you’ll like this. Veggie fried rice, because you’re weird about rice, tempera because you like vegetables, spring rolls. Shrimp tempera because I like shrimp but they always glare at me when I try to take how much I really want and I’ll eat it if you don’t want to. Some sort of steak thing because you get cranky when you don’t get a regular dose of meat.” Stiles blinked. “And for once, that wasn’t a dick joke.”
Derek rolled his eyes, but the muscles of his back unclenched. “What do you have?”
“Sushi, a bunch of sashimi, every kind of shrimp I was allowed to take, spring rolls, beef fried rice. Dumpling soup.” Stiles held out a sushi roll between his chopsticks. “Wanna try a mango roll? Got it just for you.”
It wasn’t bad. The rice wasn’t his favourite thing, but it wasn’t bad. And the way Stiles grinned was worth it, like Derek had done something other than trying a food Stiles liked.
“I really don’t want to ruin this,” he said quietly.
Stiles bumped his knee against Derek’s under the table. “Yeah, me neither. So give me a little trust here.”
Derek glanced at him, then away. “I’m not very good at trusting people.”
“I have noticed,” Stiles said with a laugh, but his leg was still moving against Derek’s. “Start with trusting me not to let you starve when I take you on a date, how about that?”
Derek nodded and picked his fork up. “I can do that.”
Stiles ran his fingers through his hair. It was a little too long, past the point where Stiles usually got it cut to a more manageable length, and the more he played with it, the wilder it got.
Derek was pretending it didn’t affect him. He was pretending that he wasn’t at all curious about what it would feel like between his fingers. Pretending he didn’t wonder how much it would get messed up in bed. Pretending that he didn’t want to know if Stiles would like it if he got a hold on it and pulled.
“Well,” Stiles said, flicking an eyebrow up. “That’s kind of pathetic.”
Derek dropped the duffel bag next to his feet and crossed his arms over his chest. “You said I could wash my clothes here. Can I or not?”
Stiles rolled his eyes. “Yeah, duh. I was just expecting… well, more clothing, to be honest.”
Derek shrugged and opened the lid of the washing machine. “Things got ruined. I got stabbed or shot or somebody else bled on me and it didn’t wash out right,” he said, tossing shirts into the washer. “You go around with an arrest record and blood stains all over your clothes, people start to talk funny about you.”
Stiles winced and bent to help load Derek’s clothes into the washing machine. “Yeah. Sorry about that…”
Derek cupped one hand over the back of Stiles’ neck and squeezed, gently. “You were doing what you thought was best. You were a bit delusional, but…” He grinned. “Besides, people in town have moved on to questioning my romantic tastes and whether or not I’m going to be arrested for them next.”
Stiles smacked him lightly in the stomach. “Shut up, they do not.” He paused. “They don’t, do they?”
Derek shrugged. “Sometimes, yeah.”
Stiles frowned. “Yeah, well, they’re idiots if they think I’m sharing you. Okay, let’s go.”
“Where, exactly?”
“Obviously you need clothing.” Stiles leaned closer and inhaled in the general vicinity of Derek’s shirt. “Maybe you should borrow one of my shirts, actually.”
“You just want to see me in shirts that are too small.”
Stiles didn’t deny it. Derek rolled his eyes, but let Stiles hustle him out into the parking lot of Stiles’ apartment and into the Jeep because he felt like driving. Derek was kind of amazed that thing was still alive, considering how many scrapes it had only barely survived getting them out of. But Stiles loved it. So every couple months, Derek got under the hood and let Stiles ogle him while he changed the oil or fixed whatever was sounding weird now. He’d bought it when he was fourteen and waited two years to drive it, Stiles had admitted once while tipsy. Took him two years to save up the money.
Stiles kept his shifting hand on Derek’s thigh as he drove, not feeling him up or anything, just resting it there between gear shifts, a warm, heavy weight.
Derek glanced at him. “So where are we going anyways?”
“Walmart.” Stiles shrugged.
“I hate Walmart.”
“Yeah, I know, but I’m assuming you don’t want to be bleeding through thirty dollars t-shirts.” Stiles squeezed his thigh. “Don’t worry, I know you’re weird about blended fabrics. We’ll get you some nice soft cotton stuff.”
Derek raised an eyebrow. “You know I can shop for myself, right?”
“I know you can,” Stiles said. “But I don’t think you will. So we’re gonna go to Walmart and get you a couple packs of tank tops ’cause you look really hot in those and some more t-shirts and Henleys and basically whatever you need, and I’m going to stare at you and maybe drool a little while you try them on. And then we can go to wherever you usually buy jeans and I’m going to stare at your ass while you try those on.”
“Good to know,” Derek said dryly.
Stiles grinned. “Yup. And then you can wash them in my washing machine and leave them on my couch until they stop smelling like strangers and smell like us.”
Derek absolutely did not turn red.
Scott was a horrible influence on Stiles. Apparently Stiles’ birthday meant booze and a lot of it. It didn’t even affect half the people they’d dragged along, but Scott had decided that Stiles turning nineteen meant he needed to get Stiles illegally drunk. According to Scott, it was a “bro” thing. Derek hadn’t really asked more than that. Of course, by that point of the explanation, Stiles had on his club jeans and most of the blood in Derek’s body was most definitely not in his head…
“Well, you look happy,” Lydia half-yelled in his ear, easing herself onto the barstool next to her. He reached out a hand automatically for her to balance herself with. She ignored it, but patted vaguely at him. “Enjoying yourself?”
He rolled his eyes and made a face at her drink. It smelled like it had half the freaking bar in it. “What even is that?”
Lydia frowned at her drink. “I don’t actually know. I just asked for something pink that would get me drunk. It’s yummy, though. And I like pink.”
Derek raised an eyebrow. “How many of those have you had?”
“Couple.” Lydia swatted at him. “Stop trying to distract me. You’re cranky,” she said, over enunciating the word slightly. “More than usual. You look like grumpy cat. What’s your problem?”
He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve been hit on six times in the last hour.”
“Well, duh. You’re sitting alone at the bar with your cranky face on.” Lydia tipped her glass in his direction. “And that makes you look angsty and then anybody who thinks they want a bad boy is going to look at you and go yes, please. Society teaches women that men who look like you are what we’re supposed to want. Society sucks,” Lydia muttered after a moment, slurring just a little.
“Maybe you should take a break and drink some water,” Derek said, gingerly taking the martini glass out of her hand and wonder just how many of them she’d had. Lydia was not a lightweight. He’d once seen her drink middle-aged bikers under the table. On Everclear. He won a hundred bucks betting on her that night.
“Maybe you should eat me.” She sighed. “You know what, I’m going to do you a favour. And also I’m probably going to go home with Isaac and fuck him against a wall or three, so you maybe might want to stay at Stiles’ tonight.”
Derek opened his mouth, closed it after a second’s thought, then gingerly said, “Don’t break anything and don’t have sex on any surface I eat on or touch on a regular basis.”
It’d be worth a slightly awkward breakfast with a hungover Stiles and his father to avoid listening to Isaac have sex. There were just some things Derek didn’t need to know about him.
“No promises on breaking stuff,” Lydia said, spun around, and hopped off the barstool.
"Kill that stupid plastic gnome thing Isaac brought home last week," he mutters and she grins at him.
A few minutes later, a familiar hand slid across the back of Derek’s neck. He smiled, closed his eyes, and leaned into the touch.
“Hey,” Derek said, tilting his head to the side so Stiles could press his face into the curve of Derek’s neck. “Your heart’s racing.”
“Dancing.” Stiles wrapped his arms around Derek’s waist, giving his stomach an absent stroke. “You’re not enjoying yourself at all, are you?”
Derek circled Stiles’ wrist with his hand, not entirely confident that Stiles wouldn’t forget they were in public and grope him. They really didn’t need to get kicked out this bar. It’d be the third in a year. “It’s your birthday.”
“S’not what I asked.” Stiles laughed softly to himself. “Snot. You should come dance with me. Lydia says you’re getting hit on and grumpy. I’ll rescue you if you want. Defend you from the horny people who want to ride you like a roller coaster.”
Derek snorted, rubbing his thumb over the knob of Stiles’ wrist. “Because you aren’t horny?”
“Yeah, but I’m your horny person,” Stiles said and brushed his lips against Derek’s ear. Derek shivered. “C’mon, it’s my birthday. Dance with me. And then take me out on the lake so I can see the floating lights.”
Derek shook his head. “I’ll dance with you, but you’re not a lost princess, Stiles.”
“Darn.”
Stiles dragged him out onto the dance floor, but thankfully chose a slightly less crammed corner where Derek could hear his heart over the sound of the music, and smell him, not just alcohol and other people’s sweat and perfume. Things were better that way.
“I’m sorry I abandoned you,” Stiles said against his ear, pressed up close and tight against him. “That was mean and I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine, it’s your birthday,” Derek said and stroked a hand down Stiles’ back. He was sweaty from dancing, overheated and flushed with the exertion. Derek could think of a dozen different things he’d prefer to do to make Stiles look like that, but he liked looking at Stiles like this anyways. Liked having him close, too.
“And I wanted to spend it with you, dorkface,” Stiles said, his voice light with amusement. He reached down and patted Derek on the ass, grinning against his skin when Derek jumped. “You might have noticed I kinda like you. Kinda a lot, I like you. And I left you alone to fend for yourself when we could have been doing this.”
Stiles slotted his thigh between Derek’s, pressing up unexpectedly.
Derek nearly choked on his tongue. “Not gonna be good for anything if you keep doing that,” he said roughly.
“I like you like this,” Stiles said, kissing the curve of Derek’s ear. “C’mon, baby, you forgive me, right? Scott’s a terrible person. Tequila is such a bad idea. He could drink me under the table with that when he was human. You know we stole a bottle from his mom once? I passed out and ended up in bed naked and I still don’t know how. He barely wobbled.”
Derek snorted. “Was that what you were doing?”
Stiles nodded. “Body shots make him giggle. It’s funny. And then Allison gets really horny for some reason I’m not going to examine and Scott has a vaguely dazed look on his face the next day. All’s good.” He leaned down and scraped his teeth across Derek’s neck. “You don’t mind, right? S’just Scott. He’s like my brother and not even the kind of brother you have incest-y feelings for.”
Derek blinked. “I – there’s a kind of brother that you have… incest-y feelings for?”
“Yeah, the one in the Folgers commercial,” Stiles said, leaning his temple against Derek’s. “S’just for fun.”
“I know,” Derek said, toying with the edge of Stiles’ shirt. “I know that.”
“Good.” Stiles swayed against him, loose and warm. “’Cause I only want you, you know that, right, baby? Next time we go out, I’ll stay close to you and protect you from people hitting on you, okay? So you don’t get all crankyfaced.”
Derek shook his head and tucked his nose down where the curve of Stiles’ neck met his shoulder. “I can handle people hitting on me. But I like… I just want to be around you.”
Stiles hummed, pleased. “I can do that.”
Derek woke up in Stiles’ bed, which was becoming a recurring theme with his mornings. He probably spent more time there than in his own apartment these days. Stiles had rented an apartment down in Berkeley this year, because a three hour commute was kind of ridiculous, and dorm life was hard on him. Derek was pretty sure Stiles’ last roommate had thought he was in some sort of cult.
It took him a moment to remember what day it was.
He pressed a kiss to Stiles’ forehead and got up to get dressed, pausing for a moment to fix the blankets over Stiles where he was starfished across the bed.
“Mm, wait.” Stiles jerked awake with a groan, rolling towards Derek. “Give me like five minutes to get awake and dressed and I’ll make you coffee and breakfast and stuff.”
Derek ran a finger over Stiles’ eyebrow. He’d slept on it and kinked the hairs up again. Derek always thought that it made him look like a cartoon mad scientist, especially combined with the crazy bedhead he got. “No, it’s fine. I’m not hungry. Go back to sleep.”
“Well, you should eat anyways.” Stiles pushed himself up on one elbow and reached out to smooth his hand over Derek’s hip. “C’mon, let me, okay? Go shower. We’ll have breakfast. And then I’ll drive you home.”
“Stiles…”
“No, I don’t have class today. I don’t have anything to do except this.” Stiles rubbed his hand up Derek’s ribs. “I mean… I understand if you want to be alone. I get it. But I want to be here if you want me here.”
Derek exhaled and nodded. “Yeah. Okay. I’m gonna shower. You don’t need to make me breakfast. I can do it myself.”
Stiles made breakfast anyways.
“I was hungry,” he said when Derek raised an eyebrow at him. “It’s toast and eggs, dude. I didn’t put that much effort into it. But I could throw in a fruit cup if you want me to make things fancy.”
The eggs were the way he liked them, though, with the whites browned, but the yolks still runny enough to dip his toast into. And Stiles had put the toast in the warmed oven so the butter soaked into it and softened it, but it didn’t get cold. Derek had told him about that, the trick passed down from his mother’s days of cooking as though for an army to feed a family of growing werewolves.
Stiles wasn’t a great cook – Derek was sort of just happy when he didn’t burn the building down microwaving a frozen burrito – but this was – this was good.
“Thanks,” he said at his plate.
Stiles nodded, shovelling scrambled eggs into his mouth. It was inelegant and kind of disgusting, really. He still ate like if he didn’t get as much of it in his mouth at once as possible, somebody would take it away.
Derek sort of worried about how endearing he found Stiles with a mouth stuffed full of scrambled eggs.
The drive back to Beacon Hills was quiet. Derek didn’t feel much like talking and Stiles was unusually quiet. He turned on the radio at one point, but kept the music down low, and didn’t jump around between stations like he usually did. He just kept one hand resting on Derek’s thigh as he drove, a warm weight that settled him.
Stiles glanced at Derek as they passed the town limits. “You wanna go straight there or do you want lunch or something first?”
Derek straightened up in the passenger’s seat. “Oh. Uh. Straight there, I guess.”
“Okay.” Stiles patted his thigh. “You got it.”
Stiles found a space the parking lot, then turned off the engine and ran a hand through his hair a few times. Derek wasn’t entirely sure he had even brushed it or attempted to calm it down in anyway. It was sort of beginning to look like small animals had tried to nest in it. Derek sort of embarrassed himself with how amused he was watching Stiles try to make himself look pulled together. “I can – do you want me to come with you?”
“You don’t have to.”
Stiles nodded. “Okay. There’s a lady I should go see, anyways. Find me when you’re ready.”
They’d had the plots for years, decades. Some sort of family tradition thing that Derek didn’t really understand when he was a kid. His grandparents had been buried there before he even born. His parents had had a fight about it when he was a kid. His father had found it morbid, but his mother wanted everything planned, wanted to be prepared for anything. Then he and Laura had gotten caught listening – eavesdropping, really, and he hadn’t heard the end of that.
But he didn’t think either of them, any of them, would have expected the rest of the plots to be used all at once.
Stiles’ mother was buried not too far away from Derek’s family. She’d died not even six months after he lost his family, which he hadn’t realized until years after he’d come back to Beacon Hills. He’d known her, vaguely, the way you did in a small town. She’d been his little sister’s favourite teacher. She was in a nice spot, under a tree with a bench not far from it.
Derek sat down next to Stiles on it, brushing their shoulders together. “You ready to go?”
“Are you?”
Derek nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”
Stiles reached over and took his hand. “You know I’m here.”
“Shh,” Stiles said, rubbing his palm up Derek’s side. “I’ve got you. I’m gonna take care of you.”
Derek groaned, pressing his hot face into the pillow. “By take care of me do you mean kill me?”
Stiles grinned and kissed the inside of Derek’s thigh, pausing to suck at the skin there for a moment. “Maybe a little.”
“I hate you,” Derek moaned.
“No, you don’t,” Stiles said, and pressed a slick finger into him. The first one was easy, always, even though he healed too fast most of the time, and never, ever enough. “No, I really don’t think you do.”
“Hate you so much.”
“No…” Stiles leaned down to press a kiss against Derek’s throat, licking at the sweat there. He stayed there for a moment, hot breath and warm lips against the vulnerable skin of Derek’s throat. Derek shuddered, and felt his body turn boneless. This, this was the part he liked when they did this. This was the part he needed, when the noise in his head went quiet and he was – and he could be Stiles’. “I don’t think you hate me at all.”
Derek twisted his fingers in the sheets over his head, half-worried he was going to claw through the sheets. Again. The first time Stiles rimmed him, he had to replace his fucking mattress. “Do too.”
“Nope. Who else takes care of you like this?” Stiles asked. He bit his bottom lip, red skin disappearing under white teeth, and a flush riding low on his cheeks. Then he eased another finger into Derek. The second finger was a stretch, but a good one.
“No one,” Derek groaned, his body arching up with Stiles hand.
“No one else,” Stiles agreed softly and crooked his fingers inside Derek. Derek hissed when Stiles’ fingertips skimmed over his prostate, his own heartbeat thundering his ears as pleasure sparked up his spine. He didn’t usually notice his heartbeat – it just turned into background noise – but it was so incredibly loud like this, whenever Stiles was inside him. “So I don’t think you hate me at all, do you?”
Derek shook his head, closing his eyes. Stiles cupped his other hand over the side of Derek's neck and leaned down to brush their mouths together.
“One more?” he whispered. “Think you can take one more for me?”
Derek nodded, his forehead brushing against Stiles’.
“Yeah, I know you can,” Stiles said, and slowly, slowly slid another finger in.
Three fingers was tight and full and for a moment Derek couldn’t breathe. He had one hand clenched down on the curve of Stiles’ hip, the other this close to clawing holes in the sheet over his head. He held his breath as Stiles crooked his fingers, thrusting them in and out slow and steady across Derek’s prostate. Stiles had… stupidly accurate aim when it came to fingering him. In his wilder moments, Derek wondered if maybe Stiles was just a little magic after all, because this – this wasn’t normal.
“C’mere,” Stiles said and kissed him again, slow and deep as his fingers moved in and out, wet messy sounds reaching Derek’s ears and making his face hot. “You don’t have to hold out, by the way. I’m not gonna fuck you til you come. So we can do this for as long as you can take. I wanna watch you first, I wanna see you like this.”
Derek pressed his face into the curve of Stiles’ throat, gasping in a breath. “Stiles… I can’t, please, I can’t–”
“It’s okay.” Stiles wrapped his hand around Derek’s cock and stroked, firm and warm. “You know I’ll take care of you. I’ve got you.”
“I know,” Derek mumbled into his skin, and couldn’t hold out any longer. Stiles’ fingers thrust into him once, right where he needed, as his hand worked Derek’s dick, and Derek fell over the edge, his stomach clenching as he came all over Stiles’ hand.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Stiles said suddenly.
Derek let out an exhausted laugh. “You’re such a nerd,” he told Stiles and pulled him down for a kiss.
“God, go away, I’m gross,” Stiles moaned and jerked a pillow over his head. Then he gasped for air as elegantly as a beached fish and shoved it away. “Ugh, don’t look at me.”
“I brought you that soup you like. And crackers.” Derek flicked on the lamp on the nightstand next to Stiles’ bed. “And Kleenex and medication.”
“Noooo,” Stiles groaned. “I feel like the creature from the lost lagoon. And you look like porn.”
“When was the last time you ate something?”
Stiles jerked a shoulder. “Dunno. Yesterday?”
“You’re so pathetic,” Derek said, starting to sit on the side of the bed. “Oh, wow, okay, you’re gonna need to go take a shower.”
Stiles flopped over onto his back, throwing his arm over his eyes. “Oh, God, and I stink, too?”
Derek paused. “Not… exactly. You smell sick. And kind of sweaty.” And maybe just a little ripe, but Derek wasn’t going to tell him that. “Did you have a fever?”
“Last night.”
“Okay.” He caught one of Stiles’ knees and dragged it off the bed. “C’mon. You take a shower. It’ll make you feel better.”
“But my soup.”
“I’ll warm it up for you.”
“Fine,” Stiles sighed.
He dragged himself into the bathroom, a pair of clean pajamas shoved into his arms. Derek kept an ear out listening for him as he changed the sheets and pillowcases on Stiles’ bed, gingerly cleaned up the overflowing trash can next to it, and cracked a window to air the room out. It was warm out, so a bit of a breeze wouldn’t be a bad thing, and it was stuffy and smelled of sickness anyways. He was pretty sure Stiles had spent the last twenty-four hours or so building himself a dark little sick cave of misery.
Derek had Stiles’ room cleaned up, a load of laundry ready to go, and the dishwasher loaded by the time Stiles stumbled out into the kitchen. He’d even wiped down the kitchen counters and was just pouring Stiles’ soup into a pot – he didn’t trust the microwave after that time Stiles got stoned and nuked a fork – when Stiles staggered over to him.
“I feel like a baby gazelle,” Stiles said, running his fingers through his damp hair to get it off his face. “You know, with the wobbly. It’s awful. Can we make with the snuggling yet?”
Derek turned away from the stove and cupped his hand around the back of Stiles’ neck. Stiles kind of melted against him, his too-warm forehead dropping down against the curve of Derek’s neck, boneless as he clung to Derek’s waist.
“You need anything?” Derek asked, stroking his back.
“This,” Stiles said, his voice muffled. “This, a lot, this. I can’t believe you came down because I got a cold.”
“You’re sick,” Derek said into his clean, damp hair. “I hate it when you’re sick.”
“You’re such a softie,” Stiles mumbled. “I’m fine, dude.”
Derek pressed his nose into Stiles’ hair and inhaled, wishing that the smell of sickness was gone. He wasn’t used to this anymore. He’d had human family members growing up, his dad and little sister, a couple cousins, but the majority of his family was were and it’d been nine years since he cared about someone human like this. Humans were so terrifyingly fragile.
“Yeah, well.” He rubbed his jaw against Stiles’ temple. “You’re miserable when you’re sick and you suck at fending for yourself. You make yourself a little misery nest that makes you cranky because it’s not actually comfortable and you don’t feed yourself and you never have medicine around when you get sick.”
“Worrywort.”
“I love you, of course I’m going to worry,” Derek said, and then froze. Oh, fuck, he hadn’t meant to say that. He didn’t – it wasn’t that he didn’t mean it, he did, he so freaking did, but he just – he hadn’t meant to say it yet. He'd been thinking about it - about how to - but he just... didn't know how, yet.
Stiles exhaled. “I – did you mean that?”
Derek swallowed and nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”
“If I thought I could do it without suffocating, I’d be on my knees with your dick halfway down my throat right now,” Stiles blurted, jerking back and staring at him with huge eyes.
Derek rolled his eyes, but grinned as he nudged Stiles away. “Thanks, I needed the image of you murdering yourself on my dick. Go back to bed and I’ll bring your soup in as soon as it’s hot. Do you need to take something? I got you stuff. And there’s orange juice in the fridge. Drink some of that.”
“You’re so good to me,” Stiles said with a smile and opened the fridge. Then he stopped, blinked, and his mouth dropped open. “Holy crap, this is a lot of food that was not here yesterday.”
“Stiles. Medicine. Bed.”
Stiles groaned and took the orange juice out. “I can’t even make a crack about that. I literally have nothing.”
He sent Stiles back to bed and finished warming up his soup, topping up the glass of orange juice Stiles had forgotten and getting a plate of crackers as it heated. Stiles went all sad eyed if he couldn’t eat half a sleeve of crackers with his soup. Unless it was tomato. Then he wanted Goldfish in it and a grilled cheese.
Derek wasn’t entirely sure what it said about him that he knew so much about Stiles’ soup preferences. Or that he actually cared so much about Stiles’ soup preferences.
In the other room, Stiles flopped down on the bed, springs creaking as the mattress bounced with the impact, and groaned, sounding utterly miserable. Derek sighed and got down the bowl that Stiles liked best.
“I’d kiss you if I wasn’t so gross,” Stiles said when Derek put a pillow on the bed in front of where Stiles sat, cross-legged, and put his soup on top of it. “Seriously, dude.”
Derek paused, leaned back in, and kissed him lightly before straightening the rest of the way. It wasn’t like he could catch Stiles’ cold, and he hadn’t seen him in almost two weeks.
“So you bought half the drug store,” Stiles said, pausing to blow on the steaming bowl of soup. “And got my favourite soup.”
“There’s two more containers in the fridge,” Derek said as he settled onto the bed next to him.
“Got three containers of my favourite soup. Got groceries. Got groceries I probably couldn’t afford. Changed the gross sweaty sheets on my bed, made me shower, cleaned my gross room and kissed me when I’m kind of disgusting.” Stiles dropped a handful of crackers into his soup and shook his head. “You’ve been here an hour. You’re too nice to me.”
Derek rolled his eyes and avoided Stiles’ gaze until his face stopped burning. “You’d do the same for me, dumbass.”
“Yeah.” Stiles elbowed him. “You know there’s this thing that when you’re sick, your brain fluid decreases because you’re dehydrated? It makes it harder to think and stuff.”
“Okay?”
“I’m just saying, I have an excuse about completely forgetting to tell you that I love you too.” Stiles reached over and squeezed his thigh. “You know that, right?”
Derek nodded. “I know.”