Sterek One-Shots (Book 2)

Your Place In History.

Stiles waltzed into the kitchen, eyes bright; it was Derek's turn to cook dinner for The Pack and that always ended poorly, often resulting in yet another fun story to tell at parties. Stiles had, many times, offered to take over on Derek's days, or at least give him lessons on how to cook, but Derek refused him every time. And, despite Stiles constant questioning, Derek would never tell him why.

"So, what is it today, big guy?" Stiles twirled an arm around Derek's waist and rested his chin on Derek's shoulder. When all Stiles got in return was a grunt, he sighed. "Come on, Derek, don't grump." Derek's shoulders hunched over as if trying to hide what he was cooking from Stiles, though Stiles had already seen the potatoes he'd been peeling and the large hunk of mince out next to the fridge.

"Burgers and fries," Derek said finally.

"Oh, nice, good choice. Simple yet effective." That was the wrong thing to say, Stiles knew as much as soon as he'd said it, but it was too late. Derek growled low in his throat and twisted out of Stiles' grip before Stiles had a chance to press a kiss to his cheek and try to fix it. "Dude, that's not what I meant, you know that."

"Don't call me dude," Derek said as he scooped up the potato skins and dumped them into the food bin.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever, sweetheart." Stiles flicked his hand back and forth, waving away Derek's annoyance so that he could focus on his anger. "Look, I know this is probably some macho alpha bullcrap, but I also know that you hate cooking. I didn't mean anything by what I said, I would've said it to any of The Pack." That was true and they both knew it. Stiles shook his head, realising he was going to go off-topic again, "I just don't understand why you won't talk to me about it."

Derek's knife slipped and he swore under his breath, sticking his finger in his mouth quickly before going to wash it and the knife. Stiles winced, if Derek weren't a werewolf with stupid-fast healing abilities then Stiles would go make sure the wound wasn't deep, or go fetch him a plaster. He knew that would just bother Derek further. Instead he just said, "Let me teach you. It'll save you a lot of pain." 'And money on burnt food' he didn't say. Though he did wonder how a werewolf couldn't smell the burning before it got too bad.

"No, Stiles, I've got this." Derek snapped.

This time Stiles did walk over to Derek, taking his previously injured hand and pressing his lips to the clean skin, "Have you?"

Derek watched Stiles for a long moment, lost in the simple act of care. Stiles watched back, still amazed that he could pull such a wondrous look from the stoic alpha with such an ordinary gesture. Then Stiles' words sank in and Derek pulled his hand away, "Yes. Leave me alone."

Stiles frowned, nodded sharply, and left. He told himself not to overthink it, that it was nearing the full moon and Derek was doing something he didn't enjoy, of course he'd be touchy, he told himself that over and over. It didn't work. His mind churned over their conversation, thinking over all of the things he should have said instead.

—————

It was nearing dinner time, The Pack would be coming home soon. Most of them had gone out to the movies, and the others opted to spend the day outside as the weather was perfect for a swim in the lake nearby the newly rebuilt Hale house. Stiles had come back early with Derek to get a start on research and dinner, respectively. There was a new kind of plant growing around the lake that none of The Pack could place a name to. It turned out they were lucky, for once, as it belonged to a herd of Fairies, all of which were good-natured.

Stiles dragged himself back downstairs and into the kitchen to get plates and cutlery, nodding to acknowledge the apologetic kiss Derek pressed to his cheek before moving around him and into the dining room. Before he got a chance to lay the table he was stopped by the sound of a tray crashing to the floor and Derek yelling. Stiles rushed back into the kitchen to see Derek glaring between his hand – that was bright red but, again, healing quickly – and the tray of burnt oven-cooked chips that lay spread across the floor.