The C-word
De'rek is waiting. He drums his slightly too long fingernails on the table top, much to Eric'ha's annoyance. She has told him to stop four times already. Now she catches his hand with hers, nails first. The sudden pain makes him hiss, eyes ablaze. She just glares back at him. "Stop. That."
He scowls until she pulls her nails back, leaving four little crescent moons in the back of his hand that heal within seconds.
"You know you can just pop by on your own accord, right?" she says, not for the first time. "You go top side often enough as it is, with that weird coffee addiction of yours."
De'rek grunts, just like he did all the other times she brought it up.
"Or, here's an idea, you go over there, bring him a cup of coffee and ask him to finally make out with you!" The last bit is illustrated by Eric'ha flailing her arms over her head like an idiot. Like the idiot she is claiming him to be. "You're a demon, De'rek. Sex and sin is what we deal in. Hell, people summon you for the express purpose of sex!"
"And look where that has gotten me!" he roars suddenly, fed up with her goading him. She struck a nerve. Just two days ago some wannabe Satanist strung out on drugs had summoned him, looking to 'be filled in every orifice'. He was lucky she was high as a kite, so he could get out of there as quickly as possible without touching her too much. It's fine, he has learned to compartmentalise over the years. And he has figured out ways to deal with those kinds of summonings with minimal skin-to-skin contact. An illusion comes a long way, most often. Still...
"Not cool, babe," B'oyd admonishes from the kitchen where he is cooking them pasta for a late dinner.
Eric'ha makes a face, but she slumps back in her seat. "Yeah, okay, sorry. It was really low of Jennifer to get that image of you in your human form into circulation. Just because you didn't want to help her channel your demon powers into the annihilation of some poor backwater town doesn't mean she has to pimp you out for centuries to come."
"Whatever," Der'ek grumbles. "I deserved it."
Eric'ha rolls her eyes. "Here we go again," she mutters under her breath before she launches into a well rehearsed speech. "Yes, De'rek, you kinda suck at being a demon. Because you're too nice! Your only fault is being too trusting, hell, if that is even a real fault. You made a mistake when you trusted that bitch Kate, but you were so young back then! You were even younger than Boyd and I were when we ended up down here. It was a mistake, one that cost you dearly. You've already paid for that mistake, double and more. Peter shouldn't have punished you, not like he did." She takes De'rek's hand again, this time without nails puncturing his skin. "That stunt with Jennifer was just bad luck. You can't let it stop you from going after what you want."
De'rek uses his free hand to rub over his face, his eyes scrunched shut. "I should've known what she was doing. What they were doing. I've let them use me, both of them. I should've known better."
"Has Stiles asked you to do things for him?" B'oyd questions, putting plates with hot pasta in front of them.
De'rek shakes his head and mumbles thanks for the food.
"No cursing the ex-girlfriend with warts in inconvenient places? No obscure rituals that involve the saliva of a hellhound? No terrorising a rich uncle into a heart attack so he can get his inheritance a little early?" Eric'ha is laughing as she sums it up on her fingers, yet those are all things that have been asked of De'rek in the past decades.
"It isn't like that," De'rek argues. "Stiles isn't like that."
"Well, there you go!" Eric'ha declares with a flourish and takes a hearty bite of her food, considering the topic done. As if De'rek doesn't have to worry about anything, despite his experiences in the past. "Mm, honey, you've outdone yourself tonight. This tastes devilishly good!"
Eric'ha took to being a demon like she'd been born for it. When she was offered a chance for revenge on the racist mob that lynched her and B'oyd for being in love and daring to hold hands in public, she took it without hesitation. And B'oyd followed her to the end of the Earth, as he'd promised her when they were still alive. So they had taken De'rek's offer and they've all been fast friends ever since, no matter that De'rek is technically their boss.
For all that she's good at being a demon, Eric'ha only ever does the bare minimum of what is required of her. Hell is fairly corporate and she knows just how to toe the line when it comes to the rules. It helps that De'rek is the one who has to keep her and B'oyd in check, and they in turn help him to keep Peter satisfied and off their backs. It's a good system.
"Maybe something came up for Stiles," B'oyd says, polishing the last of the sauce off his plate with a piece of garlic bread as he picks up on their conversation again.
The food had made De'rek forget momentarily that this is the night he always visits Stiles. They usually see each other multiple times a week - No, let's rephrase that: Stiles summons him multiple times a week. De'rek would do well to not forget that little distinction.
The exact number of summonings differs from week to week, but Friday nights and Sunday afternoons have become a staple. It allows De'rek to plan his week around it, something he rarely gets to do with the haphazard nature of summonings in general. He could go weeks or months without a summoning, only to get summoned three times on the same night the next day. The regularity of the thing he has with Stiles is nice and on nights like these, when Stiles doesn't stick to the program, De'rek realises how much he has started to depend on it.
He shrugs, leaning back in his chair. "Last time I saw him they were still in partial lockdown. I doubt that changed much in the last few days."
"I'm so sick of that shit," Eric'ha whines. "People actually summoned me to get rid of the virus. Like I can control a pandemic!"
"Last week some guy wanted me to beat up his congressman, because he was mad about his favourite restaurant being closed." B'oyd starts to collect their plates to bring them to the kitchen.
"What'd you do?" B'oyd often gets requests like that: people see his impressive physique and assume he's the violent type. De'rek may be too nice for a demon to some extent, B'oyd is practically a pacifist down to his core. Until you touch the woman he loves, that is.
"I got him take out from that very same restaurant. Dumbass didn't even know they offered a pick up service."
De'rek shakes his head fondly. He'd worried about B'oyd when he first became a demon, afraid that the life that came with it would make him unhappy. However, the big man remains stoic in stressful situations and manages to come up with non-violent alternatives most times. And when he can't, well, then there's Eric'ha to take care of him after the fact.
He gets up out of his chair to help clear the table when that familiar sensation runs over his skin. He quickly puts down the cutlery he picked up and steps back from the table. There is just enough time for Eric'ha to tell him to have fun before De'rek crosses worlds.
He's a little disoriented at first. He recognised the pull of the summoning from Stiles, the boy's personal signature filtering through after so many times of doing this. Yet this isn't the tiny dorm room De'rek knows so well by now. There's threadbare carpet in an indefinable colour, white walls with smudges and small damages and a ceiling with some missing plates above his head. To his left is an elevator door, an 'out of order' sign taped to it crookedly. Still, the familiar cardboard is beneath his feet; Stiles had to redo the lines a while back because they were too faded to work properly anymore. And there is Stiles too, sitting in the doorway of his room. He's wearing a face mask, one of those blue disposable ones like they have in hospitals.
"Why am I out in the hall?" De'rek looks around him, but the place seems deserted. The overhead lights are at energy saving mode, with only some of them on. It doesn't make the hallway look any better.
"You'd be too close when you're in my room."
"Too close?" Somehow, the words sting. It was only recently that Stiles started touching him, and until now it has only been when De'rek was in his hellhound form, but still. He rather enjoyed their new way of watching movies. The bed was more comfortable than the desk chair for one and the experience of a warm body leaning against him without further expectations was also very pleasant. He'd been working up to the idea of watching a movie with Stiles like that in his human form, instead of covered in fur. Did this mean that Stiles wouldn't want that?
Stiles coughs wetly and De'rek observes him more closely. The boy is pale behind the mask and there's a sheen of sweat covering his skin. His scent is a little off too, although De'rek would have to get closer to get a conclusive sense of that. "Are you sick?"
The boy nods. "We're allowed back in class in small groups this week. Some asshole came to class on the first day while his mom had Covid." Stiles lifts his hands, as if to say 'what can you do?'.
De'rek feels anger well up in him. Stiles has been very careful, obediently following the regulations the local government put in place, all to minimise the risk of getting sick for himself and those around him. The boy hasn't seen his father in the flesh in months, let alone his friends from back home. For fuck's sake, he even summoned a demon because he was so lonely! And now that things are starting to look up again, that he was able to go back to school in some semblance, some idiot infected him and possibly more classmates.
He pinches the bridge of his nose and wills the anger back down. Stiles is not at fault here.
"Why am I out here in the hall?" he asks, looking back at Stiles. The boy is slumped against the doorpost, he really should be in bed.
Stiles blinks tiredly. "Don't wanna infect you," he says, like it's obvious. "We had plans... I would've called, but, you know, I don't have your number. I don't even know if they have cell phone coverage in hell." The last part is mumbled and hardly intelligible through the mask.
"You can't," De'rek states, standing on the edge of the summoning circle. "And we do."
"What?" Stiles sounds tired and confused. It's late and he looks miserable, he shouldn't be sitting on the floor like that. He should get some sleep, yet it doesn't look like he's getting up any time soon.
The demon sighs and closes his eyes to concentrate. A few moments later he's able to push through the boundaries of the summoning circle. It's far from pleasant and he loses his human appearance, reverting back to his demonic base form, but he's out. Stiles is still gaping at him when he reaches him, putting his hands out to usher the boy back into his room. "Come on, get up, you should be in bed."
Stiles tries to protest, get him to stay back, though De'rek is having none of it. "You can't infect a demon, Stiles," he states firmly, supporting the boy's elbow when he teeters precariously on his feet. When he sits down on the bed De'rek turns back to grab the cardboard and electric candles from the hallway. Better not leave any summoning parafernalia outside where everyone can see it. This college dorm has probably seen weirder, but better safe than sorry.
In the room, De'rek busies himself with checking out Stiles' food stashes. The mini fridge isn't empty, but he still doesn't like what he finds in there.
"What're you doing?" Stiles asks, his voice now muffled by his comforter instead of the face mask.
"Judging your food choices," De'rek answers flatly, because frankly, that's what he's doing right now. He's also making a mental shopping list, because Stiles isn't going to survive on half a carton of almost expired milk and some prepackaged breakfast burritos.
"Do you have someone to do your shopping for you?" he asks, not wanting to presume Stiles is solely depending on him to take care of things.
"I was gonna order some stuff online tomorrow," is the unsatisfying answer. Just last week Stiles was complaining about the costs of getting groceries delivered, he's only a poor college student after all. Besides, the delivery man won't get any further than the main hall downstairs; Stiles would still have to carry his groceries up to the fifth floor because the elevator doesn't work. He doesn't really look up to that task right now.
De'rek turns back to Stiles, gazing down at the boy burrowed in the blankets. "I'll bring you some breakfast tomorrow morning," he offers. "You can make me a list of groceries to get for you."
He would go out right now to grab some stuff from the night store, but he's still too drained to shift to his human form.
"You can't go shopping with those fangs," Stiles tries to say, the words cut off by another coughing fit.
De'rek hands him the glass of water that sits in the window sill close to his bed and lowers himself down on the edge of the mattress. "I'll be fine tomorrow," he says, taking the glass again when Stiles is done with it.
He dares touch Stiles' forehead when the boy lays down again, carefully keeping his sharp nails away from his skin. "You have a bit of a fever."
Stiles scrunches up his nose. "I know, it's not too bad though. It's down already, it was worse this afternoon."
De'rek smooths his hair back, emboldened by the lack of negative response Stiles shows to the demon touching him. If anything, he seems to like it, his eyes going half lidded with every stroke of the demon's hand. "You could've let me know sooner," he says, "I could've helped."
"Nah, that's okay," Stiles answers, a wan smile on his lips. "I took my meds, I slept. Not much you could do."
"If you say so." De'rek keeps running his hand over the boy's hair, ignoring how it is a little damp with sweat. Now he is touching, he can't seem to stop. "Have you at least eaten something today?"
Stiles turns a little so he can face De'rek more head on. It brings the demon's hand to the side, his wrist coming to rest lightly against Stiles' cheek. The skin is warm against the inside of his wrist. The boy smiles up at him, his eyes glistening. "Are you sure you're a demon? Look at you going all Florence Nightingale on me."
"Shut up," De'rek huffs fondly, ruffling Stiles' hair and finally removing his hand. Instead, he takes Stiles' phone from where it's sitting next to his pillow. He unlocks it by pointing the front of the device at Stiles for facial recognition and then adds his number to his contacts. "I'll be here tomorrow around ten with breakfast. You can call me if you need something before that."
The boy's hand closes around his wrist when he puts the phone back in its spot on the bed, hooking it up to the charger. "Thanks, Derek. You didn't have to do this."
Stiles is right, he didn't have to do this. Like, at all. He has also never given his phone number to a human before. But Stiles is different, he thinks, finding the words to ring true inside his head. He trusts him.
De'rek tucks Stiles in, rubbing his shoulder comfortingly. "That's what friends are for, right?" He gets up, despite how Stiles' surprised and warm gaze pulls at him. "Get some sleep, I'll see you in the morning."