Merry Christmas you filthy animals <3 I've come locked and loaded with an excellent Sterek fic for you all, but most importantly my secret santa @sweetsamurixxx!!!!
The afternoon sun slanted through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse. It painted the sleek, modern kitchen in a warm, forgiving light, a stark contrast to the battlefield of flour, dough, and vegetable remains that covered the island. At the middle of it all stood Stiles Stilinski, wielding a chef’s knife like a forensic scalpel, his brow furrowed with intense concentration. An open, well-loved cookbook, its spine cracked and pages horrifically stained, was propped against a canister of flour. His mother’s handwriting danced in the margins ‘More onion, Noah always loves more onion.’
Pierogi. Derek’s silent craving. Stiles had seen the telltale signs. The extra-long stare into the empty freezer, the almost indistinguishable sigh when passing the Polish grocery store, the way his husband’s thumb would tap repeatedly on the menu at Polish restaurants that didn’t serve them. Derek Hale’s language was almost exclusively in gestures and micro-expressions, a language Stiles had spent years becoming fluent in. He knew the hitch in Derek’s breath that meant frustration, the specific pressure of his palm against the spine of Stiles’ back that meant mine, the way his pupils would consume the green of his irises when Stiles entered a room, even after all this time. It was a symphony of silent but undoubted love, and Stiles was its most devoted conductor.
Stiles continued to dice the mushrooms, the thump-thump-thump of the blade a rhythmic accompaniment to his daydreaming of Derek. The sun glared off the glass bowl, momentarily blinding him. His focus remained on cutting the diced vegetables needed for the Pierogi stuffing. His left hand splayed flat on a zucchini, fingers curled like a seasoned chef’s, or so he thought.
A sharp, electric pain shot through his hand. He yelped, an extremely high-pitched sound, and dropped the knife with a clatter. “Oh, come on!” he hissed, staring in disbelief at the clean, red line blossoming across his Thumb. Blood welled up instantly, vivid against his skin. He grabbed the damp rag he’d been using to wipe his hands, fumbling as he wrapped it tightly around the wound, applying pressure. A pathetic, pained whimper escaped him.
The effect was instantaneous.
From the loft bedroom, there was a rustle, then a thud so heavy it vibrated through the floor. A blur of dark movement shot over the railing, a shape that bypassed the staircase entirely and landed in a half-crouch on the living room floor. Derek Hale, hair sleep-tousled and wearing only a pair of low-slung sweatpants, was at his side in less than a second. His eyes were blazing electric blue, his face a mask of primal concern.
“It’s just a cut, just a stupid cut,” Stiles gasped, his false bravado undermined by the tears of shock and frustration prickling his eyes. He leaned dramatically against the cool marble of the island, cradling his hand to his chest like a fallen soldier. A single, traitorous tear escaped, tracing a path through the fine dusting of flour on his cheek.
Derek didn’t ask for permission. Gently but firmly, he took Stiles’s wrist, his touch cool. He unwrapped the rag, his nostrils flaring at the scent of blood. The cut was deep, clean, and bleeding freely. “Look at me,” Derek murmured, his voice rough with sleep and worry.
Stiles met his gaze. Derek’s free hand came up, his fingers brushing Stiles’s floured jawline, before dropping over the wounded hand. A familiar, cool sensation spread from the point of contact, a numbness chasing away the sharp pain. Black veins crawled up Derek’s forearm as he pulled the pain into himself, his expression hardly changing. The agony receded, leaving behind a dull, distant throb.
“Stay,” Derek commanded, though it was soft. He moved with his supernatural werewolf speed to the sink, almost yanking a drawer off its hinges as he opened it, and retrieved the industrial-sized first aid kit that Noah had provided the couple. In just mere moments, he had Stiles’s hand cleaned, sterilized, and wrapped in a neat, professional bandage.
He didn’t let go of Stiles’s hand afterwards. He cradled it between both of his hands, his thumbs stroking over the bandage. “Are you okay?” he asked, his eyes searching Stiles’s face. “Really okay?”
“I’m fine, you big worry-wolf. Just my pride and my pierogi plans that are mortally wounded.”
Derek’s lips twitched. “I’ll finish dinner. You go sit.”
“No!” Stiles protested, pulling his bandaged hand back to gesture emphatically at the culinary chaos. “I was going to surprise you! It was supposed to be perfect. Your favorite.”
A slow, genuine smirk spread across Derek’s face, the one that still made Stiles’s knees feel a little weak. He stepped closer, crowding Stiles gently against the island, his hands coming to rest on Stiles’s hips. He leaned in, his breath warm against Stiles’s ear.
“You are my favorite meal,” he rumbled, the words a low vibration that went straight to Stiles’s core.
Stiles’s fake frustration melted away. He turned his head, capturing Derek’s lips in a kiss that tasted of concern, comfort, and deep, abiding love. It was slow and sweet, a silent conversation of its own. When they parted, Stiles rested his forehead against Derek’s.
“Compromise?” Stiles whispered. “We finish them together? You can be my sous-chef. I’ll supervise with my one good hand.”
Derek hummed in agreement. “Deal.”
And so, the kitchen dance resumed, altered but all the more intimate. Derek took over the knife work, his movements lethally precise as he finished the dicing. Stiles, with his now bandaged hand, used his left hand to stir the sautéing onions and mushrooms and clumsily seal the dough circles around spoonfuls of filling. His right hand, however, had a different duty. It rested lightly on Derek’s back, tracing idle patterns over his back tattoo, feeling the shift of powerful muscles, occasionally drifting to the dip of his spine or the curve of his hip.
The pierogi, finally assembled, bobbed in a pot of boiling water like little doughy boats. A quiet peace settled over them, filled only by the bubbling of the pot and the soft city sounds of Downtown Beacon Hills filtering up from below. Stiles watched Derek’s profile, the focused set of his jaw, the way his eyes tracked the cooking food.
“Hey, Der Bear?” Stiles said softly.
Derek glanced at him, a questioning eyebrow raised.
“How did you even know? You were asleep. I just… yelped. It wasn’t even that loud at all.”
Derek turned fully, his gaze softening. He reached out, brushing a stray fleck of flour from Stiles’s cheekbone with his thumb. His voice, when he spoke, was so quiet it was almost swallowed by the steam from the pot.
“I’ll always hear my beta’s cry,” he said simply, “louder than anything else.”
The simplicity of it, the profound truth in those words, stole Stiles’s breath. He wasn’t just Stiles, he was Derek’s Beta. His to protect, to hear, to love. He surged forward, kissing Derek again, pouring every ounce of his gratitude and love into it.
When the pierogi were finally drained and sizzling in a pan of butter, they plated them up. They weren’t perfect. Some were overstuffed, some were oddly shaped. But they were theirs.
Sitting at the dining table, Stiles watched as Derek took the first bite. He chewed, his eyes closing for a second in quiet appreciation. When he opened them, they were fixed on Stiles, the green deep and warm and full.
And Stiles knew he wasn’t just talking about the dinner.
They ate in a comfortable silence, punctuated only by the soft clink of forks and Stiles’s satisfied hums. Every so often, Derek’s foot would find Stiles’s under the table in a steady, grounding pressure. The pierogi were delicious, the dough tender, the filling savory and rich. But the taste was secondary to the warmth blooming in Stiles’s chest, a warmth that had nothing to do with the food and everything to do with the man watching him with that quiet, focused intensity.
“You’re staring,” Stiles said around a mouthful, a smile tugging at his lips. “My culinary genius is just that mesmerizing, huh?”
“You have butter on your chin,” Derek replied, deadpan, but the crinkle at the corner of his eyes betrayed him.
Stiles swiped at it with his thumb. “A mark of honor. Battle butter.” He looked down at his bandaged hand, now resting beside his plate. “You know, for a guy who can heal a sliced artery in ten minutes, you’re awfully good at first aid.”
“Practice,” Derek said, the single word heavy with the ghost of a past full of scraped knees, claw marks, and bullet grazes that weren’t his own. He pushed his empty plate away slightly. “And you’re… chaotic. It’s good to be prepared.”
“Hey, my chaos keeps you on your toes, you geriatric.” Stiles leaned back, patting his stomach. “Success. The Hale stomach is officially vanquished by Stilinski-Hale ingenuity.”
Derek just shook his head, but he was gathering the plates. “I’ll clean up.”
“No way, you cooked half of it and did the emergency surgery. Sit. I’ve got this.” Stiles stood, taking the plates from him. His movements were a little clumsy with his bandaged hand, but determined. As he turned to the sink, he felt Derek’s presence right behind him, not helping, just there.
Stiles let the hot water run, filling the sink with suds. He began washing, the rhythmic motion soothing. Derek’s arms came around his waist, his chin coming to rest on Stiles’s shoulder. He didn’t speak, just breathed in the scent of Stiles’s neck, of soap and Stiles and the lingering aroma of fried onions.
“You know,” Stiles said softly, leaning back into the embrace, “my mom used to say the best meals always cost a little blood, sweat, or tears. I think I hit the trifecta tonight.”
Derek’s arms tightened minutely. He nuzzled into the space behind Stiles’s ear, a gesture so purely wolflike and affectionate it made Stiles’s breath catch. “Worth it,” Derek murmured, his voice a low vibration against Stiles’s skin.
They stood like that for a long moment, Stiles washing the dishes with Derek wrapped around him, a silent sentinel. The last of the sun dipped below the skyline, painting the clouds in purples and deep oranges. The penthouse lights flickered on automatically, casting a softer, ambient glow.
Once the last pot was dried and put away, Stiles turned into the embrace of Derek’s arms. He brought his good hand up, tracing the lines of Derek’s face, the strong brow, the straight nose, the stubborn jaw now softened by contentment. He loved this face, every scar, every expression, every silent story it told.
“Thank you,” Stiles whispered.
Derek’s brows drew together slightly. “For what?”
“For hearing me,” Stiles said, his thumb brushing over Derek’s lips. “Even when I’m being an idiot with a knife. For… all of this.”
Understanding dawned in Derek’s eyes. He didn’t need grand speeches. He captured Stiles’s wandering hand, pressing a kiss to the palm, then to the bandage on his other finger. A promise. A vow.
“Always,” Derek said, the word final and absolute.
He then slid his hands down to the backs of Stiles’s thighs and lifted him effortlessly, placing him on the clear section of the kitchen island. Stiles let out a surprised laugh, which was quickly swallowed as Derek stepped between his open knees and kissed him, deep and slow and thorough. It was a kiss that tasted of shared history and a future written in the quiet moments just like this one.
When they broke apart, foreheads resting together, Derek’s hands were splayed on Stiles’s thighs. “Bed?” Derek asked, though it sounded less like a question and more like a delicious inevitability.
Stiles grinned, hooking his ankles behind Derek’s back. “I think I’ve done enough manual labor for one night. Carry me?”
A flash of a smile, rare and brilliant, crossed Derek’s face before he schooled it back into its usual stoic expression, though his eyes shone with amusement. Without another word, he shifted his grip and hoisted Stiles up into his arms, cradling him against his chest as if he weighed nothing.
As Derek carried him towards the stairs, opting for the traditional route this time, Stiles tucked his head against Derek’s shoulder. The clean, familiar scent of him, leather, soap, and the unique wildness that was just Derek, filled his senses. He looked back at the clean, quiet kitchen, at the cookbook still open on the counter, the recipe for happiness now permanently stained with a tiny, rust-colored smudge of his own blood.
He smiled, pressing a kiss to the pulse point in Derek’s neck. It hadn’t been the perfect, surprise dinner he’d planned. It had been better. It was theirs. A story they’d tell someday, a memory woven into the fabric of their life together, the day Stiles learned that sometimes, the most perfect moments come not from flawless execution, but from the messy, beautiful, healing aftermath.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
HEHEEHEHEHE I ATE THAT SHIT UPPPPPPPP
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