Okay that Derek's soft hands post was awesome, but it was funny too cos like, imagine if his hands aren't actually that soft? My uncle's been working roadworks for years and a few years back he started buying Dove soap instead of the cheap brand and he loved it so much he started buying the moisturiser too and like, at least twice a day he would lather moisturise the shit out a them then go around telling everyone to feel how soft his hands were. But they still felt like sandpaper and no one (1)
would say anything because he’s this big, rough as guts dude named Spike who was in prison for years and god help whoever tells my uncle who loves to linger in the health and beauty aisle to see the different moisturisers, that they aren’t doing jack for his hands.
Sorry for the very late reply to this! Now all I can imagine is Derek who tries to pamper himself with lotions and potions but no matter what he does, it never seems to work out? No matter how much he tries to make himself feel soft and good, it always backfires. It’s either got an ingredient that make his senses go hay-wire (apparently aloe-vera is the worst) or it just doesn’t make him feel better. Derek imagines it’s a similar feeling to when people expect amazing sex, only to feel unsatisfied after. Derek’s never expected amazing sex from anyone though, not even Kate when he trusted her, so he doesn’t know if the comparison is all that accurate.
It’s after he tries the Peaches and Cream Ultra Lotion that he hits rock bottom, sitting on the loft floor, staring at the offending lotion bottle. He’s pretty sure the right hand side peach is taunting him. For the smoothest skin, reads the speech bubble. Derek rubs at the pads of his fingers and tries not to get upset because it’s a fucking lotion. But here he is anyway, drowning in the after math of yet another lie.
He doesn’t know how long he sits there for but it’s long enough that Stiles shows up, armed with a bat. At first, it’s clear Stiles thinks Derek is hurt - probably because he is still sulking on the floor - but the moment he crouches in front of him, he immediately takes in the lotion bottle and raises an eyebrow. Derek expects him to laugh or throw some careless comment his way. Braces himself for it. What he doesn’t expect is for Stiles to pluck the bottle from Derek’s hand and replace it with his own. He holds it loose enough that Derek could pull away if he wanted to.
He doesn’t want to.
Instead, he sniffs. This big, loud, wet sniff that he wants to be embarrassed about. Except, he isn’t. Maybe it’s because he’s seen Stiles give himself a concussion from a chicken baguette once (he still doesn’t know how Stiles managed that one) or maybe it’s because Stiles is smiling at him; smiling in a way Derek rarely sees. It’s the smile he reserves for his dad, for Scott. It’s a smile you earn, and it’s being directed at him right now. It’s a smile, Derek realises, Stiles has shown him often. For months now. He doesn’t know what that means.
He squeezes Stiles’ hand anyway, shrugs a shoulder and picks up the lotion bottle again. Grips it. Hard.
It explodes, and before he knows it, they are both on their sides, laughing. Derek doesn’t know if Stiles is laughing because he is or because they are both covered in pink gunk.
“It smells like peaches,” Stiles wheezes, as if that explains everything. “Derek Hale. Likes to smell like peaches.” He clutches his side harder and uses his legs to push himself further into Derek’s space, until his head is in Derek’s lap. “I think you’re amazing just as you are, wolf man, but if you want my mom kept recipes for stuff like that.” He nods to the now broken bottle, still in Derek’s hand. “They are all in a box under my bed. You want to come over later, get some dinner with me and my old man? There’s a Mets game on.”
Derek is silent for several moments, trying to decipher what Stiles is saying. Eventually, he decides not to overthink it. If he overthinks it, Stiles might take the offer back. Might drop his hand.
Derek really doesn’t want Stiles to drop his hand.
“I can make veggie burgers.” He coughs. Serious. “From scratch.”
Stiles smiles with his eyes, brings Derek’s hand up to his mouth but doesn’t kiss it, like Derek thinks he’s going to. Just looks down fondly, like they’ve done this a hundred times before. Shit, maybe they have, he thinks, swallowing. In their own way. “You learn that in werewolf school?”
Derek laughs. “Something like that,” he says, thinking of his Grandma, who taught him everything he knows: cooking, sewing, how to swear in eight different languages. When she was old enough, Grandpa Hale taught Laura how to drive while Grandma Hale read The Princess Bride to Derek in Spanish every Friday night. Derek always thought he got the better end of the deal.
“Show me.” Stiles grins, a challenge, and somethings shifts inside Derek. He tries to frown, because it’s expected of him, but he ends up blushing instead when Stiles leans up and whispers, “next time, I’ll get you one of those aprons that say kiss the cook on them, huh?” in his ear. “I think you’ll find I’m very good at obeying instructions.”
Derek rolls his eyes and pushes him away. His palms are sweating. “You don’t even know what the word ‘obey’ means.”
Standing up, he starts towards the kitchen, only to find himself on the floor again, tripping over nothing, when Stiles calls after him, “maybe I just need a firm hand to keep me in check!”
The bastard doesn’t even look sorry when Derek pounces on him, pinning Stiles’ hands above his head - rough hands, just like his, he realises- but Derek is too busy torn between wrestling Stiles and kissing him to care.