triskehale (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
triskehale) wrote2013-06-24 07:09 pm
triskehale) wrote2013-06-24 07:09 pm
Entry tags:
now you're a restless dream
Derek is standing at Stiles' stove, shaking a pan back and forth as he makes stir fry.
Stiles is on the couch in the living room with some tinny electric pop playing softly from his laptop speakers, papers and books spread haphazardly all around. Derek burns his thumb on the edge of the pan and tries not to think about how domestic this all feels, how it's something he could get used to, how walking into either apartment to find Stiles there waiting feels like a lot like coming home.
He finishes up the stir fry and dishes out generous helpings on two plates, grabbing forks and two bottles of water as he carries them out into the living room. Stiles has his body contorted simultaneously around both a book and a laptop in a way that shouldn't even be physically possible, and he doesn't react in the slightest when Derek says his name.
He rolls his eyes and uses the back of his hand to shut his laptop before setting his plate down on top of it, ignoring Stiles' squawk of indignation. "Eat."
He holds out the fork and water and then sits down next to him, propping his bare feet up onto the coffee table and crossing them at the ankles. He cradles his plate near his chest as he slouches, propping it up with his fingers and shoveling a bite into his mouth. It's good, even he can admit, and he nods in approval before digging in with gusto. It's a personal goal to cook at least one thing for them both every day, and so far he's pretty much stuck to it. Money's getting a little low, but he'll worry about that when he needs to. Point is, he's getting a lot better at cooking.
It's one thing he never would have told anyone back home, but here Stiles knows. It's easier to admit things here, to him. Derek tries not to think about what that means.
Stiles is on the couch in the living room with some tinny electric pop playing softly from his laptop speakers, papers and books spread haphazardly all around. Derek burns his thumb on the edge of the pan and tries not to think about how domestic this all feels, how it's something he could get used to, how walking into either apartment to find Stiles there waiting feels like a lot like coming home.
He finishes up the stir fry and dishes out generous helpings on two plates, grabbing forks and two bottles of water as he carries them out into the living room. Stiles has his body contorted simultaneously around both a book and a laptop in a way that shouldn't even be physically possible, and he doesn't react in the slightest when Derek says his name.
He rolls his eyes and uses the back of his hand to shut his laptop before setting his plate down on top of it, ignoring Stiles' squawk of indignation. "Eat."
He holds out the fork and water and then sits down next to him, propping his bare feet up onto the coffee table and crossing them at the ankles. He cradles his plate near his chest as he slouches, propping it up with his fingers and shoveling a bite into his mouth. It's good, even he can admit, and he nods in approval before digging in with gusto. It's a personal goal to cook at least one thing for them both every day, and so far he's pretty much stuck to it. Money's getting a little low, but he'll worry about that when he needs to. Point is, he's getting a lot better at cooking.
It's one thing he never would have told anyone back home, but here Stiles knows. It's easier to admit things here, to him. Derek tries not to think about what that means.