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.

Stiles sighed, stepped over a couple of stray chips and towards Derek, reaching out to him, ready to pull him into a hug, calm him down and order takeaway, when Derek jumped back, crushing the charred remains of a potato under his foot. He turned away and bolted out the back door just as the front door opened and The Pack came in, half of them dripping water all over the floor. They must've bumped into each other on the way back.

Stiles didn't give it much more thought than that as he called out to them, instructing Scott to clear up, Peter to order take out and Lydia to make sure neither of them somehow fucked up.

"And where are you going?" Jackson asked.

"To find Derek." He realised he should probably explain further given the amount of times they'd had to do just that because of more sinister reasons than: "Derek ran away because he can't cook." So he said just that as he dragged on his shoes, already regretting his choice of words but uncaring as he thought about just how far away Derek could be by now.

He ran as fast as he could, then pushed harder, glad that he had gotten pretty good at this by now. He checked all of the places Derek usually went to first: the first place he met Stiles, the cliff that they often sat on, the tree Derek sometimes liked to climb when he needed a change of scenery while writing. He wasn't there.

Stiles groaned, tired of walking, having given up on running twenty-odd minutes ago. He went to his house to pick up his Jeep and check for Derek. Then he drove to the dilapidated train station, the old loft that they had fixed up and were now renting out, the graveyard and the nemeton, getting out of the car when he had gotten as close as he could.

He knew by this point he should get The Pack to help or leave and wait for Derek to come home by himself, but he refused to give up. "Too stubborn for your own good," Derek would say. Stiles smiled at the thought; his determination to find Derek grew.

—————

He stood outside his old school, staring at where he knew the entrance to the Hale vault was. He slumped down next to the sign. It was the last place Stiles would think of – it had been years since he'd come here – but of course, Derek would go to the one place where he could be well and truly alone. None of the other Hales would bother him and no one else could open it without their help. But Stiles didn't need their help if Derek was in there, he'd be able to hear Stiles and Stiles could talk his way into or out of anything. So he started speaking.

"Derek, come on, I know you don't want to be alone. Not really. You might be able to fool everyone else, but you should know by now: you can't fool me. You've never been able to. And you never will be able to. I can guess at why you freaked out, but something tells me I'll miss details that are important to you. Why don't you let me in, buddy? Come on, or I'll start using all of those pet names you hate so much."

Apparently, that was enough of a threat, as the Beacon Hills High sign swung out of the way to show Derek's wolf form trotting back down the stairs. Stiles followed after him until they reached a cove Stiles wasn't aware existed. It wasn't anything fancy, just a plain, empty room, stone walls, stone floor. The only notable thing about it was that, spanning over two walls, was a list of names, carved, presumably, by claws for the were's and knives for the humans.

Stiles ran his fingers over the last name of the first name he saw: Hale. There were variations of the name – older variations, hyphenated, crossed out and replaced, – But they were all from Derek's family. They'd all been here at one point in time to carve their place here, forever remembered by the future generations of this family.

Stiles found his fingers dancing over the names in search of Derek's, finding it written under Laura's and above Cora's. He smiled at the delicate, precise lettering – so neat in comparison to most of the other names – and wondered how long it had taken Derek to carve.

Derek grumbled quietly to get Stiles' attention, Stiles smiled down at him, moving to sit with his back against the wall and waiting until Derek lay across his legs before he started speaking again. "You know, this might make communication difficult." Derek lifted his large head to glare at Stiles.

"Okay, fair enough, I did only ask to be let in. But, dude, I thought we were getting better at the whole 'talking about my feelings does actually help me and isn't just a hoax society made up to find out my weakest points' thing." In response, Derek pressed his nose into Stiles' hand and huffed. "I'll pet you if you promise to talk to me later, Der-bear."

There was a long pause, then Derek gave him an unimpressed look. Stiles chuckled, "Right, sorry, forgot. Bark once if you promise, twice if you don't."

Derek barked once. Stiles grinned at him and, finally, ran a hand through Derek's dark fur.

—————

Stiles was half asleep, fingers drawing lazy circles over Derek's back, when Derek stood and shook himself out. Stiles dragged his eyes back open and watched as Derek left the room, returning a minute later in human form, jeans slung low on his hips as he pulled his shirt over his head. He sat down next to Stiles, letting Stiles slump against his shoulder, then reached up a hand to play with Stiles' hair.

They sat in silence as Derek worked out what he wanted to say. Stiles pressed his lips together, keeping the rambling out of the quiet, letting Derek think. Derek wanted to tell him now, Stiles knew, just like he knew that that's why Derek hadn't told him why he wouldn't let Stiles teach him; he didn't want to, he wasn't ready, he didn't have the words.

"I'm supposed to be able to do things like that." Derek says.

Stiles took a moment, waiting for Derek to say more, but he didn't, "Why?"

"Because I'm The Alpha of The Pack. I should be able to provide for them."

"You've already provided so much, Derek, everyday you help them out in little ways."

Derek stiffened underneath Stiles, his hand stilling, "It's not enough."

"Don't bullshit me, Derek." Stiles paused, hummed, then amended himself, "No, don't bullshit yourself. You have given every single one of us a new life in the best possible way. You saved most of them."

"That was then." Derek's voice was low but firm, held with such confident belief that Stiles' heart throbbed.

"And even now, you continue to save them, every time you get the chance, and to the point that you make me scared for you." Stiles pulled a face but decided that that's a conversation for another time, "You help them every day, whether that's paying for uni or medical bills, for food or hobbies. You provide comfort and when you realise you can't, you find someone who can. You help them study, you proofread their essays even when you have a busy day, you find time. You help them learn to protect themselves, you show them that it's possible to learn to love yourself. You care." Derek opened his mouth to interrupt, but Stiles had moved to sit in front of him at some point in his speech and his glare was enough to make him close his mouth. "God damn it, Derek, you have shown all of them more love and kindness than I have ever seen one man dole out, and considering how you used to barely give them a smile, I'd say that that's pretty fucking impressive. So, tell me again how you aren't providing?"

Derek didn't meet Stiles' gaze when he said, "I can't cook."

Stiles scoffed, but his touch when he lifted Derek's head was gentle, caring, careful, "And you won't let me teach you."

"I should know." Stiles raised an eyebrow, disbelieving, waiting for Derek to understand why. But it softened as soon as Derek's answer broke the tense air between them, "My mom was supposed to teach me."

"Oh, Derek." Stiles sighed, moving forward to sit in Derek's lap, straddling his hips, cradling his head when he buried it in the crook of Stiles' neck. "I'm sorry, I am."

"She'd be disappointed that I never learned."

Stiles thought about his response, playing it over and over again in his head before he said it out loud, "She would be proud of you for making it this far, for being so determined. I think she would understand why you're yet to learn." Again, Stiles lifted Derek's head and met his gaze, "But, Derek, if you want to learn, she wouldn't be upset that you let someone else teach you."

"She learnt by herself." Derek shut his eyes, not wanting the contact, Stiles guided his head back to the safety of his shoulder.

"That may be, but not everyone can do that. You think I taught myself? You think, before I taught Scott, he could do anything more than serve burnt toast?"

Derek chuckled, and Stiles smiled, glad, "I... I feel like--" Derek stopped, unsure where to go next. Stiles waited, drawing patterns on the back of Derek's neck until he could find himself again, "I feel like I need to live up to her but I don't know how."

"You already have. I know you don't believe that, but if you were to ask any of The Pack, they would agree with me."

"They didn't know her."

Stiles slid his hand up from Derek's neck, into his hair, tugging gently, before moving back down his neck, and repeating the movement – something he'd learnt always calmed Derek, soothed him in a way Stiles would never understand. "Peter did." He said quietly. "We talk, you know," Derek did know. Peter had needed someone he could trust, someone to talk to after everything, someone who would understand why he did what he did, and Derek couldn't be that someone. At least, not when Peter had needed it most. So Stiles had stepped up to the plate, taken Peter's icy walls – so different to Derek's stone ones – and melted them with a box of matches.

"He talks about her, sometimes. And he talks about you, about how proud he is of you." Stiles rarely told Derek what the other Pack members confide in him; their trust too important, too fragile. But Peter wanted Derek to be happy, wanted Derek to know a lot of the things he told Stiles, he just could never find a way to tell him. Those walls still so thick in places, matches too weak to break them. So Stiles had promised that, if he were to find the right time, he'd make sure Derek knew. "He said that sometimes it's hard for him to spend time with you because you remind him so much of her, so much of Talia. You're so strong-minded, you're impatient with the world yet you manage to have the patience of a saint with The Pack, you're kind and caring in your own way."

Derek lifted his head but didn't meet Stiles' eyes. Stiles went on, "There are so many ways in which you remind him of her. Ways that he can't describe, but you're also not her. You don't have to be her. You're too important to be someone else." He cradled Derek's face in his hands, "I know it's going to take you a while to believe me, but Derek, you are good enough, better than that, for this Pack. And anytime you need reminding, I will be there and so will The Pack." Stiles leant in, pressed his lips to Derek's forehead, let them linger there for longer than necessary, pulled away slowly.

"Stiles?" Derek asks; Stiles hums. "Thank you."

Stiles smiles, "Thank me by coming back home with me so that we can reheat the food Lydia has undoubtedly saved for us, curl up on the couch and watch Star Wars."

"Again?"

"Yes, again. Now come on, I'm starving." As if on cue, Stiles' stomach let out a loud growl. Derek laughed, the sound echoing off the walls and back to them as they stood. Stiles brushed himself off.

Derek ran a hand over his name, fingers light as they brushed the empty spot next to it, "One day, I'm going to add your name to this wall," He eyed Stiles, asking permission, uncertain if that was something he wanted too. Stiles ducked his head, hiding his grin, and nodded.

~.~.~.~.~

AN: Hi I hope you enjoyed. If so, please vote/comment. This was written from the three-word prompt: fur, potato, skin. If you want to give me a prompt (it doesn't have to be three words) leave a comment or find me on Instagram skeleton_w0lf