all you have is your fire

three

The scent of cheap pepperoni lingered in the air as Derek dropped his paper plate, loaded with crusts that resembled cardboard, into the trash can. His stomach turned at the meal he'd consumed, and Derek hoped he'd be able to keep it down, much more used to eating lean meats, fresh fruits and vegetables. Not this crap that passed for sustenance.

How was it that a firehouse with a kitchen as nice as this had such meager offerings? No vegetables - just pizza and a freezer burned pail of ice cream that had probably been in there for over a year. The fridge wasn't any better - soda filled the shelves, the only healthy item present being a large wedge of watermelon covered in plastic wrap. Derek's mouth watered at the sight, but before he could so much as lay a finger on it, Erica shouted a warning, pointing out a large yellow sticky note pressed to the surface.

"PROPERTY OF STILES. YOU TOUCH, YOU DIE."

"And he means it, too." Erica grabbed a can of soda, then turned to leave the kitchen. "Theo, a medic who used to work here, cut off a tiny sliver, and when Stiles found out, he took Deaton's backpack, dunked it in the toilet, then put it in Theo's locker. Dude was suspended for two weeks, and never came back."

Derek stood in front of the open refrigerator, regarding the glistening crimson wedge and considering his options. With Stiles gone, he could easily scarf down the whole thing and pin it on someone else. Or something else. He could tell Stiles that rats had broken into the refrigerator and hauled the entire watermelon wedge away. It would be perfect revenge for the man's earlier humiliation.

His conscience pricked mid-reach though, and he reluctantly slammed the refrigerator door shut, then wiped his hands on his pants before shoving them into his pockets.

Damn his mother and her proper southern upbringing. The same upbringing she'd instilled in him from the moment he'd taken his first steps. Like his brothers and sisters before him, Mom raised him to be kind, to be considerate, to carry himself with the dignity and grace that were the hallmarks of the Hale family. Selfless. Sensible. Sincere. Spotless.

Shit.

Derek grimaced, glancing down at the glaringly obvious grease stain on his only pair of work pants. At least until the rest of his clothes arrived from New York.

That meant only one thing - he needed to do laundry tonight.

This was all Stiles' fault. Stiles and his stupid watermelon had distracted him before he could wash his hands. Slowly he made his way back to the bunk room, then rummaged through his duffle bag and pulled out a pair of plaid flannel pants. They'd definitely be too warm to sleep in tonight, the early summer heat stifling without the air conditioning he was used to. But he couldn't exactly walk to the laundry room in his boxers, so for now, he'd just have to sweat.

Honestly, this fire station wasn't all that bad. When Deaton gave him the tour early this morning, Derek had been pleasantly surprised at the various amenities - a bathroom with fluffy blue towels draped over a rod on one wall and a stacked washer and dryer on the other, a small basketball court out back, and his favorite - a movie room with a half a dozen plush leather recliners and a big screen TV.

It truly was a home away from home, which made sense considering how long firefighter shifts were. One thing was for sure, he'd never be bored.

After putting his work pants and a few other items in the washing machine with a detergent pod, Derek started the machine, glad he was able to figure it out with minimal struggle. Now he had just enough time for a shower to help him cool off.

A half an hour later, Derek rubbed at his damp black hair with a towel as he tossed his clothes in the dryer. A yawn crawled up his throat as they thumped about, the rivets on his pants clanging against the metal interior. In any other circumstance, such an annoyance would have kept Derek awake until the load was done, but right now he couldn't have cared less.