Chapter Text
Derek eased open the backdoor and slipped into the warm orange glow of the galley kitchen. The evening sun shone dappled patterns across the room through floating lace curtains and the soft golden light of the lamp glowed from the living room door. Only the rhythmic clicking of the aging grandfather clock and the murmuring water of the kettle reached him - otherwise the place sat in silence. It was the kind of silence that could only exist in the countryside, and only ever belonged to people who knew each other too well to fill it.
Derek toed off his heavy workboots and slid them into place with his socked foot. He watched as the toes thunked into the skirting board by the doormat, settling into the familiar scuffs that marked his routine. Beside them sat Titch’s boots: identical in every way but smaller and with fewer chicken pecks denting their surface. Derek slid off his jacket and hung it on his peg, smoothing down the fabric so it lay plush beside his husband’s. He tried to ignore the drops of scarlet blood which still soaked into the cuff, making a mental note to add stain remover to the shopping list.
The kettle clicked and, as if summoned by the promise of a warm drink, Titch appeared in the doorway. He glanced over at Derek briefly, sweeping their two mugs from their hooks with practiced ease, catching them both in one hand and lifting the kettle with the other.
“All in?” He asked. The water burbled as he poured it into their mugs.
“Yeah, Louise needed some wrangling but no chicken is a match for me. I asserted my dominance,” Derek said with a grin. He stepped behind Titch, a careful hand resting momentarily at his hip, and scooped up a tea towel to press to his still reddening palm.
“Dominance, huh? Is that what we’re calling it now?” Titch hummed. Derek couldn’t see the teasing smile on his lips or the glint in his dark eyes but his tone held no secrets.
Derek inspected his hand. A jagged cut arced across his palm, not particularly deep but angry and still beading with blood. He pressed the tea towel into his skin, ignoring the way crimson splotches began to mix with the towel’s faint orange stains.
“Smells good in here,” he said as he applied pressure.
“Pumpkin soup,” Titch replied with a nod to the pot simmering away on the stove.
Titch swirled the mugs of tea and dropped the spoon into the sink with a flourish before turning to his husband. He held out Derek’s favourite mug starring sheep in tiny jumpers but his offer faltered as his eyes flicked down to Derek’s hands.
“What’ve you done?”
“‘S’nothin’ really,” Derek mumbled with a sheepish shrug.
“Give me-”
Titch abandoned the tea as if it had never mattered and took up Derek’s injured hand in his own. He removed the tea towel, setting it aside slightly cringing at the concealing stains, and inspected the cut.
“How did this happen?” He asked. Titch had a way of showing affection through muttered curses and gritted teeth that blurred the line between worry and protection, it was a side to the man Derek couldn’t help but swoon for whenever it appeared.
“Told you: Louise thinks she’s better than me!” Derek chuckled.
With a fond roll of his eyes, Titch thrust Derek’s hand back to its owner and patted the counter beside him before disappearing off to rummage beneath the sink. Derek hopped up onto the counter, legs swinging like a child and hand resting in his lap. He watched Titch root through the cupboards gathering supplies in his arms like a nurse preparing for battle.
“‘S’hardly worth a plaster, love!” Derek laughed.
“Maybe but you’ve put blood on my tea towel and soup in your bloodstream so I don’t think you’re the medical authority here.”
“Huh? ‘S’that what the stain was?” Derek mused, inspecting the towel abandoned beside him with the expression of a man who’d done something foolish and entirely intended to do it again.
Titch nudged open Derek’s knees and slid between them, crowding into his space with the kind of familiarity reserved for two people who’d been orbiting each other for a decade. He got to work with a silent focus and Derek was more than happy to perch there in the warm glow of the kitchen and allow himself to be fussed over. Titch dabbed sweet-smelling Germolene into his palm, calloused fingers gently smoothing over Derek’s damaged skin.
A hiss of pain had Titch searching Derek’s face for any semblance of discomfort but Derek was just grinning at him.
“Baby,” Titch muttered, returning to his careful cleaning.
“Don’t I get a kiss? Y’now, to make it better?” Derek asked hopefully.
Titch didn’t lift his gaze from where he was unrolling a bandage but the gentle shake of his head and the smile tugging at his lips meant Derek knew he’d hit the jackpot. The bandage sat smooth against Derek’s skin, tightening slightly as Titch wound it around his palm with ease.
“You’d make a proper good dad, y’know,” Derek mused, eyes never leaving his husband’s face of concentration. Titch’s weather-worn hands faltered for just a moment as something unreadable passed across his face before he schooled his expression back to neutrality. His hands resumed to work and he made no effort to glance up from them but they shook in a way not present before.
Titch’s cheeks tinged pink as he tucked the end of the bandage securely at Derek’s wrist. The words seemed to catch him entirely off guard. He fiddled with the soft fabric entirely unnecessarily, eyes looking anywhere but at Derek as if the notion itself felt too big to acknowledge.
“Doubt it,” Titch murmured.
“You would.”
After a moment of stillness, Titch took Derek’s wrist and brought his rough fingers to his lips, brushing them once gently against his warm skin.
“There,” he muttered. “All better.”