Fandom: Teen Wolf
Characters: Derek Hale, Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall, Lydia Martin, Jackson Whittemore, Vernon Boyd, Erica Reyes, Allison Argent, Danny Mahealani
Word Count: 1064
Summary: In which three is a pattern and Derek knows the way to a man's heart.
Notes: This tooth-rotting bit of plotless fluff takes place in a nebulous, AU season 2 where the pack's a big, happy family and Jackson/Erica/Boyd are still around because I said so.
Fic available on AO3, DW, and here on
Derek sighs, looking between the garishly colored boxes in his hands.
“This is absolutely ridiculous.”
Derek barely suppresses the urge to jump, which is, like the boxes in his hands, ridiculous. There’s no way Stiles should’ve been able to sneak up on him, even amidst the hustle and bustle of the crowded grocery store.
“Why would anyone think these were necessary?” Derek shoves the boxes at Stiles, reaching for a painfully plain box of Shredded Wheat. He tosses the cereal into his cart with more force than strictly necessary, the cardboard creaking ominously.
“Dude, these are awesome!” Stiles is looking down with wide brown eyes, mouth split into a grin. “How can you think Salt Water Taffy and Chocolate Banana Split Pop Tarts are unnecessary?”
Derek raises one eyebrow, dropping a bag of unsweetened granola into the cart. He proceeds to roll his healthy groceries further down the aisle, away from Stiles and his disgusting breakfast choices.
“You should try the watermelon flavor, Derek,” Stiles calls after Derek’s retreating back.
“Never gonna happen,” Derek doesn’t bother turning around.
“Catch ya later, Balto!”
“The dog jokes will never be funny, Stiles!”
“Wrong! The dog jokes will always be funny.”
And if Stiles later finds a selection of (admittedly bizzarely flavored) Pop Tarts in the cabinets of Derek’s loft? Well. It’s obviously an isolated incident.
“That’s possibly the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen,” Erica cheerfully informs Stiles. “And last week I eviscerated a harpy with a trowel. There were intestines. Intestines which got on my new boots, Stilinski. And that was not as gross as the monstrosity you’re devouring.”
The pack is scattered on pillows and the ragtag sectional in front of the flat screen for movie night. The loft’s kitchen has been stocked with enough pizza and cheesy bread to feed a small country (or six werewolves and four teenaged humans).
“Wrong,” Stiles shakes his head, barely intelligible around a mouthful of pizza. He swallows, licking a trace of sauce from his lower lip. “So very wrong, Catwoman. My pizza is delicious.”
“Yeah, I’m gonna have to go with Erica on this one, Stiles,” Scott scrunches up his nose, helping himself to Allison’s slice of pepperoni.
“What’s...no, but what is on that thing?” Isaac looks into the cardboard box, eyes comically wide.
“Shrimp, avocado, black olives, jalapeno peppers, Canadian bacon, broccoli, and extra cheese,” Danny reads off the box. “That’s just a crime against pizza, Stiles.”
“You’re all just jealous I get the whole pie to myself.”
“Wait, did you order?” Lydia’s artfully-lined eyes narrow, flicking from the pizza box to the kitchen. Stiles doesn’t see anything suspicious. It's just Derek, Boyd, and Jackson pulling drinks out of the fridge and grabbing mismatched plastic cups from the cabinets.
“No, I ordered last week when we had Mr. Wong’s,” Stiles shakes his head, plucking an olive from his slice and tossing it into Scott’s waiting mouth. “Remember, I accidentally ordered Mu shoo pork instead of Mu shoo chicken and Jackson threatened me with his chopsticks.”
“But who else knows your disgusting pizza order?” Allison asks, snatching back her slice of pepperoni while Scott’s distracted by flying olives.
“I don’t think the girl whose favorite dessert is fruit salad gets to pass judgment on my pizza.” Stiles hits Scott square in the nose with the last olive from his slice. “Yo Boyd, root beer me!” Stiles catches the can, whining that Boyd needs to be careful with the fragile bones of his delicate human hands.
And if Stiles notices the small, satisfied smile on Derek’s face before Jackson dims the lights and Harry et al board the Hogwarts Express, well. Two times is a coincidence.
Derek almost drops the cookie when Stiles’s backpack hits the polished concrete of Derek’s kitchen floor.
Derek frowns. “Was that…a question?” He scoops some more frosting and continues icing the second batch of cookies.
“What are you doing?” Stiles asks, mouth agape as he watches Derek Hale frost cookies. Derek ‘I was born in this leather jacket’ Hale is wielding a pink rubber spoonula and wearing an apron emblazoned with Come to the Dark Side—We Have Cookies.
“Frosting the cookies. They just finished cooling.”
“Are those peanut butter chocolate chip cookies?” Stiles demands, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Yep.” Derek adds a healthy dollop of frosting to the cookie in his hand, trying to make his swirls tidier and mostly failing.
“With chocolate icing?” Stiles brown eyes narrow.
Derek pauses, examining the cookie for a long moment before swapping it out for a fresh one. “Uh-huh.”
“Otherwise known as my favorite cookies?”
Derek silently finishes frosting the last cookie. “Do you want one?”
“Yes.” Derek sets the final cookie onto a platter resting on the kitchen island.
“My favorite cookies.”
“If you say so,” Derek shrugs, lifting the apron over his head.
“I do. I do say they’re my favorite cookies,” Stiles watches Derek open the pantry door, where he carefully hangs the apron on a nail inside. “Which is something I never told you, but I did tell Erica last week. You were in the next room. I remember, because we were waiting for Deaton to finish stitching you up after the thing with the selkies. And,” he points Derek accusingly, “you know my disgusting pizza order!”
Derek rolls his eyes, closing the pantry door. “You have repeatedly assured everyone your pizza order is delicious, Stiles.”
“That’s because it is,” Stiles waves his arms emphatically, “but no one else thinks so. And you bought the stupid Pop Tarts!”
Laid out like that, it’s sort of damning evidence.
“I did. Buy the stupid Pop Tarts. You said they were awesome.”
“They were awesome! I mean, they are awesome.”
“Well, there you go.”
Stiles frowns at Derek, who raises his eyebrows and silently passes Stiles a cookie.
After a bite, Stiles says, “This is delicious.”
“You…you’re good at the baking thing.”
“I used to, a lot…before,” Derek ducks his head, helping himself to a cookie.
“Your apron’s awesome.”
“Thanks. You have better taste in cookies than you do in pizza.”
And if Stiles spends the rest of the afternoon in Derek’s kitchen, sharing leftover frosting and consuming enough sugar to make them both a bit giddy, well. That’s okay. Three’s a pattern.
He could get used to this.