Never Trust A Skinny Baker
"You do understand the risks of this operation, yes?" Agent Raphael McCall turns to look at the lanky intern. "This thing is dangerous, primal, and will not hesitate to kill again. We shouldn't even be letting you do this." He sits back down in his chair and takes a deep breath as he slides the case file across his large, oak desk. The boy picks it up and wastes no time in flipping through photos and autopsy reports as Agent McCall leans forward on his forearms to speak in a hushed tone. "You absolutely cannot tell anyone while you're investigating. Not Lydia, not the Argents, and definitely not my son. Comprende? I know his nose is probably stuck into this mess already, but under no circumstance do you compromise yourself."
Agent McCall reaches forward and snatches the file back and goes through the important details, skimming over the police reports and the crime scene photos right to the last couple pages in the folder. "Everything in this packet is what you need to learn. It's your alias. Your reasons for coming home, what you've been up to here at the FBI headquarters, how your internship is going, everything. You say nothing that isn't in this packet."
"What if the answers aren't in this packet? Do I call you o-or like, shoot a text?" He makes finger guns and receives a glare from the agent in response. "You know what? I'm great at improvising, I'm sure I can just, uh, make something up based on this—" he wiggles the pages midair, "—incredibly thorough biography."
He rises from his seat in front of the desk and Agent McCall follows suit. "The only people you consult with are your father and the rest of the Beacon County Sheriff's Department. They've already been briefed and await your arrival." He reaches into his suit pocket and tosses a pair of keys at the boy. "We pulled some strings and got Scott to send your car up. It's parked out front."
"Whoa, wait—"
The agent stops from his departure and takes another deep breath as he turns around at the kid behind him. "What is it?"
"Do I have a cool code name or anything?" He starts bobbing his head to music that isn't playing. "I could be like, Batman or something."
McCall opens the office door and shakes his head. "You're going home. You don't need one." He motions for the kid to leave. "Your alias is just yourself, Stiles Stilinski."
Stiles's face falls into pursed lips. "Whatever. I'm going." He jingles his keys as he walks out of the office and into an array of cubicles. "Hey one more th—" He turns and the door closes. And locks. Twice.
"Just go do your job, Stiles," Agent McCall says through the door. "This creature isn't going to catch itself."
—
TWO WEEKS LATER
Chocanthropy is what they agree on. It took a teeny bit of persuading, but once he had Scott convinced he'd be home for a couple months taking a break from his internship at the FBI, they rounded up their cash and bought an abandoned building repossessed by the county for a whopping $750 so that they could fulfill Stiles's dream of opening a bakery together. He'd always had a passion for baking; it was an activity he usually did with his mother but after she'd gotten sick, he just stopped doing it and it was as if that part of him was fading away with his mother.
Stiles wasn't about to let that happen. Baking was one of the best things his mother had ever taught him, one of the only things rather. He'd made everything from cakes and cookies, to the most incredible chocolate soufflé anyone has ever eaten, so the least he could do was take something he loved and start something for his mom.
Scott hangs the neon sign on the building, the eerie, unconventional font spelling out Chocanthropy in bright purple. The silhouette of a howling wolf curves around behind the lettering and lights up a pale white, contrasting against the blue of the subtext reading Bake Shop. It gives Stiles chills to know that this is theirs. They paid for it.
"We're officially open for business."
Scott gives Stiles a high five as they head back into the shop. The wallpaper is lavender with white crown molding along the border. The dark wood flooring expands the length of the small shop and booths of black vinyl stretch along the right wall. There's a record player in the corner and a couple dozen strands of string lights running underneath the edge of the dark wooden countertop. Behind the counter is the menu, prominently displayed on a chalkboard hanging from a large piece of gray driftwood bolted to the ceiling. Pastry toppings rest in jars on the shelves along the back wall underneath the menu, a centerpiece for the artwork of wolves and werewolves that hang on the walls, showing vintage movie posters from The Wolfman, Lycanthropus, and La Loba.
"The result of our hard work. It's more perfect than I'd ever imagined." Scott watches Stiles beam as his amber eyes scan the shop.
"Your mom would've loved this, you know. I'm sure she's so proud of you."
Stiles smiles, pulling Scott in for a hug. "Couldn't have done it without you, bro. Thanks."
He spends the rest of his day in the kitchen, baking batches of cookies and cupcakes to sell the following day. He faintly hears Scott on the phone with the Beacon Hills Tribune trying to get an ad space for their shop. He lets the indie record on the player set into his bones while the pastry bag of rosy strawberry icing sets in his hand. Around the edge, fill the middle, swoop the top. He's got flour on his hands and smeared all over his face, the plaid apron around his waist decorated with streaks of food dye and icing. He's got four dozen made and four dozen to go. It's not like the daily flavors are going to bake themselves.
Stiles puts the strawberry icing down and flips through the recipe book on the metal counter behind him. Chocolate Guinness or Patty Cake? His mind wanders. He's too consumed by the fact that the sink isn't working properly and soaking himself to even hear the bell over the door ring.
"Hey, Scott!" He sounds desperate because, well, the water pressure was a bit high when he took the sprayer head off and he's flooded the kitchen. "This stupid sink is broken!" He's managed to shut the water off. Stiles angrily grips the sprayer nozzle in one hand and heads out of the kitchen to look for Scott when he notices a man staring at the movie posters hanging on the walls. Stiles overestimates the length of the hose and is yanked right back into the kitchen.
"Oh my God, please tell me you weren't waiting long," Stiles dashes out and panics, running his fingers through his dripping hair. "The sink broke and I have no experience in fixing those kinds of things and I have no idea where Scott went so I—"
"Do you have any red velvet cupcakes?" The man doesn't turn around.
Stiles blinks. "Uh, yeah." His hand comes up to scratch the back of his neck. Nervous habit. "I just made two dozen."
The guy looks like he's come straight out of a movie. The dark jeans he's got on lay perfectly over the curve of his hips and wrinkle around his black boots. He turns, and Stiles notices how his jacket hangs over his broad shoulders. The smooth, oiled leather draws the attention right to the gorgeous light green eyes currently glaring at Stiles from the opposite side of the counter. "I'll take a dozen."
"Sure, okay. Give me a second to pack them up." Stiles offers a small smile to the man who just continues to stew in a shroud of vexation. He disappears in the back room to find Scott jotting down information just before he hangs up the phone.
"Stiles! So, we got an ad in tomorrow's paper!"
"That's great. Can you help me with…?" Stiles nods toward the door and guides Scott out in front of him. "He wants a dozen red velvet."
"On it," Scott says, stopping at the register to let Stiles scurry behind him into the kitchen to box up twelve perfectly decorated cupcakes. He seals the edge of the purple box with a sticker that reads, Never Trust a Skinny Baker and a logo printed underneath. He brings the box out and pushes it across the counter just as Scott closes the register.
"This, is for you," Stiles chimes, sticking a business card on top of the box. The man glances between Scott and Stiles before he grumbles something incoherent. "Enjoy your cupcakes," Stiles beams with a fake charm. "Tell your friends about us." Stiles gets an eyebrow lift in return before the man grabs the box and heads back out the door.
"Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning." Stiles mumbles something about being pleasant and lets Scott go back to the storage room to print out some flyers their friends agreed to hand out. "Something doesn't set right with me," Scott says, turning briefly to look at his best friend before continuing to the back of the shop. "That guy gave me a weird vibe."
Stiles shrugs and brushes it off. "Hey, is Allison coming?"
"Yeah," Scott yells. "She's supposed to bring Lydia and Isaac, too." Stiles shuffles back into the kitchen to pick up the bag of strawberry icing again, trying to figure out why that pair of jade eyes looks so familiar.
Derek stews in his car parked in the lot outside the bakery. The box of cupcakes is still firmly in his grasp. He can still smell the strawberry icing smeared all over the kid in the bake shop. He can still hear a whisper of Bon Iver playing softly over the speakers inside the building.
"Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning."
Derek groans and shoves the key into the ignition. His black Camaro roars to life and his eyes shift down to the box in his hands, contemplating his lack of urgency. He's got a photo shoot across town in a half an hour but the last thing he wants to do is actually show up. He reluctantly backs out of the parking lot and floors it down the winding road through a canopy of trees.
It's not like he hates modeling. He just hates the food that the Varúlfur caterers provide. Derek always gets so sick of eating carrot sticks and celery for the eight hours he's hanging around on set. Chris Argent says the shoot should take about a month in order to get pictures to fill the annual Alpha issue of the mag, which means a month of eating like a fucking rabbit.
The last time Derek's been able to indulge in sweets was the party that burned his house down. It was the last time he'd had anything remotely enjoyable, most of his diet consisting of raw vegetables, high protein, and low carb. Peter insists; it's to keep his physique. As if the miles he runs every morning and the weight training before bed doesn't burn enough calories.
"A werewolf has to have a normal diet," Derek attempts to explain. "We do enough activity to work it off."
But Peter never listens. Derek would be genuinely surprised if Peter wasn't the one behind the shitty catering.
He'd overheard Argent's daughter on set the day before talking about her friend's new bakery opening downtown and after doing a bit of close listening, Derek couldn't resist. He hasn't had a cupcake in years.
The silky icing swirled on top of the cupcakes in Derek's lap wafts up and wraps around his head, his stomach starts to growl louder than the wolf inside his chest. The vanilla cream cheese icing fills the car with a sugary scent and has Derek constantly glancing down and the unopened, purple box resting on his thighs. He swallows hard, willing his brain to concentrate on the road and not on the goodies in his lap.
I'll just have one before we shoot.
He brings the whole box into his dressing room and hides it in the empty bottom drawer of his vanity. Maybe if he puts it away he won't be so tempted.
Not even thirty seconds passes before Derek's pulling a delicate creation from its cardboard confines and placing it on a napkin. He stares at the pastry. Everything's perfect.
"How long are you going to stand there before you ask for one?"
Erica rolls her eyes and moves into the dressing room. "How long are you going to stare at it before you eat it?" Erica's curled, blonde locks bounce over her shoulders as she takes a seat on the futon behind Derek.
Frankly, he isn't sure if he even wants to eat it. Sure, the Hale house fire was a rough scar now rather than an open wound, but forgetting about something for so long, putting it away in the back corner of his mind, was he really ready to let so much as a cupcake reopen that?
"They were my mom's favorite," he whispers, knowing full well she can hear him loud and clear. "Red velvet." He feels some warmth sinking into his cold heart. "They were sitting on the dining room table so that our family could eat them all. So, my mother wouldn't eat them all herself later. I was coming home from school. Swim practice ran late." He spins the small dessert as he delicately pulls the baking cup off of the base of the cupcake. "Everything was in ashes when I got there."
"Rough." Erica slides over to Derek's vanity. She peers into the drawer that's slightly ajar and steals a cupcake from the box. "You know, you really shouldn't be eating these. We have a shoot today."
"Like I give a fuck," comes his reply, tossing the baking cup in the trash and continuing to stare at the deep red crumbs littering the vanity's bamboo tabletop. He glances at Erica, who's licking the frosting off the top of her cupcake.
"Oh my God," she moans, the moment of bliss sweeping over her features and eliciting a small smile from Derek. "This is the best cupcake I've ever had in my life."
Derek still hasn't touched his.
Erica tousles Derek's hair before she walks out the door. "Eat it before I do," she mumbles in passing, through a mouthful of cake and frosting.
And he does, taking a delicate bite from the side, the perfect balance of cake to icing.
It brings back so many memories all at once. Derek can almost smell the charcoal of the ruined manor, the burning flesh. He can almost hear the shrieking coming from so close, yet so far, the crackling of the embers. He can see the vivid colors behind his closed eyelids, the green of the forest shines as the moon leaves a ghastly light cast amongst the trunks of the oaks while the amber glow of the flames rises up and licks at the stars. It makes him sad more than anything. All of the feelings, the hurt he's buried suddenly rising to the surface of the sands. It makes his body ache. His chest hurts.
By the time he's come back to reality, all that's left in his hands is a small pile of scarlet crumbs and a dollop of icing. He sees the outfit he's supposed to wear for the shoot laid out on the futon and he sighs at the sight of them. He dumps the crumbs in the trash and licks the icing off of his index finger.
Derek sheds his leather jacket and hangs it by the collar on the bronze coat rack next to the door of his dressing room. Closing the door, Derek sighs at the leather pants in hopes that they'll spontaneously combust if he stares hard enough. He reluctantly removes his own pants and struggles to replace them with the tight leather ones. Just as he gets the button closed, Erica walks back into his dressing room in a pair of jeans and a tee.
"You're not dressed yet?" Derek questions, growling deep in his throat as he tries to get the pants in a comfortable position.
"I'm not shooting today. It's just you." Derek can smell the stickiness of the apple she's eating. The crunch of the apple skin between her teeth makes him cringe. Too loud, he thinks.
"Fucking great." He snatches the other leather jacket off of the futon and throws it over his bare shoulders. "Don't you have a boyfriend to harass?"
"He's getting the crew lunch, so nope. Just you."
Derek grunts and pushes past her and out onto the set, where the crew is setting up their cameras. He crosses the set and sits hunched over on a tiny stool in front of a large vanity.
"Derek."
"Lydia."
"Don't fuss with me today."
Derek growls in response, glaring at her reflection in the large oval mirror in front of him. "Can't promise anything."
—
"Scott, are you almost done? I have a sink that needs fixing."
Stiles's arm beats the heavy cream with a stainless-steel whisk. Whipped cream always tastes better when it's whipped by hand. Approximately five hundred and thirty-eight times. And kept at a temperature of thirty-four degrees. For at most three days. His arm never tires anymore.
"I know you can hear me. Get your little werewolf ass in here and fix this."
Scott walks through the swinging door a few moments later. He carries a notepad and the bakery phone. "How many times do I have to tell you, Stiles, I don't know how to fix it! Do I look like a plumber to you?" Despite his protests, Scott bends down to take a look at the pipes.
The sink has been broken for two days now. Stiles did make a valiant attempt at fixing it earlier, which had resulted in him managing only to thoroughly soak his clothes. Scott stares at the nozzle while Stiles tosses an old dishrag over his right shoulder. His plaid apron is dripping wet and lines of flour are pressed into the fabric where he's leaned against the countertop. Groaning, he unties the apron and stomps into the back room to toss it in the corner with the rest of his things.
"Open not even three fucking days and already I have to deal with this bullshit."
Stiles sheds his hoodie and straightens the damp graphic tee underneath. He reluctantly replaces his plaid apron with the pink one on the hook, the one Lydia had custom made for her when she'd promised she'd work for them though she has yet to even show up. He ties the strings around his waist and sighs once more at the writing "HOT SINGLE BAKER" in bold across his chest.
It's better than Scott's, he thinks. He vaguely remembers Lydia handing Scott an orange apron with the phrase "HALF BAKER, HALF WEREWOLF" printed smoothly on the front.
He moves back out to the front of the store and sees Scott emerging from the kitchen with his shirt drenched just as a customer walks through the front door.
"Hello," Stiles grins halfheartedly. The man gives him a look. The pink apron matches Stiles's pink cheeks.
"A dozen red velvet," The man mutters, pulling out his cell phone.
Stiles feels like he should remember this since those beautiful green eyes have come in every single day they've been open. Scott shakes his head and walks around to the front of the counter just to sit at the bar. "Stiles, I can't fix it. I honestly have no idea how, and the plumber can't get here for another two days."
"Damn it, Scott! What am I going to do? How am I supposed to bake?" Stiles tries not to pace but fuck, he's antsy. "You mind using your little werewolf powers to poof me up a new sink? You can do that right? You can manage just about everything else."
The man doesn't interrupt, he just checks his watch while the pair argues. He can smell the anxiety radiating from the young baker as he begins to speak faster and faster.
"Calm down," says Scott, grasping his best friend's shoulders over the counter.
Stiles stops and tries to breathe. "Scott, I have things that need to be baked. We don't have an endless supply of dishes and I don't have an endless supply of Adderall. And we have customers now! What if we have to close? Scott, what am I gonna do? I—"
"If I fix your sink will you give me my cupcakes so I can leave?"
Both Scott and Stiles turn to the man who just briefly gazed up from his phone screen. "Like right now? Right this second?"
"No. I have a photo shoot to be at in 20 minutes. I'll be here around 4."
Stiles, ecstatic, resists the urge to hug this guy as he rushes into the kitchen to place a dozen red velvet cupcakes into a box. Should he give him two dozen? Stiles checks. He didn't even make two dozen.
Stiles slides the box across the counter as well as the money that's been neatly laid there. "If you'll fix the sink, the least I could do is give you free cupcakes for the rest of my self-employed life."
The man shrugs and doesn't take his money, just the cupcakes and moves out the door.
"I understand, Stiles. I figured out why he seems so...different." Scott gives Stiles a worried look. "He's an Alpha."
"And that concerns me because…?" Stiles can't say he's surprised, considering Scott warns him of every supernatural creature he detects ever since the whole 'Beacon Hills becoming a beacon again' incident.
Scott stares, appalled. "Alpha, Stiles! This means he's potentially dangerous."
"Excuse me," Stiles slides the money off the counter and puts it in an envelope, writing "Sourwolf" on it in blue pen. "He's still a paying customer." Stiles tucks the envelope into the space underneath the money tray inside the cash register drawer. "We need money in order to buy things, Scott."
Stiles can feel Scott's disapproval in his bones. It's in the look he's giving him, Scott's dark brown eyes shining with worry.
"I'm not going to get hurt, Scott."
Stiles knows Scott doesn't believe him. Frankly, despite how confident he says it, how strong and steady the words come out, Stiles isn't so sure he even believes himself.
Stiles turns toward the door and more customers walk into the store. He sees the same black Camaro from the day before, pull out of the store parking lot and speed down the road.
"Come on, Scott," Stiles sighs, trying desperately to not think about the broken sink and the brooding patron fixing it out of the grumpiness of his heart. "We have customers."
Later that afternoon, 3:45 rolls around and Stiles is embarrassed at how flustered he is. He's furiously scrolling through his emails when a new report comes in from headquarters, the first in almost three weeks. It's got a photo attached and the subject line reads ADD TO CASE. He's in the storage room and keeps glancing toward the door to the kitchen to make sure Scott doesn't barrel through and compromise him.
The report is for "an unidentified pile of remains?" because the photo shows a literal pile of skin. And that's it. Stiles grimaces and zooms into the image. What'd this guy melt or something? The Sheriff's department isn't even sure if it's a body or what, but the hair on whatever the fuck that ungodly thing is matches one found on a previous victim, which means that the blob of skin in the woods now becomes his repulsive issue. Disgusting.
"Stiles!"
Scott's voice forces Stiles to slam the laptop shut and tuck it underneath a stack of cookbooks. He throws the door open and flails through the kitchen only to grab a pile of dirty dishes and haul them into the room from whence he came. "I'm in here cleaning like I asked you to do like a half hour ago, Scott," Stiles sighs, taking a deep breath and returning to the kitchen. Scott appears through the kitchen door and picks up a metal pick out of the now empty sink.
"Where do you want this?"
"Give me that," Stiles snaps, grabbing the utensil and tossing it onto the counter behind him only for it to roll into a tub of food coloring. He grabs the rag on his right shoulder and starts aggressively cleaning the counter tops until they look pristine and shiny.
The tinkling of the bell over the door stops him.
"The model is here," Scott announces, "keep it in your pants."
Stiles nearly falls tripping over the rubber floormat in the kitchen from trying to snap Scott with the rag in his hand. "Fuck off, Scott." He takes a second to close his eyes and take a few deep breaths because if Scott can smell how attracted he is to this guy, then so can the alpha himself. You're fine, Stiles, you're fine. He tosses the rag in his hand onto the counter and convinces himself to walk out to the storefront.
"Thanks again for doing this. I really do appreciate it." Stiles reaches a lanky hand over the counter to offer to the man. "I'm Stiles."
"Derek," the man responds tersely, making no move to accept the peace offering. Derek's leather jacket shines in the string lights, his jade eyes scanning Stiles and the driftwood menu behind him.
"Well," Stiles starts, awkwardly wiggling his fingers around before he retracts his hand and moves toward the end of the counter, "come on back." He lifts the edge of the counter and it folds back on a hinge.
Derek seems to contemplate it, to weigh his options, before he sheds his jacket and lays it gently over a barstool. He nudges past Stiles and lurks into the kitchen.
"So, you used to be a plumber?" Stiles inquires. His eyes follow Derek as the man squats down and starts to inspect the inner workings of the pipes inside the cabinet underneath the sink. Derek briefly glances at Stiles with the same grumpy expression he had when he arrived. "I'll take that as a no."
The kitchen smells overwhelmingly of sugar. Derek smelled it miles before his Camaro even got close to the bakery. He knows just by opening the cabinet that sugar is most likely a cause of this sink problem. Strawberry icing smells the freshest. Derek can practically taste the fruit itself. He can tell that there's a whole bowl of icing sitting in the powder blue refrigerator across the room directly behind him. He knows that Stiles hand-made the bowl of whipped cream sitting next to it. It doesn't have the same scent as the canned stuff. Less sugary. More organic. Derek also knows that Stiles is hiding a whole crapload of dirty bowls and whisks in the back room because he wants to look professional and clean. His nose tells him almost everything he needs to know. Scott's a beta and talking on the phone in the back room with some girl named Allison. Stiles is taking Adderall, most likely for ADHD, and he's had a whole lot. Derek can smell it.
Derek leans into the cabinet and searches for the small white knob that'll let him temporarily shut off the water. He doesn't find it.
"Go turn off the water."
The baker is off trying to think about something other than the attractive plumber-turned-model fixing his sink. Maybe he'll go out into the woods after they close up and check out that crime scene. He's sure the Sheriff's Department has something by now, like maybe the rest of the body? But he's never seen anything like that before, and if he hasn't, of course the police haven't. They've barely been educated in supernatural creatures, and the last thing Stiles wants is for them to run before they can even walk.
Stiles's honey brown eyes widen when he feels himself being glared at. Crap, he was probably mumbling to himself the entire time. Crap, crap, crap. "C-Can I get you something, like a-a smoothie or whatever models drink?"
"You can turn the water off," Derek responds through gritted teeth. His face is stuck underneath the cabinet, poking around the cleaning supplies in order to get to the pipes.
"Alright, alright. You don't have to be a dick about it, Jesus." Stiles doesn't bother to whisper. Derek would hear it either way. "Maybe I should get you a Xanax and a glass of wine."
Stiles can hear the dripping of the pipe when he gets into the store room. Sacks of flour and sugar line the walls. The pipe hangs over the refrigerated cooler where all the eggs and the milk are kept at a perfect thirty-four degrees Fahrenheit. It holds fruits and heavy whipping cream and cream cheese. It's old and a mint green color, not from age, but from how his mother painted it. It's perfect. It works. Stiles could never get rid of it.
But the pipe is dripping over it. It's leaving a small circular mark on the smooth top of the cooler. Stiles grimaces and reaches above the cooler to twist the knob to turn off the water. The dripping stops briefly. Stiles uses his apron to wipe the water off of the top of the cooler and takes some of the paint off where the water had gotten under it. He sighs.
Derek felt Stiles's footsteps coming from the back of the store. He was grumbling about something that Derek really couldn't care less about. A bag of tools is dropped to his right and the sound of the water dripping through the pipes has eased. Derek reaches for a wrench without thanking Stiles for anything. His fingers grip around a 9/16 and he pulls it out of the bag, clanging the other tools around. It latches on to the nut directly in front of his eyes.
"So, how was your photo shoot today?"
Without looking, Derek knew Stiles was sitting Indian-style on the kitchen island right behind him but the question still makes him jump nonetheless. His head thuds on the stainless-steel pit of the sink inside the cabinet. A growl tugs at the back of his throat.
"Oh my gosh, I'm sorry, are you okay?" Stiles jumps off the counter to check on Derek.
Derek's back burns where Stiles's hand rests just above the waistband of his black jeans. Derek can tell himself he isn't at all attracted to skinny, defenseless, twenty-something-year-old Stiles, but his wolf can disagree more aggressively than Derek can deny. He's sweating. It's dripping off of the end of his nose. It's soaking into his shirt, his pants. He can feel the wife beater he's wearing underneath his black Henley slowly dampening and Stiles has yet to move his fucking hand. Derek shifts a bit and roughly wiggles out from under the cabinet.
"Fine." Stiles's hand moves when Derek sits back on his haunches, unbuttoning his shirt quickly and tossing it next to the bag of tools. He cards through his hair, his forehead damp with bullets of sweat. "Hand me the rubber grip."
"Please," the teen sarcastically replies, handing Derek the small rubber circle. "Wow, thanks Stiles for finding that pesky rubber gripper for me. You're a real help!"
Derek growls low in his throat, this time being unable to prevent the sound from erupting, before he settles back into the cabinet in an attempt to loosen up the rusty pipes.
Stiles deliberately fails to watch what Derek is doing because if he needs his sink fixed again, he'd rather call Derek. His eyes land on the wolf's perfect ass, clad in black jeans that seem to hug Derek's hips in all the right places. Oh yeah, Stiles thinks, definitely calling Derek.
"Why do you need a rubber grip?" Stiles inquires. Even rusty pipes shouldn't be too much for an Alpha.
"To unscrew the pipes," Derek grits out.
It seems to give Stiles a revelation. "But you have Alpha wolf super strength."
The trap comes loose and clangs under the cabinet as it falls and collides with the cans of cleaner and Derek's forehead. "Do you ever shut up?"
"Nope." Stiles grins. "I've had a lot of Adderall."
Derek gropes around for a pipe wrench and a bucket, checking the see if anything is wrong with the trap. He sets the curved piece of pipe aside and uses the wrench to unscrew the horizontal pipe from the one in the wall.
"Need anything?" Stiles shifts uncomfortably.
"The cable auger."
Stiles pauses. What the fuck is a cable auger? Do I even have one? Stiles glances at the bag next to Derek and sees nothing remotely similar to what he's looking for.
"You have no idea what a cable auger is, do you?" Derek's voice sounds loud from underneath the sink. "It's the crank with blue handles." Stiles doesn't need a fucking translator to hear how condescending Derek's being. He reluctantly digs through the bag of tools once more until he finds the crank buried at the bottom with the wire tangled around the rest of the tools.
Derek smells Stiles's embarrassment turn to irritability and frustration. Sighing, Derek emerges from the cabinet and sits back on his heels to see Stiles struggling to untangle the Allen wrenches and the various screwdrivers from the coiled, metal cable. Stiles's hands shake as he attempts to ease the Allen wrenches from between the coils. He manages to free one, but he's huffing now, ready to scream in frustration.
"Here," Stiles calmly sets the auger in front of Derek and stands, moving toward the storefront. "I'm going to grab you some water." Before I fucking strangle myself with the damn auger, Stiles thinks. He offers a stiff smile and rushes out of the kitchen to the back room.
Derek tries not to listen in because he knows Scott would sense him listening. Derek knows because he felt it when he was a Beta. When you're an Alpha, you rely on strength, knowledge, strategy. If you use yourself wisely, you protect the pack. When you're a Beta, all you do is listen. You listen to learn. You listen to strategy. You learn to detect that breach, you feel it in your body, you know when not just you are listening anymore. You feel them before you see them, before you smell them, before you taste them.
It hardens a Beta. The power that comes from slashing the throat of a rival wolf almost consumes the murderer in a kind of war-like way. They're never the same after the first kill. Some take it well whereas others shut down. Derek was different. His first kill was an innocent one. Paige was her name. She was the reason his Beta eyes had faded from a crisp, warm golden yellow to a cold, steel cobalt blue. Derek felt her pain, excruciating as it was. He took it as he could. Derek loved Paige, and still, her death was hard for him to think about.
Derek still kept a picture of her in his wallet right behind the family portrait the Hales had taken back in 18-something. Derek doesn't remember. He's not even in it, not even born yet. His mother's dead center, eyes glowing a blood crimson. They're all in Victorian clothes. It's slightly unnerving every time the picture kind of slips out of his wallet. The grim faces of every single person in the picture seem to gaze right through him and it makes Derek start to wonder why he's kept that specific picture with him at all times.
The picture nestled in front of the family portrait is his favorite. It's a photo he's glared at so many times, it's been permanently seared into his brain. It's of him and his sisters. Laura and Cora and Derek all playing together around a large tree stump in the woods around their Manor. Laura looks about ten in the picture, which would mean Derek's nine and Cora's four. Derek's covered in dirt and Cora's covered in dirt and Laura's ruffling Derek's hair with a muddy hand. They're all smiles. He can't remember the last time he's smiled.
Derek works the last Allen wrench out of the auger and pushes the pile of tools to the side in order to maximize his workspace. He moves the tin bucket underneath the stub pipe and guides the end of the auger into the pipe until he feels resistance. Giving the handle a good crank or two with his nifty werewolf strength, the auger slides smoothly out of the pipe with a wad of plastic pastry bags tangled on the end of it. Derek shakes his head and scrapes it into the bucket before he starts to replace the pipes he's dismantled.
Stiles hits his knee pretty hard on an open cabinet on his way back to the kitchen, muttering obscenities. He sets a bottle of water on the shiny counter next to the sink. "How's it coming?"
Derek grunts, using a pipe wrench to re-secure the trap. Derek pulls the bucket out from under the sink as he emerges, wife beater sticking to his back. The wolf in his chest almost growls as he turns and catches Stiles's wide brown eyes dead set on the exposed lower half of his back.
"This—" Derek pulls the wad of pastry bags out of the bucket, "was your problem." His light eyes narrow on Stiles. He can feel Stiles stilling his body; his feet stop bouncing from where they're dangling off the counter. "Don't do it again."
That's embarrassing. Stiles can feel his own gaze unconsciously follow Derek to the trashcan and back. He's focused on the way Derek's shoulders flex. Even the slightest movement, an intake of breath, and he just ripples.
The tool bag clanging brings Stiles back.
"Where do you want these?" Derek asks with a pointed glare and a scowl.
"Just set them on the counter. I'll put them back."
Derek does as he's asked and drops the bag onto the stainless-steel counter, a deafening clang making Stiles cringe.
Stiles hops down and follows Derek when he picks up his shirt and heads back out to the storefront to grab his jacket and leave.
"Thanks. For fixing it." Stiles's soft voice makes Derek stop. He slightly turns, still scowling, and nods, slipping his chiseled shoulders into the sleeves of the smooth leather jacket in his hands.
Stiles scrambles for words, trips and fumbles over them. He's trying to say them all at once. The whole sentence wants to tumble out of his mouth and wrap itself around Derek to make him stay a bit longer. All that comes out is, "Wait."
Stiles half jogs into the kitchen and grabs a small cardboard cube from the refrigerator. He places it in Derek's hands and nods, meeting the impatient eyes. "Just...thanks."
And Derek's gone.
—
Derek is holding the small cardboard cube when he goes into work for the shoot the next day.
"Aww, you brought me a cupcake. Der, you shouldn't have." Erica flips her blond curls over her shoulder when she catches Derek walking onto set as she exits the hair trailer in the parking lot.
"I didn't," is Derek's response. The shades on his eyes block the impending sunrise.
"You were supposed to be here ten minutes ago." Erica jogs in her heels to catch up with Derek's long strides. "You haven't given me enough time to eat the cupcake you brought me."
"I woke up late." Derek knows she can smell how he just rolled out of bed and came to work. He knows she's going to comment on the fact that he didn't change out of his pajamas.
Erica holds the door open for Derek. He gives her an incredulous look. "Don't patronize me, Erica."
"Oh, Der." She follows him across set and into his dressing room. Derek doesn't move.
"You smell like teen spirit."
"Shut up." Derek sets the box down on his vanity and growls at Erica. "Don't touch it."
Erica rolls her eyes and crashes on Derek's futon. She tosses the white V-neck at him to avoid laying on it. "He's a baby."
"You're a baby. And I don't need to explain myself to you." Derek sheds his black wife beater and replaces it with a v-neck. He exchanges his gray sweat pants for a pair of black jeans laid out neatly across the back of the futon. "Besides, you're dating someone my age."
"Try again, buddy. Boyd's a year older than me. You're like what, 29?" She eyes the box on the vanity. "Why'd you only get one today? I was expecting my usual daily cupcake."
Derek sits at the vanity and runs his fingers through his hair to get it to look less tousled. "I didn't buy it."
"What, they give prizes for most dedicated customer or something?"
"He wouldn't stop whining, so I fixed his fucking sink and he gave me this, okay? Anything else, your Highness?" Derek's face curls into its usual scowl, the tired, expressionless eyes staring back at him in the mirror.
Erica rolls off of the futon and sits on the stool next to Derek and grins. "This guy that's got your panties in a twist is this baker?"
"I need to shoot," Derek responds, checking the time. "It's almost seven."
Erica follows Derek out of the dressing room with her eyes and shakes her head. "He never accepts it."
Derek sighs. He's curled over Erica, fangs brushing at the nape of her neck. She's sprawled on the floor. Her right leg is bent up, her body resting on her elbows, head thrown back.
"Hold it right there," Chris calls. The set guys adjust the lighting and Chris snaps about a hundred pictures in point three seconds.
"Could you stop breathing on me?" Erica's brown eyes shift from Chris to Derek as he's looming over her. She fidgets. Chris makes a distressed noise and Erica stops moving.
"I'm doing my job," Derek whispers. "So, build a bridge, and get over it."
"At least get your claws off of me."
Derek growls low. Erica barely hears it, but she feels it. Derek moves his hand from where it's placed on her knee.
Chris makes another noise. "Stop moving, both of you."
Derek glares at Argent with crimson eyes and snarls.
"I'm not afraid of you, Derek."
"You should be," he mumbles.
Erica looks out at Chris. "Can we change poses, please? My elbows are numb."
Argent swirls his finger and Derek moves away from Erica. She stands and adjusts her skirt, moving over to where Lydia's touching up Derek's make-up with a wedge sponge. "Do we change wardrobe for this one?"
"No, not you. Just Derek."
Derek rolls his eyes. "As long as it's not another mesh tank top."
"Close," Lydia snickers. She flips her strawberry blonde curls over her shoulder and purses cherry red lips. "Lose the shirt, Hale."
Erica laughs. Derek glares at her as she runs her fingers along the hem of his shirt. "C'mon, Der." She lifts it from the bottom and Derek obliges, not breaking his scowl. He raises his arms and she tugs the V-neck off of his torso. "We have photos to shoot."
Lydia eyes Erica, moving toward her with a tube of lipstick. "Here." She fixes the smudges and fills in the fading spots before nudging both wolves toward the backdrop.
"Derek, I want you to hold her close to your body. Make it look sensual. Don't be so stiff. Erica—" Chris waves his hand before picking up his camera, "I don't have to tell you. Just do it."
She nods and wraps Derek's arms around her waist. "Hold me like your little baker."
Derek knows she does it to rile him up. Derek knows it really shouldn't bother him as much as it does. So, he tries to ignore it.
Her fingers grip his shoulders as Argent takes photos and the rest of the crew re-adjusts the lighting. "I'm sure your boy toy would love to get his hands on you." She smirks at Derek's glowing crimson eyes. "Don't be so shy, Der. Just because you bat for the other team doesn't mean you can't appreciate the other players." Her hands move from his shoulders to the waistband of his jeans, using the belt loops to pull his hips closer to her body. "Loosen up. Baker boy won't like it if you aren't flexible."
He's got some restraint, but Derek admits to himself that he's a little hot-headed. He's glaring down at her through a furrowed brow, his menacing gaze penetrating her stance as poignant as a laser beam. Her eyes flash a bright gold before they drop and fail to meet his eyes completely. Her teasing always infuriates him, but this time, it seems to get him thinking more than anything. Derek starts to wonder how Stiles would look if he were in Erica's position. Flustered, he decides, maybe nervous. Definitely sarcastic. Derek can picture Stiles's rosy cheeks and his large honey-brown eyes. It makes his heart flutter.
"You're little cupcake on your mind? Don't think I didn't catch that."
"Shut up already."
"Feisty. I bet he likes that about you." She smiles and rubs her fingers up Derek's abdomen, the hard ridge of the muscle leaving a hot trail up Derek's chest. "I bet he likes all that leather you wear." She grins toward Argent's camera and twists her eyes back at Derek. Bet you just wanna shove him down and—"
The roar he's been holding back finally tears harshly from his throat. His canines are inches from her face and his claws are unintentionally shredding the back of the blue shirt she's wearing. Derek's wolf rips the inside of his chest. It burns, like a searing knife. It tingles like the itch he can't ever seem to scratch and for an instant, the feeling's gone, the image he's thought up of Stiles's small smile handing him that little cardboard box bouncing in his head for a moment.
But then Erica's growling back. Her golden eyes pierce his own blood red irises. She's ripping down the front of his body, sharp and fast, blood trickling down his chest to the black cloth on the floor. "You don't scare me, Derek."
Chris is shouting something about artistic vision from off set and continues to encourage the tension. The rest of the crew is gathering to watch, and Derek moves away from Erica to roar again, his skin slowly working itself back together. "Don't talk about him that way. He's not a piece of meat." Derek's already planning a way to prevent them both from getting seriously injured, but then again, it's not like there's anyone shooting them with wolfsbane bullets, right? It's just a cat fight. He knows in the back of his mind that Erica isn't going to let up and he's not sure how much of his primal nature he's going to be able to hold back.
Erica doesn't mind. She's got a huge, shit-eating grin on her face. "Oh, but isn't he? He's jail-bait, Der. Barely even 21." She's snarling at him in a second, a running start giving her enough leverage to aim herself straight at Derek's chest. She leaps on his firm body, her legs anchoring behind his hips, kissing him hard. Her hands go straight for the rough stubble along his jawline and she can briefly feel Derek reciprocate before one strong hand forcefully shoves her onto the ground. Her lipstick is smeared all over his lips and he's baring his fangs in order to assert his dominance. "That's the last time you do that." With another growl, he stalks off set, fiercely rubbing at his face with the back of his hand.
Derek's done on set, having shot three more styles after Erica left. It's around six in the evening. Lydia's gone for the day and Derek's too lazy to wash the makeup off of his face. It doesn't look half bad, especially with the slim dress pants and the leather bomber they shot him in. Derek stares at himself in the mirror. He can't deny that he looks damn good. Hell, it makes him feel good. His hair isn't groomed, rather more tousled than anything. He's got smudged eyeliner framing his light eyes, contrasting with his tanned complexion. He gives a small smile to his reflection.
He moves to slide off the jacket but then decides against it. Fuck it, Derek thinks, I just want to go home. He doesn't bother to put on a shirt and shoves the rest of his clothes in his duffel. Derek flicks the switch to the vanity lights off and tosses the small, empty cupcake box into the trash. He ended up giving Erica half the cupcake anyway, even after he told her five hundred times that no, the chocolate cupcake was not given to his.
Derek nods to the crew as he leaves the building, Chris's daughter, Allison, bringing all the wigs from Erica's shoot from the set to her hair trailer. She's talking to one of the lighting guys. Isaac, Derek thinks his name is. Derek's spoken to him a few times and knows he's a beta wolf too, orphaned a few years back when his father got into a nasty car wreck.
Allison and Isaac wave as Derek passes the trailer. He waves back, a scowl still etched into his features. He unlocks his Camaro and tosses his duffel onto the passenger seat. He climbs into the car, starts it, and rolls down the windows, turning on the radio as he pulls off of the lot.
It takes him about twenty minutes to get back to Beacon Hills and he tries so hard to just pass the bakery. If Erica makes fun of him tomorrow, he can post the blame on his inner wolf yearning for a red velvet cupcake. He almost doesn't turn into the parking lot. He can smell Stiles frosting a batch of red velvet cupcakes and it makes his mouth water just thinking about it.
He doesn't give it a second thought before he turns the car off and stalks inside the bakery.
"Welcome to—hey, Derek!" Stiles's head peeks out from the swinging kitchen doors and Derek just stares at him. Stiles's eyes are wide as they take in Derek's apparel.
Wow, Stiles thinks to himself. His gaze trails down Derek's chest to where the zipper on the jacket is stopped halfway up for some modesty. He frowns slightly and blinks to meet Derek's stare. His eyes, God, his eyes. It's as if Derek's walked straight out of one of Stiles's dreams. Don't even get him started on those pants.
Stiles swallows thickly. "W-What can I get for you? A dozen Red Velvet?"
Derek raises an eyebrow and Stiles just slips back into the kitchen.
"It might be a minute," he yells from the sink. "I'm in the middle of frosting a batch."
"No rush," Derek drawls, "I'll wait."
He'll wait. Okay, Stiles, pull yourself together. Stiles's fingers tremble as he holds the piping bag. He's already sweating. It's always been hot in the kitchen, but never this hot. He takes a deep breath and attempts to resume frosting the cupcakes with as much skill as he'd begun with, as if his hands aren't shaking and as if an impatient, hot-headed model isn't pacing in front of the counter. By the time he finishes, half the batch looks flawless and the other half looks like they hired a preschooler to help. Calm yourself, he says. Stiles takes another deep breath and packs up the cupcakes. He hesitates before walking back out to the storefront.
He's surprised Derek isn't hovering by the counter, but rather gazing at the posters on the wall. Oh my god, Stiles sets the box down carefully, trying hard not to stare at Derek's ass. Those pants. Stiles gains a newfound appreciation for leather when Derek crosses his arms and the back of the jacket stretches and molds over Derek's perfectly silhouetted back muscles. "I–I, uh, Derek..."
The model turns, and Stiles gets a better look at his jade eyes smudged with black liner. His hair is spiked up and his face is freshly shaven to reveal Derek's beautifully flawless complexion. Stiles feels how wide his eyes are opened, and he can't bring himself to blink in fear of missing how sultry Derek's smooth movements look as he makes his way up to the counter. Derek's still got a deep scowl on his face when he pushes the ten dollars across the countertop and stares up at the baker.
Stiles swallows thickly and shakes his head. "No need to pay me. You fixed the sink. I already told you, free cupcakes."
Derek leans on the counter and stares straight into Stiles's amber eyes. Derek can hear his heartbeat, a steady thumpthump thumpthump slightly quickening with every passing second. He sees the way Stiles is nervously wringing his hands, attempting to avoid Derek's gaze at all costs, yet failing miserably by looking at the rest of Derek's incredibly chiseled body. Derek does have a bit of decency, though. He was kind enough to remember to zip his jacket, so Stiles doesn't end up having a hernia from Derek's near public indecency.
"I'm paying you for the cupcakes."
"T-They're just cupcakes, and it's the least I could do."
"Stiles, just take it." Derek is forcibly placing the bill in Stiles's hand, crumpling it in the process.
Stiles shakes his head again. "Derek, I can't—"
"Take the damn money before I rip your throat out." Stiles stops arguing and gives Derek a skeptical look. Derek's eyes flicker from jade to a dark crimson. "With my teeth."
Stiles grips the money in his hand and watches Derek snatch the purple box off of the counter. He catches Derek's smoldering eyes before the alpha raises his eyebrows and walks out the door into the cool dusk.
Stiles sighs to himself. He's slightly regretting letting Scott leave early to go grab dinner for his mom while she picks up another late shift at the hospital. Stiles can't seem to get Derek's piercing eyes out of his mind and he wonders to himself as he takes the small envelope labeled "Sourwolf" out from under the tray in the cash register, why is that guy so angry all the time?
He puts the ten dollars in the envelope before he replaces it and moves to the front door to flip the hanging sign from "Open" to "Closed". Stiles knows he has a whole shitload of stuff to get done before he can even think about leaving, but he still can't shake the thoughts of the model from his head.
Stiles finishes putting the last of the dishes away when the phone rings. It's a Beacon Hills area code, which means it's either one of his friends or an order.
"Chocanthropy, this is Stiles. How may I help you?"
"Hey, Stiles. I need your help." It's Allison's patient voice.
"Allison! What's up?"
"So, you know how my dad is a photographer?" She pauses and takes a deep breath. "We need you to cater a shoot."
"Cater? You know I only do baked goods, right?" Cater? Cater with cake and cookies?
"I know. There's a special request though. Peter is obsessed with making the crew eat healthy, but I figured you could you a good business boost. So, I was hoping—"
"You know, usually you try the cupcakes before you have them catered, right?"
Allison sighs. "I told you, I'll come by the shop soon. I promise. Now, where was I?"
"You need the cupcakes to be grass-fed, no preservative, horse food."
"Exactly."
Stiles pinches the bridge of his nose. "I literally described a muffin. When do you need them by?"
Allison shuffles around on the other end of the line and searches for the schedule. Stiles paces the kitchen because healthy cupcakes? He tugs his old cookbook from its place underneath the register and thumbs through it. There has to be something in there, right?
"Uhhh, it looks like out next big shoot is 3 days from now and I'm pretty sure there's nothing booked yet, food wise." Her voice gets softer as she turns away from the phone. "My dad's calling me. I'll find out when we need you and update you later."
"Wait, Allis—" The line goes dead. Shit. Stiles hangs the phone back on the wall and squats in front of the counter, his head resting on folded arms. "What am I going to do?" He throws his body backward against the wall and falls to a seat on the floor. His arms unfold and knock the cookbook off the counter onto the checkered tile. He glances down to the page that's fluttered out of the book and landed next to his right hip. He sighs and picks the phone back up.
"Hey, Liam, it's Stiles. So, Scott says you can make bread?"
—
The next morning, Stiles barricades himself in the bakery before they're set to open. It's a Friday morning, which is usually one of the slower days anyways, so he's made sure to have time to himself before Scott arrives to sit around and do nothing for yet another workday. Stiles is seated on a barstool at the front counter with his MacBook and the case file open to his right. His laptop chimes and a new email pops open from his dad with an update for the suspect list, complete with an attachment.
Stiles,
An update for the case file is attached. There was blood at the scene matching two of the other victims plus someone in our system. We believe he may be involved, but more updates to follow. Stop by the station after work and we can discuss the updates, but for now, I've attached what we have on the guy in our system. We aren't sure at this point if he's involved in the murders or if he's a potential victim, so be careful.
Sheriff Noah Stilinski
Beacon County Sheriff Station
2926 Boundview Court
Beacon Hills, CA 95921
Stiles yawns and blinks a few times before glancing towards the storefront windows. He mindlessly clicks the attachment in the email and watches it download and pop open with a fat fucking stack in the PDF and the mugshot on the first page is obviously the most gorgeous one he's ever seen. "Derek?" Stiles whispers to himself, his heart sinking right into to his red Adidas. His eyes scan back and forth rapidly as he takes in as much information on Derek that he can. "Born in November 1988, 8 family members killed in an arson fire in 2004, arrested in 2010 in conjunction with the murder of Laura Hale, under suspicion for mass murder…Jesus, no wonder you're angry all the time." Stiles stares at the mugshot of Derek and notices his eyes are closed. He frowns and scrolls to the next photo, another mugshot with two bright blue lens flares overexposing the image and washing out Derek's face. He's leaning in so closely to the screen that when there's a knock at the front door, the barstool tips right over and Stiles goes into a panic as he hits the tiled floor.
"Ju-Just a second, I'm coming!" He launches himself upward and flails his way back to his case, thrusting the case file closed and slamming it in the laptop. He shoves the MacBook into his backpack and takes a few deep breaths in an attempt to calm his racing heart before he slings the bag over his right shoulder and heads for the front door. He turns the knob and swings the heavy wooden door towards him to reveal Scott's adorably crooked jaw and a short teen with bright blue eyes and an incredulous look on his face.
"I found Liam," Scott declared, "and I think he's willing to help us."
Liam pushes past Stiles to walk into the shop. "Look, I told you, I worked at Panera for a month. I'll do my best." Stiles's eyes shift from Liam to Scott. He shrugs, and Stiles looks back at Liam.
"If you can follow a recipe, you're hired."
Stiles moves aside to let Scott into the bakery and flips the CLOSED sign on the door to OPEN. He follows Scott and Liam to where they've flipped the counter up and walked into the back of the store, and he turns, carefully stashing the backpack he's been holding in the cabinet underneath the cash register. A loud crash comes from the storage room and Stiles immediately runs to its source.
"Stiles?" It's Scott's voice. "We have more flour, right?"
Stiles rounds the corner to find Scott, on the floor, right on top of a busted sack of flour. "I was trying to grab the extra aprons and I sort of fell." He's coated in a cakey dust and every time he coughs, a little more agitates free from his hair and floats around in the airspace. Stiles climbs on top of the cooler to grab the box of Lydia's custom aprons, and he tosses it down to Liam, who catches it with ease.
"I have another sack of flour in my car that I just bought yesterday," Stiles answers, flicking his car keys at the boy on the floor, "and now you can go get it." Scott nods and reaches a hand up to Stiles, who grips it and yanks him off of the floor. "Shake yourself off before you crawl into my car. I don't need my dad assuming I do cocaine or some shit." As Scott leaves out the back door to avoid tracking flour through the bakery, Liam groans at the aprons he gets to choose from in the box.
"Are there any plain ones?" He pulls a green apron out and holds it up. "Welcome to Bakin' Hills? Is she serious?" He throws it aside and goes for a navy blue one. "My Temper is Hotter Than my Buns," Liam grimaces, "Stiles, there's literally fire emojis on this one."
"Lydia made them all, I had no say," Stiles explains, tying his own HOT SINGLE BAKER apron around his waist, "and she's going to be offended if we don't wear them." He grabs Scott's apron off the hook on the kitchen and lobs it to Liam. "Wear Scott's. He doesn't ever do anything that he needs it."
Liam unfolds the orange apron. "I'm maybe 1% baker and 99% werewolf. Definitely not 50/50." He puts the apron over his head and catches the recipe book that Stiles also threw at him before he can fasten it around his waist.
"Pick something and grab the ingredients." The bell tinkles above the door, and Stiles moves out of the kitchen. "I'll take care of the customers."
—
Derek knows he should go back home. His shoot ended earlier than usual, so he drove to the loft for a workout. Yoga turned into weights, which turned into a jog and now he's managed to smell his way through the woods right to the front doors of the bakery. No wonder Peter makes you eat healthy. Control yourself. Derek's trying to convince himself that he's definitely there for the cupcakes and not the lanky kid that makes them.
He checks his watch. What was supposed to be a two-hour workout ended up as a workout, plus another two hours of running, and now it's just past 10 pm and Chocanthropy is closed. Stiles is most definitely in there though. Derek can hear him mumbling to himself and scratching down something on a notepad in the back room, most likely taking inventory. Go home, Derek. You were already here once today. A low growl resounds through his chest and a deep breath suppresses it. A bead of sweat slides down the center of his back. Fuck it. Derek turns back to the store front and nearly knocks Stiles right back into the doors he's just walked out of.
"What the—Derek!" Stiles snaps, and his keys fall right between his fingers. "Jesus Christ, can I help you with something?" He's clearly both startled and irritated, probably because he doesn't like being startled.
Derek takes a step backward and reaches down for the keys. There's a little worn sheriff's badge on the keyring. "No." He sets them in Stiles's hand and turns to leave.
"Well, you must be here for some reason unbeknownst to me, without a car, in the middle of the nigh—honestly, it seems at this point that you're trying to get yourself killed beca—"
Derek feels a rumble in his chest again and abruptly interrupts. "I was out on a run and stopped to rest." He looks to his left and sees Stiles's plaid shirt flit in the breeze out of the corner of his eye. "That's all. I'm heading home now."
Stiles watches Derek reach for a headphone dangling out of his pocket, his tanned skin glistening in the harsh glow of the neon sign above them. "I'm on my way out. I'll give you a lift." Derek stops. "It's dark out and its nothing but woods from here to literally anywhere. Like, I get that you're 'Mr. Big Bad Wolf' but do you know exactly how dangerous it is ou—"
"I can take care of myself, Stiles." His wolf claws at the inside of his chest and he stifles it.
Stiles walks to the passenger's side of the Jeep and unlocks it. "Derek, get in the fucking car." A breeze wafts Stiles's sugary scent past Derek's nose. "I'm not going to say it again."
He grits his teeth and reluctantly climbs into the car. Stiles crawls up into the driver's seat and turns the key into the ignition. "C'mon, baby, you can do it." The engine sputters for a bit before he stops and tries again. "Roscoe's always been stubborn. I think it's because he's old." The Jeep roars to life and Stiles lets out a cheer. "Yeah! It took one less try than this morning!"
Derek reaches forward and starts dicking around with the cassette player slot. Seriously? A mixtape? Stiles taps the gas gauge on the dash with his finger a few times before he pulls out of the parking lot. "I'll get gas tomorrow." Flick. Flick. "I'm 97% sure I have just under a half a tank." The tan dash is spotless, and the steel plating is free of any fingerprints or smudges. The car feels like a rattling bucket of bolts on a set of all terrain tires. The hard-top cover has some strips of duct tape covering claw marks that scratch along the roof, and there's a ton of shit in the backseat that's jostled around whenever Stiles hits the slightest bump in the asphalt. A first-aid kit is nestled on the floor behind the driver's seat near a stack of unfolded cupcake boxes. Some frosting tips rolling around on top of them are what's in Derek's line of sight, right next to…a half a box of Trojans.
A hot rush spreads through Derek's chest and he can feel his eyes flicker red for a hot second. A hand grabs his left knee and his arm instinctively comes down to grip the wrist.
"Christ, Derek, you wanna let go?" Stiles wrings his wrist out of Derek's grip and rubs it. "Jesus, I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I was talking to you and every time I looked at you, your creepy alpha eyes just fucking crippled my soul." Derek blinks away the animal and his green eyes dart around. "I'm fine." His chest quakes again. Should I get out of the car?
The Jeep rolls to a stop sign and Derek's fingers slide toward the door handle. "Where am I taking you exactly?" Stiles asks, making a right. "I'm heading to the sheriff station really quick to bring some dinner to my dad."
"My loft. It's near the industrial part of town." Derek sighs, pulling his hand back into his lap. The car smells so good. It smells like cedar and dirt and strawberry frosting and Derek knows it should smell terrible, but wow, it just doesn't. "It's only a couple minutes away from the station." Inhale. His eyes flutter shut, and he listens.
Stiles's left knee is probably why the car is jolting half as much as it is because Derek is still sweating and it's taking a lot of his willpower to not reach out and touch his perfectly sculpted body. How do you do this to yourself, Stiles? He keeps stealing glances at the wolf beside him as he cruises through the neighborhood. Derek's in gray sweats and a pair of running shoes and that's it. With each deep breath he takes, his entire body just glistens and it's honestly one of the most stunning things Stiles has seen since he was surrounded by the beauty that was the lacrosse team. His arms are just, Jesus, they're massive. His eyes drift down to where Derek's hands are gripping the armrests and—
"Furball, watch it. Be gentle." Derek jerks his arm up and there's little holes where his claws used to be. "I can fix that."
Stiles sighs. "That's what Scott said about the roof and his solution is so well thought out." He rolls his eyes. "It's whatever." He turns his head to look at Derek and he's staring at Stiles blankly with flickering eyes again and honestly, it's a little unnerving. He hangs a right and pulls into the station. "Gimme 5 minutes."
Stiles throws the Jeep in park and grips a plastic bag in his right hand. Derek's eyes trail the boy as he jogs into the brick building. Derek glances up at the moon glinting over the corner of the Beacon County Sheriff Station. The engine in front of him runs loudly, prompting the humid night air to condense on the teal paint of the hood. The steering wheel is vibrating lightly and there's a manila envelope on the floor under the seat where the bag of food was. You shouldn't touch it. There's a Beacon County Sheriff seal in the center of the case file and it has a post-it from The Office of Noah Stilinski with a list of dates written on it. Leave it, Derek. He's nosy and the file looks important. Perhaps Stiles forgot it? He grinds his teeth and stares down at the folder. Do not get involved. Derek goes against his better judgment, grabs the folder and the keys from the ignition, slides out of the car, and heads into the station.
"I'm not sure what's going on, but I can tell you the same thing killed all of them." Derek can hear Stiles softly speaking. "We haven't gotten any new information in the past couple days." The Sheriff sighs and throws himself into his desk chair. "We just got another today. Same MO, sustained the same wounds." Derek's eyes bolt down to the folder in his hand. His thumb brushes the edge of the papers and he knows he shouldn't open it. "Shit, I left the case file in the car. Go find the harbinger of death down the hall and I'll be right back to brief him."
Stiles opens the office door and nearly buries his face in Derek's fist. "I was just about to knock." He runs a hand through his hair and clenches his jaw, handing over the folder. "You left it and I figured it was supposed to come in with dinner." Stiles takes it from Derek and backs into the office. "You couldn't wait in the car for five minutes?" Deep breaths, Stiles, deep breaths. He's pretty sure a half-naked Derek standing in front of him in the sheriff station was a dream he had 3 nights ago.
"Derek." Derek looks past Stiles and nods at the Sheriff. "Sheriff. It's been a while." Stiles looks at his father and vigorously shakes his head just out of Derek's line of sight. He better not fucking dare. He spastically jerks his neck around at the sheriff.
Sheriff Stilinski raises an eyebrow. "Why don't you—"
"Leave? We were just leaving." Stiles tosses the file on his father's desk and offers a quick smile. "Just…talk to Parrish and we'll, uh, discuss it later." He reaches behind him and presses a hand in the middle of Derek's chest to push him back out of the office. "Make sure you eat all of the carrots in there." He pulls the door shut and leans against it for a second, before pointing to the exit. "Let's, uh, get you home, yeah?"
Derek clenches his jaw and walks back out the way he came in, with Stiles in tow. He doesn't ask questions, only listens to the racing of Stiles's heart. He tosses the car keys behind him and Stiles makes a leap for them, catching them in an outstretched hand and sliding along the tile floor. He rolls his eyes and glares up at Derek. "Completely unnecessary, you know that? I should've let you fucking walk home." He pops up and hurries out of the station right to the door of the Jeep. "You were gonna walk anyway, I don't know why I didn't let you." Because you're beautiful and perfect and literally terrifying and I couldn't let you walk. He crawls back into the driver's seat and fires up the car. "Well? You just gonna stand there or are you getting in?"
"So, I assume you were busy today," Stiles says, bobbing his chest to music that isn't playing. "Was there a big shoot today or something? Or not so big? You seem like you never have any free time except for today so maybe it wasn't a big one. I've always wanted to do something like that, modeling y'know. It looks insane. Like where do they get all the baby oil? Do you guys just ha—"
"Do you ever shut up?" Derek looks down at where his claws have sunken into his palms and he watches a trickle of blood run down his forearm.
Stiles's eyes flicker over to Derek. "Whoa, hey, hey! Don't bleed out on my seats!"
"We're almost there anyway. Take the next left." He wipes his hand on his sweatpants and points at a towering concrete building. "This one." The dismal gray wall staggers up into the sky, the multistory edifice blending seamlessly into the industrial suburb of Beacon Hills. It looks unfinished, and definitely dangerous. "This is…charming," Stiles snorts, "which one's yours?"
"The penthouse," Derek answers.
Stiles pulls into a parking space aggressively. "I'm sure you're a delight to your neighbors."
"I don't have any neighbors."
"You don't ha…" Stiles trails off, confused.
Derek smirks and gets out of the Jeep. "I own the building." Stiles doesn't even get a chance to respond before Derek is jogging into the apartments. He waves at no one and rolls his eyes, tossing his head violently back onto the headrest a few times. You have to be more careful, Stiles. He hits the steering wheel and tosses the shift in reverse to back out of the parking space next to Derek's car. "Guess I'll see you tomorrow then."
"Guess I'll see you tomorrow then." Derek's watching the Jeep rumble down the road from the wall of windows behind the mahogany desk. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a Xerox, unfolding it and sliding it to the center of the table. On it, the coroner's reports of the first two victims in the case file. "Stiles, who the hell are you?"