The first time that Stiles heard Derek slam a door was in the middle of April.

The sound of the front door going off like a gunshot made Stiles jump, his hand accidentally knocking over his open soda bottle. In the library. Where he wasn't supposed to eat or drink.

Stiles had quickly picked up the drink—damn you Dr. Pepper—and ran from the room to look for a towel. On his way into the kitchen, he saw Derek stomp past like some sort of 'roided-up toddler throwing a temper tantrum. Concerned, Stiles had called out to Derek. And then he quickly regretted it.

"What's the matter, dude?" Stiles had asked. "How was basketball practice?"

Derek had just turned back and glared at him. "The regular season's over, it wasn't a practice. It's called a clinic."

"Well, okay then." Stiles wanted to comment on how stupid that sounded, but hey, he still has a tiny bit of a self-preservation instinct left, so he doesn't split hairs with the grumpy werewolf. "How was your clinic?"

"I don't want to talk about it!" Derek yelled, and then he climbed up the stairs three at a time.

Stiles had watched until he disappeared out of sight, waiting until he finally heard another door slam.

"Damn," Stiles muttered as he ransacked the kitchen's linen closet, "werewolf puberty sounds like a bitch."

The second time Stiles hears Derek slam a door is today, the last Friday of April. Stiles has been dealing with the Fae for over a week and listening to Derek sigh listlessly in his bunk every night.

Who could have guessed that Derek's hormones could be more irritating than a bunch of psychopathic sprites from another dimension? Not Stiles, that's for sure.

So, Stiles is stress baking.

It's not exactly something he's proud of, especially after the Sourdough Debacle of 2009—he and his father agreed never to speak of it, God there were so many loaves—but he's doing it anyway.

Derek's stress is causing Stiles stress, and since Stiles still hasn't quite come to terms with literally anything he's done in the past month, he's making German chocolate cake. And cookies. And bread.

What? It's cheaper than therapy.

It's also way easier to explain to someone than, "I'm still suffering from the emotional backlash of witnessing everyone I know and love be brutally murdered by a crazy man, killing myself, traveling through time, and facing all of my ghosts as they walk around in the past, alive and entirely ignorant to my inner turmoil. Oh, and I might be developing feelings for the man who once bit my friends, kidnapped me, and killed a bunch—okay, they totally deserved it, eek still a coin toss on Laura—of people."

Yeah, way easier.

So, it's Friday afternoon and most of the pack is still at work or school, allowing Stiles to take over the kitchen. Derek's stupid sighs aren't letting him sleep—and Stiles has gotten used to getting more than three hours of sleep every night, goddamnit, and his nerves are fraying a little at the edges—so he's turned to baking his feelings away.

He hears the door slam around 2:30, and he can't help but knead the dough in front of him a little harder.

Stiles looks up as Derek, in all of his reclaimed Sourwolf glory, glares his way into the kitchen. He sees Derek's nose twitch.

Propping himself onto one of the barstools across from Stiles' spot at the breakfast bar, Derek takes in his flour-covered surroundings. He also takes four cookies.

"I didn't know you could cook," Derek says, looking casually away from Stiles.

Stiles looks around at the cooling racks filled with snickerdoodles and chocolate cake, and then looks back at Sourwolf. He's tempted to pull a Derek and correct that this isn't cooking, it's baking,but he refrains. Just barely.

"I've been a little stressed recently," Stiles shrugs like it's not big deal (hint: it is). "I only do this to help calm my nerves." He glances at Derek from under his lashes. Stiles points at the glob of dough on the counter. "You wanna give it a try?"

He can see Derek perk up, and then immediately deflate. "I've never really done that before, I mean I wouldn't know—" Stiles cuts him off with a pat on the shoulder.

"Seriously, big guy, you'd be doing me a favor. I started a little too much all at once, so you'd really be helping me out." He drags Derek off the stool and hip-checks the dude into standing next to him. He starts kneading again. "You just gotta do a push and pull, nothing too hard because, like, look at your muscles." He shoves it over to Derek. "About five more minutes should do it." And then he turns away to start mixing up some icing.

Sometimes the best thing to do for someone in need is to remind them that you're there for them, even if you coat them in flour during the process.

It takes about three minutes for Derek to start sighing.

Christ.

"Anything you want to talk about?" Stiles asks innocently, like he doesn't have a death grip on a bag of desiccated coconut.

"What do you mean?" Derek answers.

"Well," How to put this delicately?, "I've noticed you've been a bit on edge," pissy, "lately, and I was just wondering if there's anything I can do?"

Derek remains silent, hands moving deftly over the dough.

Stiles continues, "Is it about your birthday? I've got something pretty sweet planned, but if you want to change it up that's totally cool."

More silence.

"Is it school? Basketball?" Ah ha! There's a flinch—but still no answer. Something is interfering with Derek's love and devotion to basketball.

Now what could do that?

He has a flash of panic, and then quickly realizes that the fire doesn't go down for another year and a half. Too early.

That means…

Oh, this is going to be good.

Stiles sidles up to Derek. "A girl perhaps?"

Derek whips his head, eyes wide and startled. "How did you know?"

He snorts, "You just told me."

Derek's shoulders slump and he looks at Stiles earnestly, flour on his nose and defeat in his eyes and says, "Her name is Paige and she totally hates me."

Stiles just pats him on the back and starts putting together the cake. He taps the countertop next to him. "Come park your little werewolf ass over here and tell Stiles all about your lady love."

Rolling his eyes, Derek hikes himself onto the counter. With his legs swaying, he begins: "So the first thing you need to know is that she plays the cello."

Peter finds them like that 20 minutes later, chatting over cake decorating and baking bread.

Derek immediately stops reminiscing about how Paige flips her hair—is this how Stiles sounded around Lydia?—and says, "Hey Peter."

The man shrugs off his jacket, rolling up the sleeves of his button down as he walks further into the kitchen. "Hello nephew." He walks up to Stiles, boxing him in against the counter. Peter reaches an arm around him, face casually running along Stiles' neck. Stiles can hear him inhale. When Peter leans back, he's got a handful of snickerdoodles. He takes a slow bite, eyes closing briefly. Stiles' breathing becomes a bit shallow. Peter's eyes open and he smiles at Stiles. "How did you know that these are my favorite?"

"A happy accident." Truth. He once found a box of them at Derek's cave of man-pain, and Stiles knew that Derek was too self-suffering to ever buy himself something awesome and indulgent.

Also, cinnamon and Peter just make sense. They both have a bite to them.

Stiles pokes at the collar of Peter's shirt. "Is that blood?"

Peter just smirks and shoves another cookie in his mouth.

He takes a few steps back and looks over at Derek. "So what are you two ladies gossiping about in here?"

Derek flushes. "Stiles was giving me advice about a girl."

Peter snorts derisively, "Thank mother moon, your angst has a particularly strong gym locker stench. It's been burning my nose hairs for the past two weeks."

Stiles hits him in the stomach. "Don't be rude, asshole."

If Stiles can't be rude, then no one can. That's a straight up law.

"Derek was just telling me about how he met a nice girl. She sounds great." Stiles is so going to investigate the shit out of this chick.

And, by the glint in Peter's eye, so is he.

Stiles sighs, not looking forward to playing babysitter. His work is never done.

So he eats a cookie.

It comes as a delight that, yes, Paige Krasikeva is actually as basic and mundane as Derek described. Stiles counts it as a win, leaning back against a set of lockers as his week-long investigation comes to a close.

The lunch bell rings, and Stiles makes his way to the outdoor seating area. He plops himself at a table five rows down from where Derek and Paige are sitting.

Good grief, is she eating plain celery? Stiles shudders.

At least she isn't a crazy rapist/arsonist/murderer.

Stiles still makes a note to introduce her to flavor.

"She really is just in puppy love with Derek, isn't she?"

Stiles doesn't jump, doesn't look behind him. "Yep. It's sickening," he grimaces, "Derek must have a masochistic streak. I stole her iPod for an hour and she literally listens to nothing but cellos. Not even symphonies, y'know, with other instruments—it's just nonstop cellos."

Peter sits down across from Stiles. "That's disgusting." He holds out a pack of Reese's. "You want one?"

Stiles' stomach flip flops. He takes a peanut butter cup. "Thanks."

With a strange light in his eyes, Peter eats his own. He grins evilly around a bite. "I still think we should psych Derek out. Tell him that she'll never love a werewolf if she's a human or something."

Stiles gives him a warning look. "I swear to Thor, Peter, if you do something manipulative and crazy to Derek or that bland ass girl, I will rip your fingernails out. Repeatedly." He's found that matching Peter's sociopathic tendencies with his own is the only way to get through to him.

Peter pouts. "You're no fun." He looks over his shoulder at the couple. "He's not stupid enough to believe something like that." Peter does a double take and frowns. "Well, maybe."

Stiles leans closer and says, "Forget Paige. We know she's okay." He looks over when Derek barks out a laugh. "I need your help with something."

Peter inches closer, too. "Something magical?"

"Potentially," Stiles whispers. "I'm glad I surveilled the school this week. I found something rather important." He grabs ahold of Peter's arm and drags him to the front of the school. Stiles peeks out around the corner of the building. He pulls back and motions for Peter to do the same.

"You see that black truck? The one with the guy sitting in it?"

Peter leans against the wall, "I sure do. What about him?"

He looks directly at Peter so that he can see how serious Stiles is. "I've met him before when I first got into town. He was weird around me, so I got his details and I looked him up." He pauses. "He's a hunter connected to the Argent family."

Peter's eyes glint dangerously. "We have a peace treaty with the Argents."

"Oh yeah?" Stiles snorts contemptuously. "Well, he's a hunter connected to the Argents who's been following your 14-year-old nephew around for the past week. Maybe even longer."

Peter's claws come out. His eyes flash electric blue. "What's his name?"

"It's Jimmy," Stiles answers, "Jimmy Bouchard."