Derek looked up from cutting even strips of black fondant at Isaac, who had been hovering for the past 30 seconds. Isaac worked well with the other members of the team because he lacked the ego that many chefs had in spades. He wasn't a leader, but neither was he a pushover. Sometimes, though, he hesitated when things weren't going well.

"Something's wrong, isn't it?"

"Airbrush broke. Sorry."

"Not your fault," he said, automatically. "Unless it was your fault, in which case, run."

"Nope, it's just jammed or something. I've tried everything."

"Erica," he called, to where she was helping Boyd assemble the bottom half of the cake on the base, which was, thankfully already completely covered with food colouring. "Go charm an airbrush off of the other team."

She straightened, flipped the end of her french braid over her shoulder and pinned him with an unimpressed look. "Excuse me?"

Derek thumbed his eyes and counted to five. (He usually counted to ten in situations like these, but he didn't have it to spare.) "Erica, please would you be so kind as to go over there and ask if we could borrow their airbrush, as it is crucial to this cake that we have it."

"Fine," she said, with a sharp smile, and strode toward the other team's kitchen.

Derek quickly finished cutting the rest of the strips and laying them out in a pattern that resemble how they'd be on the cake, then moved on to his next moulding job. They were so close to being able to put the whole thing together. They just had to finish a few more elements.

"No go, boss," Erica said, in his ear.

'What."

She shrugged, feigning nonchalance, but he could see how tense she was. "I asked, with all my charming wiles, and Lydia said no."

Derek slammed the delicate tool he'd been applying polkadots with and stormed over to the long counter that divided their stations. Stiles stood there, using a blowtorch that looked way too big to be the kitchen variety and wearing Ray Bans knock-offs for eye protection.

"I need your airbrush."

"Tough luck." Stiles didn't look up from the letters he was stenciling with the torch.

"Stiles."

"Derek."

"Please," he asked, though it pained him to beg in front of the cameras. "It's important."

Stiles put down his weapon and pushed the sunglasses to the top of his head. "I wish I could help you, Derek. Honestly, I do. But we're using it. We don't have one to spare."

His stomach sank when he looked to where Stiles jerked his thumb. Sure enough, Lydia was using the spray gun on their-Jesus, their half assembled cake. "Fine."

He started back to his own station, his mind already frantically turning over what he could use to replace the spray colour. Sponging would take a year and a day, not to mention not provide the look he was going for. They were screwed. They were completely-

"Derek, wait." He turned quickly back to Stiles, who was scrubbing a hand over his face and looking torn. "If you can hold on for about half an hour, we should be done with ours. That's the best I can do."

Derek did some quick math in his head. If he did some more assembling now, instead of later, they'd still have time. "I'll take it. See you in 30 minutes."

It ended up being closer to 45, but they eventually got a hold of the gun and switched out the colouring for the dark gold they needed. The final hour passed in a mad blur of last minute details, touching up areas with sponges, sprinkling glitter to make sugar jewels shine. Derek stepped away from the completed cake when the buzzer went off, and took it in as a whole. It was just as he'd envisioned, like his childhood come to life in 300 pounds of sponge, fondant and plastic supports.

It was a toy chest, chocolate painted on the outsides to create the wooden grain, the locks and corners covered in fake metal detail that was made to look worn and tarnished with age. It overflowed with things he and his cousins would have played with as kids: A crown, a wizard's robe and a polka dot poodle skirt, a drum and a set of maracas, a colourful splash of building blocks. Around the bottom, a train rode around on its track, tooting its horn from a tiny speaker embedded in the confection. It was as good a cake as he could make, and he thought his family would be proud. He couldn't wait for Laura to see it, but he still had hours to go.

Soon after the clock ran out, Derek was urged away, back to the interview room where he was told to recount his experience. He had to relive all of the lows and the mishaps, and try to gush about the highs and triumphs. That part took considerably longer than the introduction had taken, and by the time he was dismissed he was wiped. Lydia took his place and he went back to the green room to wait for the judging to start.

Standing in front of the judges panel and hearing his cake get lauded and ripped apart alternately was harder than Derek thought it would be. He had a thick skin, and had been expecting to hear things he disagreed with, but having spent 6 hours carefully crafting this cake that may be the key to his future, he had a bit of difficulty taking his normal step back.

It was over soon enough, though, and he was allowed to retreat back to his team, fighting the urge to slink away like a kicked dog. Lydia didn't receive much better treatment, though her cake was very impressive.

She'd gone for a futuristic theme, her centerpiece a gigantic angular robot that moved its arms. The whole thing was done in metallic silver and red, and plastic-looking weapons and spaceships adorned all five tiers. She rightfully got slammed for the cake's lack of whimsy, but then was praised for the magical flashing lights and moving parts. It would certainly give Derek a run for his money, so he didn't bother to try and predict which of them would win.

The judges finished tearing into Lydia and the host announced that the judges would deliberate. They were dismissed once again, with a warning that they'd start again in 15 and Derek couldn't stand the thought of going back to the depressing room with its yellow walls and counting down the minutes until they could find out whose cake they thought was worth 30 thousand dollars.

30 thousand. It would change their lives, his and Laura's. Leaving their tiny apartment in New York for the tiny city of Beacon Hills would be an adjustment he couldn't wait to make. He wanted to awkwardly avoid conversations with people he knew when they ran into each other in grocery stores, get lost in the new subdivisions that all looked the same. Walk down the streets he'd travelled with his parents. He wanted Laura to finally feel like she'd done them proud by making sure Derek finished high school and kept cooking and didn't close himself off from her in his grief.

Derek felt the weight of the hot lights get heavier as the consequences of not winning this competition grew to spectacular proportions. Laura's disappointed, but understanding face would be a burden on his conscience he didn't think he could bear. He abruptly couldn't stand to be in the midst of so many people who didn't care one bit about the outcome of the show. Derek wove through the masses of people toward the edge of the warehouse, dying for fresh air that didn't smell and taste of burned sugar.

When he finally burst out the fire exit, the air wasn't cooler-LA was too warm for that-But at least it was less stuffy. He leaned against the wall and took a few deep breaths. He needed to shore up his strength, get his emotions under control, like they always were. He scrubbed a hand across his face and didn't look up when the door opened beside him.

"For what it's worth, I hope you win."

Derek looked over at Stiles, who made himself comfortable on the wall next to him.

"Why? Don't you want your boss to win?"

He shrugged. "It'd be cool, I guess. We could buy a new van to tote everything around. Or upgrade the ovens. But that's just stuff we already have. I heard part of your interview," he confessed. "It's really admirable, and you're starting from scratch. You need it more than we do. So, good luck."

Stiles' brilliant smile made a reappearance and Derek couldn't keep himself from smiling back, even though his nerves still wormed their way around his stomach. "Thanks."

The door burst open next to them, and hit the wall on the other side as Lydia stepped into the sun. "Stiles!"

"Yes, Lydia, light of my life? Provider of my livelihood? Treasure of my-"

"I have been awake since 3 AM, Stiles. 3 in the morning. My longwear lipstick is a part of me now. It is never coming off. So, would you please shut up for a second and come inside without the commentary? They're starting in a couple of minutes."

"As you wish, Great and Powerful."

He pushed off the wall and loped inside with another grin and a wave, but Lydia lingered, her (allegedly permanently)red lips pursing before she looked into Derek's eyes. There was pride there, certainly, and confidence that she had what it took, but there was also sincerity.

"Good luck, Hale."

"You too."

He followed her back through the door, and sure enough, they were gearing back up to start. The judges were in their seats and the host at his mark. Derek stood next to his cake to wait for the cameras to set and pushed down his rising nausea.

The lights came on for the final time and the host addressed the camera in the longest minute and a half of Derek's life. When he'd watched the show with Laura, he'd rolled his eyes in irritation at the dramatic pauses before the big reveal, but that was nothing compared to this.

"Contestants, you've worked hard to create the best cakes you could for your client. The moment has come to find out which one of you will win the 30 thousand dollar prize."

Derek's fists and stomach clenched. A bead of sweat dripped down the side of his face.

"And, the winner is…"