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At pack dinners, Stiles is the only one who notices that Peter always goes straight for the sweets, bypassing whatever meat-based main course on offering that week, headed right for the cluster of desserts. Sure, Peter eats other food, but Stiles smiles when he sees brownies on Peter’s plate or cookies on a napkin or those little pastries that Erica brings from the bakery by her job crowded by his water glass. It’s kind of adorable, his sweet tooth, something that Stiles never expected. No one else catches the pleasure that crosses Peter’s face when chocolate or buttercream hits his tongue, doesn’t see Peter’s guard drop and the total unfettered enjoyment that overtakes his usual smug expression for a split second.
But, Stiles is wont to notice everything about Peter, has been for longer than he wants to admit, so of course he sees it. Stiles analyzes it and dissects it and files it away to process the best way he knows how.
After a few months of quiet observation, and his want for Peter progressing from a spark to a flame by way of constant contact, Stiles heads home and unearths his mom’s binder of recipes. He bypasses the entrees and sides he knows by heart now, flips right to the dessert section. Stiles makes a list and hits the grocery store in the morning. Then Stiles bakes. And decorates. And fills and frosts and packages up enough sweets for a month’s worth of pack dinners. His freezer’s packed with cookies and baked cake rounds and the pantry’s lined with tubs of sprinkles and bags of powdered sugar.
He starts off slow, a tray of mint brownies left on Peter’s doorstep, a cello bag of snickerdoodles on his windshield, a pink box of cupcakes, delivered to Derek’s house by a kid from school he pays off to doorbell ditch. Stiles tries to be clever, wears gloves when he’s touching the finished food, double wraps everything until the last moment, hopes the scent of cinnamon and cocoa and vanilla masks who is doing it. He leaves treats for Peter every day for two weeks, the final a pale green frosted cake, piped with yellow and white leaves and then he stops. Stiles waits.
Peter doesn’t say anything when they see one another, and he barely acknowledges Stiles arranging the platter of fried chicken on the banquet table the following Sunday. Peter picks at a drumstick, but looks perturbed when Isaac sets down the cookies he’s brought for dessert, still arranged on their plastic grocery store tray.
Stiles keeps laughing with Boyd and Cora about something that happened with the ice hockey team, but his eyes track the way Peter crumbles the oatmeal raisin onto his napkin and sweeps it away, the brief flash of disappointment striking something warm in Stiles’ belly. Everyone devours the food, complimenting Stiles on his chicken, and he watches Peter study each of them carefully.
Everyone’s settled in for a movie and Stiles escapes to the other room, wanting to make sure his mom’s servingware ends up going home with him. He’s packing up the last of the chicken thighs and breasts to split between Isaac and Scott, alone in the kitchen when Peter walks in. He can see Peter scenting the room from the corner of his eye, though after doing the dishes, Stiles is sure he smells of nothing but sweat and Dawn and rubber gloves, maybe the faintest hint of fry grease.
"Hey," Stiles offers as he snaps the tupperware closed. "You want in on this? I have an extra container, you can secret it away in your lair."
"No, thank you." Peter trails a finger along the dishes drying in the rack, actually pulls a fistful of silverware out to put away. Stiles stacks the boxes of leftovers in the fridge and swipes down the counters with a dishtowel, wondering when they all became so shockingly domestic and why it’s not weird anymore.
"Yeah, Erica asked for the fried chicken. You didn’t look like you enjoyed it all that much. Any requests for next week?"
Peter toys with a spoon, slides it into the drawer with a metallic clang. “No, it was delicious. I’m sure whatever you make will be fine - your food is always good, Stiles.”
Stiles smiles briefly in acknowledgment, trying to hide the hot flush Peter’s approval sends creeping up his neck. “Well, yeah, thanks. I was thinking ribs? Might appeal to everyone’s baser instincts, all that ripping flesh from the bone- gotta be good for morale, right?”
Peter leans back against the counter, surveys the clean kitchen. “You know, you’re good at this.”
Stiles wrinkles his brow, throws up his hands. “Two compliments in one day? Gonna give me a big head, I can’t take it. Reign it in, buddy.” Peter smirks, and that expression is far more familiar.
"No, you imbecile. The pack." He points to the food, the sprawled bodies lying across furniture in the next room. "You’re good at taking care of them."
"That’s me. Token human, I’m designated den mother." Peter’s eyes catch his, and he reaches for the ziploc bag of cookies Stiles set aside, with the intent of leaving them on Peter’s car before he leaves. Peter opens the package, takes a deep breath, pleasure writ across his face. Stiles is struck speechless as his eyes stay locked on Peter’s, watches him take a bite, teeth sinking deep, wiping a smear of chocolate from his lips before he speaks.
"No, Stiles. Like a mate." Peter gestures to the fridge, the silverware, the rubber gloves laid over the sink edge to dry. "You’re already pack, so you have nothing to prove, human or not. Unless…you are trying to make a point to someone in particular."
Stiles’ jaw drops, gaping a little at the bold implication ringing heavy in the quiet room. Message apparently received, loud and clear.
"Just some food for thought, as it were." Peter takes another bite, lets his words sink in.
Stiles draws a deep breath, can feel the pierce of Peter’s gaze on his skin, hears him chew the remainder of the chocolate chip cookie. He braces his hands on the counter, keeps his eyes down while Peter saunters towards the door.
"It’s not just them," Stiles starts, motioning towards the pack. "They’re not the only ones I take care of." His last words are quiet, but he knows Peter can hear them. He stops in the doorway, the plastic bag still clutched in his fist.
"I know, Stiles. And for the record, lemon bars are my favorite. And anything chocolate." Stiles looks up, finally meets Peter’s eye, and nods. "And next time, please stay when you bring them by. I think I might like that. It seems we may have a thing or two to discuss."
Stiles hears the groan of the metal door a few moments later and he exhales the breath he wasn’t aware he was holding. He throws his servingware into a canvas bag and heads out, calling a hasty goodbye to the pack.
Checking the clock on his dash, Stiles sees he has time to hit the store before they close. Running an inventory of his kitchen through his head as he paces the aisles, he knows he’s got a busy night ahead of him. He’ll do chocolate dipped shortbread, bags some citrus because he definitely needs to bake lemon bars, and smiles when he adds a bag of toffee chips for better than sex cake.
Peter’s smart, he’ll get the hint.