Chapter Text
Stiles was only without his Jeep for two days. Derek had been quick with the fix and gave him back his baby without costing him an arm and a leg. The part hadn’t been exactly cheap, but Derek hadn’t charged him for labor, so that was awesome in Stiles’ book.
After conferring via text with Leeloo for the better part of those two days, Stiles decided that if he wouldn’t take money than the sourwolf would have to take his tasty, tasty treats as payment.
Stiles headed to the grocery store on a mission. He was about to make the most delicious cookies known to wolfkind, so he had to pick up a few things that he—obviously—couldn’t just keep around the house. Nosy sheriff’s had a habit of snooping for things that were decidedly not on the approved menu.
Bags in hand, Stiles walked out of the store and threw it all—except for the eggs, one has to be careful with eggs—into the Jeep and then raced home. He wanted to finish before his dad got off work.
Stiles cranked his tunes and sang along as he danced about his kitchen making cookies from scratch. It was, perhaps unwise to completely block out one of his sensory inputs with loud music, but it was so part of the recipe. It was even written down on the card—that Stiles had memorized years ago, but still kept a hold of—in pristine handwriting. “Enjoy the making of joy, Stiles. That’s the real secret.”
He started using wooden spoons as drumsticks while the first batch was baking in the oven, banging happily on counters, cabinets, and pots and pan to the rhythm of good old 80s hair metal. So distracted was Stiles, that he didn’t hear the car pull up, or the front door open until the music suddenly shut off.
Stiles whipped around, wooden spoons still in hand, to see his dad staring at him, amused.
“Hey, Dad.” Stiles quickly put the spoons back on the counter where they belonged. “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”
“I am, in fact.” His dad didn’t sound upset. “Imagine my surprise when I got a call about a noise complaint for my own address.”
Stiles ducked his head a bit sheepishly. “Oops.”
His dad allowed a grin to split his face and he shook his head. “Try to keep it under a hundred decibels, okay kiddo?”
“Yes, sir.” Stiles saluted him.
“Save me some cookies.”
“Dad…”
“I could write you up.”
“Three cookies. No more.”
“Good boy. I’m going back to work now.” He switched music back on, but lowered the volume before he left.
Stiles jumped back into his dancing until the cookies were ready to be taken out of the oven. He put them on a cooling rack, popped in the next batch, and picked up his wooden spoons.
When the final batch was removed from the oven to the cooling rack, Stiles cut the music. He found an empty tin big enough and began filling it with cookies. Once all but three were in the tin, he closed it and brought it out to his Jeep. He started the Jeep, pulled out of the drive, and headed to the Hale house, music blaring because he could.
When he arrived, he gathered the tin under his arm and hopped out of the Jeep, dancing his way to the door to music he played in his head. Because why not? Today was a good day. Fresh baked cookies, newly fixed Jeep, and doing something for the Pack that didn’t involve scary beasts of the night. Nothing could bring down his mood.
Then again…
Stiles should know better.
Derek’s scowl was firmly in place and his eyes flashed alpha red as he intercepted Stiles before he could make it to the porch.
“What are you doing here?”
“Cookies!” Stiles held the tin aloft, grin still firmly in place, hoping to make Derek stop glaring daggers. “You know, as a thank you for fixing the Jeep.”
There was a ruckus from inside the house and Stiles tried to look around Derek’s hulking form to see what was happening, but Derek grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him toward the Jeep. Stiles squawked in protest, nearly dropping the cookies as he lost his footing. Only the fact that Derek still had a firm grip on his shoulder prevented him from face-planting.
“Whoa, dude. What’s going on? You’re mangling my shirts, let go.”
“You need to leave.” Derek said stiffly, aggravation clear in his voice.
“Is something up? What can I—“
“Nothing. Go home, Stiles. You don’t belong here.” Derek shoved him roughly.
What the hell?
“Derek—“
“Go. Home!” He roared and stalked off, back up to the house.
What the hell?
Stiles watched Derek barge into the house and slam the door shut. Stiles sat and watched the dust and ash settle for a few seconds before looking around, as if hoping to find some sort of context clue as to why the hell Derek had essentially thrown him out.
He saw nothing. The forest didn’t seem different, but he didn’t have werewolf super senses so it was possible he was missing something. But, other than the normal noises of a forest, Stiles didn’t hear anything. Whatever ruckus had occurred was now silent and no one else ventured forth from within.
Stiles looked down at the cookies in his hands, back up to the house, and felt a little sick.
Rejection, being ignored, was something Stiles should be used to. He’d gone through it again and again over the years with Lydia, with lacrosse, with Scott, too, recently.
But not so much with Derek and the Pack. He’d gotten used to being able to swing by and not be ignored.
It was worse than that even, Stiles realized as he opened the door to the Jeep. He hadn’t been ignored.
You don’t belong here.
Had he overstepped some boundary? He hadn’t ever been told to leave when he came, in large part because when he did drive up to the Hale house it was so he could give the Pack some information or to help against whatever was attacking the town. He thought back and tried to remember a time he’d just stopped by to say hey or hang out or anything that wasn’t monster related.
He couldn’t.
So… had he crossed a boundary? Had he assumed that this was a thing he could do when, in fact, he was unwelcome when their hairy hides didn’t depend on his knowledge/presence?
You don’t belong here.
Well. He guessed that answered that question.
~*~
As Derek watched Stiles drive away he breathed a sigh of relief and regret.
“You’re an idiot.” Lydia told him, voice cold with disapproval.
“It’s for his own good.” Derek told her. Again.
She scoffed. “You’d better hope he forgives you, or you’re going to have a much bigger problem on your hands than a measly pack of Alphas.”
Lydia turned on her heel and walked back over to Isaac and Jackson as they hovered, whining and growling, around the small box that had been waiting on the porch that evening.
Derek fought to suppress his wolf at the thought of what was in that box, but it hardened his resolve. Pushing Stiles away was for his own good.
Derek had to protect his Pack.
Even if that meant losing him.