Chapter Text
Two weeks after Derek Hale returns and Cora Hale does not, Stiles takes it upon himself to annoy the former alpha until he gets so fed up that he puts out a restraining order or something. Because it's a hell of a lot better than being lonely and pissed off and steaming is better than desperate for the sound of a human voice. Also, he's had a restraining order on him before and it wasn't that bad. Also, he's pretty damn bored himself. Even after breaking up with Allison Scott manages to get himself another freakin' amazing hot girl wrapped around his finger (probably, no, definitely the other way around, now that he's thinking about it) and how the hell is that fair? Everyone around him is like a girlfriend or boyfriend magnet. Generally significant other magnet. Even freakin' Greenberg has himself a boyfriend. Ugh. So, no one has time for dear old Stiles. So he does the only thing a reasonable teen boy would do: endeavor to bother the hell out of the only person in the entire county probably more bored and lonely than he himself was: Derek Hale.
"Heya, big bad," Stiles says, squirreling his way past two hundred odd pounds of muscle and green henley into Derek's still notably spartan apartment.
"Stiles, what the hell are you doing here," Derek growls in his gripe-y way that makes a question not really a question but a full-on threat.
"Uh, sitting on your ugly-ass couch. Dude, is that blood? Grody. Please tell me you wash this thing."
Derek's lack of reply is telling enough.
"Aw, dude," Stiles says, standing up. He heads to the fridge. In it are a bag of incredibly stale Cheetos (who the hell refrigerates Cheetos?!?), a bottle of Target brand yellow mustard with the plastic freshness seal thingy still on, and a dubiously safe Tupperware container full of green stuff that may or may not have at one point be pasta with mariachi sauce. Marinara. Whatever.
"Do you even eat?!?" Stiles asks incredulously. "I know Scott does."
"I eat," Derek says defensively. Stiles knows he's winning because he's gotten the grouch to talk minus threats and/or terrible news.
"Other than a poor little bunny or two during the full moons," Stiles says with a roll of his eyes.
"I eat takeout a lot," Derek mumbles. "No point cooking for just me."
"Oh. My. God. Derek Hale is a sulky wolfie," Stiles whispers, knowing full well the older of the two can hear him quite well.
Derek crossed his arms and grumbles something that he knows the human with his imperfectly human hearing won't be able to hear at all.
It hits Stiles then, as subtly as a Molotov cocktail: Derek is hurting pretty damn badly. Of course he would be. His sister is gone after just having been reunited with him after several years of each thinking the other dead. Scott is the alpha wolf now leaving no reason for anyone to drop by the apartment. There aren't even any supernatural thingies to fight since they did the super powered tree stump thing.
He isn't just lonely, he's, well, very, very lonely.
Stiles makes sure Derek has at least a few takeout places other than Chinese and pizza on his phone before taking his leave, but he's already got a plan formulating in his mind.
Two days later, Stiles leaves an apple pie on Derek's doorstep with a note scrawled in semi-legible writing:
Hey Derek. It's Stiles. Which you can probably tell by the scent or whatever. Anyways. This is an apple pie. Which is also very easily inferred. Sorry. The point is that it's food and that it starts with the letter A. Something my mom and I did before she died was that when she was having a particularly rough time we'd schedule something every few days, whenever she wasn't in chemo or anything, and we'd work our way through the alphabet with comfort food. It gave us something to look forward to when things got rough. So. Um. Don't kill me. But I made you pie. From Stiles.
P. S. seriously please please don't kill me, your grouchiness.
Derek blinks. It's three or so in the morning, and (surprise, surprise) he is having trouble sleeping. He can feel the cold emptiness of the loft envelop him in a sort of dissociated coldness.
He can feel the lack of company. He had forgotten what it was like to be this lonely.
The fridge's light is harsh and unyielding as he engages it in a staring contest. He loses.
After he blinks he remembers the presence of the apple pie. He hadn't eaten any since Stiles deposited it on his doorstep several days ago. (Derek deliberately does not think about the fact that maybe Isaac might like some, if only the beta ever dropped by or picked up the phone-)
Well. It's not like he's got anything better to do, and it's not like there's anyone better around to eat it.
There aren't any plates in the loft, which isn't surprising. Takeout food is usually consumable in the container it comes in. Derek grabs a fork from a drawer and scoops a huge forkful from the middle of the pie before he can think himself down.
It's good.
Damn. It's fantastic, probably the best pie Derek has had since his family died. There's no way Stiles Stilinski made this himself because this is making his mouth water.
Derek emits a low moan that would have been embarrassing had anyone heard, but he's alone, so.
He eats about half of the pie before he forces himself to stop. He really should call the boy to thank him. Maybe he would get some more pastries if he got on his good side.
Shrugging away his initial disbelief and doubts, Derek decides that, sure, why the hell not indulge Stiles and his weird ass alphabet nonsense.
He's gotten awfully tired of take out, after all.