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Stiles was exhausted when he entered Peter’s apartment. School had been hell, lacrosse practice had been brutal, and all Stiles wanted to do was sleep. But there was a new threat in town and he and Peter needed to do some research.
Stiles had a key, for exactly those purposes, but he also had very strict instructions on where he was allowed to be in the apartment. Peter had made it very clear that he was allowed in the living room and the bathroom and that was it. Not in the kitchen, not in the bedroom and certainly not in the library. Peter would get the relevant books they needed out of there and leave them on the table in case he wasn’t here when Stiles dropped by.
Stiles had been tempted so many times already, to just go into the kitchen to steal some food, or snoop around in the library and bedroom, but he knew that Peter would be able to smell him there, so he never did.
But today he would be thoroughly tempted, Stiles could already tell. He was beyond hungry, and so tired he wasn’t sure he could even read in any of the books, and he knew that there must be a fully stocked fridge in the kitchen and a sinfully soft bed in the bedroom.
But when Stiles opened the door, Peter was already home, barely even looking up at Stiles when he dropped his bag near the door.
“I’m dead,” Stiles complained, before he flopped down on the couch, not even looking to see Peter’s reaction in the chair across the table.
“You make an awful lot of noise for someone who’s dead,” Peter mildly said, and Stiles even lacked the energy to flip him off.
“I’m gonna nap. Wake me in half an hour,” Stiles mumbled into the cushion, eyes already closed.
“Not your mother or your maid,” Peter told him, and Stiles was yet again reminded that Peter really didn’t like him.
He had told Stiles from the beginning not to expect any food or drinks for him at this place, and he wouldn’t clean up after him either. So far Stiles had brought his own food and took the empty containers with him afterwards.
“Why do you hate me so?” Stiles asked the cushions, certain that Peter would be able to hear him.
“I already told you. I’m not your caretaker,” Peter gave back, and Stiles could hear him standing up.
“But you’re my friend,” Stiles mumbled and dropped off to the feeling of fingers in his hair and a softly mumbled “No, I’m really not.”
~*~*~*~
When Stiles woke up, it was already dark out. He smacked his lips together, wiping his chin when he realized he was drooling into the couch, and then he sat up. There was only one lamp on in the corner, painting everything in a warm golden light and Stiles stared in confusion at the blanket that pooled in his lap.
“What’s going on?” he asked no one in particular because Peter was nowhere in sight.
“Are you finally up?” Peter asked from the kitchen and Stiles was suddenly slammed with how good the apartment smelled. He almost started drooling again, it smelled so delicious.
“What are you doing?” Stiles asked, standing up and walking up to the kitchen, stopping in the doorway, because he still remembered that he wasn’t allowed inside.
“Cooking,” Peter gave back. “Are you sure you’re awake?”
“Might be a bit low on sugar, actually,” Stiles gave back and turned around to put his shoes back on.
He wasn’t even going to ask why he wasn’t wearing them anymore, Peter would deny anything anyway.
“What are you doing?” Peter called out from the kitchen and Stiles turned around in confusion.
“Leaving? I’m no good for research today, and you’re clearly already making dinner.”
“Exactly,” Peter gave back, and Stiles frowned at him.
“So, I’m getting out of your hair.”
“Don’t be ridiculous now,” Peter chided him. “The plates are in that cupboard, go set up the table.”
“For you?” Stiles haltingly asked, because he didn’t quite understand what Peter was getting at.
“For us,” Peter gave back, and Stiles could hear the eyeroll in his voice.
“But I’m not allowed into the kitchen, and you said you wouldn’t cook for me.”
“And I’m going to change my mind if you don’t get in here already,” Peter said over his shoulder and Stiles blinked a few times at him.
“Peter Hale, you’re a big old softie, and you love me.”
“Shut up, brat,” Peter gave back, but there was no bite in it and Stiles was quick to get the plates down.
It really did smell delicious. And it tasted even better.