Chapter Text
The first time it happens, Stiles is confused, but lets it slide. Derek was probably creeping and wolfing about in his kitchen. Strange nefarious activities were happening, certainly, but it’s easier to pretend he never saw Derek walking out of the kitchen.
"Dad, why are there no cookies left?" he asks instead. It isn’t petulance if Stiles made the cookies; it’s his right.
——-
It doesn’t matter how often or how many cookies are baked in the Stilinski home. It doesn’t even matter who made them. They always disappear within three days.
When they start vanishing entirely before the day is out, Stiles takes issue with that. But the mystery remains mysterious, and his dad insists that he hasn’t been eating more than usual.
"Well, someone’s eating the cookies. Who’s been around here to eat the cookies?"
He just looks confused, and Stiles gives up.
——-
The sound of laughter finds its way to Stiles’ room once, loud enough to be heard over his music. His dad’s laughing with someone; someone with a really loud laugh that’s audible even over obnoxiously high levels of bass.
Not in the mood for weird cop humor, he doesn’t interrupt them. Instead, he turns his music up louder and does his homework by the window so he can pretend he’s doing something more entertaining than reading textbooks. He looks out later and sees Derek. By the driveway, not even pretending to be sneaky as he heads toward the road.
"Don’t you have anything better to do than creep around teenagers’ homes?" he shouts out the window.
Derek just keeps walking away, doesn’t even acknowledge Stiles.
"Who are you shouting at?" Stiles startles at the sound of his father’s voice, nearly falls out of the window.
"Derek," Stiles says, like it should be obvious. "He keeps skulking around here."
And there’s that weird, half-confused, half-“don’t want to know” look again.
——-
"Dad, this isn’t even funny anymore. I made those four hours ago. You can’t possibly be eating all of them by yourself.”
He stops in the middle of zipping his jacket, staring blankly at Stiles. How he doesn’t understand the question is a mystery Stiles will never solve.
"Of course I’m not. You know I’m not."
"No, I don’t know that. Dad, Scott is the only person who comes here and hangs out in this kitchen, and I know he hasn’t discovered the latest cookie hiding spot."
There’s a judgmental eyebrow raise and a slight head tilt.
"This has been one of your least funny long-term jokes, Stiles."
"Dad, it’s not a joke, there are cookies on the line here."
"I’ll see tonight after work."
Stiles lets out an exasperated sigh. He just wants a cookie.