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Stiles has been… a little busy lately. A little distracted. What with all the werewolves and the hunters and that pesky paralyzing lizard monster.
Also midterms.
So he thinks it’s understandable, really, that he doesn’t notice they have new neighbors until his dad is shoving a plate of the sugar-free peanut butter cookies Stiles made for his dad’s lunches into his hands and herding him out the door to go meet them.
“Wait, what- What is this?” he turns around, trying to push his way back into the house. “Why am I holding this?”
His dad grabs him by the shoulders and spins him around again, giving him a little shove until he’s all the way outside. “We’re meeting the new neighbors. Try to look welcoming.”
“New neighbors? Why are we giving them all your delicious cookies?” Stiles knows why. Stiles just wants to hear him admit it.
“Because that’s what you give new neighbors. Baked goods.”
Lies. Well, technically not lies – he’s pretty sure that is standard protocol – but still. Half-truths. Dastardly. “You just don’t wanna eat the cookies I slaved over for you. Hours, dad. They took me hours.”
“Look, son, I’m not the one that decided to buy artificial sweetener packets in bulk and then spend my Saturday emptying them into the measuring cup one by one.”
“How was I supposed to know it came in a bag like regular sugar?” Stiles protests, pushing the doorbell with a frown and then stepping back, forcing a smile onto his face when he hears movement behind the door.
“They’re right next to each other on the shelf,” his dad mutters just as the door opens to reveal a kid about Stiles’s age looking at them with really wide eyes.
“Hello.” Stiles says, ramping up his smile in an attempt to appear less threatening.
“Is… there a problem?”
Stiles feels his face fall as he glances down at the cookies just to be sure. “Um, no? Not that I know of.”
“I’m not here on official business.” Stiles hears his dad say from behind him, and rolls his eyes when he remembers his dad’s still wearing the uniform.
“We’re your neighbors,” Stiles says, offering up his plate of dad-rejected munchies. “We brought totally delicious healthy wonderful peanut butter cookies as a gesture of our good will.” He hopes the pointedness gets through to his dad. It felt pretty pointy, perhaps even pointy enough to pierce the bulletproof vest of his dad’s willful diety ignorance. Stiles takes a deep breath and tries to let it go.
His new neighbor gingerly accepts the plate and peers down at the cookies. “Healthy?”
“Sugar free,” Stiles leans forward to confide, holding out a hand to shake. “I’m Stiles, and you won’t believe it’s not butter.” That had definitely sounded cooler in his head.
His neighbor stares at Stiles’s hand for a moment, and Stiles checks to make sure but yeah, there’s nothing on it or anything. Maybe this kid’s from somewhere where they don’t shake hands. Maybe he’s from somewhere people hug instead. Stiles could do that. Should he do that? Ah, no, there it is. His neighbor shifts the plate over to his left hand and tentatively takes Stile’s fingers in his own. It’s weird, ‘cause he looks kinda like maybe he’d have cold hands, but they’re actually pretty warm.
“Kurt,” they guy says, and then, “Hummel.”
Stiles pumps his hand once and smiles, shuffling over so his dad can take his place, and then he sees movement from further in the house.
“Hey, did I hear the- oh. Hello, uh… Officer.” It’s an older guy, presumably Kurt’s dad. Stiles thinks he can detect a resemblance.
“Sheriff,” Stiles’s dad corrects, reaching out his hand again. “Stilinski. We’re from next door, just thought we’d stop by and welcome you to the neighborhood.”
“Burt Hummel, Kurt’s dad,” the man says, shaking hands with Stiles’s dad and then with Stiles. Stiles somehow manages to keep a straight face at the rhyming names. “Didn’t know we were moving next door to the law. That’s,” Burt pauses, clapping one of his fairly large hands down on Kurt’s shoulder and squeezing before letting go. “That’s comforting.”
“They brought cookies,” Kurt says quickly, rushing a little too closely after Burt’s words, holding up the plate so he can see them, gaze flickering over to Stiles with a look he can’t quite read. No, wait. He can totally read that look. That’s the kind of look that gets aimed at him when he needs to shut his mouth. Stiles didn’t recognize it without the murderous werewolf attached. He wonders what that’s all about.
“Oh, that’s…” Burt looks at the cookies and then back to Kurt, and then back and forth between them once more. He looks confused, oddly enough. Wary. Kurt just lifts the plate up a little higher. “Kind of you,” Burt finishes stiltedly, reaching up a hand and delicately taking one, eyes never leaving Kurt, like he can’t quite believe he’s allowed.
Heh.
Stiles gets it. He gives Kurt a nod and a wink, sorely tempted to tap the side of his nose. That would be pushing it a little, he thinks. As it is, it doesn’t appear Kurt knows quite what to make of him yet, anyway. May as well give him time to adjust. Turning his attention back to Burt, Stiles definitely doesn’t get offended when he makes a slight face at his first bite.
He doesn’t hesitate to surreptitiously elbow his dad when he tries to put on his commiserating face, though.
Burt makes a weird sort of grimacy movement with his lips and then swallows, dropping the hand that’s holding the cookie down by his side. “It’s great, thanks.”
See, Stiles wants to tell his dad, a perfect stranger can lie to spare my feelings, why can’t you?
“Well,” his dad says briskly, clapping his hands together. “We should probably let you get back to unpacking. We’re right next door, if you ever need anything. Don’t hesitate to ask.”
They say their goodbyes, getting through another round of hand-shakes, and then Stiles and his dad are stepping off the porch, headed back home. He’s not eavesdropping or anything, but as the door swings shut he hears Kurt’s distinctive voice, a little weary, saying firmly, “You need to rest, dad, the doctors-”
He doesn’t pick up any more than that. Doesn’t need to, really. “Chicken for dinner,” he announces, beating his dad to the door.
“Fried?” his dad asks, presumably just to hear himself speak, because no.
“Ha!”