#thisdiscontentedwinter

It turned out Peter was terrible at cooking. He could make sandwiches or any kind of egg but anything more complicated than those he always managed to royally screw it up.

He didn’t even know what he was doing wrong that make his pot roast taste like char or his stir fry to be oily when he hadn’t even used oil.

After almost a month of failures he would have given up if it hadn’t started to turn into a point of pride. Stiles had brought roast beef sandwiches to one of the pack meets and he had proudly told everyone that he’d made the roast himself.

If Stiles, who oscillated between having the attention span of a gnat or hyper-focusing to the point of forgetting to breath, could make a truly delicious roast then so could Peter.

So he turned to his last resort: cooking blogs.

One google search for ‘how to actually cook and make it taste good’ later he’d gone through five different blog posts and only learned that for some reason bloggers really liked to talk about their kids and perfect lives. It would have been depressing if Peter actually cared.

After two hours of travelling through homebodies trying to convince him to make everything vegan he found a post titled “Recipes made easy for those who are lazy, have ADHD, no time or alternately too much time, know how to cook but want to learn new things, or people who think they can’t cook but are willing to give it a try.”

What a mouthful of a title that covered all the basics of people looking at cooking blogs.

The whole blog was written in run on sentences that somehow managed to be both amusing and informative, a very narrow line to walk.

Peter might have also fallen a little bit in love with the author who gave such informative tidbits as “Why spring for a colander when you could just slap the lid on a pot and up end it over the sink while praying you won’t drop it and/or burn yourself as you tilt the lid to strain out the water but not the noodles.” and “Seriously just toss all the shit into a crockpot and forget about it for 8 hours, except you probably won’t be able to because you’ll have to keep trying to remember if you actually turned the pot on or not. (I suggest setting up a live stream camera to be on the safe side.)”

Other than an obvious good sense of humor the writer didn’t give any personal information. No name or nickname. Even the profile picture was generic. Peter thought that little touch of mystery just added the the writer's personality.

The third time Peter made macaroni and cheese from scratch – “Just cook some plain old noodles and then toss in a bunch of different kinds of grated cheese and a couple of scoops of sour cream and a bit of crumbled bacon with a little pinch of salt and bake it in the oven for a bit and bam homemade mac and cheese that people will be amazed over.” – he was so proud of his creation he brought it to that night’s pack meeting.

He set the large casserole dish down on Derek’s ridiculous table that only Stiles ever actually used and pointedly ignored the stares everyone was giving him. He settled down in his chair – the one just off to the side of the stairs that faced the door and the whole of the open living room – and pulled out his phone to feigning nonchalance while he waited for the rest of the pack to ask what he thought he was doing.

Of course Stiles was the first one to speak up. “Oh!” he said, sounding excited. “Did you make a casserole?”

He leaned forward over the table to open the dish that had been, very conveniently, placed right in front of him.

Peter watched with a surprisingly strong sense of anticipation as he watched Stiles’ eyes widen and mouth drop open in surprise.

“Is this homemade macaroni and cheese?” he asked, excitement clear on his face.

Peter gave a vague hum of agreement. “I’m trying something new.”

Stiles sprung up away from the table and practically dashed into the kitchen. He came back out only a few seconds later with a paper plate in one hand a plastic fork in the other.

Peter supposed he should be grateful Stiles took out a portion instead of eating right out of his casserole dish.

Stiles scooped up a bite and managed to bring it all the way to his mouth before Scott stopped him with a strangled cry.

“Stiles! What are you doing?!” Scott yelled as he threw himself over the back of the couch he had been sitting on. He raced to Stiles and slapped the fork out of his before Stiles could get the bite into his mouth.

“What the fuck!” Stiles gasped, cradling his hand against his chest and staring at Scott in shock.

Peter found, much to his surprise, that he had both stood up and let his claws out without a thought. He took one long deep breath and slipped his claws away before sauntering over to the table.

He oh so casually leaned his against it, back to Stiles, crossed his arms over his chest and stared Scott down.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the front door slide open to let in Boyd and Erica. The both of them slipped past Scott and behind Peter to, no doubt, stand next to Stiles.

Stiles spluttered and yelled again. “Scott! Peter's not going to bring in poisoned food when most of you guys don't trust him!”

Scott glared darkly at Peter. “Yeah we don’t trust him because poisoning is exactly something he would do.”

“Well yeah.” Stiles said. Peter could practically see him shrug. “Of course Peter would poison someone. But he’s not going to use food to poison the pack.”

Erica snorted loudly and said “Yeah Peter’s devious but he’s not stupid.” there was a pause before she added with her mouth obviously full “And if you paid attention to anything you’d known this mac and cheese is not only totally poison free but also delicious.”

“Hey...” Stiles said sulkily. “That’s my fork.”

Scott’s self righteous expression was replaced with sour resignation. Peter gave him his best fake smile before turning his back on him to look at Erica, who was eating right out of the dish.

Boyd had found another fork somewhere and had stolen Stiles’ plate.

Stiles was glaring at the both of them and Peter felt oddly annoyed.

“You going to share?” he asked Erica who seemed to almost hunch over the dish.

She just smirked at him and pulled the dish even closer to her, effectively blocking anyone else from taking some.

He stared her down intently while Stiles made indignity noises.

Boyd, smart and dependable Boyd, held out his half full plate and a second fork for Stiles who gasped and smiled brightly before scooping up his own bite.

The loud almost pornographic moan took Peter off guard and the sudden quick shot of arousal he felt was even more surprising.

He heard Erica choking on a laugh and sent her his best blank look that the pack had long learned meant he was fighting back the urge to murder one of them.

Boyd, wise and quiet Boyd, had completely given up his plate to Stiles and had instead decided to try and distract Erica with an impromptu fork fight.

Stiles seemed to be having a small spiritual moment. “Do you know what tastes weirdly good in mac and cheese?” he asked suddenly.

“What?” Peter asked gamely.

“Tuna and Peas.”

Peter stared at him while Boyd and Erica made simultaneous noises of disgust.

Stiles shrugged apologetically. “It’s strangely hearty.”

Peter hummed in thought. He was certainly petty enough to make something that only Stiles would want to eat. It’s what everyone else deserved for being rude about Peter’s cooking.

~*~

“Chicken alfredo is so easy. Just cook those wormy noodles for a few minutes and toss in some canned alfredo sauce with baked chicken and bam! Food! Or if you want to get fancy pan fry the chicken before adding milk and actual heavy cream. But who really has time for that? (I do. I apparently.) Here’s how to do it the fancy way if you’re into that kind of thing.”

It continued to amuse Peter how the writer could give easy alternatives and complicated instructions for the same recipe.

His first two batches turned out tasting fine. Not amazing but certainly edible. It was vast improvement from where he started.

He felt an oddly strong urge to both thank the writer of the blog and get to know them better. A combination of emotions he hadn’t felt in a very long time.

This might not have been a problem for him if he didn’t have an strong suspicion he knew who the writer was.

Tiny hints here and there had given it away. He just had to get confirmation.

~*~

After a month of bringing in different dishes to pack meetings Peter had gotten a pretty good handle on Stiles’ likes and dislikes. Considering one of Stiles’ constant likes was Peter’s cooking in general he was confident in his welcome at Stiles’ apartment so long as he came bearing food.

Peter showed up right in time for dinner and Stiles blinked at him before letting him with only a “I’m not going to turn down your cooking, even if it is surprise cooking.”

Peter smirked at him as he made himself at home in Stiles’ tiny kitchen. The size of it certainly explained the latest post “How the hell are you supposed to get anything done in a 3 by 3 space: a photo tutorial by me, not a professional photographer.”

Peter had recognized the kitchen in the pictures from when he had helped Stiles move his (un)surprisingly large collection of kitchen gadgets.

“So what’s the occasion?” Stiles asked as he poked at the wax wrapped loaf of cheesy bread.

Now that Peter had gotten a better grip on cooking in general he had decided to try his hand at baking. He wasn’t very good at it yet but Stiles appreciated bread of all kinds and wouldn’t mind that it was a bit darker in some spots.

“Oh nothing too special.” he said casually. “I just noticed that your newest post got a million hits. Sounds like something that should be acknowledged.”

Stiles jumped and stared at Peter in shock for a moment before he relaxed again. He rubbed the back of his neck and gave Peter a slightly embarrassed smile.

“Why am I not actually surprised you know about that.” he said with a little laugh.

He turned back to the bread, pulling off a piece and inspecting it before spinning back to stare at Peter with huge eyes.

“Oh my god, did you get all those recipes from me?” he asked loudly, excitement obvious on his face.

“Well your instructions are very comprehensive.” Peter said with a casual shrug.

Stiles grinned at him, obviously pleased about Peter complimenting him.

“That’s a really fucking nice thing to say.” Stiles said, grin turning into a softer smile.

Peter shrugged again and turned to start pulling dishes down from the cupboard. “It’s just a fact.” he said casually.

Stiles laughed. “Whatever you say. So what you make me?”

~*~

Stuffed full of the potato soup and cheesy bread Peter was slouched down on the couch and making grocery lists on his phone. Stiles was curled up next to him, half leaning against Peter’s shoulder while half watching Leverage, half reading one of the books Peter had given him.

“Holy shit!” Stiles suddenly yelled.

Peter turned to look at him in interest.

“Are you courting me, Peter Hale?” Stiles asked eyes and mouth wide open in shock.

Peter blinked at him in genuine surprise for a moment before past behavior clicked together in his brain. He couldn’t stop himself from face palming.

Stiles laughed uproariously and leaned harder against.

“This is the best thing ever.” Stiles said breathlessly.

“Which part?” Peter asked through narrowed eyes.

Stiles grinned even harder at him and didn’t answer, just leaned forward to give Peter a soft kiss on the check.

“I’m going to milk the shit out of this.” Stiles said in amusement. "I can't believe I didn't realize sooner! You get so pissy when Erica steals food from me that it should have been obvious."

Peter supposed he kind of deserved that respond if he’d gone around trying to give gestures of romance through food and not even realizing it.

Peter raised his arm and Stiles instantly cuddled himself deeper into Peter’s side, tucking his face against the side of Peter’s neck.

“It’ll be nice not to be the one cooking all the time.” Stiles said quietly.

Peter felt a rush of protectiveness and fought a sneer at the thought of Stiles always having to be the one to talk care of himself.

He turned his head slightly and gave Stiles a light kiss on the temple. “Not just the cooking.” he promised softly and Stiles shivered against him.

Stiles took a long shuddering breath before fully melting against Peter.  “Yeah, sounds good.” he whispered and curled his hand into Peter’s.

Peter wasn’t quite sure how he’d managed to get him and Stiles to this point but there was no way in hell he was going to complain when Stiles was being so shockingly soft with him.

“Not about you,” Stiles assures him. He jabs an accusatory finger in Derek’s direction. “She knows about Derek because he climbed in my window the other night all growly and fangy and exposed himself to my eight-year-old sister!” His brain catches up with his mouth. “Wait, that sounds really wrong. He exposed his secret to my eight-year-old sister.”

“Dude,” Scott says again, and this time his tone is full of disapproval and it’s directed entirely at Derek. Being judged by Scott is about as effective as being judged by a fluffy kitten, but Stiles appreciates it all the same.

It’s hard for Stiles to actually remember the gut-wrenching terror he felt during Scott’s first full moon as a werewolf. Scott wouldn’t hurt a fly—except for when there’s a ravenous beast inside him trying to get him to kill his BFF. Stiles is developing some hardcore cognitive dissonance as a coping strategy, and it seems to be working well.

Derek, of course, could appear threatening and murderous if he was surrounded by sunshine and rainbows and frolicking bunnies. It’s mostly the eyebrows, honestly. Definitely ninety, ninety-five percent eyebrow work. They’re like amplifiers for his death stare and they’re incredibly effective. Stiles can feel his testicles attempting to crawl back inside his body right now.

“You need to fixthis,” Derek says, his voice low.

“Fucking excuse me?” Stiles might be totally intimidated right now, but that doesn’t make him an idiot. “I can’t make her unknow something, Derek. It’s too late for that. The barn door’s open, and the horse has been gone for so long it’s died of old age!”

A rumbling sound comes out of Derek, and oh, it’s a growl.

Stiles takes a step back. “She’s eight. Dude, she still thinks Santa’s real, although she’s starting to get suspicious on that front. Nobody’s going to believe an eight-year-old who says werewolves are real.”

“It’s not the people who won’t believe her I’m worried about,” Derek says ominously. Everything Derek says is ominous though. “It’s the ones who will.”

“She’s eight,” Stiles says again, hoping that maybe Derek will actually get it through his thick skull this time.

“It’s dangerous,” Derek repeats, like he’s thinking the exact same thing, and then he abruptly turns and walks away.

Stiles releases a breath he didn’t even know he was holding.

“What the hell is his problem?” Scott asks, shaking his head.

Stiles watches the spot where Derek’s vanished into the trees. “Fuck that guy. Seriously, fuck him. This is his fault, and he knows it.” He shakes off his disquiet. “Hey, do you want to hang out at my place tonight?”

“Can’t,” Scott says, and has the decency to look a little torn about it. “I’m having dinner with Allison and her parents.”

Stiles throws him a look. Derek might be a dick, but he really does have a point about how Scott should be staying away from the Argents. Stiles is a sixteen-year-old virgin and he’s incredibly eager to not be a sixteen-year-old virgin, but is sex really so fucking amazing that it’s worth risking your life for?

Like, Jesus, he hopes so.

But also, no. No, it really isn’t.

“Okay,” he says, because he’s really not in the mood to hear about how incredible Allison is, and the myriad of ways that she completes Scott. “Raincheck?”

Scott grins and slaps him on the back. “Yeah. Raincheck.”

***

Stella is full of beans when Stiles picks her up from after school care. She swings her backpack into the Jeep like she’s batting for the Mets, and clambers in after it.

“Steven Foster ate a whole pack of Oreos at recess, and then threw up all over his desk when we went back in to class!”

“Gross,” Stiles says. Fast times at Beacon Hills Elementary. “Also, Dad called. He had to go into work early, so you know what that means for us?”

Stella fist bumps him. “Baskin Robbins!”

Stiles tries to shake off his guilt as they head for the mall. There’s an alpha in town on a murder spree, apparently, and Dad and his deputies are working hard trying to solve something they’ve got no hope of solving unless they take into account that werewolves exist. And really, they’re hardly going to make that leap, are they?

Not everyone is as intuitive as Stiles.

Also, he might have taken too much Adderall the day he put the pieces together on the werewolf thing.

The point is, Dad is working hard trying to solve a mystery that Stiles is actively trying to keep a secret from him, and he feels like shit for it. Stiles has seen Laura Hale’s body though, okay? Dad has a dangerous enough job without some crazy alpha werewolf setting his sights on him.

Stiles might be a natural liar, but that’s supposed to be about stuff that doesn’t matter, like homework, and curfews, and shit like that. It’s not supposed to be about stuff that actually counts. Guilt twists in his gut, and even his Two-Scoop Sundae (with chocolate and mint) doesn’t make him feel much better.

He and Stella eat their sundaes, and then wander around the mall for a while. Stella always likes to visit the toy department at Macy’s, so they check out the stuffed animals and the Lego. On their way out Stiles catches sight of beautiful, glorious Lydia Martin at the perfume counter. For a moment he thinks she’s going to notice him too, but her gaze slides right off him as she turns around again, and yep, of course, Stiles is invisible.

He’s been crushing on Lydia since the third grade.

Why wouldn’t he? She’s perfection. She’s the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen in his life, and he has a five-year plan to win her heart, and all her others parts too. The cornerstone of his plan is getting her to notice him, which is not going very well and has admittedly been the downfall of all his previous plans.

“Stiles,” Stella says, and tugs on his hand. “Stiles?”

“Huh?” He looks down to find her glaring up at him.

“I said can we get sushi for dinner?”

Right. Stiles has a habit of zoning out when Lydia is in his vicinity. He should investigate that now he knows this supernatural shit is real. She’s probably a siren or something.

Can she sing? Stiles isn’t sure, but he would bet his life that she an incredible singer. Because Lydia is incredible at everything.

“Stiles!” Stella exclaims, and he jolts.

“Yes,” he says, dragging his brain back on track. “Let’s get some sushi for dinner.”

***

There’s a queue at the sushi place, and it’s getting on to dusk when they’re finally heading home. Stella is holding the boxes of sushi carefully in her lap like she’s cradling some fragile infant made entirely of glass, and Stiles is singing along to the radio as they take a detour down old Telegraph Road—a trick Stiles uses to avoid the traffic lights on the main road a few blocks over. Telegraph Road hugs the edge of the Preserve. There are a few houses out here, but it’s pretty quiet and there’s very little traffic. Sometimes they see wildlife at the side of the road, so Stiles always keeps to the speed limit. Also, Dad would kick his ass if he was ever caught speeding, especially with Stella in the Jeep.

Stiles flicks the headlights—better safe than sorry—as he steers the Jeep around a curve in the road, and then—

“Stiles!” Stella shrieks.

—a man is stumbling onto the road.

Stiles slams on the brakes, wincing as the guy—

Leather jacket.

Glower.

Jaw line you could cut your tongue on.

It’s  Derek.

Oh, shit, I just ran over Derek Hale!

—bounces against the fender and staggers back again.

“You hit someone!” Stella screams, sushi boxes flying. “You hit someone!”

“Stella, it’s okay!” Stiles unpeels his shaking fingers from the steering wheel. “It’s okay!”

Derek lurches up to the passenger window, and wrenches the door open and Stella screams again.

“You’re scaring her!” Stiles yells at him, and Derek lurches back, eyes wide. “Stella, it’s okay. He’s okay. He’s…”

Derek’s really not okay. He’s pale, and there’s a sickly blueish cast to his features, and he’s clutching his arm tightly. Black blood is seeping through his fingers.

“Derek, are you okay?”

“Hunter,” Derek grinds out. “She shot me.”

“She?” Stiles asks.

“Kate Argent.”

“Do you need a ride to the hospital?” Stiles asks, figuring that he ran into the guy so it’s literally the least he can do.

“No,” Derek says, and then glowers. “Yes.”

“Stella, get in the back,” Stiles says, unclipping her seatbelt for her. She scrambles through the gap between the front seats, squishing pieces of sushi all over the upholstery, which is gross, but probably no grosser than whatever weird black goo Derek is bringing to the table as he climbs into the front seat.

“I need you to take me to Deaton’s,” Derek says. And then, “Where’s Scott?”

“He’s um, having dinner with the Argents tonight,” Stiles says.

“Is Kate there?”

Stiles thinks that’s Allison’s aunt or something. “Um, probably?”

Stella sticks her head between the seats. “Why is your blood black?”

That is actually a fine question.

“What is that?” Stiles asks. “Is that contagious? You know, you should probably just get out.”

“Call Scott,” Derek instructs tersely. “I need him to go through Kate’s stuff and find out what kind of wolfsbane she uses in her bullets.”

“Why?” Stiles asks, before Stella can. If Derek is going to be pissed—and Derek is always pissed—then better he directs it at him than at Stella.

“Because I’ve been poisoned,” Derek says through clenched teeth.

“Oh,” says Stiles.

Derek leads a very complicated life. There is a lot going on with him.

“Like, one day you’re really going to have to sit down and explain all of this, you know?” Stiles asks him. “Because you just keep turning up when you’re already in trouble, and it’s incredibly disconcerting, and not at all helpful.”

“Stiles,” Derek says, like he’s only just resisting the urge to strangle him. Stiles gets that a lot, and from a very wide variety of people. “Take me to Deaton’s.”

Stiles doesn’t appreciate his tone. “I don't think you should be barking orders with the way you look, okay? In fact, I think if I wanted to, I could probably drag your little werewolf ass out into the middle of the road and leave you for dead.”

Derek shows his teeth. “Stiles. Start the car.  Now. Or I will rip your throat out with my teeth.”

Rude, Stiles thinks, but turns the key in the ignition.

And then, like a little echo, Stella says, clear as a bell from the backseat: “Wow.Rude.”

Stiles isn’t quite brave enough to turn and see the look on Derek’s face.