Chapter 1: A Pinch of Nostalgia
Chapter Text
Stiles pulled the last tray of croissants from the oven and immediately scorched his finger through a hole in his oven mitt, which seemed an appropriate way to start his day.
The Doughboy kitchen was like stepping into a time-traveling corridor straight to the 1990s, complete with ovens that predated his life span and outlets that looked like they'd been wired by a mad scientist. The tiled floor was chipped, discolored grout abounded, and most of the counters were covered in a mess of mixers, supplies, and the kind of organized chaos that ensured Stiles and only Stiles knew where anything belonged.
Stiles flexed his throbbing index finger and fished out the tray with his other hand and a new mitt. He did some quick math for the breakfast rush. Croissants, three dozen, they’d probably last through lunch. Kolaches? Both spicy and regular, they’d get gobbled up in no time. Doughnuts? As many as he could stick in the case without breaking the laws of physics, though it didn’t matter, they’d all be sold out in 30 minutes anyway. Danishes, three. Wait. How the hell had he only made three danishes? Oh, that’s right, he’d gotten distracted by the delivery truck. Blood orange lemon poppy muffins? Well, he hoped today’s crowd was hungry for that, because once the nostalgia of his mother’s recipe hit his nose, he refused to stop making them until he ran out of ingredients.
Above the low hum of the walk-in cooler, Stiles could hear the first trickles of the university campus forming a queue in front of his shop, their voices carrying in the otherwise silent morning like a low roar.
Stiles thumbed his phone to check the time, swore under his breath, then jabbed his burnt finger onto an emergency bottle of Yoohoo he kept stashed in the walk-in. He stacked the croissants onto a serving tray, half-tripping over his feet and almost dropping them on the floor.
At a glance, no one would have guessed him as the engine that made Doughboy run. At thirty, Stiles looked like a washed-out grad student on the surface. He was built lean, with runner’s limbs that always seemed midway through slamming into something. His hair was cropped short, and his hazel eyes bore the wild, sleep-starved gleam of a professional baker. Most days, he wore vintage t-shirts of cartoon shows he’d loved as a child, the same ratty jeans he’d worn since high school, and a flour-streaked apron emblazoned with the logo and floral pattern of his mother’s old bakery.
As he stepped to the front, the line was now visible through the double doors. It was a bit more crowded than usual, actually.
Isaac, one of his few employees, paced behind the front counter, readying their payment systems and display cases. He had a lean, handsome build, with curly blonde hair and natural good looks that played well with the young college crowd. Most weeks ended with Isaac getting at least three or four phone numbers.
Stiles barely had time to hand off the last tray of croissants before Isaac stole one for his own morning breakfast. “Do you have any idea how many people are lined up this morning? What the hell did you do this time?” he said, mouth half-full of flaky pastry.
“Oh shit,” Stiles thought to himself as he peeked through their walk-up window. The line was wrapped around the block. “Apparently the campus cafeteria had a rat incident, and I might have done some extra advertising at Beacon U. Maybe I explained about our free glazed doughnut program for students who bring in their ID and order something.”
“Please tell me you didn’t plant the rat,” Isaac said, eyebrows raised.
“Isaac, I would never allegedly do that a second time, and I think the fumigating tents on campus proves my innocence.” Stiles countered. He saw another group of college students, probably an entire floor of a dorm, join the queue outside his bakery. “Yeah, the whole class of ‘29 plus our regulars are about to descend. Buckle up, it’s going to be a rough one.”
Profit and customer engagement was important to him. After all, you needed money to keep something like this going, he knew that painfully well. You can’t pay your bills or employees with passion, no matter how hard you try. It’s why he’d worked 16-hour days, 6 days a week, for the last 5 years, to get Doughboy to be the success it was today.
So yes, Stiles was aggressive with his own unique style of marketing and sometimes he had to pay for that.
Isaac just shrugged at the gathering crowd, which was his diplomatic way of saying, “You got yourself into this”. He started loading the display with the morning’s last batch and arranged them in an appealing, symmetrical fashion.
Stiles unlocked the deadbolt and, with a painted-on smile, ushered the day's first round of customers inside. In an instant, the tranquil hush transformed into the roar of chair legs scraping against hardwood, the cash register’s pings, and the easy chatter of the small college town of Beacon Hills, California.
The customers poured into the front shop of the bakery, a red brick wall lined from top to bottom with vintage family photos of just Stiles and his mother, a few of them cut to remove a third party from many of them, and framed picture of her old shop, “Rosemary’s”.
Well-worn wooden floors creaked with “character”, and mismatched tables and chairs he “acquired” around town perfectly fit the hometown atmosphere. String lights cast a warm glow over the seating area with the early Autumn dawn.
“Good morning! Thanks for coming in!” Stiles said, repeatedly, worked around the growing chaos of the rush, pretending he was in control.
At the front, every table was filled within minutes. Stiles drifted between them, topping up chipped mugs, offering samples, asking about the regulars’ day, just like he remembered in his mom’s bakery more than a decade earlier.
By eleven that morning, the crowd had thinned down at last to the lull before the lunch rush. Stiles used the time to mop up stickiness, eye the display case’s ruins, pop in a few more goods into ovens, mentally think about what he’d put in for the evening lull, while figuring out what the lunch special would be.
In the reflection of the display, he caught a glimpse of his face. Pale, with deep bags under his eyes and his cheekbones were starting to show again. Had he lost more weight? Probably. Lunch was a luxury of his time and energy, not a necessity. Dinner? Well, he was too tired to cook at night, so he lived off instant food that he’d gotten burned out of eating, so he rarely ate at all. Surely taste testing would be enough calories for a day.
“You should let Dunbar do the lunch rush on his own and go home for the day. Get some rest! I mean, even if it’s just sandwiches and potato salad, he can handle it,” Isaac said, catching Stiles’ tired expression. He put a hand on his boss’ shoulder, squeezing it. “Besides, shouldn’t culinary school interns, you know, actually cook?” Isaac said.
Stiles’ eyes furrowed. They’d had this argument before, and he was getting sick of having it. “We’ve been over this, Isaac. Everything made in Doughboy is made by me, just like my mom made them. I’m the only one that saw and heard exactly how they were made in the last year of her life. I’m not going to let her legacy get diluted or stolen by anyone.” He spat, in a hushed tone.
“Besides… I’m the only one who wants to keep her memory alive. Nobody else cares. Not Dad, not this town… Nobody. Her food is the only thing keeping her memory alive.” Stiles thought, balling his hand into a tight fist.
“You can’t keep this pace up forever,” Isaac said, patting Stiles' sympathetically. “I know this place is a memorial to you, but honestly, I feel like you’re still trapped in the grief over your Dad selling-”
“Uh, Stiles?”
Liam Dunbar, a 19-year-old intern from the local culinary school, whose height and baby face made him look more like a freshman in high school rather than a grown man. He poked his head around the corner, looking vaguely sheepish. “Hey, so, uh... Somebody called for you? I took a message and said I’d give it to you. It was Kira, from the Chamber of Commerce?”
Stiles’s stomach twinged. He’d been dodging those calls and emails for days. Perhaps if he killed Liam and hid his body in a freezer, he could get away with ignoring Kira’s latest nonsense. No, no… Kira was too smart for that, she’d expect it, she was crafty like that.
The Beacon Hills Chamber of Commerce, the BHCC, was great for Beacon Hills. They, and their Councilwoman Kira Yukimura, were responsible for the town’s current boom in both population, economic growth, and the full restoration of the historic downtown into the culinary mecca of the Northwest United States.
Their coordination with the local Beacon University and the Beacon Culinary School, alongside a growing job market, had young professionals flocking to move and live in the area. Population grew more in the last 10 years than in the last 100, and cities across the world were constantly contacting the BHCC for advice.
The BHCC also had a terrible habit of telling the local business how to run their stores in ways that were “good for the town”. All with the unspoken tagline of “you owe us”.
Stiles, especially, had been highlighted in the BHCC “Hidden Gem” program 4 years earlier, and was featured on a Food Network show because of it. The single act of force-feeding Guy Fieri baked goods for 4 hours straight tripled his daily business and had tourists flocking to his store all year round. Yeah, he was in deep with the BHCC Mafia because of that one, and they were calling in a favor, he could feel it.
“Oh my god, what is it now?” He braced for the worst. Last year it’d been about his Halloween display. Okay, so maybe he’d gone a little too hard, but they had to admit the strawberry filling he’d made for decoration was the closest consistency to blood that any baker had ever conceived.
Liam shrugged, mouth twisted up with genuine fear for his livelihood. “Kira wants you at some kind of chamber lunch for their latest project that all the restaurants in town are going to be a part of. They’re getting all the owners together for this one, no exception she said. Today, at noon. At, uh… Hale’s.”
Stiles froze abruptly. “Hale’s?” he echoed, brain trying to forget the word he’d just spoken.
There was only one logical reason to drag Doughboy’s underdressed and overworked hot mess of a boss into the brand-new golden child of Beacon Hill’s food scene, and that was for public humiliation.
Derek Hale, the owner, ran his new restaurant like he was the second coming of Gordon Ramsey, if Gordon Ramsey was a hot musclehead and allergic to joy. Rumors around town was that the trust-fund baby traveled all of Europe on his Uncle’s dime for the last 10 years and trained under some of the best chefs imaginable, only coming back because of some family bullshit and deciding to build his flagship restaurant in his hometown, instead of New York like he’d planned. The menu was all French dishes, fused with some local inspiration, and was advertised as “world culture brought local”.
All Stiles knew is that he would rather die than pay more than $100 for a dinner that could fit on the head of a pin. He didn’t care how good a chef the dickhead was, no food that unfilling was worth that.
Stiles didn’t let the panic surface. At least not above the eyelids, which he tried to keep calmly half-lidded and not bugged out like the sleep-deprived lemur he was. “Did she say what her latest project was about?” he asked, voice steady as a soufflé in an earthquake.
Liam made himself scarce, which was enough of an answer.
“I hate to tell you, but you don’t have long to get there,” Isaac said, offering a sympathetic smile. “You’re going to have to trust someone else with the lunch rush! What a great chance for personal growth and learning how to delegate! Now’s your chance to take control of your life!” A wide grin grew on his face, and he waggled his eyebrows, which Stiles ignored.
Stiles wiped his palms on his jeans. He checked the clock, cursed under his breath, and sprinted to the back office, which doubled as a panic bunker. In the battered mini fridge, he found his emergency Red Bull. It tasted like regret and aluminum, but it would get him through meeting the town’s world-renown celebrity chef on his own turf.
The bathroom mirror was an exercise in self-loathing, but he did his best. Wet paper towels in the hair, nervous scrape with a disposable razor, basically finger-brushing his teeth. Stiles considered running home to change, but he’d rather be disemboweled with a melon-baller than step into Hale’s in fresh-pressed khakis. He straightened his tattered belt and decided to own the flour stains. What’s the worst thing that could happen?
“No lunch specials today. Just sell what I’ve got in the case. If someone complains, give them a complimentary cookie.” Stiles said, as he grabbed his keys and wallet, jogging out of the building.
Liam’s face dropped from the kitchen, disappointment clear as the day, with a deep, resounding sigh. Isaac frowned, arms folded, a mix of sympathy and concern coloring his features.
+++++
Derek’s knife moved with calculated violence. There was nothing delicate about the rough hands that worked the fresh salmon meat on his cutting board, and yet the cuts were practically surgical in their precision.
Under the glare of the overhead lights, veins stood out across his forearms as he turned the coral orange meat into evenly diced portions. Only when his work was completed, through perfect execution, did his expression ease, and only slightly.
The kitchen of Hale’s was a functional space, not unlike a laboratory. Stainless steel everywhere, state-of-the-art machinery, with not a single pan out of place, and counters wiped with a frequency that would put most hospitals to shame. Even the walk-in fridge, raided with great frequency, had its contents aligned by color, type of ingredient, and spoilage date - all labeled with a portable printer, because Derek refused to accept anyone’s handwriting as sufficient.
He was taller than most of the kitchen staff by a head, which meant if something needed to be seen, he saw it first. The cut of his black chef’s coat spared no imagination to his muscular body, broad shoulders, or impressive chest. His jaw was squared, and beneath his left eye was a whisker-thin scar, that made him look even more intimidating. The man’s hair was short and functional, the color of black coffee, the same as his neatly trimmed beard.
The air around him was a sweet smell of marine life and herbs, but not the least bit fishy, despite the abundance of salmon before him.
Derek set aside the chopped meat and wiped his blade clean. He then turned to the only other soul in the kitchen at that time. “Let’s move, McCall! I’m heading to your prep station!” he shouted, his voice deep and demanding like a military officer.
Scott McCall, one of the few sous chefs that Derek cared to let near his work, had already laid out and prepared ingredients they needed to finish his signature salmon tartare. He was a brick of a guy, his arms thick and tanned from years on the prep line and his soft black hair just a little too long for Derek’s liking in a kitchen, but short enough he couldn’t complain without sounding like a dick.
Scott kept shifting his weight from sneaker to sneaker, like the floor was about to drop him into a shark tank, but with all the energy of an overeager retriever. “Yes Chef! I, uh, triple checked the seasonings from your recipe and made sure to double check their measurements. The vegetables are finely diced; the oils and juices are pre-measured in the measuring cups like you asked. I also have the cucumbers sliced for the base of the dish!”
Derek only nodded. His approval was silent, at least in this kitchen. He moved swiftly, scanning over the chef’s work. For the most part, Scott did well. He learned fast, rarely making the same mistakes twice, and had good fundamentals. Where other chefs might flinch at Derek’s blunt demeanor and obsessive attention to detail, Scott would always nod his head and do what he was told. Not unlike that of a trained dog. He appreciated that in a sous chef.
“The cucumbers are too thin. They won’t support the dish’s weight. We’re trashing them,” Derek grabbed the platter of sliced cucumbers Scott prepared, and dumped them into the nearest disposal bin.
Scott flinched from the noise, and a look of panic set it. “Sorry, Chef.”
In Derek’s mind, he could picture father’s bemused face, showing him how to cut an onion for the first time. Back then, at just 7 years old, Derek had butchered the vegetable into such an uneven mess on his own, it was a wonder he hadn’t cut his own fingers off. He remembered Robert’s gentle hand, guiding him slowly. “Watch, learn, and adapt.” These were the words his family lived by, from generation to generation.
Derek plucked a new cucumber from their reserves and dropped it onto a fresh cutting board. “Watch and learn. Adapt this to your style,” he said. He motioned Scott closer, then turned the knife in his palm with a wicked flick. “You want a base, not lace. Quarter inch, give or take. You serve anything thinner, and it won’t support the topping. You serve anything thicker, and it’s going to overpower the dish or be a good snack for children. Adapt based on how wide your cucumber is and get a feeling for the firmness we’re searching for.”
Scott bobbed his head, closer now, his neck craned to see the motion. Derek lined his thumb against the cucumber’s glossy skin and moved, controlled, perfectly even. The slices thunked in uniform succession, precise and symmetrical as poker chips. He set the knife down, with half the cucumber left. He handed once of the slices to Scott, to observe and touch with his own hands. “Now you do the rest. Show me what you’ve learned.”
Nervous, Scott took the next cucumber and followed Derek’s instruction. Derek raised an eyebrow at the chef’s nervousness when it came to a knife, immediately catching him slipping within seconds to a much thicker cut than was needed. “Go slower. Do it right. Don’t overcompensate for your last failure.”
“Yes, Chef!” Scott said, gulping. He took his time, and while the cuts weren’t as neatly angled as Derek would like, it was a vast improvement over the first batch. Not something he would serve to high end clients, but for this brunch, it would do.
“Better. Room for improvement. We’ll revisit it later. Let’s move to final preparation for now.” Derek barked.
Derek rolled the diced salmon into a chilled mixing bowl with his knife, angling his body so Scott could observe. He scattered a measured snowfall of herbs and accoutrements into the mixture, drizzled the oil and juices over the contents in a slender flick of the wrist, with not a single drip out of place. He then folded the ingredients into the meat, gently, letting the flavors mingle.
“What is the most important thing about food leaving my kitchen, McCall?” Derek asked.
Scott’s face was transfixed, pondering for a moment. “Uh, taste? You said that our customers should only taste the best food the world has to offer. Nothing less than perfection.”
“-and why do we do that?”
“Uh-” Scott dug deep into his memory banks for this one. “Because you want to get a Michelin star and make a lot of money?” he finally offered, with a nervous chuckle.
Derek snorted. He really did like this kid, but McCall just needed some years of experience under his belt. He’d forgotten how young and stupid 23 was.
By 38, Derek traveled the world, working in kitchens and cultures so vast and different across Europe, he’d forgotten what it was like to be back in the American viewpoint. Where profit, money, and financial success were the only standards to judge food by. What a disgusting measurement.
He could have waxed poetic to Scott about how food was the beating heart of mankind’s culture, an artistic expression ever evolving based on food abundance, famine, and technology, never stagnating for long. Or he could have explained that the Hale family, long considered masters in the culinary world, dating back to the personal chefs of Kings and Queens of nations long gone, was a legacy he needed to surpass.
Each Hale Chef was said to have become a better chef than the Hales that came before them. The collective knowledge of the previous generation bestowed and evolved onto the next. This was an honor that every Hale accepted as part of their life on this planet, and their sole lifelong goal. The only thing worth striving for.
Though… Derek was the last Hale currently in the profession, with his Uncle now retired and, to the drama of the culinary world, choosing not to name a successor or train an apprentice. A decision Derek didn’t understand, and his Uncle refused to elaborate on.
In essence, if Derek’s food wasn’t perfect, if it wasn’t constantly evolving and becoming the best version of himself, or if his food wasn’t at the top of the culinary world standards? He was spitting in the face of that grand legacy and letting it die under his watch.
“I won’t let that happen.” Derek thought to himself, firmly.
Unfortunately, Derek didn’t have the time or emotional capacity to tell Scott all of that. So for now, wanting to earn a Michelin star and making bank would have to do.
“Which is why we do what, McCall?”
“Taste as we go?”
Derek grabbed a pair of tasting spoons, one for himself and one for Scott. He smirked as the taste revealed something obviously missing. He’d suspected his chef had forgotten them among the prep items but gave Scott some grace time to correct himself. Unfortunately, lunch was fast approaching. “Now tell me what it’s missing,” he ordered.
Scott paused, letting the flavor dance on his tongue. Derek didn’t mind the wait, it was what he appreciated about his assistant. He thought things through and didn’t’ speak without thinking.
“Salt? Uh. Pepper? Yeah, I taste the herbs but none of the spices. That’s weird. Did they get absorbed by some other flavor?” Scott offered.
Derek nodded in agreement. “Exactly right.” He then smirked at Scott. “They would be in here, but someone didn’t have them measured and ready on the prep station.”
Scott gasped, spinning around and running back to his station. Sure enough, he’d left the two bulk ingredients on the other end of the kitchen. “Sorry, Chef!”
Derek finished the last of the seasoning, confirmed with one last taste, and then swiftly set to preparing the serving tray. An artistic dollop of tartar was put on each of the sliced cucumbers, with Scott adding the final garnish. Each morsal was no bigger than a ritz cracker and would easily fit in anyone’s mouse.
A tapping echoed from the front of house, precise as a metronome.
Peter Hale entered, as he always did, with theatrical flair and a clearing of his throat. His navy suit was immaculate, silk tie a muted paisley, and not a single hair out of place. Up close, the lines in his face looked etched rather than grown, like aging itself was under his command, or perhaps retirement had softened him. His blue eyes swept the kitchen with genuine admiration.
“Heads up, Derek, all of the guests are present. I seated them in the VIP section for you,” He surveyed Scott for a breath, as if calculating the child’s odds of surviving in the kitchen, then fixed on Derek once more. “Don’t dally. These are very important people in the area so try your best to reign in the snobbery a bit. This may be a culinary mecca the likes I’ve never seen before, but they’re still small-town Americans at heart. Use small words and don’t overcomplicate your descriptions.”
Derek wiped his hands on the black towel at his hip, then drew in an annoyed breath. “I’m not a snob. I have high standards. There’s a difference.”
“Sure, there is, Derek,” Peter lied, rolling his eyes.
Derek’s chest rose, broader now, and all at once he was presentable, covering up his flaws and insecurities with a fake smile and charming presence.
As he gathered the finished platters, examined the array from every possible angle for a final imperfection, he then beckoned Scott to flank him and push two of the carts. Peter swept ahead, the way he always did, never leading, but always first.
Hale’s revealed itself as they stepped through the swinging kitchen doors, onto an expanse of charcoal and crimson that set a mysterious, warm, and inviting atmosphere.
The floors were polished obsidian, gleaming with the reflection of shaded sconces and the pulse of the afternoon sun, filtered through high, iron-caged windows. Seating was a chessboard of black-lacquered tables and blood-red cushioned seats, arranged in such a way to allow for both large groups and small intimate gatherings. Private booths for parties of two were cordoned off, in a warmly lit, romantic section of the hall.
A golden chandelier, that once hung from his mother’s first restaurant in Spain, billowed glimmering light overhead. That light reflected on family portraits Derek sat on the walls surrounding the dining area, each framed with a memorial plaque commemorating the lives of those he’d lost - Laura and Cora, his sisters, and Robert and Talia, his parents. A small obituary memorizing them and their successes were on the back page of his menus - a history of the grand legacy that Hale’s, his flagship restaurant, was built upon.
Derek led the way, his stride measured, purposeful. Scott trailed a careful three paces behind, pushing the serving carts with both hands as if it were an offering to God himself.
A private alcove up gentle walkway, meant for high class guests, was where their meeting gathered.
The Chamber was in full attendance, including Councilwoman Kira Yukimura, a slender woman with sharp features and all business focused behind her dark eyes. Beside her, a few local heavyweights caught Derek’s attention - the mayor, a couple of real estate developers eager to grow the area, a woman from the Beacon Gazette who ran their social media, and professional members from the county and state news stations. To his surprise, the owners of all the other restaurants, eateries, and food trucks in the area were in attendance. At least 40 to 50 in total, spread throughout the area across multiple dining tables.
To his surprise, someone who looked like a grad school dropout, caked in flower on his shirt and jeans was saddled up right next to Kira and the mayor, loudly complaining about something. They all turned as the platters were set before each table by Scott and Peter.
Derek waited for the crowd's silence before speaking. "Thank you for joining us at Hale's and the honor of serving today’s chamber meeting," he said, voice low and deliberate, with a bit of charm he’d picked up overseas. "We're opening our doors to the public this Friday evening for our grand opening, to a sold-out night of reservations and will have full service starting this Saturday. As a thank you to the Chamber of Commerce, the mayor, those that helped renovate Hales so quickly, as well as to my brothers and sisters in the culinary business, I wanted to offer a preview of our menu and what we have to offer. We hope to see you at our tables someday and it would be my honor and privilege to serve you."
He gestured to the domed tray in front of him, at the table with the Chamber, removing it with a flourish, revealing his dish.
"This is our salmon tartare, a dish near and dear to my heart. I spent six months under Chef Dubois in France, who forced me to prepare this dish every day until my wrists went numb and I could dice its contents blindfolded. Please, help yourselves to an amuse-bouche of our flavors we’ll be offering, before we get down to business today.”
Kira nodded assent. The domes throughout the dining area were lifted, and the chill in the air instantly competed with the cool perfume of citrus, chive, and clean ocean brine.
Hands reached for the finger foods, each taking a portion or two for themselves.
Around the commerce table, everyone made polite moans of approval. The mayor, never shy about his stomach, complimented the “balance, the harmony, the artistry”. The Gazette lady took care in snapped a picture for her Instagram, already writing up a quote. Even Kira, who was humorously rumored to hate anything more complicated than a corn dog, closed her eyes and nodded, clearly impressed.
Derek watched the flour-coated man in earnest, curious of who he could- Wait, no… That face and attitude. There was only one person it could be.
That was Stiles Stilinski, the infamous baker of Beacon Hills. Scott told him about the man, who was something of a legend in the area. Though in Derek’s eyes, he would simply be dubbed as overperforming underachiever.
On the surface, Doughboy was a rousing success and brought a high volume of customers, while keeping an unheard-of retention rate of returning visitors. It was not an exaggeration to say it was the most commercially successful food establishment in town, a surprise for any bakery who sold such a limited range of goods.
Impressive, to say the least.
Yet, the owner of Doughboy, by all accounts, was trapped in the “old school” style of baking he’d inherited from his late mother’s now demolished bakery.
Stilinski was a chef that made no attempts to update or evolve his style in the least, clinging to recipes and routine as though they were the gospel. Rumors said he went through interns with the culinary school like fast food workers - never letting anyone but himself touch the kitchen and resulting in them quitting after just a few weeks of never learning anything.
Though the biggest takeaway from all the locals was that he was one energy drink away from a heart attack behind the counter. Many people were worried that Stiles’ legacy would die out just as quickly as his mother’s had.
That last rumor caused a deep pain in Derek’s chest. Memories of his sister, Laura, having that exact same work ethic and the same dead look in her eyes as Stiles did. A renewed grief of her passing just a year earlier washed over him. He’d seen where that kind of life led - dead by 44 and being found by the cleaning crew in one’s own office, the last moments of life revolving around menu alterations.
Stilinski stared at the tartare like it might explode if he breathed too hard on it. The others at the table had already inhaled theirs, but Stiles? Stiles looked practically offended by the dish.
He pretended not to notice Stilinski’s hesitation, but the way the baker’s long fingers hovered and the microsecond glance in Derek’s direction with disgust set Derek on edge for some reason. Stilinski pinched the cucumber round, too clumsily, Derek thought, like he was handling sidewalk gum with a napkin.
Stilinski bit into it.
Derek tracked every motion, intensely. The baker’s face did a jammed sequence of reactions. Wariness, shock at the cold, then, Derek saw the exact moment it happened. An unwilling pleasure. The frown inverted, just a fraction.
“Wow. Who knew that raw fish on a pickle with some dill would be that good? What’s this cost? Like twenty bucks a bite? Hope the tourists have some deep pockets,” Stilinski joked after a few moments, earning a few chuckles from the other restaurant owners, a glower from the higher ups, and an exasperated sigh from Kira.
Derek bit down on his tongue, attempting to freeze his face in place and not bark an insult. “Twenty bucks a bite?” There was a time when Derek would have taken the bait, would have snapped back with something along the lines of “twenty bucks of my skill is worth an entire display case of your cheap fried dough”, but he could feel eyes on him. He didn’t want anyone in attendance spinning his reaction for their brand of small-town scandal. Or worse, played on the news or social media as a sound bite. He reined in the urge to say anything at all. Didn't even blink.
Besides, what did it matter? Stilinski wasn’t important to anything Derek was going to do here. He wasn’t important at all. Just a third-rate baker with a fourth-rate store trapped in the past.
“If you’re quite done, Stiles, let’s get down to actual business,” Kira said, clapping her hands together and gathering the entire dining rooms attention.
Kira stood, taking everyone’s undivided attention by presence alone. As if her words would dictate the success or failure of the town. She then started a PowerPoint on a portable projection screen. “Which is my newest project, that if all goes well, we can pitch as a beta project to network television, hosted in our own town by our own talented culinary geniuses and film students! Thanks to a generous donation from our local real estate development team and Peter Hale, I present to you…”
A flourish of animation popped up on the screen. “Beacon’s Best Bites - A Partnered Cooking Competition. $150,000 Renovation Award and Title of “Best Chefs in Beacon” award!” flashed on the screen, with the city’s crest and font right in the middle.
Derek, initially, was going to pretend to feign interest in whatever the chamber offered and probably send Scott or Peter to deal with it. Because, honestly, he had better things to do than whatever this Chamber had planned. Though immediately, the title “Best Chef in Beacon” interested him. Because that’s what Hales and his skills deserved. Like his parents before him, he would have that honor in this town once again for his family’s memory.
Though, something felt wrong right away.
“Wait… “Chefs, not Chef. Plural. Partnered Cooking Competition? She doesn’t mean…”
Derek felt a flush of disgust bubble up in his face as he saw the next slide pop up on the screen.
“No.”
Kira’s grin, once so professionally innocent to Derek, turned devilish in a flash. “Starting next month, as the cornerstone of our viral marketing campaign for the holiday stretch of Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas, we’ll be hosting a competition where all the restaurants in town will be partnering up together in teams of 2. We’ll have each of you fuse your culinary styles in a head-to-head monthly poll against their fellow competitors! This will be a public event we’ll host in the shopping center, where the people will decide the winners with free tasting events we’ll hold each week on campus, with live cooking demonstrations held by both members of the team! This is going to drum up people to come out and shop for each season, bring in tourists, special guests from Food Network, and by our estimations, we will-”
Derek lost focus and couldn’t hear Kira’s voice anymore. He’d listen to the rules later, because a low static began to echo in his ears. Because the slide had the randomly organized partnerships and he spotted “it” immediately.
Out of all the partnered business listed on the image, and of the dozens of combinations possible…
The logo for Hale’s was seated right next to the logo for Doughboy.
“Team Haleboy” was written underneath it.
Chapter Text
Eating Derek Hale’s food was like sticking your tongue in a socket. Stiles’ brain short circuited, mouth fizzing with so many contradictory signals he barely noticed the restaurant owners gasping and fawning behind him. He was pretty sure Kira had started her presentation, but Stiles couldn’t get past that bite in his mouth from earlier.
He’d been braced for the usual fine-dining bullshit, something like bacon foam on top of a cracker made from deconstructed eggs. Instead, the first taste was cold, almost numbing. Then the salmon just…yielded. Like he’d never tasted real salmon before. The cucumber, at the Goldilocks “just right” threshold of crunch, locked everything in place. Instead of trying too hard, the herbs were practically dancing on his taste buds. Even the oil didn’t try to grandstand, just slicked the handoff between top and base so you got a perfect bite, perfect finish.
Without exaggeration, it was the best thing he’d ever put in his mouth, and he had to fight every urge to pick up a second and third portion. He tried searching for a flaw, some way to describe it as fake or overwrought. What would a snob on Yelp say about it?
The real problem was that it made Stiles angry at how simple it was. Derek wasn’t flexing some niche technique, using a crazy contraption, or a rare ingredient, so much as an showing his superior skills, going so far as using ordinary ingredients any normal person in this town could access. With just his skill and time, he’d made a masterpiece. Stiles could respect that.
Clearly, Derek really could cook.
Though such skill made Stiles hate Derek’s guts even more. Sure, anyone with a trust fund, a rich uncle, and endless connections across the world could get that good with enough time and training. What did Stiles have to build his own empire on? A traitor of a father, business loans, and an oven threatening to crap out on him at any moment. If not for his mother’s dedication in the last year of her life, Stiles wouldn’t have anything.
Kira’s voice pinged Stiles’ eardrums like a notification. “All right! So, everyone’s on board? Good! Let’s talk about how the actual competition will work.” She clicked through, laser pointer illuminating the “Haleboy” logo, which looked even dumber projected onto the exposed-brick wall. Wait… Haleboy? What were they all talking about? Had he missed something on the food trip he’d been sent on?! He glanced down at the itinerary on their meeting and realized he’d just been paired up with Derek Hale for this bullshit. A pained groan had him sliding down his seat, but he listened to Kira as she continued to speak.
“For each month between September through December, we’ll have a dedicated day where the teams will perform a live cooking demonstration at Beacon Mall. The rules and how this will operate each month are in the packets in front of you, and we will provide updates as we go. We’ll have booths where the people of Beacon Hills and our guests will vote for their favorite teams, and each month, we’ll knock out the bottom teams, until we have a final Christmas showdown, right in the middle of the busiest shopping days of the year!”
Kira went full gameshow host, tapping the forward button as she narrated. The screen shifted to an overhead map of the Beacon Mall’s center atrium. She’d color-coded it roughly for the spaces of each competing team for each month. The whole place looking like a child’s fever dream about a food court battle anime.
“The competition layout will ensure everyone is on the same playing field. You’ll all be required to use the same equipment, tools, and supplies, which will be listed on your packets. All of these have been donated by our generous sponsors. There will be no advantages due to wealth or status, and all ingredients will be paid for by the Chamber and must meet a specific budget that is different every round.”
A new slide came up with a digital render of the mall decked out with bleacher seating, complete with overhead rigging for cameras and spotlights. There was even a means of broadcasting the event through connected TVs lined up through town. There was a collective moment of stunned silence, as every single person in the room was picturing themselves on these stages, like unicycle riding bears in a circus show, with Kira as the Ringmaster.
Then, in a slow-motion domino effect, people began to panic.
"Can we switch our team members if we want?" The question came from the owner of Lucky Dragon, her voice shaky. Oh, yeah, she’d been paired with the crazy milkshake guy that everyone assumed was on shrooms, Stiles understood that dread immediately.
Kira's hair bounced as she shook her head, her smile never faltering. "We used a random generator to make this fair." Her manicured finger tapped decisively on her tablet. "You cannot change a team at this point. No exceptions. Though each owner may choose a member of their staff to perform in their place if they choose, should an emergency pop up."
"Can we pass on this event?" the tired old man from Beacon Grill said, as he raised his weathered hand. "This sounds like a lot of work during our busiest seasons."
"You can certainly pass on this," Kira replied, her voice honey-sweet but her eyes sharp as flint, "-but I will note that anyone that doesn't participate this time will be unable to participate in the future without paying an entrance fee. Part of our agreement today is ensuring you will always have a spot, free of charge. A thank you from us, for helping us found our first year." Her eyes seemed to darken as she delivered the ultimatum.
Stiles chewed his thumbnail and saw with mounting horror how she’d played them all this time around. The Chamber wasn’t just organizing a fun little showcase this time; this was setting the table for a major legacy event. Once this thing got traction with local news, regional influencers, maybe even a Food Network mention, all very likely events, every holiday season from now until the heat death of the universe would be all about this event. Refuse to play, or give a bad showing, and you were out for good and lost out on an amazing advertising opportunity. Put in the effort and become a crowd favorite? Who knows where that kind of success would lead any of them? Knowing the chamber, the “entrance fee” would also be astronomical, since it was like paying for a big marketing gig.
He risked a glance at Derek, who was stone-faced, arms folded, as if he was already strategizing. Stiles couldn’t read his expression well, so he wondered how he felt about their “pairing”.
But most of the owners gathered weren’t Hales or Doughboy, they didn’t all have the riches or current success. While Stiles’ bank account wasn’t impressive by any means, he’d never had an issue paying his bills, employees, and his own mortgage, all while still able to save a little each month to put back in the business. The others in this room were the mom-and-pop burger joints, food trucks that made goofy tacos, and the immigrant grandma who’d survived three recessions and six mayors. Stiles could sense the resentment simmering in their posture, the quick flicks of their eyes between him and Derek.
A throat cleared in the middle row, a local caterer raised her voice to the ceiling. “Isn’t it kind of bullshit that Hales and Doughboy, the two biggest names in this town, got paired together? Is this some favoritism bullshit so they’ll win? So, Stilinski gets another shot at Food Network and Hale gets a nice ride to early promotion?”
Stiles glared at her. She wasn’t wrong, but Susan was a real bitch sometimes.
“We considered that, but in our opinion, the pairing of Doughboy and Hales is a detriment to each other, given their clashing… philosophies. I can’t imagine Derek and Stiles getting along very well, can you? Or need I remind you about Stiles’ earlier comment? There is more to winning a competition than name recognition. In fact, I’d say the random generator gave all of you an early advantage. Haleboy might actually be the first pair eliminated.” Kira said, with a playful grin. The room let out a ripple of deadpan laughter.
He felt every pair of eyes turn on him and Derek, sizing them up, recalibrating. In an instant, the crowd’s opinion changed. They all realized that Hales and Doughboy were probably doomed in the first round. Stiles’ own expression twisted into an angry snarl. Because yeah, he probably was fucked, because no way in hell was he going to manage any kind of a collaboration with Derek fucking Hale. Or at least, not one that didn’t end in them devolving into a food fight.
Derek, for his part, reacted with his controlled silence. He didn’t crack a smile or even acknowledge Kira’s defense. He just sat back, arms crossed. Though Stiles imagined that inside, the man was seething.
Stiles said, as lightly as he could, “Gee, thanks for the confidence, Kira,” but it came out a little angrier than he’d meant.
The remainder of the meeting unfolded predictably after the bomb drop and a handful of other questions. The air in the room was thick with disbelief and murmured conversations, overshadowing the Chamber’s reports on area expansion and the changes to their website. Most of the owners were already leaning towards their partners, engaged in heated discussions.
Stiles was the first to bail after the meeting adjourned. He left with the contest information folder clutched in his hand and a pocketed leftover of the salmon tartare. He walked straight out the front doors of Hales, letting the air outside slap him in the face. The sunlight outside was blinding, and Stiles took a deep, cold breath that stung his throat.
Honestly? He had half a mind to just run for it, get in his car and bail on the next four months of this life. Forget this crap, he had enough stress in his life as it was. His work hours, as much as he didn’t want to admit, were starting to catch up with him. Adding the contest and dealing with Derek into his schedule made his heart race, though that might have been the red bull talking.
Yet, as much as he wanted to give Kira the middle finger, and Derek by extension, he couldn’t. His mind was glued to the cash prize they’d advertised, and even split down the middle, it would be enough to finally get himself some new equipment in Doughboy. Daisy, his favorite oven, wasn’t going to last much longer, she was on hospice care as it was. Maybe, like Isaac suggested, he could even get a food truck and expand his footprint to nearby towns. Plenty of dreams could come true with that kind of cash.
In the end, he paced down the sidewalk, feet pounding the cracked pavement. He was halfway through composing a vent text to Isaac when he heard the door to Hales open and slam shut. Heavy, solid, and deliberate. Then footsteps, closing in on his location. Stiles tried to ignore the sound, but he could feel the stare between his shoulder blades. He spun around, already pulling a hostile smile.
Derek Hale stood behind him, arms crossed, head cocked. For a second, neither of them spoke. He, surprisingly, looked not so much angry as… cautious. Appraising. Like Stiles was a land mine he didn’t want to step on just yet.
"What?" Stiles asked, rolling his eyes. “Look, if this is about the stupid joke I made about your food, relax. I’m a mouthy menace to everyone in town, just ask them down at the Lucky Dragon. Don’t take it personally. I mean, I said it was good, right? Just overpriced as hell."
Derek didn't flinch, didn't even really react. "You left before I could introduce myself," he said, voice a shade softer than he’d heard before, but still nothing Stiles would call “warm.” “I’m Derek Hale, and don’t worry, your little “review” didn’t mean anything to me, I assure you. I’ll let the actual critics and those of equivalent skill be the judge of my work.” He didn’t even bother with a handshake, which was fine. Stiles wasn’t about to offer his.
"I’m Stiles. Are you always that insufferably cocky and egotistical, or just with the “little people”?" He added air quotes to the end of his sentence.
Derek looked him up and down, like he was a piece of meat at the butcher getting graded. Unfortunetely, that grade was an F. "Are you going to be able to work with me, or should we call it quits now?"
Stiles blinked. "Wow. Straight to the breakup, huh? Not even a first date. You work fast."
Derek didn’t smile, but something in his jaw relaxed. Or, maybe he was already getting a headache. Stiles was used to that expression. “I’m serious. I don’t want to waste time on a partnership that doesn’t have a shot. You clearly have a problem with me, and honestly, the feeling is mutual. I can’t stand that shitty attitude of yours. You’re insufferable.” His face was completely unreadable.
"I have a lot of problems with you, actually," Stiles said, voice flat. "But if we’re being honest…" He tried, failed to find a less pathetic way of expressing his real problem, "…I don't actually have the option to turn this down. Doughboy needs that prize money, because not all of us were born with silver spoons in our mouths. Even if I didn’t win, advertising alone could bring in business during the whole thing. I could milk a loss on social media really well, but a win would be even better."
Derek nodded once. "I have to win this, too," Derek said, and it didn’t sound like a threat. More like he meant it the way people meant they “have to breathe”. “I don’t lose. That’s not a thing a Hale does.”
Stiles had to physically stop himself from rolling his eyes, but he knew it was a valid feeling. Maybe it was his own ego talking then, but hell, Stiles didn’t like to lose either. He had to scrape and fight for every win, and as an underdog, there was nothing worse than losing.
"We don’t have to like each other,” Stiles said finally. “But we both know how to run a good business, so I guess we just… get it done? Business only? Then when it’s done, we fuck right off?”
A small exhale, and Derek straightened a little, uncrossed his arms. “I can work with that,” Derek said. His voice had lost its gravel and had a new note Stiles couldn’t quite place. A sprinkle of cautious optimism perhaps?
A quiet hung between them. Awkward, as neither really knew what to say next.
Stiles shuddered, redirecting his own brain. “So… Do we want to talk right now?”
Derek didn’t answer right away. His gaze swept over Stiles, as if he could already sense a refusal coming. “I can’t for long, but I’d rather we rip off the band aid now. Neutral ground? Coffee shop?” It wasn’t a question.
Stiles opened his mouth to make a snarky comment, but the reality was, he desperately needed caffeine and, more importantly, a chance to regain the upper hand. He nodded, once. “Yeah, sure. I know a place. Two blocks over, looks like it’s run by the pirates from Spongebob, but they make an espresso that’ll blow your eyebrows off.”
Derek half-smiled, which on him looked more like a muscle spasm. “Fine. Walk or drive?”
“Walk,” Stiles decided, and set off before Derek could object.
The coffeehouse in question was called The Bilge, over-decorated with nautical ropes, battered ship wheels, and a lifesize plastic parrot that glared at patrons from its perch above the register. The place was packed, it was always packed, but he felt like they needed noise to fill the gaps between them.
Stiles led the way to a battered table in the back after they each got a coffee. Stiles, naturally, ordered a sugary iced coffee, and Derek took his hot and black.
“So, first order of business,” Stiles said, opening the Chamber’s folder. He skimmed over its contents quickly, handing a copy over to Derek to read along. Thankfully, the instructions were short and sweet. “Basically, we have to present our menu and budgeted proposal to the Chamber in three weeks, and the first round is in the middle of September. We’ll have 15 minutes to demonstrate how to prepare the dish to the public, but we can use prepared ingredients like they do on cooking shows to save time. Both of us have to participate in the demonstration and we have to present a single, unified dish. They suggest we do something that can serve a big audience easily, because we have to feed an entire mall’s worth of patrons that drop by each time. Sample sizing. Septembers’ theme is-”
“Change. Like the changing color of leaves. Are they serious?” Derek rolled his eyes, he’d caught up reading in time with Stiles’ chatter.
“-and our budget is…” Stiles glanced down at the next page he’d kept. His face paled. “Wait, no, this has to be a typo.”
“Let me see,” Derek took the copy out of Stiles’ folder. He, too, dropped his face down to the briny depths underneath the shop.
“$100?!” Derek and Stiles said, in unison.
Because, yes, $100 was a lot of money. But not enough when you consider the scale of the people they would need to feed, even with sampling portions. An entire mall’s worth of people? That was insane. Yet, after firing off a text to Kira to confirm, yes, the figure was correct. Apparently, that was part of the challenge of “Change” too.
“My entire menu is out. The protein I use is too high quality and my butcher is not going to cut us that good of a deal,” Derek spat. For the first time that day, cracks started to form at the edges of his otherwise “perfect” demeanor.
Stiles let out a deep sigh. “Mine too. Sure, flour and sugar are cheap to buy in bulk, but it’s the eggs and everything else that would kill me.”
They both sat in silence, unsure of what to do. “Anything else?” Derek asked, finally.
Stiles looked down at the final paper. His forehead twitched, followed by a broken, angry laugh. “-are you kidding me?”
“What?!” Derek asked, grabbing the page for himself. He let out a deep, audible groan.
For Team Haleboy, all your dishes throughout this competition must be a fusion of both styles of cooking. For Derek, it means he must present a French aspect of your combined dish. For Stiles, he must utilize a form of pastry making or baking that involves flour. If you dish fails to do this, it will be disqualified.
“Lovely,” Derek said, his voice lacquered with sarcasm that would have rivaled Stiles.
It sat between them, the word “fusion”, a bitter garnish on top of the chamber meeting’s terrible flavor. There was no getting around it, they would have to work together, in person, probably with numerous hours, to make this work. This wasn’t a school project where each of them contributed 50% and slap them together without ever seeing each other on the day the assignment was due. No, 100% of it had to come from their combined efforts. What’s worse? Their existing menus and specialties were out the window.
Not that Stiles minded the challenge of cheap ingredients. If nothing else, he was a connoisseur of impossible tasks. He’d spent a life constructing miracles from four ingredients and a whole lot of spite.
He looked up at Derek, who was obsessively rereading the last line of the instructions, as though an asterisk might manifest out of pure willpower and offer them a loophole. It wasn’t going to happen, and the clock was already ticking. “Welp, we’re boned. Guess we’ll have to get creative,” Stiles said.
Derek’s gaze snapped up, sharp enough to cut, but he didn’t argue. “I don’t do ‘creative’ for creative’s sake. Whatever I present will be a flawless dish,” Derek said, voice low. “It needs to taste good. It needs to be perfect. It needs to shine. Nothing I offer to the public will ever be second-rate.”
“That’s literally the only way I know how to operate. Have you seen my work? I’m perfectly perfect in every way.” Stiles snarked but smiled a little in spite of himself. Derek was not amused.
Stiles rolled his eyes. “Okay, so.. Big takeaway here. French technique, has to involve baking, we have a tiny budget, both of us have to be involved, and have to agree on what we’re preparing. We’ve got three weeks.”
Derek didn’t respond immediately. He looked down into his coffee, the surface trembling in the wake of his irritation. Then he nodded. “We’ll have to meet in the middle, then. For this “partnership” in September, how about you come up with the recipe pitches, your baking in bulk will be the key to winning this round, and then I’ll refine them with a technique or cooking method that will add the French aspect to it.”
Somehow, he’d managed to make ‘partnership’ sound like a threat. Stiles found it weirdly comforting. At least he knew where he stood with Derek. They hated each other, and clearly had deep seeded issues on both ends. Derek was honest about that, though. It was better than he could say about some people in his life, who only pretend to be in your corner and betray you.
“Fine,” Stiles said, pulling his phone from his pocket and opening a new note. “But if we’re merging styles, you’re going to have to eat a lot of carbs. Just so you’re emotionally prepared for the extra hours at the gym.” He waggled his eyes at Derek’s tight abdomen.
Derek huffed, but didn’t argue, which was as close to consent as Stiles expected to get.
They sat there a while longer, both pretending to scroll their phones for ideas, but really both thinking furiously about how not to be the dead weight of the round, and how they were not going to be sunk by the rules. Stiles could feel the competition already igniting in his nervous system, hot and electric, not just between the other teams, but between him and Derek as well. He was going to win, and he was going to be better than Derek, and prove that small-town heart won out over world-class talent.
Stiles could tell that Derek, in his own way, felt exactly the same.
+++++++++++++
The first night of full dinner service at Hales that Friday was everything Derek remembered about launch nights he’d experienced his entire career. Adrenaline rushing through his veins, the clattering percussion of a kitchen, the fiery heat of the stovetops, all coming together to stoke his soul in ways nothing else in the world could. Hales opened their doors just ten minutes earlier to fanfare and ribbon cutting, none of which Derek cared to even remember. He’d rushed back to kitchen, where he belonged, to simmer in this familiar rush of energy as his guests were seated.
Though there was something else now, a feeling he couldn’t name. A twisted knot in his gut since he and Stilinski met the day before. Something about how the man hadn’t backed down, didn’t see Derek as anything else more than competition even while they were partners. Yet, even as much as the guy clearly hated him, he swallowed his ego when it came to his bakery. Derek respected that. Hell, he’d even felt the same way. It’s why he chased after Stiles in the first place. For Hales’ reputation.
“Not now,” Derek thought to himself. He shook the feeling away, returning his attention to opening night.
He rolled the sleeves of his chef’s coat and snapped his fingers, getting the attention of his serving staff. “Menu is as briefed, no substitutes, no improvisation.” Derek stalked the line, arms locked behind his back like a drill sergeant and surveyed the best of his brigade. Scott, eyes wide and determined to prove himself; Boyd, plating station, methodical and unshakeable, who knew the flavors and menu as well as Derek did; Erica, the only pastry chef he’d ever trusted, grinning as she slid a sheet tray of tarts into the oven.
“Tonight needs to be perfect. Understood?” He didn’t wait for a chorus of replies. Any chef who needed pep talks on game night was a liability. They all merely nodded in agreement, focused on when the first tickets firing their way through the system.
Derek glanced at the docket, saw the first orders were already queuing up. Good, let them come. Like his sister, like his parents, and like every Hale before him, he would paint them a canvas that they would never be able to take their eyes off of. Tonight, the name and taste of a Hale would be seared into their memory, and they will yearn to come back, time and time again, as long as they lived.
First ticket came in, a four-top VIP, which their waiter labeled on their screen as “City Hall plus mayor”. He barked the order for the orange duck, informed the team it was VIPs, and with knife in hand, began his preparations.
Derek handled the appetizers at the start of service, to ensure a quick turnaround. After the chamber meeting and the Gazette’s social media post of the tasting, he was pushing out his salmon tartare to virtually every table.
Scott’s hand shook only slightly as he prepared and scored duck breasts, both approved with a successful check. Derek began searing the order, whipping up his signature orange glaze, and promptly took over the main courses, handing the latter half of services’ appetizers back to Scott.
Boyd, whose broad shoulders were wide enough to fill a commercial fridge, worked with the genius of chess grandmaster, and was Derek’s anchor in the kitchen. He parked the finished main course of duck before the man’s dark hands, who assembled a gorgeous “instagram ready” work of art on the plate. Derek barely gave them a second of thought before sending the plates out to the floor.
The first big table of the evening sent back words not long after it’d been sent out. “The best meal I’ve ever eaten, my compliments to the chef!” straight from the mayor’s mouth. For a fraction of a second, Derek felt light as air for one clean second, on the edge of floating, before gravity slammed him back down. This wasn’t done. He couldn’t let himself get complacent, not for a moment.
“Noted,” he replied. The next ticket was already printing.
A squeeze of lemon, sprinkle of seasoning on the trout, next up, rabbit terrine. Derek wiped his hands and scanned the kitchen, and caught Erica at the pastry station, sleeves rolled, her blonde hair already spilling out of its bun. She was locking down a sheet tray of lemon tarts, her fingers steady but the rest of her body a coil of nervous energy. He recognized that flavor of tension and let her finish without intervention.
Erica plated three tarts from her tray, lining them in a perfect row, then delicately placed fresh fruits atop dollops of cream. At the last one, she hesitated, then sprinkled something from a container she kept under the pass over the dish.
Then she slid the tray of tarts onto the pass, wiped her hands, and waited for Derek’s approval.
He sampled the tasting tarts without ceremony. The crust gave way like sand underfoot, the ganache filling dense and cool. The cream, just shy of too sweet, pulled the other flavors to a halt before anything overpowered. The surprise seasoning caught him at the end, a late-breaking note that rippled across his tongue and left him wanting to bite down again, immediately.
He allowed one nod of recognition, mouth still full. “Good. Serve that whole batch.”
Erica didn’t move as she tasted her own confection. She looked past him, staring into the far wall the way you would if you’d just failed a vision test and were trying to blink reality into focus.
Derek cleaned off his palate with a sip of water. “Erica?”
She sighed, slamming her fist down. “Dammit, it’s still empty! This is so frustrating! I’ve been working on improving this all month, and I still can’t match it! What the hell is wrong with me?! Why can’t I replicate it!?”
He tried to replay the taste in his mouth, searching for a flaw. “No, it’s balanced. Exactly what I’d expect. The seasoning at the end was unexpected, but a great addition. What are you talking about?”
Erica rested both hands on the stainless edge of the pass. Her nails, neat and chipped, tapped a restless rhythm. “I wasn’t trying for balanced. I was trying to get it to taste like…” she stopped, caught herself, then reset. “Like something else. Something amazing. I had this thing, not even a month ago when I first moved down here, and it hit so differently I can’t even explain.”
He arched one eyebrow. “What thing?”
Erica sighed, her lips twisting into a painful, mocking smile. “You'll laugh. I stopped at this little mom and pop shop downtown last month. They called it Doughboy. Their baker, Stilinski, made this lemon curd danish that haunts my dreams. The crust shattered like breakaway glass, then melted on your tongue. He'd dusted the top with a mix of what I think is his own take on cardamom and added these toasted pine nuts that were golden-brown and coated in something that made me moan. I swear to God, Chef, I've had pastries in Rome and Paris that didn't hit half as hard. When I begged for the recipe, practically on my knees, he got this faraway look in his eyes and said it was his mother's. Said it wasn't for sale or to be shared. Apparently, her family's guarded this one leather-bound cookbook for twelve generations. Says it’s his mother’s legacy he guards with his life. I’ve been going back every day since, and it’s not just the danish. Everything there is… Magic."
Derek’s jaw tensed. Because Erica Reyes was among the foremost pastry chefs in New York City, and in Derek’s opinion, could probably go toe to toe with the chefs he knew in Paris. She was Laura’s pastry chef, originally, and had been a big part in why she’d earned a Michelin star. Yet, in that brief, unguarded moment, Erica looked less like the indomitable pastry prodigy and more like a fresh culinary school graduate, chasing after an impossible dream.
A dream that belonged to Stilinski.
Derek viscerally, hated how much he wanted to taste that danish himself. Even worse, he pictured the moment he tried ordering anything from Stilinski, already envisioning the man’s shit-eating grin and mocking tone.
A sharp, acrid aroma cut through his thoughts, the telltale scent of burning butter. Derek snapped his head up, heart skipping a beat, and realized he’d left a skillet unattended in his distraction.
“Chef! Your pan! It’s burning! Shit!” Scott shouted, voice cracking through the kitchen chaos.
Derek shot Scott a look so cold it could have frozen the fire to the range. Did he have to scream that so loudly?
He snatched the skillet off the flame and choked the burner off. The scent, bitter, carbonized, embarrassing, rolled out in a hot breath as he tipped the ruined butter into the nearest sink. “Fuck!” Derek roared, like a wolf howling into the night. The entire kitchen froze in place, with little noise. He ignored the red flush in his face and scanned the line.
Not a soul spoke. Or breathed.
Smart.
"Re-firing the ticket! What are you standing around for!? Get back to work! Now!" Derek barked. He reached for the butter block and set it to melt in a fresh pan. This time, he stood over the range, watching it blond and shimmer. He added the herbs, and swirled the pan in his practiced grip. He could feel the cracks in his composure continuing to grow, thanks to Erica’s confession, his stupid rookie mistake, and the vision of the most annoying man in town on his mind.
The repetition of kitchen work usually gave him comfort, but now every muscle in his body was sore. For the rest of the night, he moved twice as fast, anticipating every mistake before it could happen with quiet, cold efficiency. His brigade kept their heads down, mouths shut, and kept up, knowing Derek’s bad mood better than anyone else.
By ten thirty, the dining hall simmered down to only a handful of foodies and VIPs wanting pictures with the Chef. Derek worked on the last two tickets himself, sending Scott to start cleanup, then wrenched the prep station back to perfect order. He checked every drawer, every knife, refusing to let his hands rest.
Intellectually, he knew he’d gone out and thanked the last guests, gave an interview with a news station, and shook hands with a few folks he probably should have remembered their names and faces of, but his body was on autopilot, and he couldn’t actually feel any of it.
Then, in a blink, shadows collected in the corners as midnight approached. The restaurant was still for the first time in twelve hours. He’d scrubbed every surface until his hands were raw, got every tool lined up for the morning shift, and the freezer re-organized for their first lunch service the next day.
All on his own.
Derek had shoved everyone else, including the cleaning staff, out hours ago with silent glares. He stood alone, the overheads off, haloed only by the silver of freezer lights and the blue glow of his phone’s notifications.
By all accounts, Derek’s menu and first live service dominated all expectations. He’d watched the sea of plates evaporate from tables as fast as they could be fired. The plates returned blank, the servers returned with big smiles and compliments. Even now, his phone kept vibrating with tags and mentions on his social media, and his PR manager’s texts stacked up unreal.
He should have felt nothing but triumph.
Instead, standing in the cold circle of blue light, Derek’s pulse ran jagged, a nervy energy boiling through his veins. He flexed his hand, trying to scrub out the memory of burned butter. Stupid. Burned. Butter. He knew better. He was better. Yet, he’d let it happen. The phantom pain of a pan striking his face, atop his small scar, forced him to flinch.
But as he leaned on the counter, letting the fatigue run down his spine, Derek found himself haunted by the thought that maybe, for all his pedigree, for all the lessons and scars and years, he would never be enough. Not for the city. Not for the legacy he was supposed to protect. Certainly not against a dead woman’s cookbook in the hands of a clown, one so good that his head pastry chef was jealous and dreaming of it in her sleep.
The thought made him laugh, bitter and hollow, echoing in the empty kitchen. Of all the rivals in the world, it had to be that idiot, with his goofy sarcasm and narrow hands dusted in flour. The man who made everything look easy and, by all accounts, was content to stay in his tiny, obsolete bakery and outmatch Derek’s best desserts with a fucking danish.
Ten years in Europe. Those ten years of hell… What did it even mean to him?
Peter did him no favors on that trip, instructing every chef he trained under to “break” Derek down and rebuild him again from the bottom up. Which, they did. Some did it violently. No pay, no luxury, no time for anything else but improving his skills. He survived on scraps from service. Sunup to sundown was nothing but cooking. Culinary school was like a daycare compared to those long hours.
Normally, his mother and father would have trained him, as they began passing the torch, over a 20-year period. They were supposed to make that tour together. From childhood, it has been the thing he’d looked forward to the most.
Unfortunately, their deaths meant that Derek had nothing to draw from but childhood memories of basic cooking courses. He had to learn his parents’ legacy, their techniques, in the cruel kitchens across Europe, without any sort of real guidance. No cookbooks filled with love, just painful life lessons each day of his life. Laura had done the same. It broke her, too. He understood her so much better after he came back home. Hell, he suspected, deep down, that she was probably happier finally finding rest.
“I hate my life. I wish I’d never been born a Hale.”
That was the last thing he ever heard Laura say to him. Derek squeezed his eyes shut, trying to banish the memory.
He should go home. He should sleep.
Instead, he found the neon-bright glow of his phone, thumbed open the app, and scrolled through the reviews to see if anyone, anywhere, compared his desserts to Doughboys. He found one. Not a restaurant reviewer, just a local food blogger with three hundred followers and a cartoon for a profile pic. The photo was a blurry shot of Erica’s lemon tart, captioned only with “Hales was AMAZING dinner, but Doughboys is still my go-to for desserts! #doughboyforlife #dereksduckwasdope #imbrokenow #worthit”
Derek’s set the phone down, stared at his own reflection in the black glass of the oven door. For a moment, he could see the red in his eyes and knew only one thing.
He had to taste Stilinski’s food.
Notes:
Comments are always appreciated, thanks for reading!
Chapter Text
Stiles’ hands shook as he piped the last line of blue frosting onto a birthday cake. He stepped back and reviewed his work, a two-tier buttercream that probably weighed more than its intended recipient.
Honestly, his mother’s signature chocolate cake and buttercream icing was the sideshow, the real amazing part was the blue and orange dogs he’d managed to mold out of fondant-covered cake. They stood about two feet tall, meant as edible toppers for the cake, and their hugging pose came out amazing.
A warm smile crossed his face. It was nice to do something different every now and then. His mother had never had much of a flair when it came to fondant and molding. Sure, Claudia could make an artistic masterpiece with a pipe bag and a flat surface, but modeling and doing weird builds? That was all Stiles.
Voices of their customers tumbled in from the front as the doors to the kitchen swung open. Then came the familiar snap of Isaac’s fingers getting Stiles’ attention. “The customer is here for the eleven AM pickup, boss,” Isaac called, cheery as always.
Stiles exhaled, half annoyed that the day had already gotten away from him. His body felt like he was five hours into a marathon, not the mere three since he’d started his special orders for the day. He’d lost an hour somewhere, mostly to internet trawling for obscure French bakery hacks that might turn “hundred dollars and a dream” into something edible for the upcoming showdown. If he didn’t come up with a recipe that could impress Derek, he’d have to eat a solid square foot of humble pie.
He grabbed an appropriately sized cake box, slid the cartoon confection inside, made sure to reinforce it three times over, and carried it to the display counter. “Don’t drop it, don’t drop it, don’t drop it, please,” He thought, setting it down with a soundless thud next to the register.
Isaac, standing at the espresso machine, grinned. “Is it done? Did you make sure and remember to put the head on? We don’t want a repeat of the child bawling from last year when you forgot Peppa Pig’s head,” he whispered, quiet enough that the customer couldn’t hear.
Stiles huffed. “Yes, Isaac, I remembered both arms this time.” He flipped open a fraction of the box to double check. After confirming, Stiles handed off the masterpiece to the customer, rang up the hefty price tag with an even bigger grin, and sent them on their way.
He checked the clock, which read 11:02. About half an hour until the lunch wave hit, and luckily, he’d already decided on bagel sandwiches and pre-bagged chips for that day’s special, which already prepped in bulk for Isaac and Liam to throw in brown paper bags. Which left him with some time until he needed to really start on the evening hour bakes.
Stiles darted to the back office and checked his phone, swiping through the half-dozen notifications from the Chamber of Commerce, three more from Kira, and a smattering of Instagram DMs. They weren’t important. He needed to nail down the contest recipe. Everything else could wait.
That is, until one new notification blinked at the top. A ping from the “Beacon Foodie” feed, which had pinged the Doughboy account. The same one that covered every new opening and new menu option in town, and who had a cult-like following, even outside Beacon Hills. A good review and thumbs up from them was always a sure way to have some extra business. Stiles tapped it.
Hale’s debut earns himself a crown, but can their dessert removed the crown from Beacon Hills’ baking prince?
“Last night’s opening at Hale’s was a magnificent showing that I’m sure I’ll never experience again in my lifetime. Little did I know that even my trips all around the country, at some of the best restaurants the US has to offer, I would still be taken aback by such a symphony of flavor. Inventive French technique and familial nostalgia were the key notes last night, and there is no doubt in my mind that Derek Hale has taken and improved his family’s signature style and evolved it into his own flair.
Let there be no mistake. Derek Hale is now the King of Dining in the Beacon Hills foodie community. I cannot recommend Hales enough to my viewers, it was worth every (hundreds of) dollar(s) spent, and should be on everyone’s radar, local or not!
However, in this writer’s humble opinion, there was only one sour note in the performance. The tart? Yes, it was bright, silken, perfectly balanced. A magnificent experience, to be sure. Make no mistake, it was delicious, but I must admit, it wasn’t quite up to par with Doughboy’s finest.
While I drank my after-dinner coffee, I couldn’t help but wish Doughboy was open to finish off the night with one of his danishes, or perhaps a cinnamon roll. I’ll have to pay them a visit soon.
So yes, Derek Hale may be the King of Dining, but the crown atop Stilinski’s head at Doughboy for King of Dessert remains firmly attached.”
Stiles stopped reading. He didn’t need to hear anymore, even as the images of Derek’s duck looked delicious in quality photography.
A familiar twinge settled in his stomach. It wasn’t quite pride, or guilt, or even the good kind of smug. More like a vague, existential anxiety he hadn’t felt in a long time.
He remembered the first time he’d read his own name in print, four years ago. The same reviewer as Derek’s, who’d given Stiles nothing but accolades, had written right at the end, the single most devastating line he’d ever read.
“Stiles Stilinski is the best baker this town has ever seen. Yes, even better than his mother, the legendary Claudia Levasseur-Stilinski. It’s only a matter of time until this town has a new face and name they’ll remember for decades to come.”
Stiles nearly quit baking after that. He’d hidden under the covers, sobbed for a week, and lied about a power outage to his customers. Because it felt wrong. Like painting over a family portrait.
He never told anyone, not even Isaac or his dad, but after that review, Stiles stopped experimenting with the menu altogether. A year’s worth of preparation of his own custom menu for the grand opening? He burned them on the stove. He shut down every creative urge. Refused to try new recipes or add personal touches, except the ones his mother had shown him. He decided that every crumb, every scone, every elaborate coffee cake was going to be a carbon copy of Claudia’s originals, no more, no less.
Doughboy wasn’t about being the best, it was about preserving something already perfect.
Sometimes he wondered what his mom would think if she saw him now. Knowing her? She’d probably poke his belly and call him her silly little doughboy again. She always did that when he overthought things.
Stiles thumbed through the rest of the review, feeling the ache set in deeper as it went on. Each time Hale’s menu came up in the comments, it was shadowed by a parenthetical “not as sweet as Doughboy’s”, “slightly denser than Stiles’s famous crumb.” It was like the entire town had agreed to use him as a measuring stick, and Derek Hale, for all his arrogance, was doomed to get compared to the town’s clown.
It should have made him happy, seeing the big shot taken down a peg. But instead, he found himself weirdly protective. He knew that feeling, that sensation of chasing after someone else’s ghost, all too well. He stuffed his phone in his back pocket, angry at himself for caring.
Just after the lunch rush, when they shut down for a scant 20 minutes a day, was when Stiles heard the soft tap at the front door. He was restocking the pastry case with the afternoon’s stock, hands slick with glaze, when he caught sight of two figures through the smeared glass.
Derek, he recognized immediately. The woman next to him, though? He did recognize the blond, tall, nutcase who’d come in daily to ask about his recipes, but he didn’t know her name or why she was there.
Stiles almost pretended not to see them, but Isaac beat him to it, calling from the register: “Uh, boss? Why is Hale here on our lunch break?”
“Either he’s here to murder me for the reviews he got last night and hide the body, or the crazy woman is here to rob us blind. Either way, take pictures, we can sue for damages and buy a new oven,” Stiles mumbled. He walked to the front door, unlocking the deadbolt, and letting the two inside with a raised eyebrow.
Derek stepped through with the same intensity he probably did with everything else in his life. The woman swept in behind him, eyeing the space like a judge at a dog show.
“Are we interrupting?” Derek asked, ignoring the obvious the “CLOSED FOR LUNCH” sign clearly marked on the door.
Stiles wiped his hands on his apron. “A little, but hey, what’s a little interrupting of my only time of peace in the day between contest partners? How can I help?”
Derek’s mouth twitched, ready to speak, but Erica cut in front of him, grabbing Stiles’ hand and shaking it with a powerful grip.
“Erica Reyes, nice to finally talk professional to professional. I’m Hale’s pastry chef. And I’m dying to know how you do… whatever the hell it is you do, and I’m not taking no for an answer today.” She glanced at the display case, eyes locking on the lemon danish. “I know you said you’re not going to share your recipes, but would you be willing to do a sampling for us? I need to taste everything you have to offer, and my boss here is going to back me up and help me realize what I’m missing.”
Stiles blinked, unprepared for the directness. “Like, a… tasting menu? Here?”
“Yeah,” she said. “If you’re cool with it. We’ll pay double. I just need to see and taste everything you have to offer. The fresher the better, if possible. In case you missed it, you kicked our ass in the reviews, and my pride is not going to let me take that sitting down.”
Derek’s arms stayed crossed, but his gaze never left Stiles. There was a faint challenge in those eyes.
Stiles considered making them beg, but honestly, he was dying to know what Derek thought of his stuff. Maybe, deep down, he was ready for Derek to have his own serving of humble pie. Let him have that moment of “oh shit”, like Stiles had with the tartare.
“Fine,” he said. “But you must eat it in-house. No takeout, no doggy bags. I will not confirm nor deny anything in the recipe, and you can’t badger it out of me. That’s the deal. Ten bucks says you have some sort of evil scientist on staff that will steal the secret formula. I’m not the Krusty Krab, and you guys aren’t Plankton, capiche?”
Erica grinned, and even Derek seemed to relax.
Stiles set them up at a battered two-top by the window. He assembled a greatest-hits platter, all fresh from the oven from his afternoon bake. A lemon danish, a giant cinnamon roll glazed with a custom sauce, a slice of seasonal coffee cake, a couple of doughnuts with difference icings, a pumpkin pie slice for fall, and a chocolate croissant still bubbling on the inside with molten chocolate.
He brought the tray out himself, setting it on the table with a “Ta-daaa.”
Erica didn’t waste time. She cut into the danish and took a bite, closing her eyes as if to ward off a religious experience. For a second, Stiles watched her, waiting for the critique, but she only sighed and took another bite. A notepad was brought out from her pocket, and she began scrawling notes as though she were writing a new chapter of the Bible.
Derek reached for the chocolate croissant, separating it along the seam. The bottom flaked, scattering onto the tray, trailing a glisten of melted chocolate. He raised it, paused, considered the right angle, and took a bite.
“Well?” Stiles thought. He held his breath for the verdict, expecting the same stoic non-reaction Derek reserved for everything. The effect was immediate and weirdly intimate. Derek closed his eyes, and this microscopic tension, a wince shared by anyone who’d ever tasted molten chocolate, flickered around his eyelids. For a second, his jaw actually went slack.
He felt a real and unfamiliar panic rise up, like he’d accidentally fed someone arsenic. Because for a second, no, several seconds, Derek looked completely lost.
The more Derek ate, the younger he looked. Something about his face was softer, stripped of that usual armor. Stiles watched his mouth, watched him lick the chocolate at the edge of his soft lips in a quick, private motion, and then swallow so deliberately it drew his Adam’s apple down.
It was weird. It was intense. It was, somehow, even more satisfying than watching the entire row of returning customers devour his inventory each morning.
Stiles cleared his throat, just to see if it would snap Derek out of the trance. It didn’t. Derek blinked, finished another bite, then set the pastry down with care. Not even a crumb escaped his attention.
Derek glanced up, eyes sharp again. "Try this," he said, handing the croissant over to Erica. The wording was blunt but lacked his usual sharpness. Less an order and more a life-changing piece of advice.
When Erica did eat it, she threw her notebook over her back, sending it straight into a potted plant. Like she was surrendering against an invisible war.
“Okay, where did you learn to do this!?” Erica finally asked, gesturing with her fork. “I know good, and this is… some kind of next-level, evil-good. Did you learn this in culinary school? Or a pastry master? I swear, there is no reason that should be both soft and crumbly at the same time, and that chocolate is better than most sex I’ve had in my life.”
Stiles shrugged, a low blush crossing his face. It was weird. He’d gotten a lot of praise over the years, but not from professionals. Sure, Guy Fieri still came to visit his shop three or four times a year, but he didn’t think he was THAT good.
“Didn’t go to culinary school. I didn’t really go to college, either. Didn’t have the money or the grades or the connections, I just… grew up around it. Learned it first-hand. From a master baker in her own right.”
There was a long pause. Stiles looked at the photo on the wall behind Derek and Erica. A picture of him and his mother, when he was 5 years old, mixing cookies in a bowl in his childhood kitchen.
“Your mother?” Erica asked, softer now, noting the picture on the wall.
He nodded, surprised at how quickly she’d pieced it together. “Yeah, everyone in town knows she was the real genius. I just did what she told me. Every day, from when I was five years old until she passed on. And, uh, I guess what was left in the family cookbook. That’s got a ton of information about baking, and not just from recipes. There’s like… Full on tutorials that date back hundreds of years.”
Erica and Derek both looked at him then, as if waiting for something more. He felt the old pressure again, something closing in, demanding more than just a recipe.
Stiles sat down across from them, the edge of the chair digging into his thigh. “Look, I’ll give you the short story, since you were nice to me. My mom’s side of the family has a leather-bound handwritten cookbook from when they lived in Europe, way before they immigrated to America. Apparently, our oldest living relative was a baker who saw it as an art form and wrote everything down. They passed it down to their daughter, and that daughter to their son, so on and so forth. Since then, every generation, a member of our family is supposed to make improvements to it, tweak the recipes, add their own flair to it. Then you pass it on. Honestly speaking, that book is a mess of notes, but imagine a hundred years of improvements from doing it the hard way by hand in a wood burning oven, to having technology from the 50s all the way up to the 90s, all in one place. The one I have now is the 9th generation of the Levasseur family, and I’d be the start of the 10th.”
“That’s… beautiful,” Erica said, quietly.
Stiles snorted. “Yeah, well, it’d be great if I could ever live up to it. I haven’t made a single improvement in the book yet. I mean, the last improvements were not that long ago. Mom managed to get that last chapter patched up right before she-” He didn’t mean to say it out loud, but the words were like air escaping a balloon, letting all the grief out again.
He pictured his mother’s lifeless body, sprawled out on the couch, covered in an quilt, the book cradled in her arms. She must have died making the last adjustments the night before, completing her book, because they were supposed to go over the notes together that morning Stiles found her.
Erica just looked at him, eyes clear and unblinking. She reached over, putting a hand on Stiles’ knee and patting it. “You know, when I first moved here, I thought I was going to be the best. I trained with the best, I worked under the best, but after the first week, I realized I was just copying other people’s work. Then I ate your danish, and I realized there’s more to this job than technique and pedigree. Sometimes you just want to make someone happy for five minutes. I’d forgotten that feeling. Your danish brought that back, so… I wouldn’t say you haven’t lived up to it.”
He stared at the table, embarrassed, but also warmed by her words.
Derek spoke then, the first time since eating Stiles’ goods. His voice was quieter than Stiles expected. “Is that why you won’t let anyone else bake in your kitchen? Sorry, but I’ve heard rumors, and-”
Stiles hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. He spotted Liam, doomscrolling on his phone, bored out of his mind. Other than washing dishes and basic business, the poor intern hadn’t done a lick of cooking. Stiles couldn’t. He wouldn’t.
“I mean, yeah. Sort of, but also… it’s the only thing I have left of her.” Stiles let out a deep, pained sigh. “Mom died from cancer. It was late stage. Aggressive. The kind where doctors didn’t even suggest chemo, they just thought… She should go live her life.”
The smell of hospital antiseptic, or the sight of a doctor’s lab coat still triggered his gag reflex.
“That last year, we… Baked. That’s what she wanted to do. She wanted to finish her contribution to the book before she passed on. So, that’s… What we did. I quit my job in Las Vegas, came home, and we… Baked.” Stiles bit his lip and forced down a shudder. “So, every time I try to teach someone, I see those days, and I feel like… I’m letting go of the last thing mom and I had together. Even worse, if someone tries to improve it or change it, then it’s… Gone. She’s been replaced.”
Derek nodded, as if he understood. For a split second, Stiles wondered if he was imagining it, but Derek’s eyes were less harsh than before. Maybe even empathetic.
He let the quiet stretch between them. Outside, students drifted past in pairs, the sky started to rumble with the threat of rain. Their lunch break was coming to an end, with customers lining up outside for an afternoon snack.
Erica polished off her danish and nodded, solemnly. “Not to change the subject, but I agree with the reviews. I can’t even be mad about it. I’ll just have to try harder to beat you.”
Derek finished his cinnamon roll, leaving only crumbs behind. “It’s good,” he said, almost grudgingly. Then, softer, “It’s really good.”
Stiles felt the compliment sink in, dense and heavy. He wanted to say thank you, or sorry, or something that would make it less awkward after his trauma dump, but in the end, he just sat with it, letting the silence be enough.
“Thanks, Stiles. I mean it. I learned a lot today. Even if I didn’t get the secret formula, at the very least I got some new perspective and a new rival.” Erica stood first, stretching her arms overhead. She glanced at Derek, who hadn’t moved.
Derek stood, slowly, setting a stack of bills on the table to pay for the platter. “I’ll see you around.” he said.
As they left, Erica paused at the door, looking back over her shoulder. “Don’t ever stop making these. Seriously. Also, if you ever do something custom, let me know, I want to try them!”
Stiles tried to play it cool, but he couldn’t hide the way his ears burned.
When they were gone, he stared at the empty tray, the crumb-strewn table. They’d eaten it all. A happy plate.
For some reason, Stiles felt his chest burn. Like a scabbed wound had been cut open again, giving it another chance at healing.
+++++
Derek didn’t say a word until they were halfway down the block, the silence between himself and Erica expanding, cold and magnetic. He kept his pace just in front of her. His hands stuffed in his pockets to keep them from balling into fists.
Honestly, he should have felt vindicated. Stiles’ food was every bit as good as the hype. Better, even when you considered the brutal efficiency of the method and the way Stiles could serve it to so many people at a time, with lines around the block, while being profitable, and maintaining a standard that rivaled Derek’s own.
The croissant had been like flashing back to a memory. Back when his Grandma Hale was alive, when his parents were running their flagship restaurant in Beacon Hills. He remembered being five years old, on a stool, watching his Nana whip up a chocolate croissant like that. Nana Hale had been a legend, the one who’d put the love of cooking in him. At the end of her life, all she did was bake and cook for the family. She said it was the happiest time of her life, not having to prove anything anymore.
Stiles’ croissant made him feel the same way. Innocent, with a curiosity of how the world of cooking worked. No fear of legacies, no expecting a trauma response each time he made a mistake, and certainly, for the first time in a long time, Derek ate the food and didn’t care how it was made. He didn’t compare it to his own work. He just wanted to eat it and live in the moment.
Yet, despite that experience, all Derek could feel now, after it was over, was the hot, sick twist of memory. Stiles clearly mourned his mother the same way Derek mourned his parents and sister.
A different kind of mourning, Stiles wanted to put his food, recipes, and heart in a glass case, locked in a museum and keep anyone from touching it. Whereas Derek wanted to smash through the glass and give it to the public, wanting to forget and move on.
When Erica spoke, it was barely above a whisper: “He’s not what I expected.”
Derek grunted. “Same.”
“You still think we can win? Against Doughboy? That was why we went today, right? To find a way to beat that review in the future?” Erica asked.
He stopped, turning so abruptly that Erica nearly walked into him. “It’s not about winning,” he said, sharper than he intended. “It’s about not letting people down. I feel like… I let people down last night. I let my family down. I failed.”
Derek thought to himself for a moment and then shook his head. “I don’t think we’ll succeed. Not for a while. I’m okay with it, though. Losing to that? There’s no shame in it. I’ll just have to learn and adapt.”
She studied him with those hawk eyes of hers, not fooled for a second. “You saw yourself in him.”
Derek wanted to deny it, but the lie died in his throat. “Yeah. Maybe.”
They walked in silence after that, the afternoon rain coming in short, choked spits. Derek counted the cracks in the sidewalk, each one a tally for every way he’d gotten it wrong about Stilinski. He’d assumed the guy was coasting on nostalgia, too afraid to try anything new. But now he could see that Stiles was just protecting the last piece of family he had left, even if it meant living inside a cage of his own making.
Derek knew that feeling too well. The pressure to live up to a name, a ghost, a legacy. The slow erosion of yourself under someone else’s story.
By the time they hit the next block, Erica had peeled away to answer a call, leaving Derek alone on the curb. He thought about the challenge for the first round of the competition. “Change”. In addition, he thought about the real challenge of the competition at large. “Fusion”. What had seemed like an impossibility before now didn’t seem so farfetched.
He was still lost in thought when he heard the unmistakable cadence of Stiles’s voice from behind him.
“I’m not stalking you, by the way! You forgot your change!”
Derek turned. Stiles stood there, hair askew, sleeves shoved up to the elbows, wet from the burst of rain. He held a crumpled set of bills between two fingers, waving it like a white flag.
“I don’t need it. Consider it a tip for the time and energy,” Derek said, but Stiles insisted.
“Dude, it’s a matter of principle. I can’t take that much as a tip. That’s like, fifty bucks, man.”
“I insist.”
“I un-insist.”
Derek’s eyes furrowed. “I’m trying to be nice here!”
Stiles pouted. “I am too! Because I’ve been a dick!”
“Yeah, you have,” Derek said, with a thick layer of sarcasm.
“Well, you haven’t exactly been Mr. Personality with me either!” Stiles spat.
“Hence the tip, dumbass!” Derek yelled.
“Oh my God,” Stiles sighed, rubbing his forehead. The rain seemed to let up, momentarily. “How about we split the difference. I’ll take half as a tip, so you feel better, and you’ll take half back so I feel better? Does that work, or should we just punch it out?”
Derek rolled his eyes. “Fine. But for the record, I’d win the punch out.”
“Yeah, but then I’d cry and you’d look like a bully, so who’d be the real winner there?”
Their hands touched for a fraction of a second, as Derek took back half of his tip. The contact more charged than he’d anticipated. Stiles’ hands were so… Firm. Like he’d spent a lifetime of working them to the bone. They felt familiar. They felt a lot like his. They were… Nice to hold.
“Uh…” Stiles seemed to flush as Derke’s hand lingered.
“Sorry, I got distracted,” Derek took his money and hand back, shaking himself out of a stupor. “Anyway, I forgot to even ask, but… Any ideas yet for the contest?”
Stiles cleared his throat, shuffling his feet from side to side, brimming with nervous energy. Yeah. Came to me after you guys left. You guys had me thinking about the old times, so what about Beignets? Cheap, quick, feeds a million people, and everyone loves fried dough. Even with eggs added in, the sheer bulk of the dough with mini doughnuts would be within our budget.”
Derek considered it. The French angle was obvious, but there was also the blank-canvas potential. They could do a lot with dough and portions like that. “We’d have to make it better than what people can get anywhere else.”
“Oh, I’m counting on that,” Stiles said. “But I figure you could come up with some kind of fancy-ass sauce, or a plating trick or technique that makes it all ‘chef-y.’ You know, sprinkle some fairy dust on it.”
The pitch was solid. Even better, it was achievable on their miserable budget. He caught himself wanting to brainstorm on the spot, to workshop flavor combinations and presentation.
Stiles’s eyes widened, as if reading his mind. “You’re in?”
Derek nodded, slow at first, then with certainty. “I’m in.”
There was a beat, then Stiles stuck out his hand. Derek stared at it for a second, then took it, the handshake quick and warm.
Notes:
Thanks for reading! Comments are always appreciated, let me know what you think!
Chapter Text
Stiles, as a rule, did not enter any big-box superstore on a Sunday unless someone’s life depended on it.
The parking lot already looked like a natural disaster had rolled through, and the only thing more harrowing than the lines of minivans was the scuffle happening between a married couple in their 80’s, arguing over the right kind of cart to get.
Sundays were also Stiles’ one and only day he let himself sleep in, rest, and where 80% of his weekly calorie intake came from. Those days, Stiles didn’t answer his phone, messages, or anything else. He was lucky if he got out of bed at all some weeks.
Yet, here he was, half-hungover from lack of sleep, clutching a list of bulk ingredients, and staring down the barrel of a superstore entrance with Derek Hale at his side. He felt a little woozy after the busy week he’d had, and honestly, he should have eaten before he came out, but he wanted to get everything over with so he could enjoy his normal Sunday activities.
Derek looked infuriatingly alive for it being just 10 AM. Hair combed, sleeves rolled up to the forearm, crisp black shirt making him stand out like the only shark in a pond full of trout. If Derek noticed the senior-citizen cage match just past the entrance, he gave no sign. He simply shouldered his way through the fray, leaving Stiles trailing like the unimpressive trout that he was.
“Shouldn’t we have, like, a game plan?” Stiles hissed, attempting to steer a rescued shopping cart that pulled violently to the left. “I do not want to spend more than 20 seconds in this place.”
“I already have a plan,” Derek said, grabbing the front of the cart with one hand to course-correct. “Get in, get out, minimize exposure to the hellscape.”
“So, your strategy is… male-pattern hunter-gatherer. Very on-brand, Derek.”
“Do you want to get run over by the family of 12 coming in behind us, or do you want to live?”
Stiles weighed the options as they entered the blast radius of fluorescent lighting and corporate music. Derek veered them straight to the bakery aisle, ignoring the samples like they were radioactive.
First up was industrial flour, heavy sacks stacked high. Derek reached for one, lifting with the casual flex of a man who could probably deadlift a Fiat, and lobbed it into the cart. Stiles followed, grabbing a sack of sugar, then regretting it as his arms nearly gave out.
“You know,” Stiles said, rubbing his shoulder and catching his breath. His lungs were a little too put out for such a small bag. He normally didn’t have such trouble. “I don’t see why we couldn’t just order this stuff wholesale. I have a guy,” he panted.
“I don’t trust your guy,” Derek replied. “I want to see the ingredients before I feed them to five thousand people and ensure we get a consistent quality. Last time I trusted a ‘guy’, it ended with a delivery of three hundred pounds of frozen okra and a lawsuit.”
“You’re not serious.”
Derek’s lips curled. “We went to court. I had my pound of flesh, and nobody fucked with me again. Well, unless I asked them to,” he winked, playfully.
Stiles snorted. Hale had jokes. Good to know he had some kind of humor behind those brooding eyes.
They progressed down the aisles, cart growing heavier with each bulk ingredient they needed. Around them, the store surged with weekend regulars: tired parents with twin screaming kids, the fitness couple in head-to-toe Lululemon racing for the protein powder, an elderly man in slippers double-fisting boxes of snack cakes. Stiles snuck a pack of Danish butter cookies into their haul, only to have Derek silently return it to the shelf. Stiles made a show of replacing it, then doubled back and slipped two packs in while Derek compared bulk spices.
The checkout lines stretched all the way back to the snack foods, and Derek instantly calculated the shortest path, shepherding their cart with surgical efficiency. Stiles, for his part, tried to help push, but felt that weird wave of exhaustion hit again. A lightheadedness that made the world spin. He grabbed onto the cart for support, taking deep breaths in and out.
“I’m just saying,” Stiles said, voice muffled by the armload of junk food he’d smuggled in at the last second, “it’s statistically proven that novelty snacks boost morale in high-stress situations.”
“Not in my kitchen,” Derek replied, but he let Stiles keep a bundle of snack cakes he’d added at the last minute anyway. They made it through checkout, Derek paying cash, before the warzone of the parking lot reared its ugly head again.
They loaded the haul into the back of Derek’s SUV, Stiles stacking the bags, refusing to let Derek do all the heavy lifting. He was about to claim victory when he heard Derek’s voice, closer than expected, helping Stiles ease in the last load.
“-are you okay?” Derek asked, tone dry as the flour dust in the air. “You’ve looked like you were about to fall over for the last hour. Did you not sleep well last night?”
“Don’t be dramatic,” Stiles said, slamming the hatch shut. “I thrive on adversity. I’m like a gremlin, the more chaos you feed me, the stronger I get. Or snake cakes. Speaking of which,” he said, as he grabbed and started tearing open the snack cakes.
Derek just looked at him, unreadable, then jerked his head toward the driver’s seat. “If you say so. Let’s go.”
+++++
As much as Stiles would have liked to have stored and tested their first round at Doughboy, on his home-court, Derek’s near-aneurysm when he saw the state of the Doughboy kitchen was enough for him to admit he wasn’t winning that battle anytime soon.
So instead, they agreed to run tests and store materials in Derek’s kitchen. Which Stiles likened to a war room of stainless steel, every surface gleaming like they’d been cleaned with a toothbrush, knives in military rows, the fridge packed to maximum density with such nice containers and labels that Stiles was almost jealous. As soon as they arrived, Derek took over, barking instructions like a general: “Bags on the prep table. Flour goes here. Eggs in the fridge. Separate the dry from the wet.”
Stiles, no stranger to the rhythms of a professional kitchen, followed orders but with his own flourishes. He made a dramatic toss of the baking powder, juggling the yeast bricks, humming “Eye of the Tiger” under his breath.
Derek ignored him, intent on mapping every ingredient to its correct quadrant, but Stiles caught the slight twitch in his mouth when he cracked an egg one-handed and shot it straight into a bowl with no shell debris. “Still got it,” he said, spinning the bowl for effect.
“You’re insufferable,” Derek said, but he didn’t sound like he meant it.
The unpacking went fast, despite Stiles’s best attempts to slow it down with his running commentary. He knew Derek would never admit it, but he was starting to see the cracks in Hale’s armor. A soft snort at Stiles’s potato joke, a split-second of indulgence as he taste-tested the canola oil for “freshness”, and the genuine fire and passion he had for keeping things in order.
By the time they finished putting away the test ingredients, Stiles was starting to feel the weight of the day. The heat from the Hale ovens, the haze of fatigue rolling in from the long week, the way his hands shook just a little as he wiped down the counter. He felt hungry and thirsty but didn’t have the stomach to handle either. The snack cake was near torture to push down his throat earlier.
Then there was… Everything else.
Being out and about made him think about next week’s plans at the store. Hell, being in Derek’s kitchen was enough to make him want to re-arrange and re-organize Doughboys. When would he have the time to do that? Not the next week, he had ten custom orders coming through, most of them moldings. Wait, fuck, he’d forgotten to order the rods he used to stabilize things. He’d need to stop by the Megastore, again, on the way home. Not to mention the payroll and billing. He needed to print checks and use the stupid online accounting software that never synced right to his printer. Did he still have enough check stock?
He blinked and realized Derek was saying something, a hand breaking him out of his deep trance.
“You good?” Derek asked, voice low. The two of them stood surrounded by towers of flour and sugar.
“Yeah, just thinking…,” Stiles said, shaking off his thoughts. A low ringing was growing in his head, giving him a headache.
“We could start a test batch now, if you’d like. If these ingredients aren’t up to par, we’ll need to amend our shopping request list before sending it off to the Chamber.” Derek suggested, stretching out into the sky.
Stiles groaned. A deep wave of ache spread through his body. “You’re a monster.”
Derek raised an eyebrow. “You can’t keep up? I thought you were the chaos gremlin. You look like you’re about to fall asleep on me.”
“You think that’s funny, but I’ve survived on less sleep than this and still beat a group of dumbasses in high school in a keg stand contest,”
Derek reached for the mixing bowl and pin, sliding it across the prep table to Stiles. “Prove it.”
Stiles grinned, caught the tools, and started to measure out the ingredients for the dough. He felt lighter, more alive, like the rhythm of working next to Derek gave him a turbo boost of adrenaline.
Maybe it was the promise of competition. Maybe it was the weird comfort of bantering with someone who gave as good as he got. Stiles mixed. He rolled and kneaded, hands moving on autopilot, the dough forming under his fingers like second nature. He barely noticed when Derek closed the distance, hands landing on either side of the dough to fold it with a precision that made Stiles a little impressed.
The two of them worked in tandem, silent except for the scrape of metal on wood, the hiss of oil on the range. Stiles dropped carefully shaped dough into the hot oil, careful and steady, then watched as the first batch of beignets ballooned into golden perfection.
Almost done. Now he just needed to rest a bit, wait for them to pop out, they could decorate, have a taste, and then, finally, Stiles could go home and sleep.
While he waited, Stiles sat back on a crate on the floor, wiping the sweat from his brow. “See, told you. I can go all… All night.”
Derek folded his arms, eyeing the puffing Stiles laid out on the crate. ” I’d say you blew your load about half an hour ago. Seriously, are you okay? Do you need some water? You’re… You’re paler than normal, and that’s saying something.”
“I-” Stiles rose up, starting to crack a joke at Derek, and suddenly the whole room tilted.
Not figuratively. The stainless counters seemed to lean, the overhead lights bled into each other. Stiles felt his knees go loose, the world spinning around a bright, pinpoint center. He felt nothing and everything all at once. The piercing headache and the racing of his heart was drowned out by the vertigo and breathlessness.
He opened his mouth to speak, trying to grab the counter for support, missed it by a foot, and muttered one final word. “Huh.”
Stiles fell, the ground slamming up at him, with a guttural crunch. The whole world went white and silent, until the darkness took him.
+++++
The first thing Stiles noticed, coming back to consciousness, was that the world reeked of bleach, burnt coffee, and those hospital disinfectant that stained every memory of his teenage years. He recognized the overhead hum of bad fluorescent lights, the endless throb of distant heart monitors, and the heart rate monitor clipped to his finger.
He opened one eye, then the other. The ceiling tiles, warped and water-spotted, told him everything he needed to know. Death hadn’t taken him.
It took effort to roll his head sideways, but when he did, the first thing he saw was Derek, crammed into an impossibly small visitor chair, looking at his phone with the kind of intensity normally reserved for bomb-defusal. Derek’s left leg jittered, his jaw tense, as if he was locked in a full-body battle with the concept of “waiting.”
Stiles made a noise, somewhere between a groan and a laugh. “Jesus. What time is it?”
Derek’s head snapped up. For a second, something unguarded flashed in his eyes. Fear, or anger, or maybe just the shock of seeing Stiles upright, but it was gone before Stiles could even process it.
“It’s Monday,” Derek said, putting away the phone. “You’ve been out for most of Sunday and half of today. It’s almost noon.”
The news creeped into Stiles’ stomach, making him feel sick. Or maybe it was the IV in his arm. A day and a half of being knocked out cold couldn’t be normal. Shit. He’d finally hit his limit.
“Ha,” Stiles said, voice raspy, immediately masking his true feelings of horror. “Here I was hoping for a good excuse to take a day off. Should have planned better. Shout have bit it on a Thursday; I would have gotten a three-day weekend. Kind of.”
“Stiles.” Derek’s tone was careful, like he was testing the floor for landmines.
Stiles propped himself up, grimacing as pain crackled down his back. “So, I guess I fainted. Embarrassing, but in my defense, I’m sure most people would pass out after dealing with your bulk purchases of flour. Don’t worry though, I won’t sue. This was my fault. Must have… Must have fainted because I didn’t eat.”
Derek didn’t bite. “You didn’t faint. You went unconscious. For almost a full day. There’s a difference.” He didn’t look away from Stiles, not for a second. “They said it was a combination of blood pressure, dehydration, blood sugar, stress, and, oh, that’s right. Fucking malnutrition, Stilinski!”
The diagnosis sent a deep wave of shame through him. Fuck. He really was turning into his father. How many times, as a kid, and right up until the end of their days of talking, had Stiles yelled at him for the same shit? Worse, he’d done the one thing that always made his mother worry about.
Stiles stared at the wall, unable to maintain eye contact with Derek’s furious gaze. “Malnutrition? That can’t be right. I eat. I taste everything I bake,” His mouth felt dry, the taste of unbrushed teeth on his tongue.
Derek shrugged, shoulders bunched and rigid. “You’re not eating enough calories to keep up with what you’re burning. The doctor said you were running on fumes, basically. Worse, they said your vitamin deficiencies were among the worst they’d seen in a long time.” There was an accusation buried in there, sharp as a paring knife.
He wondered when the last time he’d eaten anything but microwave burritos, butter, dough, or sugar. Fuck. It may have not been since last Christmas when he treated himself to a country style buffet. Stiles bit his lip.
“Oh my god, they’re being dramatic.” Stiles rolled his eyes, waving off Derek’s latest comment. “Fast food, sugar, and butter. Isn’t that the basic food groups of every American? You don’t see Jim Bob Jones down the street passing out from malnutrition.”
Derek’s hands balled into fists on his knees. “I’m not kidding,” he said. “You could have died.”
“Hey, but I didn’t, right? I’m fine.” Stiles tried for a smile, but it slid off his face, leaving him feeling brittle.
A nurse entered just then, carrying an electronic chart and a plastic cup of water. “You’re awake! Good. Don’t try to get up yet,” she said, setting the water on the rolling tray. “Do you have a headache? Here, let me check your bruise,”
Stiles blinked at her. “Wait, was there a head injury involved? Did I crack my skull?”
She checked a spot above his hairline, then made some notes in her chart. “Minor bump, but nothing serious. Your labs were concerning, though. Your blood pressure was sky-high, your electrolytes were in the basement, and your blood sugar was so low that we had to give you several injections. It’s a good thing your friend here was there to find you. This could have been an entirely different outcome otherwise. Had you been left alone for more than an hour or two, there’s a good chance you wouldn’t be alive right now.”
Stiles risked a glance at Derek.
Derek looked even more haunted than he had in the waiting room.
Stiles laughed, weakly. That was not the news he wanted to hear, especially in front of Derek. He needed to get this conversation out the door, yesterday. “Did he tell you he’s the world-famous Derek Hale? We’re in a contest together. Like, he’s a mega-chef.”
She smiled. “He did. He also refused to leave until you woke up. You’re lucky to have someone that persistent on your side.”
Derek didn’t respond, but his glare seemed to intensify.
After the nurse finished with her tests and left, explaining that a doctor would be by soon, silence folded around the room like a shroud. Stiles sucked on the straw, the cold water tasting almost impossibly sweet. He caught Derek watching him drink, like he was making sure Stiles finished every drop.
“So, what now?” Stiles asked. “Am I getting grounded for a week, or do I have to eat a whole roast chicken before they’ll let me leave?”
Derek stood, pacing a tight circuit around the foot of the bed. “Last thing they said to was they’d want to keep you around for a while after you woke up. For observation.”
Stiles slumped back, suddenly exhausted. “Do they know I’ve got a bakery to run? There’s, like, a dozen custom cake orders, and—”
“They know,” Derek said. “Isaac’s covering, and Liam. You called him in the ambulance and told him you were dying. I asked Erica to help them make something edible for your customers. She’s a professional. She’ll handle it.”
“Oh,” Stiles said. He didn’t remember the call, but it sounded like him.
Wait… Was his first thing to do while riding in an ambulance, on death’s door, really to call his employees and take care of the shop? No. No way he was “that” guy.
Though based on Derek’s expression, he totally was “that” guy. In the man’s face, Stiles could clearly see his mother’s disappointment.
Derek stared out the window, the outline of his body harsh against the blue-gray light. “You don’t get it, do you?”
Stiles, not knowing how to answer, made another joke. “Probably a result of the chronic malnutrition. My brain is Swiss cheese now, haven’t you heard?”
Derek spun on his heel. “It’s not funny.”
“I mean, it’s a little funny. Baker who’s surrounded by food all the time forgets to eat?! What’s the old saying about the man drowning in a desert?”
“Stiles…”
“The Red Bulls probably don’t help. I bet that’s at least 90% of my blood pressure. My dad has a bad heart too, I should have known better. Oh well, what can you do, you know?” Stiles laughed, trying to fill the quiet around him. He didn’t need silence right now. He didn’t want it. Couldn’t handle it. He was not going to lay here and realize what a train-wreck his life was. Not in front of Derek, the doctors, or anyone. He. Was. Fine. He’d be fine, anyway.
“-but I mean, you’ve got to admit. Me dying in your kitchen? That would have made for the WORST headline in my obituary!” Stiles laughed, a fake, forced laugh that he barely had the energy to put out.
“Do you ever shut up!?” Derek roared, voice sharp enough to cut glass.
Stiles opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out. The look in Derek’s eyes shut him up. For the briefest of moments, Stiles wasn’t sure what to say. Or how to say anything. In fact, he didn’t think he’d ever seen someone that angry before in his life. He laid back in the hospital bed, eyes glued to his hands.
After a moment, Derek crossed back to the chair, dropping into it with a sigh. “You scared the shit out of me.”
Stiles blinked.
Derek scrubbed his hand over his face.
They sat in silence, broken only by the hiss of the AC and the soft bleep of monitors.
+++++
“Why didn’t I see it sooner? Why’d I let him… Crash like that?”
Derek spent the long hours in the hospital marinating in cold hospital coffee and self-loathing. The chair dug into his tailbone, the armrests were engineered for torture, and evry so often, a nurse or tech made the rounds to check on Stiles, which meant Derek never quite dropped his guard.
He hated hospitals. Not just the smell, but the memory. They always stank of endings.
When Stiles woke again, in the early morning hours, Derek was ready. He had rehearsed every word, every intervention, every possible script. That is, until Stiles started speaking.
Derek snapped, every polite word and suggestion lost in an instant. How could he not? With the carefree tone that Stiles spoke in? As if he wasn’t taking it seriously. As if he didn’t’ care about his own life.
“Do you ever shut up?!” he roared, the words forced out of him in sheer anger.
Stiles, blinking in the low light, let the joke die in his mouth.
“You scared the shit out of me.” Derek choked out, as he looming at the bedside. The sound of the heart rate monitor filled him with dread. He paused, to make sure Stiles’ heart was still beating, before he continued.
“This is serious. You almost fucking died, and you’re laughing it off.”
Stiles, still bleary, tried to muster a defense. “I’m not-
“No,” Derek said. “Just… Shut up. For one second. I don’t want a joke. I don’t want a snarky comeback. I want you to listen to me. You don’t have to put up some fake bullshit bravado. I know you’re scared, and you should be!”
He clenched his fists, then forced them open, the anger burning so bright it nearly incinerated the words before he could speak.
“I watched my sister do exactly what you’re doing,” Derek said, voice low and shaking. “She thought she had to do everything, be everything, for everyone. She ran the restaurant, the staff, the family, all of it, seven days a week, fifteen hours a day. Didn’t matter if she was sick, or tired, or falling apart, she had to be the best. Because that’s what everyone expected of a Hale.”
He looked down, eyes blurring. “She worked herself into the ground. And she still thought she had to do more.”
Stiles’s mouth opened, then closed.
“The week before she died,” Derek said, fighting to keep his voice steady, “she told me she could finally see the finish line. That it would all be worth it, once she got that next star, that next review, that next, whatever. She thought if she just worked a little harder, it would all pay off. I told her to slow down. I begged her.” He ground the words out like they hurt. “She didn’t listen. She said she couldn’t. She had to make our parents proud. She had to live our legacy.” He wiped his hand across his face, furious at himself for letting the tears get past the dam.
Stiles let a few tears fall down the side of his face. For what reason, Derek didn’t know.
“You know what happened? Her heart stopped. In her office, alone. They found her on a pile of paperwork, surrounded by awards, and the first thing the press did was call us to ask about the impact on the restaurant and the upcoming Michelin review.” Derek’s eyes burned. A fury of a thousand phone calls, back in those days, made his voice rise even higher.
“Just the night before, I called to check on her. One last time. We talked for ten minutes. At the end of it, she said she hated her life. That she couldn’t wait to be an old woman and retired. Because in her own words, living as a Hale was the worst thing that ever happened to her.”
Derek’s vision went cloudy. He grabbed the bedrail for balance. “She was thirty-five back then. Almost the same age as you.”
The silence in the room felt like a wound.
Stiles, for once, didn’t try to deflect. He sat, sniffling, tears falling onto his hospital gown, leaving large dollops of water.
Derek let out a shaky breath. “You’re doing the same thing. You work yourself to the bone, you never ask for help, and you act like it’s a joke when you collapse. It’s not. You don’t get to die for a fucking bakery. Not you. Not anybody else. I won’t let you.”
He looked up, met Stiles’s eyes, and saw the shock in them, the rawness, the guilt.
Derek reached out, taking Stiles’s wrist in a grip that was almost too tight. “The world doesn’t need another ghost running a kitchen,” Derek said, the words catching at the end. “It needs you alive. You haven’t even… Written half a chapter in your book yet. So… It wouldn’t be fair, you know?”
For a long, long minute, Stiles just stared, like he was seeing Derek for the first time.
Finally, Stiles managed, “I—okay.” A stutter. Almost like a sob. The words were painful.
Derek held on, taking Stiles’ hand in his own, finally releasing his wrist. He gripped the man’s hand, tightly. “Promise me. You’ll take care of yourself.”
Stiles nodded, then covered Derek’s hand with his own, awkward but real.
“I promise,” he whispered.
Derek’s anger melted, leaving only a hollow exhaustion behind. He sat back down, never quite letting go of Stiles’s hand.
He didn’t say anything more. He didn’t need to. They both fell asleep not long after, with Derek’s head resting gently on Stiles’ bedside.
+++++
Derek returned to Doughboy on Wednesday, expecting to beat some sense into his partner. What he’d imagined was Stiles, back at work too soon, looking like a cautionary tale for every overambitious small business owner. He’d come with threats of violence and a quiet offer to lend Erica to him if he needed, going as far as to pay her salary.
Instead, the bakery was not only open, but it was also running with military precision. The glass cases sparkled, the coffee was already brewing, and the tables were wiped down, ready for the morning rush. Things were… Organized. Cleaner. Arranged in a way that made sense and labeled with neat handwriting. He almost didn’t recognize the place, and for a moment, thought he’d walked into the wrong store.
A new face was behind the register, a young woman, with soft brown hair tied off in a braid, and a winning smile that could melt the grumpy off anyone, even the Karens. He could see the new hire paperwork next to the register, and she seemed to be busy organizing a shelf of orders.
“Welcome to Doughboy! I’m Allison! What can I do for you today, sir?”
“I’m a friend of the owner. Is Stiles in?”
Allison nodded. “You must be Derek. Stiles told me to sound an alarm if you came by, but I get the feeling from your face that he probably needs to see you for real,” she said, with a gentle smile.
“You always sell out bosses on your first day?” Derek chuckled.
“Only when they need me to. Stiles told me I had permission to tell him to stuff it and do whatever I needed to tidy up and organize the place. I’m his new Store Manager and handle the front of the house operations, so whatever I say, goes, apparently,” Allison said, chuckling. She gestured Derek to the back.
Derek was even more surprised at the changes in the Doughboy kitchen.
The first being that anyone other than Stiles was in it and touched machinery. Liam had a gargantuan bowl of chicken salad in a mixer that was threatening to get away from him, and a laptop next to him with an online recipe he was referencing like a bible. Isaac was fiddling with ovens, making basic croissants from dough they kept in the freezer, and looked a little unsettled for the first time in his life trying to roll and cut them precisely.
What surprised him more was the sound of Stiles’s voice, echoing from the kitchen. Not the rapid-fire cursing or the low hum of self-pity, but a sharp, clear call: “Watch the browning at the edges of those bad boys in the oven, Isaac. Pay attention, Daisy will betray you in a heartbeat now that you’re the one pulling them.”
Derek walked into the kitchen quietly, to see Stiles running a tight demo, arms crossed as he watched Isaac and Liam prepare what was obvious a test run for lunch service. Stiles hovered, but didn’t intervene, even when Liam spilled an entire saltshaker on the ground. He just pointed and let them clean it up themselves.
Derek waited until Stiles caught a break, then leaned in the doorway. “You’re up early. I thought the doctor said not to go back until at least next Monday,” he said.
Stiles jumped, yelped, then grinned, a little sheepish, a little embarrassed. “Caught me. Thought you’d be doing your own brunch rush by now.”
“My staff handles lunches,” Derek said, “-but nice deflection.”
He let the quiet stretch, watching the ballet of Isaac pulling croissants in and out of the oven, Liam prepped their fillings, and Stiles not interfering. It was almost… normal. Healthy. Where was Stiles and who was this body snatcher before him?
“I had to change something. This week was a wakeup call. You… Made that obvious to me,” Stiles said, softer. He leaned closer to Derek, so the others couldn’t listen. “So, from now on, I do the morning shift and early morning baking and custom orders, same as always, because I don’t trust anyone else with mom’s recipes or our big clients. But after that, Isaac and Liam run lunch and it’s their own recipes they’ll be doing, which I supervise all recipes of, but don’t touch. I hired a store manager now that Isaac and Liam will be busier, and she’s going to run the normal business hours into the evening. I get here at 3 in the morning, and my goal is to be out of here by noon every day, and only coming in for emergencies or special events.”
Derek raised his eyebrows. “Really?”
“Really,” Stiles said, then rolled his eyes. “I mean, it’s not ideal, but if I want to live past thirty-five, I can’t do everything myself. I’m going to let them try. If it sucks, it sucks. We’ll fix it. I might have to even hire another cook at some point, but we’ll cross that bridge later.”
The quiet, intimate moment was shattered with the sound of a mixing spoon hitting the floor with a clang.
Stiles turned and yelled, almost grateful for the interruption. “Liam, I swear, if you drop anymore food on the floor again, I’m making you clean it with a toothbrush like they do at Hales!”
Liam grunted a reply, bright red and embarrassed. “It’s fine, boss! Only lost like a tablespoon.”
Stiles rubbed the bridge of his nose, sighing. “He’s learning. Fucking interns…”
“-and whose fault is that? I seem to recall someone not having him set foot in a kitchen for 3 months.” Derek nudged him in the side.
“Be nice to me! I was just in the hospital,” Stiles whined, nudging Derek right back.
Derek let himself smile. “You’re actually doing it,” he said.
Stiles shrugged, a little embarrassed. A loud, painful groan left his throat. “You were right. Don’t let it go to your head.”
“It’s already there,” Derek said, but his voice was gentler than before.
Isaac interrupted them, his hands and apron covered in a mess of butter and oil. A platter of chicken salad croissants was held out to Derek and Stiles, a fresh combination of his and Liam’s early morning work. “Hey, I think we’re ready for our first tasting. Care to try?”
Nodding, both Derek and Stiles took a croissant and bit into the flaky crust.
Stiles hovered, a wince on his face, watching Derek for the verdict.
“Be honest,” Isaac said, almost shy. “We want Stiles to take a break, and to do that, we need to be good enough for him, so, be brutal.”
Derek chewed the sandwich. It was dense, rich, too much salt, not enough pepper, and the ratio of mayo was not great. The chicken was not properly shredded, and there were still some big chunks. Not as refined as Stiles’s usual stuff, but, honestly, it wasn’t bad. He nodded. “Solid start. Let me help you with this. Watch, learn, and adapt.”
Liam nearly fainted as Derek looked over his recipe, chuckling, and immediately shut the boy’s laptop down. “While that may be good for a family potluck, we need to be a little more cautious with seasoning for paying customers,” He took a scrap of paper and pen, and wrote down his suggestions for an on-the-spot concoction that a boy of Liam’s skill could handle. When he rolled his sleeves up, guiding the student the same way he guided Scott back in his kitchen, Liam nearly started crying.
The demonstration didn’t take long; Derek tried to make the recipe as easy as he could for a student. He watched Liam perform the same steps, offering a few bits of advice, but at the end of their lesson, it was leagues better. Still not up to Stiles, but above and beyond good enough to serve in Doughboy.
“Oh my God, I learned from Derek Hale. I learned from a Hale! Wait until my teacher hears about this!” Liam said, cheering loudly as he and Isaac hugged in the kitchen.
Derek felt a bubble of joy in his chest. He liked that feeling, seeing someone learn from him and grow. Honestly, Liam’s joy was better than any of the reviews he’d gotten in years. He felt, briefly, fulfilled, for the first time in a long time.
“You didn’t have to do that, I could have-” Stiles started to say, blushing as he failed to finish the sentence.
“-so you’re ready to show someone how to cook a beloved family recipe?” Derek asked.
Stiles bit his lip. The answer was obvious on his face. There was a big difference between letting people cook in his kitchen and training them to cook. The latter involved a healthy amount of grief for Stiles.
“So, you’re really going to take weekends off and go home by noon?” Derek asked, almost not believing it.
“That’s the plan,” Stiles said, and for once, it didn’t sound like a lie. “In fact, I even bit the bullet and hired an accountant to handle payroll, reporting, and invoices. Jackson Whittemore. Used to be a lacrosse jock, now he’s a spreadsheet psycho. He’s… efficient. I think he’s a little too excited to have my business account, he’s already talking about tax season and sticking it to the IRS.” Stiles grimaced, but only a little.
Derek couldn’t help it. He felt proud, and a little jealous. Stiles was finally learning to let go, just a little, and it looked good on him.
As the morning rush started, Derek stood to go. Stiles walked him to the door, wiping his hands on his apron.
Derek turned to leave, but something made him pause. “Take care of yourself,” he said, quiet.
Stiles’s eyes softened. “I will.”
Derek believed him.
++++
By the end of the next week, the ache in Derek’s mind over worrying about Stiles was starting to fade. True to his words, Stiles was leaving his shop in the afternoons, to the drama of the social media, and had left lunch in Liam and Isaac’s hands. Derek stopped by a few times to make sure Stiles wasn’t slipping and picked up their latest specials. Sometimes he’d offer a few tips, eager to help Liam whenever he could, and was happy to see the change hadn’t affected Doughboy’s business at all.
So that Saturday morning he found himself in the Hales kitchen long before opening, sleeves rolled, prepping the stations. He was expecting Stiles at seven, on the dot, because Stiles was annoying that way, and all bakers were some form of a morning person.
Stiles arrived ten minutes late, but when Derek got a good look at him, any annoyance vanished in an instant.
There was a healthy glow about Stiles now. His eyes, no longer sunken in, had a healthy spark, a clear sign of rest. While the guy was still far too thin, he looked like he’d put on a few pounds and was currently in the process of finishing off a homemade breakfast sandwich filled with protein, eggs, and cheese. A massive bottle of water was hanging by his hip, half drank.
Derek thought, briefly, how handsome Stiles looked when he was alive. He’d filled out a bit, and that… Made Derek pause for longer than it should have.
Stiles put his belongings off to the side, bouncing on his heels with a big grin on his face. “Let’s do this. I’ve got three dough recipes, a Spotify playlist, and a dream. You ready to create the Best Beacon Bite?”
“I was born ready,” Derek said, then immediately regretted the cheesiness of it. Stiles didn’t notice. He’d already rolled up his sleeves and was diving into the first bowl of dough.
They worked in tandem. Derek measured and scaled, checked temperatures of the oil, while Stiles attacked the dough with reckless abandon. The banter was constant, Stiles needling him about the proper kneading technique, Derek jabbing back about Stiles’s “Chernobyl-level” ratios of butter and salt. The kitchen filled with the rhythmic slap of dough, the sweet stink of fermenting yeast, and the occasional outburst when a dough came out less than perfect and was thrown in the trash.
Music played. Derek hummed and whistled along to a couple of his childhood favorites, and based Stiles when “trash” came on, to the latter’s bemusement.
By ten, their first batch of acceptable dough was ready to test-fry. Stiles popped small squares of carefully formed dough into the fryer. They ballooned and spun, golden and puffy, and Derek’s chest tightened at the sight, not just from professional pride, but from something more primal, something hungry. He didn’t just want to make the food for others; he was excited to try it himself.
Derek made the powdered coating from scratch, from ingredients he knew they’d be able to get cheap in bulk or as part of the Chamber’s test kitchen free ingredients. Brown sugar, pumpkin spice, cinnamon, orange zest, and a pinch of salt. He wanted the flavor to linger, wanted it to be the last thing people remembered as the fried dough stuck to their insides.
Stiles fished the beignets from the oil, shaking off the excess and lining them on a rack. He dusted them, careful not to overcoat, and then handed the first one to Derek, eyes bright with anticipation.
“Moment of truth, Derek,” he said.
Derek bit in. The beignet was crisp on the outside, yielding to a soft, almost custardy center, the citrus and spice riding shotgun with the sweetness. It tasted like Autumn, like nature itself slowing down for a long nap, and holiday joy, all at once.
He chewed, then looked at Stiles. “It’s good.”
Stiles rolled his eyes. “That’s it? You’re not going to go full Ratatouille and hallucinate?”
“It’s perfect,” Derek said, with a sideways smile. He meant it.
Stiles’s face went a little red. “Yeah. I know.”
They sampled more, naturally. Made a few adjustments to make “more perfect than perfect”. Each time, the feedback was sharper, more competitive, but also more intimate, the kind of language that only came from two people who saw the world the same, if only through different windows.
At noon, the rest of the kitchen brigade arrived: Scott, Erica, and Boyd. They were the official judges for the test round, and Derek watched as Stiles nervously explained the process, made jokes at his own expense, and acted like he didn’t care about the verdict.
The staff tasted in silence, each more solemn than the last. Boyd finished his in one bite, wiped his mouth, and nodded, simple and final, a success. Erica made a show of savoring the flavor, then announced, “If you don’t win, I’ll quit pastry forever.” Scott, always the last to finish, licked the sugar off his fingers, then said, “That’s the best doughnut I’ve ever eaten.”
Stiles and Derek exchanged a look, part pride, part terror.
“I guess that settles it,” Stiles said, a little breathless.
Derek reached across the prep table and held out his hand. “Partners,” he said.
Stiles hesitated, then grabbed the hand and pumped it once, hard. “Partners.”
A pulse of something electric shot up Derek’s arm, sharp and hot. He let go, maybe too quickly, but the echo lingered.
Notes:
Thanks for reading! Comments are always appreciated!
Chapter Text
Stiles rarely cooked for himself. His dad did most of the cooking in their household, and while Stiles did learn a thing or two about grilling, frying, and home cooking in the process, it brought back tons of rough memories.
So, when he was alone, in the little one-story white house on the edge of town, it was easier to eat microwaved soup or hot pockets than confront those thoughts.
Yet, in the three weeks since he’d collapsed, almost died, and gotten metaphorically smacked by Derek Hale into taking care of himself, things were different.
For one, he was well rested. Handing over responsibilities had been hard, but having a normal workday and the time to turn off his brain and body had been a godsend. No more running on empty at the end of the day, he had reserves of energy to do ordinary, healthy tasks.
Secondly, he was surprised at the frequency in which Derek visited Doughboy. The man was a real teacher to Liam, in ways Stiles would have never been, and was giving the kid a world-class hands-on education. In just a month, Liam had transformed from bumbling intern into an entry level sous chef. Which made trusting him and Isaac all the easier for more responsibilities.
Lastly, and this might have been a stretch on his part, but… Having Derek in his life, a real friend, someone who cared about him and his health, as sad as it might sound... Was one of the big reasons he wanted to live again.
Which is why Stiles was currently whipping up a custom recipe Derek had scrawled on a notecard, clipped to the bag of vegetables he’d dropped off a day earlier. He did that a lot in the last weeks – bringing by ingredients and easy to make meals. Stiles had a neat stack of Hale recipes now sitting in a drawer, many of which he’d be making again in the future.
Chopping up onions, garlic, carrots, and celery was easy enough, it was the base of any soup. Pouring in the containers of homemade chicken stock, courtesy of Derek, felt oddly intimate, as he realized how long it probably took Derek to prepare such a thing. Stirring in thinly chopped potatoes was easy enough. A bit of cream, herbs, salt, pepper, and a homemade spice pouch from Hales’s. He finished it with freshly cut kale, also a gift from Derek. Not an hour of effort later, and Stiles had a steaming hot pot of creamy potato soup.
Stiles tasted it, shivering at how flavorful it was. The soup felt like it stuck to his meat and bones. He snapped a few pictures of it, smirked, and texted them to Derek. Not a moment later, they were in the middle of a conversation.
D: Looks like you did well. Maybe a little too much cream, though.
S: Excuse me for liking heavy things. In case you missed it, I still have 10 pounds to gain. Doctor’s orders.
D: Fair enough. Glad you finally banished the microwave from your life. Look delicious, you did a great job. I wish I could taste it and give feedback.
There was a long pause. A tingle running up and down Stiles’ back, with a warm flush in his face. He gulped.
In the last three weeks, something else had started to inspire Stiles. A feeling he hadn’t felt in a long time, not since before his mom died. A feeling he worried meant something deeper in their friendship. A feeling like… He wanted more.
Stiles shook his thoughts away and did what he did best. Spoke before thinking.
S: You could always come over? There’s plenty for two.
A longer pause. Three little dots danced on the bottom of his phone. They’d stop, dance again, stop, and then dance again, over the span of five minutes before a response was finally given.
D: Love to. I’ll bring dessert and wine, since you’re cooking. See you in twenty, keep it warm for me.
Stiles felt a big smile cross his lips. Genuine joy sparked through his veins. Derek was coming over for dinner. Sure he’d been in Stiles’ house before, but… Not for long. Not for food. Not for company.
Though, in an instant, Stiles felt his stomach drop. He glanced around at the living area, where he never let any living being come near, and panicked.
Stiles raced through his mess of a house. He spent time tossing away all the garbage and junk mail accumulated in the living room, stashed away his discarded pants and underwear thrown about the floor, and made a quick pass at the bathroom to ensure he didn’t look “too” single. In fact, he threw himself into a shower and a fresh outfit, punking up his hair a little bit with produce he hadn’t used since high school.
As he caught his expression in the mirror, Stiles’ chest thumped. “Is this a date? Did I ask Derek on a date? Wait. Will he think this is weird? He’s a hot guy. He’s probably got WAY more attractive people than me in his orbit. Does he even like guys? Fuck. Why am I thinking about this? This is stupid! This is dumb! Derek would never want to be with a disaster like me.”
Before long, a knock came at the door. Stiles yelped, did his best to arrange the pillows, and ran to open it.
Striding inside was Derek, with a bottle of wine under his arm, two crystal wine glasses in one hand, and a Hales’ box in the other, with what smelled like a piping hot pie. He smiled, warmly, helping himself inside the house. “Nice place. I’m still in an apartment right now myself,”
“-thanks,” Stiles murmured, guiding Derek into his living room, which doubled as a dining room.
They each set their own place at the table, dipping soup into bowls, slicing into a loaf of French bread, pouring wine, and each settling into a simple dinner at home. Not a date. Definitely not.
“Tastes good. Reminds me of my Nana,” Derek said, letting out a dreamy sigh.
Stiles snorted, trying to hide the satisfaction on his face. “Come on, I’m not that great. Seriously, give me the top ten things wrong with it.”
Derek paused, words on his lips that he wanted to say, but thought better of. He chuckled. “Look, it’s not always about being the best. Sometimes food is just good to taste and share. You’ve proven that time and again to me. And this? This tastes like home and comfort,” he said, with an expression of genuine honesty that made Stiles want to curl into a ball and scream into a pillow for joy.
“Good, then! Glad to hear I didn’t botch it that bad,” Stiles said.
“I checked in on Liam this afternoon, by the way,” Derek admitted, as he took a sip of his wine. “He was prepping for tomorrow’s lunch. I gave him a free lesson on soup stock and how to flavor the pre-bought stuff. He was doing pretty well.”
Stiles grinned, taking his own turn with the wine. He felt his body flush from the ripe taste. At least, he thought it was from the wine. “You’re going to ruin him for regular food industry jobs, you know. One taste of fine dining and he’ll never eat at Taco Bell or work for a place like Doughboy again.”
Derek shrugged, helping himself to some more soup. “He has potential. It’d be a waste to let him crash and burn. Besides,” Derek added, softer, “It’s nice. Teaching someone. Watching them figure it out. I didn’t know I’d like it so much. Maybe… I enjoy letting other people have an easier time of it than I did.”
That last part caught Stiles off guard. Derek had never, not once in the many hours they’d spent together, copped to liking anything about the process. There was something about this, about sharing a meal with someone, away from the clatter of knives and the raw rhythm of prep work, that made Derek human. Happy, even.
They finished the rest of the meal, with small talk, jokes, and talk about work and their employees. Stiles glanced up at Derek, who was cutting up one of Erica’s leftover tartes from a previous service. Stiles studied his hands, the cut of muscle in his forearm, the way his shirt sleeves hugged the line of his biceps. Hell, he even peeked a little further south, at how tight the man’s jeans were painted onto certain assets, giving no illusion of what was below the waist. It wasn’t fair. Derek was too handsome for a weekday night at Stiles’ house. Surely he had better things to do.
Stiles felt a heat rising in his face, unrelated to the food. He looked away, busying himself with finishing off the last of his wine. “You always give out recipes and train future chefs like this for your friends? I should have been friends with you years ago…” he said, light and easy, but he could hear the undertow in his own voice.
“Don’t have many friends.” Derek handed Stiles a slice of pie, some kind of berry fusion, then tilted his head. “Never really had time for it.”
“Yeah, well,” Stiles said, taking the pie and unable to maintain any sort of eye contact for long, “You should try it. They say it adds years to your life. Or at least stops you from dying of malnutrition in your own kitchen.”
Derek smiled, for real this time, and it was so rare that Stiles almost lost his train of thought.
They finished eating in silence. The air in the kitchen was humid with the scent of cooked protein and vegetables, the light from the window gone indigo and soft as the sun set in the distance. Stiles collected the plates, ready to rinse them, but Derek beat him to the sink.
“You don’t have to—”
“I like it,” Derek said. “It’s meditative. And you’re bad at it.”
“Am not…”
Stiles watched him, the easy grace of his movements, the way he stood too close to the counter, broad and utterly comfortable in the space. It felt weirdly intimate, more so than anything they’d done in public. He’d never thought of himself as the type to swoon over domestic chores, but there was something about Derek at his sink, washing his dishes, that made Stiles’s pulse trip.
Stiles leaned back against the fridge, watching. “You know, if you keep doing this, I’m going to get used to it,” he said.
Derek didn’t turn around. “Is that a problem?”
“Depends,” Stiles said, “On whether you’re planning to do this more than once.”
Derek finished drying the last plate, then turned, eyes unreadable in the dim light. “Do you ever go out for dessert?”
“Professionally, or recreationally?”
Derek looked at him, and Stiles could see the calculation behind his eyes. “There’s an ice cream place a block from here. Real stuff, not the crap they sell at the grocery store. They’ve got fresh-baked cones and homemade fudge. You’d like it.”
Stiles’s heart hammered. He could have said no. Could have defused the tension with a joke, or a comment about lactose intolerance, or the fact that it was not that far off from below freezing outside.
Instead, he grabbed his jacket from the back of a chair, and said, “You buying?”
“Yeah,” Derek said, smile widening. “I’m buying. You treated me to dinner, I’ll treat you for dessert.”
“You already brought a dessert.”
“Maybe I don’t want tonight to end. So, we’ll have second dessert.” Derek said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
“Okay, then,” Stiles chuckled, following behind Derek as they both left the house.
Stiles followed him out into the night, the air sharp and electric. He knew, with a terrible, hungry certainty, that he’d let Derek in his home a hundred times if it meant he could keep this feeling, this giddy, secret hope, just a little longer.
+++++
By mid-September, Beacon Mall looked like the airport on a busy holiday, except instead of frantic travelers, the crowd was all locals in hoodies and puffer vests, a herd of people that moved like a slow tide from the parking structure straight through the food court. Every five seconds, the mall PA blared an ad for the “Round One of Beacon’s Best Bites” contest, and Stiles could feel the floor vibrate under his sneakers from the noise.
The atrium was already mobbed when he arrived, the overhead rig of cameras and LED screens making the whole scene look like a reality show set, which, he realized with horror, it basically was. Stiles had never seen so many people gathered just for a food event, especially not one where he’d be the main attraction.
He ducked past a gaggle of sorority girls with neon event shirts and found the backstage area roped off with tents. There, under the glare of floodlights and the unmistakable smell of industrial hand sanitizer, Derek was already waiting, in a crisp black chef’s jacket and dark jeans, looking so much like he belonged on TV that Stiles almost tripped over himself.
“You’re on time. Everything okay? That almost makes me worry,” Derek said, scanning him from head to toe like a project he might have to troubleshoot.
“I think I’m going to puke,” Stiles said, which was only half a joke. He’d never been this nervous about public appearance before. Even the time Guy Fieri shoved a camera in his face, Stiles had managed to play it cool. But today, with the stage, the crowd of actual people in front of him instead of just behind a camera, and the real possibility of public humiliation? It hit differently.
Derek arched an eyebrow. “Breathe. You’ll be fine. Just do your thing.”
Stiles wanted to say something about how this was all a little much, but Derek’s presence had a weirdly calming effect. The way Derek stood, feet planted, arms folded, made him seem immune to stage fright or self-doubt. Stiles found himself breathing in time with him, his panic receding by a few percentage points.
A woman with a clipboard and headset appeared, checked their names, and hustled them to a prep station behind a curtain, which had been pre-assembled per Haleboys’ written request. There was a basic kitchen setup, portable induction burners, big steel bowls, a rolling rack for cooling, and a shallow fryer that looked like it belonged in a drive thru place. Stiles double-checked the ingredient bins, made sure everything was already in place, kneaded a test batch of dough with shaking hands, then wiped his palms on his apron.
“You good?” Derek asked, low enough that no one else could hear.
Stiles nodded, too fast. “No, but I can fake it for prize money. I’ve faked having mental sanity for a decade, so this can’t be any harder,”
Derek laughed. It was the first time Stiles had heard him do that. To really laugh, not the dry snort or half-smile, but a full, involuntary bark of amusement. It made Stiles’s nerves light up like a Christmas tree, but in a good way.
“Don’t worry,” Derek said, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a hush. “If you bomb, I’ll take all the blame. If you crush it, I’ll claim partial credit.”
“Only partial? Generous,” Stiles said, trying to smile. The proximity was making it hard to focus. Derek’s hair was just a little mussed, the dark stubbed on his jaw well-groomed, and Stiles could see the pulse beating in his neck, steady as a metronome.
“We’ve got this. Together,” Derek said, and touched Stiles’s shoulder. Just a squeeze, but it made Stiles’s whole body go hot.
The stage manager popped her head in. “You guys are up after the taco sushi fusion demo. That’s three minutes. You ready?”
“As we’ll ever be,” Derek replied.
When the time came, they took the stage to a wall of sound. The PA system blasted their team name, “Haleboy,” which earned a few giggles from the crowd. Stiles risked a look out into the atrium, saw rows of pre-constructed bleachers filled with students, families, old-timers in vintage jackets and kids that looked bored to tears. He also saw Isaac, Allison, and Liam standing near the front, cheering like idiots. Erica, Boyd, and Scott weren’t far behind, each clapping like the consummately professionals they were.
The demo table was set up with all the ingredients, cameras overhead broadcasting their every move to the livestreamed screens hung around the mall. Derek took the mic first, greeting the crowd in his low, calm voice. He introduced Stiles with a flourish, “The Baker Prince of Beacon Hills,” and handed off with a wink.
Stiles, suddenly holding the mic, blinked into the lights. “Hey everyone! Uh, today we’re going to be making a literal French doughnut for you all, a fusion of Derek’s signature style and my obsession for fried dough! We’ll be bringing them together flavors of fall that are going to make a pumpkin spice latte look basic, all while changing the way you look at an ordinary beignet!”
The crowd cheered as the camera now panned above Stiles, ready to see his live demonstration. He cracked the first egg, measured out flour and yeast, talking through the steps like a cooking show.
“Secret to a good beignet is you don’t rush the rise, and you don’t overthink the cut. You want it rustic, so the dough has some character.” After showing how to mix and make the dough, he went to the pre-prepared dough, rolled it out, cut it into rough squares, and passed a piece to Derek, who fried them with the focus of a bomb technician.
As they worked, they slipped into an easy banter. Derek fielded questions from the emcee, explained the French history of the beignet, even tossed in a joke about how Stiles was the only person he’d ever met who could eat twelve beignets and still walk a straight line. Stiles fired back that Derek’s arms were so big he could probably use them as rolling pins, and the crowd loved it.
While the dough fried, Derek took the microphone and began to explain how to prepare the sugar coating. The ingredients, their ratios, and how to get the best even blend.
By the time the first batch came out of the fryer, the entire atrium was watching. Derek dusted the hot beignets with the sugar blend, then set them out on a tray for the tasting table. The crowd marched forward, grabbing them up and devouring them en masse.
Stiles’s nerves vanished. He was in his element, slinging fried dough and wisecracks, hands moving faster than his brain. Derek kept pace, plating, garnishing, keeping the flow smooth. When the last beignets were finished at the serving table, they took a bow, then got swarmed by an endless line of tasters eager for a sample.
The public response was immediate. The beignets were gone in sixty seconds, the crowd snapping photos, asking for seconds, asking and begging for it to be added to the Hale and Doughboy menus. Before long, Derek and Stiles were pushed away for the next group to take the stage and found their way back to watch the rest of the cooking demonstrations.
Many of them were interesting. Lucky Dragon and the Shroom Milkshake Man clearly did not work well together, as only the Lucky Dragon owner made any comments, and Shroom man did exactly as she was told, as if under threat of a whipping. The Barbeque Place and the Korean Restaurant made their own version of Korean barbeque that was a massive success, and the bitch of a caterer tried to impress with an Italian Wedding Soup, but it was so clear that her partner hated her so much that Stiles would be impressed if they got a single vote.
The emcee announced, after about an hour of free food and demonstrations, that the voting booth open when the last contestants finished, and people rushed over, holding their samples like lottery tickets.
In the aftermath, Stiles leaned on a table, a bead of sweat trickling down his neck. “That was… actually kind of awesome,” he said.
Derek wiped his hands, then offered Stiles a bottle of water. “You did great. See? Nothing to worry about.”
Stiles took a long drink, then grinned. “I’m still going to puke, but at least I’ll have an audience.”
They stood together, watching the crowd. For a second, Stiles felt like the two of them were alone in the whole building, a little axis around which everything else spun.
“We make a good team,” Derek said, so quietly Stiles almost missed it.
“Yeah,” Stiles replied. “We really do.”
He wanted to say more, but a volunteer in a Beacon’s Best Bites shirt appeared and asked for a photo. They stood shoulder to shoulder, and Stiles thought about how weird it was to want to be this close to someone. To want to stay close, even after the cameras stopped flashing.
When it was done, Derek slung his arm around Stiles’s shoulders and pulled him into a quick, fierce hug. “We’re not done yet,” he said, voice thick.
Stiles hugged him back, surprise and delight fizzing in his chest. “Good. I’m not ready for this to be over.”
Derek’s hand lingered on his back. “Let’s go see how we did.”
The crowd swallowed them up, but Stiles felt bigger than himself, walking through the throng with Derek at his side.
+++++
The hours after the demo dragged and sprinted all at once. Stiles and Derek spent the afternoon orbiting the contest floor, sampling the other teams’ entries, exchanging small talk with the press, and dodging requests for selfies from students who claimed they were “Team Haleboy 4 Life.” Every time Stiles looked up, the digital leaderboard hung over the food court, numbers ticking up as the voting came in.
As far as the food was for the event? Yeah, there were a few stinkers, but 80% of the competitors made one fact for certain. Beacon Hills truly was becoming a food capital. The things he ate were things that would rival something at Hales with enough time and money put into them. Honestly, their beignets were good, but he was curious if they’d still managed to eek a win out.
At four, with a half hour left before the final tally, Derek commandeered a booth at a deserted noodle place and flagged Stiles down with a wave.
Stiles slid into the seat opposite, running a hand through his hair. “I can’t believe the turnout. We’re probably going to have a hard time on this one.”
Derek shook his head. “We’ve got this. Sure, the others had some good dishes, but we were more entertaining. Not to mention the handsome Baker Prince,” he said, warmly.
Stiles grinned, heat rising in his cheeks. “Don’t jinx it. Last time I got this cocky, I broke myself and beaned my head on your floor.”
“You didn’t break yourself,” Derek said, leaning forward. “I don’t think someone as amazing as you would ever let yourself break entirely. You’re too strong for that.”
Stiles opened his mouth to fire back, but something in Derek’s expression stopped him. There was a softness there, something rare and vulnerable. For a second, the rest of the world dropped out.
Was… Was Derek flirting with him?!
“I meant what I said,” Derek continued, quieter. “We make a good team.”
Stiles’s heart stuttered. He’d never been great at feelings, but he could recognize a moment when it happened. “Yeah,” he said, voice rough. “We do.”
They leaned close, hands gently grazing against each other.
The mall PA squawked, sending them both jolting away, as an announcement rang out that voting was closed and the winners would be revealed in fifteen minutes. The atrium started to fill again, everyone drifting toward the main stage. They stood, walked side by side through the crowd, shoulders bumping.
The MC stepped up to the mic, drawing out the suspense. Stiles barely listened until the end, not really caring about any other name being called out. “—and in first place for the September round, Team Haleboy, with their Autumn Beignet!”
The roar from the crowd was thunderous, but not as loud as the rush in Stiles’s ears. Derek let out a breath, then did something unexpected as he grabbed Stiles by the waist, lifted him clean off the ground, and spun him in a wide, dizzying circle.
“Holy shit, Derek!” Stiles yelped, laughing, arms flailing until he clung tight around Derek’s neck for balance.
Derek set him down but didn’t let go. He held Stiles there, hands gripping his sides, foreheads nearly touching.
“We did it,” Derek said, voice low and full of something that made Stiles’s knees go weak.
Stiles stared at him, eyes wide, the world spinning a little. “We really did.”
The crowd surged forward, cameras flashing, but Stiles barely noticed. He could feel Derek’s breath, the weight of his hands, the electric charge between them.
Eventually, they untangled, shaking hands and taking bows for the stage photos. Derek let his hand linger on Stiles’s back, like an anchor.
Stiles barely listened to the talk about the October Halloween round, because he’d deal with the paperwork later. In that moment, honestly, wasn’t sure what made him happier. That he’d made it to the next round and kept himself in the race for the prize money? Or, that he and Derek would be forced to keep working with each other for another month?
Both? Both sounded good.
As the crowd thinned, Derek leaned in, his voice a private rumble. “You hungry?”
Stiles grinned, sly. “Always.”
Derek smiled, then jerked his head toward the parking lot. “Let’s celebrate. My treat.”
“Lead the way,” Stiles said, matching Derek’s stride as they walked out into the cooling night. He didn’t know where the night would end, but he knew, without a doubt, who he wanted to spend it with.
+++++
Derek never got used to how cold Northern California got after sunset in fall, way before Winter reared its frozen head. The air outside Lucky Dragon was a bracing shock, burning his lungs as he and Stiles made their way from the car to the glowing red door. Stiles walked ahead, hands jammed in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the night, but the bounce in his step was unmistakable.
Inside, the warmth was immediate, the heavy, humid air thick with spice, ginger, and the smoky note of a fresh wok. The place was almost empty except for a booth in the corner where a bored employee sat, watching Chinese soap operas on a flickering tablet.
Derek gestured for a booth. “You been here before?”
Stiles grinned, sliding into the seat. “Are you kidding? I had plenty of birthday parties here. I was the only kid who ate duck while everyone else went for lo mein. I peaked early.”
Derek laughed, surprising himself. He’d been in a hundred restaurants like this, but never with anyone like Stiles.
Menus arrived, but Stiles didn’t open his. “If you order General Tso’s, I’ll cry. There’s a special menu, just for the local owners, we all help each other out around here.”
Derek raised an eyebrow. “You have a connection?”
“I’ve been here my whole life. Don’t worry, I’ll hook you up too,” Stiles replied, then waved down the owner. They exchanged a rapid-fire volley in what sounded like a horrible mess of English and Mandarin, and within two minutes, an entire off-menu spread landed on the table, with pork dumplings, a bowl of fried rice with a rich sauce on top, scallion pancakes, glistening lacquered duck.
They ate in the lazy, greedy way of people who’d been running on adrenaline and not much else. Stiles moaned over the dumplings, and Derek felt his chest go light.
The truth was… Derek hadn’t been able to keep his eyes off Stiles since the night he’d been invited over to his house for soup. No, probably since he’d collapsed in his restraint.
He’d never thought about relationships or love. Or even what he’d be attracted to, but there were some things about Stiles that set him off. Like the dozens of cute moles that dotted his pale skin. His long arms that gave the tightest hugs. A pair of honey-brown eyes that looked like molten gold in the early morning light. Then, of course, there was the rather nice way that his hips were curved, and the way that he fit into the backside of a pair of jeans.
Ranking highest above that, though, was just… Stiles himself. Who he was as a person. His humor. His kindness. His devotion. His passion. This was a man who knew what he wanted and did everything to get it. Someone who understood what legacy meant. Probably the only soul who Derek could relate to on any level.
Derek couldn’t stop staring. He never wanted Stiles to stop talking. Just being around him made him feel… Alive.
“You know, when I was a kid,” Stiles said, breaking Derek’s concentration. “I thought the best part of growing up would be eating whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. My mom used to ration out the cookies and wouldn’t let me lick the spoons. I thought she was a dictator.”
Derek smiled, imagining it. “My mom was the same way. Only, she made me taste every dish on the menu before I could get dessert. Said I had to learn every flavor in the world before I could claim to be a chef. I don’t think I ever had an ordinary meal anywhere. Just sampling menus.”
“Isn’t it weird?” Stiles asked, leaning in, voice gone soft and confessional. “How food is supposed to be about family and connecting with each other, but then, when you work in that industry, it ends up being about everything else. Like, running the bakery was supposed to make me feel closer to my mom, but up until recently it just makes me feel… tired, mostly. Tired and sad. I feel like I’m faking it half the time.”
Derek met his gaze. “You’re not faking it. You’re the real deal. I’ve seen chefs who train their whole lives and never care as much as you do.”
Stiles’s face went pink, a smile flickering across his lips. “Careful, you’re going to make me cry. Or, like, do something embarrassing.”
Derek wanted to say, “Go ahead,” but the words stuck. Instead, he refilled Stiles’s cup, pushing the plate of duck closer.
They drifted through the meal, talking about everything except what mattered. About the next round of the contest, about how Erica was plotting a dessert coup, about how Liam had convinced half his class to vote for Haleboy, and Allison quietly becoming the silent boss of Doughboy.
As the plates emptied, the conversation quieted. The restaurant around them faded, the world shrinking to just their booth and the glow of the red lanterns overhead.
Derek cleared his throat, realizing he’d been staring at Stiles’s hands. Quick, expressive, always in motion when he talks. He’d never really noticed hands before. At least, not unless it had something to do with cooking. Stiles had nice hands… He really wanted to hold them.
“So, uh,” Derek started, “I realized tonight that I haven’t had this much fun in a long time. Maybe ever.”
Stiles looked up, eyes wide. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Derek said, feeling the truth of it settle in his chest. “I used to think the best thing in the world was cooking for strangers, seeing their faces when they tasted what a Hale could do, and strengthening our legacy. But lately, I think… the best thing is sharing it with someone who gets it. Having dinner with you has been… One of the best things to ever happen to me.”
The words hung between them, heavy and bare. Derek wanted to crawl out of his own skin, for being so vulnerable, but also wanted to see what Stiles would do.
Stiles toyed with the edge of his napkin, then blurted, “Can I ask you a really personal question?”
Derek nodded, not trusting his voice.
“Have you ever dated anyone?” Stiles asked, then immediately backtracked. “Sorry, you don’t have to answer that. It’s none of my business, it’s just, you seem like someone who’s… intense. Like, all or nothing.”
Derek blinked, realizing how pathetic his answer was. “No. Never had time. Even if I did, I came with a log of emotional baggage. A lot.”
Stiles nodded, biting his lip. “I haven’t really dated anyone. Never had time, either. I mean, there was a guy in Vegas I knew when I was still working out there, but it was just, you know. A thing. Never went anywhere. Not even the bedroom.”
Derek smiled, leaning in. “What about now? Do you have time now?”
The question slipped before he could catch it. Stiles’s mouth dropped open, then snapped shut, like he was trying to process what had just happened.
“I don’t know,” Stiles said, softly. “Maybe. I think, with the right person, I’d make the time.”
They sat there, staring at each other, the question floating in the air, neither of them wanting to be the one to break the spell.
Finally, Stiles looked away, a flush creeping up his neck. “You want to get out of here? Maybe, walk or something?”
Derek nodded, and for the first time in a long time, he felt completely, stupidly, incandescently happy.
They left the warmth of Lucky Dragon, stepping out into the cold. Derek could still feel the taste of wine on his tongue, the echo of Stiles’s words in his head.
He wanted to reach for Stiles’s hand, to bridge the last inch between them, but he held back. Instead, he walked alongside him, close enough to feel the heat where their arms almost touched.
The world outside was sharp and dark, but for once, Derek didn’t mind. He could walk all night, if it was with Stiles.
+++++
The wind of the forest came colder than expected. Derek had planned on a walk, a slow return to their cars, but the night had other ideas.
Stiles shivered, shoulders hunched under his hoodie. Derek wasn’t immune to the cold, but he had a higher tolerance, from decades of kitchen burns and the thick layer of muscle that insulated him. Still, the urge to close the gap, to share what little warmth he had, was almost overwhelming.
He steered them toward Main Street, opposite their cars, where the glow of the streetlights bled orange across the sidewalk. Most of the shops were closed, except for the all-night coffee stand near the corner, its window rimed with condensation and the smell of burnt espresso escaping every time the door swung open.
Stiles eyed the coffee stand, then looked up at Derek, eyes huge and hopeful. “I know we just ate, like, four million calories in duck and dumplings, but I really want hot chocolate. Is that weird?”
Derek grinned. “Not weird at all. Actually, sounds perfect.”
They ducked into the vestibule, pressed up shoulder-to-shoulder in a space barely big enough for a single customer. The woman behind the register didn’t even blink at the late hour. She made their drinks fast, topping both with mountains of whipped cream.
Back outside, they walked through the wooded paths of the local park, darkened by trees that blot out the sky, but lit with fairy lights along the dusty trail. Stiles took a huge sip, emerging with a crown of white foam on his upper lip and the tip of his nose. Derek laughed, and Stiles looked at him, faux-offended.
“Something funny?”
“Yeah,” Derek said, “but I don’t want to hurt your feelings.”
Stiles set his cup down, wiped at his face, and missed entirely. Derek snorted, pointing back at the still-present mess on Stiles’ nose “If you’re that offended by it, why don’t’ you fix it, then?” he said, half-joking.
Derek’s heart beat in double-time. He couldn’t tell if it was the caffeine or the proximity, or the way Stiles’s eyes glinted in the streetlight, but he felt electric, reckless.
He leaned in, slower than he meant to, and pressed his lips to the tip of Stiles’s nose, letting the sweetness of the cream melt against his tongue as he licked it off. He drew back, lips grazing across skin, as he then pressed a gentle kiss, no more than a peck, on Stiles’ lips, and was rewarded with a stunned, brilliant blush spreading over Stiles’s face.
“There. I fixed it.”
“Oh,” Stiles said, voice gone quiet. He dropped the hot chocolate entirely, where it splattered onto the ground with a loud clutter.
Derek panicked for a second, afraid he’d misread the moment. He opened his mouth to apologize, felt a burning in the back of his eyes, tears threatening to release, but Stiles’s hand found his arm, fingers curling in the fabric of his coat.
“Just a second,” Stiles murmured, a lopsided smile pulling at his mouth. In a move so quick Derek barely tracked it, Stiles reached into Derek’s cup and gathered a fresh blob of whipped cream and promptly spread it onto Derek’s lower lip. “You missed a spot. I think I should… Repay the favor,” Stiles said, eyes bright and hungry.
Derek didn’t hesitate. He dipped his head, caught Stiles’s mouth with his own, and kissed him, soft at first, then deeper, hungrier as Stiles met him halfway.
A high-pitched groan from Stiles set off a deep growl in himself, and he wrapped his arms around Stiles’ waist, pulling them together.
They dug deep, as Stiles wrapped his arms around Derek’s midsection. In what seemed like an eternity, neither of them came up for air, trying to breath as one being, so the moment could go on forever.
It was nothing like Derek had imagined. All those years of thinking he’d never get this right, that he was too broken or too obsessed with work or too weird for regular romance. Here, with Stiles, it felt easy, inevitable.
The cold around them faded, replaced by the heat of the kiss and the slick sugar of the cream melting between them.
Stiles broke off first, gasping for air. He looked at Derek, dazed and happy.
“You’re a menace,” Derek said, wiping his lip, then leaning in again.
Stiles caught him with a hand to his jaw, steadied him, and kissed him back. Messier, wetter, perfect.
After a while, the need for oxygen won out.
Stiles stepped back, breathing hard. “So… Is this, like, a thing?”
Derek nodded, no hesitation. “If you want it to be.”
Stiles smiled, then looked down, almost shy. “I really do.”
They stood in shared silence with each other. Letting the joy of the moment wash over them. Neither needed words. Not now, anyway. Derek walked them back to the parking lot, arms and hands interlocked. At the intersection, Derek stopped, turned to face Stiles, and let the words come out, simple and true.
“Come home with me? Just so I can… Hold you. A little longer. To make sure you’re real. That this is real...”
In a moment Derek would remember for the rest of his life, he watched as Stiles bright and beaming face nodded. “Y-Yeah… I’d love that, Der.”
Notes:
Thank you for reading! Comments are always appreciated.
Chapter Text
The hallway of Derek’s apartment building was a gauntlet of blue-tinged shadows, none of which gave Stiles the slightest bit of pause as he stumbled toward Derek’s door. They’d taken the stairs two at a time, laughing in the thin hush of quiet night. Stiles’s lungs burned with adrenaline and maybe, just maybe, the thrill of having just made out with his… Boyfriend? Did he just say that?
Derek, keys in hand, shot Stiles a loving look over his shoulder that could have melted through a brick of chocolate. “You’re going to wake up the entire building,” he whispered, failing to stifle his own smile.
“Only if you keep grabbing my ass on the landings,” Stiles fired back, but his words stumbled as Derek, quite pointedly, did it again, earning a loud cackle from Stiles.
The click of the lock, the push of the door, and suddenly they were inside.
Derek’s space was both meticulously clean and cluttered at the same time, with dozens of delivery boxes stacked up from kitchen stores taking up his living room, a messy gym bag by the wall with a dirty towel sticking out of it, and an unholy amount of takeout boxes piled up in a trashcan – the latter a pure sin and shock beyond words in Stiles eyes.
Stiles’s shoes were half off before he registered that Derek had already shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it over the nearest chair. He closed the door, then pressed his back to it, daring himself to meet Derek’s gaze. Derek was right there, already, and the world narrowed to heat and possibility.
The next kiss was wild and not at all as smooth as Stiles imagined. Derek slammed him against the door, palms flat on either side of his head, teeth nipping at the corner of Stiles’s mouth. Stiles clawed at Derek’s hips, fingers bunching up the soft fabric of his henley. He’d spent the entire drive picturing what Derek Hale would taste like when his brain wasn’t short-circuiting in the park, and the answer was somewhere between black coffee, citrus, and the hard spark of electricity.
Stiles laughed into the kiss, feeling giddy and reckless. He let himself be picked up, Derek was way stronger than anyone had a right to be and got deposited onto the edge of the kitchen counter. Derek’s mouth found the column of Stiles’s throat, the sharp line of his jaw, and Stiles lost himself in the wet, needy sensation of it.
“Should we…?” Stiles started, then lost the thought as Derek’s tongue mapped the hollow below his ear.
“Bedroom?” Derek offered, voice gone husky.
“Yeah,” Stiles muttered, barely above a whisper.
They abandoned a trail of clothing from the galley kitchen to the barely furnished bedroom, each piece a shed layer of nerves. The air in the bedroom was warmer, tinged with cedar and the scent of expensive cologne. The bed was unmade but crisply white, the thick quilted charcoal sheets thrown back in anticipation.
Stiles grinned, one leg still in his jeans, as he tried to strip and crawl onto the bed at the same time. Derek, undressing with methodical ease, took a moment to watch. His gaze was dark, almost possessive, but he waited until Stiles was perched on the edge, arms out and expecting a warm embrace.
Then Derek kissed him again, slower this time, pressing Stiles back onto the mattress as he wrapped around him. The weight of Derek was everything Stiles had ever wanted in a partner, solid and grounding and safe. Their chests were bare, the friction of skin on skin a bright, wild contrast to the cool sheets below. Stiles’s hands slid down Derek’s back, tracing the ladder of muscle there, and he couldn’t help but murmur, “Holy shit, the muscles are real. I thought it was photoshop. How do you stay so fit and eat as much as you do?”
“I work hard for those,” Derek warned playfully, lips brushing the curve of Stiles’s cheek. “Glad you like them.”
Stiles gasped, feeling Derek’s hips slot perfectly between his thighs. Nothing had happened yet. They were still dressed in their underwear, and yet, Stiles felt his body shuddering. “Ohhh-kayy, that’s… Wow. Intimacy is weird. Getting touched is… Great.” He groaned as Derek ground against him, nothing but thin cotton between them.
“You talk too much,” Derek growled, but a smile was all in his voice. “-but keep going.”
Stiles wanted to say he could stop anytime he wanted, but instead… Hands everywhere. Derek’s fingers at the waistband of Stiles’s underwear, skimming over the elastic. Stiles’s nails raked over Derek’s ribs, delighting in the shiver it pulled from him. Their legs tangled, friction and heat building as the minutes burned away.
Derek shifted down, mouthing at Stiles’s collarbone, then lower, lips soft but insistent as he mapped a trail along the pale, freckled skin. Stiles arched up, breath sharp, arms overhead as Derek nipped at his ribs, his belly, the soft patch just above his waistband. The room felt impossibly hot.
-and of course, that’s when Stiles’ eyes eyed the clock on Derek’s nightstand.
Oh. It was already midnight.
Oh.
It was already MIDNIGHT.
On a workday.
Every erotic bone in Stiles’ body came crashing to a screeching halt. He grabbed Derek’s head, stopping as the man’s teeth started to pull down the waistband.
“Wait,” Stiles gasped, equal parts a plea of warning and disappointed groan.
Derek stilled immediately, eyes darting up, gentle even in the dim lighting. “Too fast?”
Stiles let out a shuddering laugh, chest rising and falling in sharp peaks. “It’s, no, you’re, amazing, I would kill to continue, but-” He blew out a slow breath, trying to corral the runaway train of his body and the noticeable bulge in his underwear. “I just realized I have to start baking in four hours, start stocking at six, and open at eight. Which is in, like, four hours. And if I do this with you, I will actually die. Like, physically die. I will not survive it. I will be like limp laffy taffy in the bakery with a sore ass, and I will lose all my customers because my scones suck.”
Derek blinked, then started laughing, low and startled. The tension in the room snapped, from intense and erotic to gentle and joyful. Yet, it felt good, right even. He rolled onto his back, breathing just as hard as Stiles.
Both men were all smiles, equal parts regret and relief as they understood each other.
“I should have warned you,” Derek said, voice still catching in his throat. “I have an early morning too. Early deliveries, and we have a brunch group of VIPs I have to wine and dine. Investors. For both the city and Hales.”
Stiles covered his face with both hands. “Oh my god. I am so sorry. I have never done this before. I didn’t think about… You know. Work.”
“Which part?” Derek asked, propped up on an elbow, and smiled crookedly.
“The… all of it,” Stiles admitted, feeling like he was sixteen again and on the verge of hyperventilating. “I mean, yeah, I’ve made out with a few people, but I’ve never gotten past, like, any bases whatsoever, and I especially haven’t done it with someone I wanted to be with. Someone who makes me feel like… You make me feel.”
Derek leaned over, peeled Stiles’s hands from his face, and kissed him. Soft this time, just lips pressed together, a question asked and answered in the silence. “We don’t have to do anything. I just wanted you here. I might have just gotten… Carried away. I’m like you. I’ve never been… Intimate before. I want that, too, but… Yeah, we just can’t tonight, can we?”
Stiles’s heart nearly detonated in his chest. “I do want to. Just, I also want to remember when it happens? Instead of being asleep-deprived trainwreck the next day? Can I have a rain check? I’d REALLY like a rain check.”
“You can have as many as you want,” Derek said, nudging Stiles’s shoulder with his nose. “But next time, I’m going to wine and dine you first. Proper date. Fancy napkin. Whole nine yards.”
Stiles grinned. “Oh, so you’re a romantic.”
“Only for you.”
The ache in Stiles’s body had faded, replaced by warmth that had nothing to do with lust and everything to do with safety. He burrowed under the sheets, letting Derek wrap an arm around his middle, big spoon to his little. They fit together with embarrassing perfection, Derek’s hand heavy and secure against Stiles’s chest.
Stiles drifted, the tension of the night dissolved into the soft, pulsing beat of Derek’s heart against his back.
Just before he dropped off, he whispered, “Hey, Derek?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad you kissed me first. Because I’m a massive chicken and needed you to push me.”
A squeeze, gentle as a promise. “I’m glad too, Stiles.”
He fell asleep smiling.
+++++
Doughboy’s predawn hours were the loneliest, and Stiles normally relished it. The world shrank to the whirr of his battered mixer, the pulse of his earbuds, the monotonous rhythm of butter and flour coming together under his hands. Today, he couldn’t focus.
He blamed Derek entirely. Specifically, he blamed the memory of Derek’s arms wrapped around him, the way Derek’s hand fit over his chest, and how getting out of bed that morning and coming to work was the most difficult thing he’d ever done in his life. That and, of course, the actual fact that Stiles had spent the night in someone else’s bed, and woken up happier than he could ever remember, because of the other person.
By the time Isaac showed up to open the register at 8, Stiles had somehow ended up making the cinnamon rolls with the wrong frosting, filled the danishes with icing instead of filling, and the doughnuts only had green frosting, which were surprisingly just as haunting as Derek’s eyes. As a result, he’d re-written the specials board twice. Isaac yawned, gave Stiles a weird look, and got started on the espresso machine.
Not ten minutes into opening, with Stiles trying desperately to focus on a birthday cake, was he already interrupted. “Hey boss, there’s a delivery for you,” Isaac called, poking his head into the kitchen. “You want me to sign for it?”
Stiles scrubbed flour off his forearms. “Unless it’s another shipment of unroasted coffee beans I know I already cancelled twice now, go ahead.”
Isaac returned a moment later, arms full. He set down a gigantic vase brimming with long-stemmed red roses, their scent so heady and cloying it set off the alarms in Stiles’s brain. The arrangement was ridiculous; the kind of thing meant for a prom proposal or the opening night of an opera. It was so dramatic, it could only be one person’s fault.
Stiles plucked the envelope from the bouquet. The front was addressed, in flawless calligraphy, to “The Prince of Bakers.” He rolled his eyes but felt his pulse spike.
Inside, the card read:
Tonight. 7pm. Hales VIP Room. Dress sharp. Prepare to be wined and dined. -D
Stiles squawked, “Oh my god, is he for real?”
Isaac smirked. “Has hell frozen over, or are you in a weird relationship with your flour and sugar guy?”
“Shut up,” Stiles muttered, but he couldn’t stop grinning.
He managed to get through the morning rush, though he dropped a tray of scones on the floor and accidentally poured a gallon of cream into the carrot cake batter instead of milk. For the best, abandoned the shop before noon, trusting Isaac and Allison to keep the place from burning down, and drove straight home.
Stiles stared at his closet for ten solid minutes. His options were: several band t-shirts (all with stains), three pairs of jeans that barely fit, and a suit he hadn’t worn since his mother’s funeral that was three sizes too big. None of them felt right.
So, he did something he hadn’t done in years. He went shopping. In a rush, he spent a small fortune at the nearest mall, walking out with a slate-gray button-up and pants so soft they felt illegal. On a whim, he picked up a jacket in deep navy, because the sales clerk said it “brought out the caramel in his eyes.” He had no idea if that was a compliment or just good marketing, but he’d already committed.
The nerves hit hard as he showered, shaved, and tried and old hair product from his high school days before giving up and letting it do its own thing. By six-thirty, he was pacing his apartment in brand-new shoes, palms sweating, and second-guessing his entire existence.
He made it to Hales with three minutes to spare. The place was packed, the lobby humming with customers in business-casual and couples in date-night best. Stiles hovered by the entryway, feeling like a fraud in the wrong tax bracket, when Erica appeared from the kitchen.
She spotted him instantly. “Stilinski! You clean up nice.”
“Uh. Thanks. Is Derek…?”
“He’s in the back. Come on.” Erica grabbed his arm from the back of the long waiting line, brought him straight to the front and towed him through a maze of tables, ignoring the startled looks from diners as she swept Stiles into a side hallway and through a discreet door marked “Private – Closed to All Guests Tonight”
The VIP room was nothing like the rest of Hales. There were no overhead lighting, just soft pools of light from candle chandeliers and a single long table dressed in crisp white. It could easily hold 20 people at this one table, 30 if they brought in some additional seating, with only two places set. Derek was waiting at the far end, still in his chef’s coat, sleeves rolled and collar open. He looked up and for one weird second, he seemed just as nervous as Stiles.
“Hey,” Derek said, voice gone a little shy. “You made it.”
“You sent a bouquet big enough to make a Hallmark Christmas Movie jealous. How could I not?”
Derek shrugged, his mouth twitching. “Wanted to impress you.”
Stiles crossed the room, unsure if they were supposed to hug or shake hands. He opted for the safe route, flopping into the seat opposite Derek and blurting, “So, what’s for dinner?”
“Anything you want,” Derek replied, eyes glinting. “Literally. If you don’t see it on the menu, I’ll make it for you. The entire Hale Legacy and every cooking style of the world is at your disposal. I will cook your heart’s greatest desire.”
Oh. Wow. Stiles quietly thought about what that meant. Derek was literally giving him a world-class dining experience. The kind of experience nobody else in the world could hope to have.
Stiles rested his chin on his hand, faking nonchalance. “What if I asked for something insane, like, I dunno, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?”
Derek arched an eyebrow, willing to play this game with a wide smirk. “I’d make you the best PB&J you’ve ever had in your life.”
“What about chicken nuggets and french fries?” Stiles teased.
“You’d be ordering off the kids’ menu I already offer. Weird flex, but I mean, if that’s what you wanted.” Derek rolled his eyes, taking a long, deep breath and shuffling in his seat. “But… I’d like to do something amazing for you. So, I hope you’ll pick something I can impress you with.”
Stiles snorted, then softened. “Actually, could you… Just surprise me? I want to eat whatever means the most to you. Your favorite recipe. The one you love to make the most.”
Derek’s gaze went a little distant. He nodded once, then stood. “Okay. Give me some time. Don’t run away.”
When Derek disappeared into the kitchen, the quiet of the empty space felt almost oppressive. Stiles picked at the napkin, then let his eyes wander around the room. There were a few framed photos, mostly of Derek and his sister, sometimes together in chef’s whites, sometimes in regular clothes. There was even one of them as kids, beaming over a cake with sparklers.
Stiles stood up, walking and seeing the ghosts of the Hale family, memorialized in photos in the room. Derek’s father had the same serious look about him, but had adoring eyes whenever he stared at his wife. Derek’s mother seemed strict in most of the pictures, the kind of woman you didn’t sass, but at the same time, he saw her almost always having her arm lovingly around her husband or children, never far away. The one that broke Stiles’ heart was of Cora, the younger sibling who’d died in the car crash with Derek’s parents. None of the pictures showed her beyond her 6th birthday, and she seemed so young.
It hit him, all at once, how rare it was for someone to get to see this side of Derek. He felt special. More than special.
Some time later, Derek returned with a pair of covered silver trays. He set one in front of Stiles and lifted the lid with a tiny flourish.
Filet mignon, cooked so perfectly pink that it almost glowed, with a simmering scent that made his mouth water. A side of baked potato, crisped to gold, and a ribbon of vegetables so vibrant Stiles was sure they’d been picked that morning.
Stiles nearly moaned at the sight. “Oh my god, I think that might be the best think I’ve ever seen in my life.”
Derek sat, removed his own lid, and for a moment, they just… ate. Every bite was a knockout, the Steak literally melted in his mouth, but it was the potato that ruined Stiles. Creamy, cheesy, flecked with some green thing that made it taste even richer.
He devoured half his plate before coming up for air. “This is insane. Is this your family’s recipe?”
Derek shook his head, slow. “This was the first fancy meal my sister ever taught me when I was still a punk kid. She used to make it when things were… tough. We were both stubborn people, so this is what she did when she wanted to show someone she loved them, without actually saying it. Apparently, this meal is what earned her a Michelin star in New York. It’s a take on an old family recipe that our parents thought was too “plain” and told us to forget about.”
Stiles blinked, throat tight. He wanted to say something witty, but honestly? This meal deserved more than that. This really was, in Derek’s language, the biggest declaration of love he could give.
Instead, Stiles merely said: “It’s the best meal I’ve ever had.”
Derek flushed, gaze dropping. “Glad you like it.”
They finished in companionable silence. When Stiles finally put his fork down, he leaned back, eyes closed. “I can’t move. You’ve killed me.”
Derek smiled, then signaled to the hall. Erica appeared, carrying a dessert plate. “For the gentleman,” she intoned, setting it in front of Stiles.
It was a fruit tart, but nothing like the ones he’d grown up with. The crust was impossibly crisp, the custard light and bright, and the fruit was layered in a spiral, each piece fanned with geometric precision. The first bite was tart, the second bite pure sugar. By the third bite, Stiles was groaning.
He looked up, fork poised and caught Derek watching him.
“Is this your recipe?” Stiles asked, licking custard from his fork.
Derek shook his head. “Erica’s. She made it special. She said it’s inspired by your mom’s, but… with a twist. A part of her journey inspired by Claudia.”
Stiles took another bite, feeling tears prickle behind his eyes. He thought about all the ways his mother showed love: a surprise tart on his birthday, a plate of warm cookies after a bad day, a cup of hot chocolate when he couldn’t sleep. She would have loved this. Hell, she would have been honored that someone like Erica would be inspired by someone like her.
He set the fork down, afraid he might actually cry. “This is really good.”
“I’m glad,” Derek said, voice soft. “You deserve good things.”
Stiles wiped his eyes, then reached across the table, letting his fingers brush Derek’s. “So do you.”
For a long moment, they just held hands, neither wanting to let go.
Finally, Stiles managed, “So, is this what dating is? Or are we going to mess this up by actually talking about feelings?”
Derek squeezed his hand, warm and sure. “We can talk about whatever you want. As long as you’re here.”
Stiles thought about his old life, all the ways he’d closed himself off, how much smaller the world had gotten since he lost his mother. He thought about this night, and Derek, and the gift of letting himself be happy.
He smiled, wide and unguarded, and raised his glass. “To new things,” he said.
Derek clinked his own glass against Stiles’s, eyes never leaving him. “To new things.”
They finished dessert, sharing bites back and forth, each a little braver than the last.
Afterwards, as the restaurant emptied and the city faded into night, Stiles lingered. He didn’t want the moment to end. He didn’t want to go back to the life he’d been living before. He was pretty sure Derek felt the same way.
When they finally left, hands brushing as they walked through the empty restaurant, Stiles thought to himself that maybe, just maybe, this was the start of something new. He couldn’t wait to see where it went.
+++++
Derek had just finished a prep session for the evening service, a few days after his attempt at wooing Stiles, when Boyd poked his head into the walk-in, holding a blinding yellow arrangement of sunflowers wrapped in brown paper. “Hey, Chef. This came for you. There’s a card.”
Derek blinked at the flowers. Sunflowers were so big and gaudy, they looked almost comically out of place against the industrial white tile and steel shelving of Hales. There was only one person this could be from. Derek smiled, took them from Boyd, ignoring the staff’s thinly veiled smirks, and found the envelope, the name “Derek Hale” lettered in all caps and underlined twice.
Inside, the note read:
Meet me for a live demo at my place. 8pm. Eat beforehand, we’re having dessert ;) . —S
Derek felt the smile start at the back of his throat and spread to the corners of his mouth. “Anything you want to share, Chef?” Erica called from the prep line, her gaze glinting.
“None of your business,” he replied, but there was no bite to it.
At 7:55 that evening, Derek stood outside Stiles’s door, trying to remember how to knock like a normal person. The building was older than most, the paint peeling at the edges of the door’s frame. Despite his years in Europe traveling across the continent and living in so many unique places, and for all his years of false bravado, the idea of being on the receiving end of a dinner invitation made him feel like a freshman on his first college date.
He rapped his knuckles once, twice, and the door swung open to reveal Stiles, flour-dusted and wild-eyed, in a threadbare Queen t-shirt and low-cut gym shorts that left nothing to the imagination.
“Hey! You made it!” Stiles blurted, then seemed to realize he had a glob of chocolate on his chin. He wiped it away with his thumb, only to smudge it deeper.
“Were you expecting someone else?” Derek teased, stepping inside. The space was small but warm, a combination of thrift-store chic and secondhand family photos. The whole apartment was suffused with the smell of baking chocolate and rising yeast, with an undercurrent of vanilla and sugar.
Stiles led Derek into the tiny galley kitchen. Every surface was in use, but the space was shockingly clean; it looked like Stiles had been tidying for hours. There was a rolling rack set up in the corner, a massive slab of chilling dough on a baking sheet, and some of the most chaotic (yet organized?) mise en place he’d ever seen in a kitchen.
“Do you always go full mad scientist when you bake?” Derek asked, scanning the workspace.
Stiles grinned. “Only for special occasions.”
He cleared his throat, suddenly serious, and gestured for Derek to join him at the counter. “Okay. This is weird, but, um, I have something I want to show you. It’s… kind of a big deal. I felt like it was only fair because you shared something so personal with me, that I wanted to share something personal with you. …and it’s a little terrifying for me, so I may need you to help me breath.”
Derek leaned against the fridge, arms folded. “I’m listening.”
Stiles reached under the counter and brought up a large, leather-bound book. The cover was worn, the corners soft, and when he placed it on the countertop, Derek saw the gold-embossed script: “Levasseur Recettes de Famille.”
“OH.” Derek’s mind short-circuited.
“I’ve never let anyone other than my mother see this,” Stiles said, voice trembling with nerves. “But I want you to. Because… you’re the only person I know who might actually get it.”
Derek didn’t move, didn’t even breathe. Because, there it was. Stiles’ inheritance and his mother’s cookbook, bound in centuries of leather and ink. He recognized the weight of the gesture, the sacredness of a family’s culinary legacy.
Stiles opened the book to a page already bookmarked, revealing a sprawl of French cursive, annotated in the margins and clipped notes. The recipe at the top was for “Croissants au Chocolat, Claudia,” and below it, in careful blue ink, “Perfected 1995 — for my newborn son, Stiles”
“My mom’s signature,” Stiles explained, tracing the name with one finger. “She spent years tweaking this recipe. Sometimes, when she was sad, or missing her own mom, she’d bake a batch and write new notes. I remember watching her make them when I was little, thinking it was magic. Like she could just will happiness into existence.”
Derek felt the ache in his chest, the hollow of missing his own family. He ran a thumb along the edge of the page, reverent.
“I want you to watch me make it,” Stiles said, blushing. “Then I want you to do it. Like, teach it back to me, so you know how to make it. I want to know it’ll survive outside my head, you know? That it’s not just mine anymore. So if something did happen to me, at least… At least this would survive.”
Derek nodded, solemn. “I’d be honored.”
They worked side by side, Stiles narrating every step, his hands never quite steady. He showed Derek the way the butter should be cold but pliable, how the dough needed three turns, not two, and why the chocolate had to be chopped in uneven shards, like diamonds, At each step, Stiles showed off a little quirk, from a flick of water on the dough before rolling, to the tiniest pinch of cinnamon in the flour, the way he cut the triangles just off-center for more flake with the tinies dollop of honey.
“Be nice to us. This is a big night for Derek and I. I’d appreciate your support,” Stiles spoke, directly into the dough and offering a quiet reassurance as he patted it.
Derek watched, enthralled, trying to memorize every movement. “You really do talk to your food,” he said at one point, as Stiles coaxed the dough into shape with gentle, almost affectionate words.
Stiles rolled his eyes. “Shut up. Mom is very insistent we are nice to our food. Because happy food is tasty food, and tasty food nourishes body and soul.”
When Stiles finished with the demonstration, Derek stepped in. He followed all of Stiles’ directions to the letter, referencing Claudia’s notes, surprised at how fluent the woman was in French - almost like it was her mother tongue. Testing the butter’s pliability was a new one for him, he resisted the urge for the fourth turn of the dough and mentally broke himself down by not allowing the chocolate to be cut evenly.
Before long, Stiles made four and Derek made four. The croissants proofed while they cleaned up, Stiles nervously fidgeting as he wiped down the counter. He fussed with the oven temperature, double-checked the timing, and set a towel over the tray like a blanket.
They sat at the table while the croissants baked, listening to music, sipping some wine, and letting the tension build. At one point, Derek looked up and found Stiles staring at him, expression wide and hopeful.
“Is it weird that I’m terrified right now?” Stiles admitted, picking at a seam in his shorts.
Derek shook his head. “Not at all. I know what it’s like to have a family ghost sitting in the kitchen with you.”
Stiles smiled, the tension breaking. “Yeah. Exactly.”
The timer dinged, sharp and loud, breaking Stiles out of his funk. Stiles rushed to the oven, pulled the tray, and presented it with a flourish - eight perfect, burnished croissants, the chocolate melting through the seams.
After cooling for a minute, each took one, tearing it open. The interior was honeycombed and tender, the crust shattering at the lightest touch. The scent was heady, rich, the chocolate dark and molten.
Derek took a bite, and it was as if someone had unplugged him from his own body and plugged him into something ancient and magical. He chewed, swallowed, then sat back, stunned.
“Holy shit,” he breathed. “That’s magic. Nothing you did should have resulted in this kind of flavor or consistency.”
Stiles beamed. “Told you.”
They devoured the rest in silence, the only sound the gentle crackle of pastry and the soft hum of the radio. When they were finished, Stiles wiped his hands on a napkin, then reached for Derek’s.
“Thank you for… Making it just like I showed you. I know it’s stupid, but I was scared you wouldn’t like it,” Stiles said, voice trembling. “Or that you’d want to change it, or make it better, or tell me our superstitions were stupid, or…”
Derek squeezed his fingers. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect. I’d never change a thing.”
For a long moment, neither spoke. They just existed, together.
As the sun set in the distance, and after asking Derek to stay the night, Stiles took Derek’s hand and led him through the home, into the back, where his bedroom was. Where he’d cleaned and put on a fresh set of sheets on the bed, where he drug Derek towards, toppling them both into a smiling mess of limbs and sugar-fueled energy.
Quietly, Derek realized something as Stiles climbed on top of him, straddling his waist with a seductive, playful smirk.
It was a Saturday.
Neither of them had to work the next day.
They had all the time in the world. Of which, they took their sweet time enjoying, properly.
++++
The morning after was all honeyed light and the warm hush of blankets pulled high.
Derek woke first, blinking the sleep from his eyes to find Stiles pressed flush against his side, one hand sprawled over Derek’s stomach, their legs tangled. The air in the apartment felt sacred, a single golden slant of sun painting Stiles’s back in soft stripes. The only sound was the low hum of of the heater and the gentle wheeze of Stiles’s snoring.
Derek laid there for a while, just… existing. It was unfamiliar, to feel so at peace and not immediately start planning the day or running triage on the next crisis. He could still taste last night on his lips, the chocolate and the salt, and something deeper. Hope, maybe. Or yearning?
Eventually, Stiles stirred, stretching with feline abandon before cracking one eye open. “You watching me sleep, you creep?” he slurred, the words half-melted with drowsiness.
“You snore,” Derek said, and Stiles punched him in the shoulder, then yawned like a lion.
“Only when I’m comfortable,” Stiles shot back, shifting so he could rest his head on Derek’s chest. His palm skimmed lazily along the line of Derek’s ribs, thumb tracing the arc of each breath.
Derek let the silence settle, unwilling to disturb the strange, delicious normalcy of it. Then, softly… “I could get used to this.”
Stiles smiled into his skin. “I have, like, nothing to do today. So let’s at least get another hour of the post-sex early morning after-glow, you know?”
They lay together, lazy and loose, until Stiles’s phone buzzed from the side table, the persistent ping of a reminder. Stiles groaned, then fished it up without breaking their embrace. “Reminder, Halloween contest round. Fuck, I’d forgotten. We were supposed to brainstorm today.”
“I am scared to ask what your idea will be this time. I heard rumors about a Halloween display you made a few years ago had the police called?” Derek asked, wrinkling his nose.
Stiles scoffed. “It wasn’t THAT scary, Susan is way too sensitive, and her kids are WEIRD. It wasn’t blood, I don’t care what everyone says, it was strawberry jam!” He sat up, only to be caught by Derek’s hand curling around his waist and dragging him right back down into the bed.
“So,” Derek said, pressing a kiss against Stiles’ neck, “Halloween. You know the contest wants ‘fun’ scary food. Not actually terrifying, just creative and weird. Plus, we have a full and real budget this time.”
Stiles rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling like it held the secrets of the universe. “I’ve already got a short list. Though it involves pumpkin. You hate pumpkin, right?”
“I don’t hate pumpkin,” Derek corrected, “I hate how Americans think pumpkin equals sugar and nutmeg. If you actually use it as a squash, it’s fine.”
“God, you’re such a food snob,” Stiles joked, pressing a kiss on Derek’s chest. He propped himself up on an elbow, sheet slithering down to expose the pale expanse of his stomach. “You ever do Halloween as a kid?”
Derek closed his eyes, remembering. “Some years. Mostly before… before everything went to hell. My mom would make us costumes from scratch. One year Laura and I went as Tweedledee and Tweedledum, and she spent weeks sewing these giant felt collars and hats.”
Stiles laughed, soft and genuine. “Bet you were adorable.”
“I was eight, and the hats were so heavy they gave us headaches. We hated them, but she insisted we’d be the talk of the block.” He grinned, wry. “She was right. We won a contest at the town party.”
Stiles nodded, filing it away. “My mom made all my costumes too, but she was a purist. I wasn’t allowed to buy anything plastic. My best one was a full mummy, but she made me do the wrapping myself so I could ‘appreciate the struggle of the afterlife.’” He snorted at the fond memories.
Derek slid his hand under the covers, finding Stiles’s thigh, thumb circling idly. “So, what do you want to do for the contest?”
Stiles shivered, then grinned. “Easy. We lean in on the nostalgia factor. Trick-or-treat for grown-ups. Candy, but not candy. Like, savory made to look sweet, or sweet that tastes like something else. They eat a candy corn, but BAM, it’s actually stuffing and turkey flavored. I want the judges to have an identity crisis when they bite into it. They’re terrifying to the mind, but fun terrifying. I can do some crazy good molding, I’ll need your French knowledge to get us some unique flavor profiles.”
“You want to do cake, not cake. But with candy.”
“Basically.”
“I like it,” Derek said, and he meant it.
They plotted in lazy, half-dressed fashion for the better part of an hour, trading ideas, riffing off each other, laughing until the apartment echoed with it.
At some point, Stiles went quiet, toying with the edge of the blanket. “Hey, can I ask you something weird?”
Derek sobered, sensing the shift. “Anything.”
Stiles chewed on his lip, a nervous habit. “Would you, be mad if I told people about us? Like, not just Isaac and Liam. I mean, like, everyone. Publicly.”
Derek blinked, startled. “Why would I be mad?”
Stiles shrugged, looking impossibly young for a moment. “I know the Hales are kind of a big deal. Legacy and all that. And you’re… you. I don’t want to mess up your image. You have this whole brand of brooding, stoic, perfection-” he cut off, blushing. “-and I’m not exactly subtle. Or, you know, impressive. At least, not at your level. So, if people saw us together, they might, you know…”
In a flash, Derek cupped Stiles’s face, tilting it up. A panic rushed through him, one he’d never felt before. “I care about you. You are… You…” He quit at the end. He couldn’t say the words, you are my legacy. That would be like admitting he loved Stiles. Which… The spark was there. He just wasn’t sure if they were quite at “love” yet. They’d been on two dates and had a night of lovemaking. That wasn’t love, was it?
“…you are important to me, and clearly, I am a man of excellent taste. So, nobody better say otherwise, or they’ll learn the hard way how the Haleboy team will break them in half.” Derek said, instead, with a serious expression, but a light tone.
Stiles blinked, surprised, then smiled so wide Derek thought it might split his face in half.
“Cool,” Stiles whispered. “’Cause I really, really want to do this for real.”
Derek rolled them both over, so he hovered over Stiles, arms caging him in, their chests pressed together. “So do I,” he said, kissing the tip of Stiles’s nose, then his mouth.
“Well, uh… Thanks. Glad to know I’m not going shame the Hale name,” Stiles said, half-heartedly.
Sensing that Stiles still wasn’t convinced, Derek grabbed his phone, scrolled to his social media for his personal account with more followers than some celebrities, and flipped on the video camera. He held it up, arm out, and pulled Stiles close. Nobody had to know how naked they were, all they could see were their happy morning faces and messy bed head.
“Hello foodies. Hello critics. Hello Beacon Hills and the culinary world at large,” Derek deadpanned pulling the camera close to Stiles. “This is Stiles. He’s a genius. The Baker Prince of Beacon Hills, and more talented in the art of pastry than any other I’ve met before. I’m also happy to announce that he’s not just my partner in the Beacon’s Best Bites contest, but also, my boyfriend. Say hello babe,” he said, reaching over and pecking a kiss on Stiles’ cheek.
Stiles snorted, but didn’t protest. He kissed Derek back, on the lips. “Hello, babe. Or should I say, the Culinary King of Beacon Hills?”
Derek posted it, set the phone aside, uncaring of the storm to come, more than pleased with the proud, almost giddy smile on his boyfriend’s face.
The post took about thirty seconds to start getting a response. The texts roll in like a wave crashing against the beach. Erica screaming in all-caps in a long run on sentence, Boyd sending eight flexed-bicep emojis, Scott replying with a simple “congrats boss” with a heart symbol. Isaac sent a voice memo of him laughing hysterically, but congratulating him in the same breath. Liam sent a selfie of himself crying to Stiles, which made Stiles laugh so hard he nearly hyperventilated.
Derek muted the phone, then tucked himself against Stiles’s side, both cocooned in the late morning sunlight.
Notes:
Thanks for reading! Comments are always appreciated!
Chapter Text
There were several things that Stiles never expected to experience in his lifetime.
One: Waking up with his face pressed into the soft pecs and chest hair of a world-renowned chef, drooling a little and said chef not caring in the least, calling it "adorable".
Two: Finding himself as a trending topic on local Instagram, with captions like “Beacon Hills’ Power Couple?!” and “Top to Bottom, Beacon Hills’ Hottest Duo.”
Three: Telling any living soul he was not, in fact, available anymore, and yes, he really was the one from the video, and no he does not have tips on how to bag a slice of beefcake, he just knows how to bake them.
After the morning of the viral post, everything at Doughboy changed. There was a time when the bakery survived from regulars, the occasional tourist curious about his Food Network appearance, and the college crowd, but now? It was a deluge of new faces, a sea of well-manicured nails and ultra-expensive fashion, all crammed into the narrow aisle between the espresso machine and the counter. The high-end ultra-rich crowd, who could afford to eat at Hales once or twice a week, was now breaking down his door and sampling the goods he had to offer. Stiles had never felt so watched and judged in all his life.
He’d had to double his batches of morning baking, of which had blown up in popularity. Granted, part of that was Stiles’ own ingenious marketing of selling the Haleboy beignets with pictures of him and Derek winning the first round on the display board. He killed two birds with one stone on that one.
Isaac, who once treated flirty customers as an minor inconvenience, now had to learn the art of smiling through gritted teeth as they constantly came through and asked to see #Sterek. Allison, the new manager, ran the place like a cruise director mainlining an energy drink, marshaling the line and cheerfully deflecting the weirdest requests. Liam, who worked afternoons, seemed to thrive on the attention, showing off muscles he barely had and telling anyone who would listen that he trained under both Stiles and Derek – earning him a few numbers and from what Stiles could tell, a few fun nights.
At first, Stiles loved it. The surge in business gave him the last push to pay off the last of his most recent loan, and could even start saving for a new oven and perhaps even one of those snobby espresso machines that the Pirate Shop had. But after the sixth day of three-in-the-morning alarms and working his fingers to the bone for the increase in customers, the shine started to fade. He missed the quiet, the small moments before sunrise when Beacon Hills was still and he could bake in peace, with a normal workload.
And, more than anything, he missed Derek.
Derek, whose life became just as crazy busy as Stiles’, because Hales had a similar surge in customers, many interested in the love life of the heartthrob chef (and, Stiles supposed, the raving reviews that continued to pour in as even foreign food royalty started to come to Beacon Hills to sample his food also certainly helped).
Stiles thought, naively, that dating the only person who understood his brand of crazy would mean a constant string of movie nights and cooking for two, of getting to hold hands in public and knowing that, at the end of every day, someone was waiting for him. The daily little sparks that made life worth living, you know?
Unfortunately, that wasn’t reality.
Reality was Stiles working at the bakery from dawn to noon, collapsing into a nap, and then waking up to dozens of missed texts from Derek, each one more apologetic than the last as Derek would be starting up his lavish dinner services, with more and more VIPs needing his undivided attention.
They’d tried to schedule a real date three times since their first night of sex.
The first time, Stiles bailed after his supplier delivered a crate of eggs that had gone off in the heat, and he spent three hours cleaning yolk and rot from every inch of his fridge. The second time, Derek’s sous chef got the flu and left Derek to manage the line himself for an entire Saturday lunch rush. The third time, both finally made it to the restaurant, Stiles wearing the only shirt he owned that didn’t have flour caked into the seams, Derek in a suit that looked illegal on someone that broad, only to stare across the table and realize they were both so tired that neither could carry a conversation.
The food was exquisite. The silence was excruciating.
By dessert, Stiles’s head was in his hand and he was slurring words, trying to keep his eyes open. “I swear to god, I am awake,” he lied.
“Barely,” Derek replied, the corner of his mouth twisting into a weary smile. He looked as worn as Stiles felt, with his beard just barely on the side of unkept, with the kind of dark smudges under his eyes that came from too many hours spent watching cream reduce.
They made it through the last course, and then walked out into the night air together, hands brushing but never quite entwining. By the time they reached the parking lot, Stiles was almost asleep on his feet. Derek leaned in, hesitated, and settled for a quick kiss on the cheek. Neither had the energy for “activities” that night.
“Goodnight, Stiles,” he said, and the words sounded heavier than they should have.
"Goodnight," Stiles mocked back, a little harsher in tone than he'd intended. Granted, he was a little angry their night had been shit and now they'd have to sleep in order to not make the next days shit, and they couldn't do that in the same bed because their alarms were so different.
The next day, Stiles opened the bakery alone. He dumped the dough into the mixer, watched it spin, dared it to defy him that morning on threat of becoming bird food, and tried not to think about how empty the apartment felt without anyone waiting for him after a shift.
At eleven, the bell over the door rang, and there was Derek, looking like he’d barely slept but determined to be present. He held a paper bag from the fancy coffee shop down the block and a single, ridiculous sunflower sticking out of the top.
“Hey,” Derek said, setting the bag on the counter of the back kitchen, where they'd headed to talk in peace.
“Hey,” Stiles muttered back. While he wasn’t angry at Derek, he was frustrated at the both of them. This wasn’t how he wanted the relationship to go so suddenly after it sparked to life. -and honestly? He wondered if Derek would even be able to make time for him. Or if he’d be able to make time for Derek. Were they truly that doomed right out of the gate?
“I wanted to talk. You have a minute? Because I felt guilty about last night and how it ended,” Derek admitted, as he shuffled his feet awkwardly.
“You want a cronut? I overdid the batch by like a mile,” he said, offering the pastry to his boyfriend. Stiles felt the exhaustion melt into something closer to relief at Derek’s words.
The man nodded, accepting the offer. He reached over and gently brushed flour from the curve of Stiles’s cheek. “I’m sorry about last night. I wanted to make it special, and I just… I crashed. I feel like we can’t even see each other without both of us breaking down.”
Stiles shrugged, keeping it light. “It’s not your fault. We’re just…busy. I think that’s our brand now. We’re busy people. Maybe we’ll have more time in 40 years when we retire.”
Derek smiled, but it was thin at the edges. “No. This isn’t enough for me. I want to see you. I want our relationship to be strong, with a semblance of normalcy. I want to have a real life with you, not just be the guy who sends you memes at two in the morning.”
A long sigh left Stiles’ chest. He looked around the quiet edges of the bakery. “What do we do, then? I can’t close up or take any less hours on, Derek, the rush is bigger than ever, we’re finally pulling in some good profit, and I still don’t trust anyone with the baking. You know how it is.”
Derek took a long breath, with words clearly weighing down on him deep. “I do know, and I hate it. Which is why I’m trying to do something about it, because it’s my turn to admit when I’m overdoing it,” he said. He leaned down on Stiles’ shoulder, resting his eyes. “I’m… Overdoing it. Since the opening, I’ve been just as bad as you in the work hours. I was like that at my last job too. Even if I don’t have crazy baker’s hours, I still don’t get home until well after midnight most days.”
“You have been burning the midnight oil down to the fumes lately. Is it your turn to fall over in my kitchen next?” Stiles asked, gently scratching the back of Derek’s head with his nails.
A gentle smile crossed Derek’s lips. He hook his head. “No. I won’t’ get that far. Because I’ve been thinking…” He paused and finally let out the words he’d been holding back since he stepped into the store. “I’m going to try to step back from Hales a little. The opening was a success and my staff are a well oiled machine. I plan on promoting Scott to an Executive Sous Chef to take more responsibilities and promote Boyd to Executive Head Chef, which he’s deserved for years now. They’re ready.”
Stiles’s eyebrows shot up. Because… That was about as impressive as Stiles agreeing to back down on hours all those weeks ago. Derek’s whole life was in the kitchen, it was his everything, and now? He was stepping away from that. “That’s… a big deal.”
“Yeah,” Derek said, with a helpless little laugh. “I know. I’m a control freak. I want everything to be perfect. But if I don’t start easing off, I’m going to lose my mind. Or worse, I’ll lose you.”
The words hit harder than Stiles wanted to admit. He reached for Derek’s hand, squeezed it. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise. We just had a rough week. That’s all part of life.”
Derek relaxed a little, the furrow in his brow smoothing out. “Good. Because I want to start making plans. Like, real plans. With you.”
Stiles nodded, a lump in his throat. “Yeah. Me too…”
They stood there, holding hands behind the counter, while the hum of the bakery filled the space. It wasn’t perfect, and it wasn’t easy, but it felt more real than anything either of them had known before.
+++++
By some miracle, they managed to carve out a real night off. Not the kind where both limped through a meal on zero sleep, but a whole evening, an actual, adult evening, of watching TV, eating takeout, and pretending the rest of the world could wait.
Stiles brought pizza to Derek’s apartment. He’d gotten the most garish, thick-crust, Americanized thing he could find, just to watch Derek roll his eyes, spend an hour talking about the pizza he’d eaten and made in Italy and how they were so much better, and then devoured half the box anyway. They started with old episodes of kitchen cooking competition, yelling at the screen when the contestants under-seasoned or, god forbid, burned the garlic.
But after the first two episodes, Derek muted the TV and turned his focus to Stiles, his expression unusually open.
“I got something for you. I had to go to storage to find this, but I promise, you'll like it,” he said, ducking into his bedroom. He returned with a battered book, the cover cracked, and the edges singed brown with age.
Stiles took it, surprised by the weight and heft. “You got me a prop from National Treasure?”
Derek grinned, slow and genuine. “Open it. Page 64.”
Inside, the pages were a tightly packed scrawl of French cursive, full of little side notes and clippings. Stiles’s French was decent enough, but the old-timey script made him squint. Still, he could piece together most of it.
“What is this?”
“Diary,” Derek said. “I found it at an auction in New Orleans ages ago thinking it was an old cookbook from pre-revolution France. At the time I was disappointed because there's not but one or two recipes in there, but here recently, the name came to me again. It’s from 1790, maybe earlier. The woman who wrote it, her name was Marguerite, and she was a pastry chef. Or, as she wrote, a ‘baker of the forbidden arts.’ She claimed to be a witch and there were rumors around the same time was said to have thought her baked goods could cure diseases and cast magic spells.”
Stiles let out a laugh, flipping to the marked page. There, pressed between a recipe for chocolate soufflé and a poem about lost love, was a small drawing of a bakery, in what he could only assume was France or some equally European country. The sign over the door said ‘Patisserie Levasseur.’ With the same floral pattern that he remembered Rosemary's had in their logo.
He stopped breathing. Quickly, he flipped to the front cover of the book. The diary was for a woman named Marguerite Levasseur. His mouth dropped. “That’s… my mom’s maiden name.”
Derek nodded. “It gets better.”
The next entry was in a different ink, almost frantic. Stiles worked through the translation, sounding it out under his breath:
“They say the queen herself desires our cake. So flush from our charmed dough she finds renewed vigor with her husband and spent a many long night sat upon him. But her soldiers, they do not ask and do not pay, they take and take until our shelves are bare. Our finest doughs and sweets, taken without our blessing. They claim our work is only for those of noble birth, and the commonfolk are undeserving to savor what our queen savors. They demand our servitude in their kitchens and a month to comply. So we set the ovens hotter, and hotter, until only ash remains of our own beloved bakery, feigning death to those that wished to control. We will bake no more for monarchs and this land that supports them. Only for ourselves, and those who love us shall know our charm and magic. That is the way of the Levasseur, forever more.”
Stiles laughed, delighted and a little awed. “So, my ancestors were cake witch arsonists? This rules.”
“They were amazing,” Derek agreed. “She talks about how that they fled France with their recipes and went to New Orleans seeking freedom. There’s even a part where she says, wait, I dog-eared it, ‘If the kings and queens of our homeland ever come for our secrets, they will be disappointed. We burned it all, our entire history, for spite. Only in our blood will our magic reign.’”
Stiles flipped to the page. Sure enough, there it was, in looped script and a little postscript: “With us gone, the monarchs shall know only disappointment by those who only care of skill. The Hales will always be a step behind. Their croissant is never as crisp. Because they bend and break all they touch. They are but loveless husks who see food as a tool for wealth and power. The dough shall never speak to them, not in a way that matters.”
A wide grin crossed Stiles’ face. There was no fucking way.
Derek howled in laughter, pointing to the passage. “Your ancestor was calling out my ancestors three hundred years ago. In print. That's what made me remember this book, because that sounds so much like you, it hurts!”
“Wow,” Stiles said, shaking his head. “We’re cosmic rivals. I should probably hate you.”
“You don’t,” Derek said, and the look in his eyes made Stiles want to crawl into his lap and never leave.
They read through more of the diary, translating together, making jokes about the weird old French and the way Stiles’ ancestor was “extra”, going as far as to charm a baguette to give a man a lifetime of limp dick that dared insult the honor of her daughter. Derek’s accent was impeccable, but he slowed down to match Stiles, letting him fumble through sentences and then gently correcting when he got stuck.
For a while, the world outside the living room faded away. It was just them, the scratch of old paper, the shared stories and the gentle press of their shoulders on the couch. Stiles felt his heart lurch, soft and stupid and perfectly content.
Derek really is this thoughtful, isn’t he?
Stiles glanced to his boyfriend. A lot of guys with Derek’s wealth and status could have tried to “buy” affection. With expensive presents or meaningless jewelry. Instead, this sweet hunk of a man remembered Stiles’ mother’s name, made the connection to this book, and shared with Stiles a piece of history he’d never known about himself. This wasn’t even a grand gesture – in Stiles’ eyes. This was Derek just being Derek. This was Derek on a Sunday night kind of Derek.
“I love this,” Stiles said, pressing a gentle kiss into Derek’s cheek.
By the time they finished the last page, Stiles was half-asleep, head tipped onto Derek’s shoulder. The diary sat open on the coffee table, next to an empty pizza box and two beer bottles.
Derek shut off the lights, pulled a blanket over them, and held Stiles close until the warmth and the old ghosts and the comfort of each other sent them both under.
+++++
Derek’s panic attack It started as an email from his Brand Manager, subject line: “Strategic Opportunity.”
After reading it twice, then a third time for good measure, Derek's heart thudding with a mix of anxiety and something sour he couldn’t quite name. The message was short, clinical, and uncharacteristically optimistic for his manager:
You’ve been invited to a private tasting and investor dinner in Manhattan. Legacy expansion, word about Hales is all over New York right now and everyone wants a piece of you. This could be the big one, Derek. They want you in New York by Saturday night and a new restaurant breaking ground by Monday morning. Just go, be your charming self, and you’ll have everything you could ever want.
He didn’t reply right away.
Instead, he stared at the glow of his laptop screen and tried to imagine the world where the Hale name was stamped onto a building two thousand miles from Beacon Hills. He’d worked every day of his life to make the restaurant opening perfect, to redeem the brand, and he’d done all that. The worst of the whipping was over.
The idea of doing it all over again, in a city that ate the weak for breakfast, requiring Herculean effort to make right, was almost laughable.
I’d have to go back there. Regularly. I’d have to move.
The thought, for a lot of reasons, terrified Derek.
When Stiles came over that night, Derek barely said hello before blurting, “I’m supposed to fly to New York.”
Stiles blinked, holding a grocery bag full of fancy cheese, crackers, and deli meats. “Did you… get traded to the Yankees and forget to mention it? Though the idea of you in a jockstrap is not an unappealing one.”
Derek rolled his eyes, and then explained. “There’s an investor group that wants to open a Hales’ there. Apparently, we’re the new darling of the restaurant circuit, and everyone wants a piece of it. New York was Laura’s dream. It was where my parents’ biggest successes were at. I owe it to them to go. I think.”
Breathing got hard. The idea of going back, anywhere near where Laura died, made his heart want to roll over and give up. Even worse, being around anyone in that town for too long, with their cut-throat tactics and insensitive reviewers made Derek’s blood boil. To this day, he still remembered the phone calls from Laura’s investors – asking who’d take over her restaurant. In two days, his sister’s life work was renamed, rebranded, and given away to some dipshit by her investors.
Stiles set the bag down, leaned against the counter, and patted Derek on the shoulder. “Do you want to go? Because your face says you’d rather shit a brick. Dude, seriously, those eyebrows… You’re… Not happy.”
Derek hesitated, and the silence was answer enough. In front of Stiles, he didn’t have to put on a mask. He slid down the counter of his kitchen and into a pile on the floor, knees tucked under his chin.
Stiles was quiet for a while, then said, “Well, I mean, you can always say no. Or you could go for the trip, eat a ton of crazy good food, and decide you hate it. Who knows? Maybe you’ll fall in love with New York and open a dozen restaurants and retire at thirty-five.”
Derek scoffed. “I’m already thirty-five.”
“See?” Stiles said, with a playful wink. “You’re running out of time to not follow your dreams.”
It was a joke, but the sincerity behind it made Derek’s chest go tight.
“Tell you what. How about I go with you? That way, you’ll have someone to bitch and moan to in person. I am an excellent lightning rod, and owe you like a million and one favors for what you did for me when I was in the hospital.” Stiles slid down next to Derek, pressing a gentle kiss into his neck. “-but I think you need to go, at the very least. Feel your feelings, determine the real ick factor, and make a decision. What’s that you always say? Observe, learn, and adapt? So… Go to New York to observe, learn what you need to learn, and adapt to it.”
A warmth spread in Derek’s chest. He leaned on Stiles’ side for support.
The first thing he realized was that Stiles hadn’t freaked out in the slightest. He wasn’t worried about Derek possibly having to open a new restaurant across the country. He wasn’t flipping out at Derek possibly needing to hop back on the work train so soon.
No. Stiles was asking about Derek’s own feelings. Being supportive. Being loyal. Helping him through this uncomfortable situation.
By the night’s end, Derek booked a flight to New York with Stiles. Two nights, round trip. In what Derek knew would change the trajectory of his life forever.
+++++
The trip itself was a blur for Derek. He disassociated for roughly 90 percent of it. Stiles drove to the airport because Derek hated traffic. Stiles took the middle seat on the plane, because Derek liked the window and hated getting jostled by strangers. Stiles even bought him a sandwich at the airport, and when Derek found pickles on it, Stiles marched back to the counter and demanded one without the offending green menace.
By the time they reached Manhattan, Derek’s nerves were threadbare. He could smell the anxiety on his own skin.
The hotel was too expensive and reminded him of the lavish standards Laura was forced to live by. Hell, the lobby was a sheet of marble and glass, so white and spotless that Derek felt dirty just walking across it. Their suite was huge, two king beds and a view of the city, but Derek didn’t notice any of it. He sat on the edge of the mattress and stared out the window, watching the lights flicker on in the buildings across the street.
Stiles joined him, sitting cross-legged on the bedspread, close but not touching.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Stiles said.
Derek shook his head. “It’s nothing.”
“Lie,” Stiles said, not unkindly. “You’ve been wound up since the plane. Just say it.”
Derek let out a breath. “I don’t want to be here. The last time I was in this city before Laura's funeral was for my twenty-first birthday, and she tried to show me the world. She said we were going to take Manhattan by storm. A promise to be her executive chef. No more wandering through Europe. No more hell kitchens. Talks about… A life we didn’t hate. Then everything went to hell. This town only cared about her food and her restaurant. Not her. Nobody here mourned her. They mourned her talent and pedigree. I never came back since the funeral. Not until tonight.”
Stiles let the silence hang, then said, “You don’t have to do this for her. Or for anyone.”
Derek looked down at his hands, then up at Stiles. “I don’t even know what I want anymore. I just know I don’t want to be the person who ruins the family name. I don’t want to be the one who couldn’t hack it. I don’t want to be the one that… Fails. I don't want to be the one that finally kills us off.”
Stiles shifted closer. “What if you just want to be Derek? No restaurants, no investors, no pressure. What then?”
Derek shook his head, but he could feel the tension break. “I have no idea.”
They sat in the hush of the hotel room, the noise of the city filtered down to a gentle hum.
“Marguerite burned her entire life to the ground when the nobility tried to make her obey the demands of the rich,” Stiles said, breaking the silence. “She started over, with the only things that mattered. Her family, their work, their freedom, and their legacy. As one of her descendants, I can say with absolute certainty that I am proud of what she did, and to hell with anyone that thinks she should have been a royal baker.”
A light flickered in Derek’s eyes. He had never thought of it that way. About what those in the future thought about him. Up until now he’d only ever care about those from the past. His ancestors, his sister, his parents…
“Do you want kids?” Stiles asked.
Derek didn’t know how to answer that. Yes, he did. He’d always wanted to be a father. Yet, at the same time, the idea of bringing a child into this world with the same weight on their shoulders as he had? Well… It was the same reason Peter and Laura never had children of their own either.
A bright blush also crossed his face, because… Well, the idea of any kind of family life with Stiles put a happy flutter in his stomach.
“Better question. Do you think your kids, or your kid’s kids, or your kids’ kids’ kids will care one lick about whether you opened a restaurant in New York, how famous you got, or how much a bunch of snobs loved you?” Stiles said, sitting down in Derek’s lap, taking his hand, and drawing tiny circles in his palm. “Or do you think they’d rather remember what a good man you were. Teaching hopeless interns like Liam, saving hot bakers like me from ourselves, or how good you treated your staff like Scott, Erica, and Boyd?”
Derek had a moment where he tried to picture that. Where he pictured how the people he loved would remember him when he was gone. He thought about what he would leave behind for them, and for the first time in his life, he wondered what it would be without the Hale named attached to it.
Not a legacy from his name. No, a legacy from Derek himself.
-and at that moment… There was nothing. Nothing besides food, skills, name, notoriety, and fame. Nothing at all.
A tear rolled down Derek’s cheek. How sad was that? Take away his name, and what did he have? A gaping, lonley void.
Stiles wiped it away. “Because if I was reading your diary in the future, I’d care more about the latter. Though that’s just me. The Great-great-great-grandchild of a witch baker who faked their own death to run away from Marie Antoinnette. So, you know, I might be a bit on the crazy side.”
A chuckle. Laugher. Derek was surprised when it came from him. He yanked Stiles back, pulling him onto the bed with a fit of giggles between them. When they were laid out, Derek took a long, deep, final breath.
“Screw it. Let’s not go to dinner. Let’s order the worst takeout we can find and watch TV until we fall asleep,” Derek said.
Stiles stared, a mixture of surprise and dumbfounded realization. “You want to bail on a thousand-dollar tasting menu for chicken wings and cartoons?”
Derek grinned. His first real smile in days. “Yeah, I do. I want to hang out with my boyfriend and not have to dress up or impress anyone. Fuck this town. Fuck the bad memories. Fuck those investors. Tonight, we pig out. Tomorrow, I’m taking my boyfriend to every tourist spot imaginable, take you to my favorite sushi place, and then we’re going to fuck ourselves silly into these sheets until they call the police on us. Then Sunday, I’m going home and I’m keeping my promise to you to wind down at Hales so I can figure out what the hell I’m going to tell my kids one day about who I am as a man.”
A bright red flush crossed Stiles’ cheeks. Derek was unsure if it was from his own newfound confidence, the promise of carnal activity, or pride, but he wanted to remember the look on Stiles’ face for the rest of his life.
They ordered from a place with one-star reviews. The wings were soggy and the fries were cold and required a call from room service to get something actually edible. Stiles found an ancient rerun of Iron Chef and they heckled the judges and contestants alike. It was the best night Derek could remember in his life.
Later, as they lay together in the too-big bed, Stiles curled against Derek’s chest, he felt the guilt and the pressure fade away. He reached for his phone, typed out a quick email to his brand manager.
Not doing the dinner. Not ready to expand. Will talk when I’m back. We need to talk about how I want my Brand to change in the next 10 years. Hales Beacon Hills branch is the only place I want to be running for a long time. -D
He hit send, then set the phone down and pulled Stiles closer. Derek kissed the top of his head.
“Thanks for saving my life,” Derek thought, as Stiles’ snoring slowly helped drift himself to sleep.
+++++
The backlash hit within a day of them landing Sunday. By Monday, the articles came, fast and hard.
First, it was a single blog post: “Derek Hale Abandons New York:Is the King Already Burnt Out?” It’d been written by a company one of the blown off investors owned, so it wasn’t surprising.
Then, as if the Internet had scented blood, the knives came out.
“Beacon Hills’ Golden Boy Melts Under Pressure With the Big Dogs.”
“Hale’s, Was it All a Flash in the Pan?”
Derek saw them all. He read them all. Mostly speculation pieces about him having a nervous breakdown and not being able to handle the New York scene. He told himself he didn’t care, that he’d rather get roasted by strangers than spend the rest of his life chained to a brand that never belonged to him.
Yet, when Boyd sidled up to him at the pass during lunch rush, phone in hand and a brow furrowed, the old shame flared. “You see this?” Boyd said, voice gentle. “People are morons. Ignore it.” Derek grunted, but the words stuck like a splinter.
Strangely enough, it was Peter who finally broke the spell.
His Uncle showed up unannounced at the restaurant, walking in like he owned the place. He wore a pale suit that should have looked absurd in small-town California, but on him it just looked inevitable.
They met in the office, away from the noise. Peter poured himself a glass of wine from Derek’s personal rack in the corner, and didn’t offer one to Derek.
“So, you blew off New York, years of Laura’s hard work, our family’s long history in that town, so you could come back and run this tiny establishment in shit’s creek?” Peter said, chuckling as he swirled the wine in his hand. “I’ve never been more proud of you. Congratulations, Derek. Here's to you,” he said, raising the glass in a toast.
Derek stared, a thousand yards away. He’d expected rage. He’d expected a lecture. He’d expected Peter to drag his ass back to New York. Definitely wasn’t expecting this look of pride he’d never seen on the man’s face before. “You’re not mad?”
Peter shrugged. “I’m always mad, you can thank your Grandfather for that, but I’m honestly more impressed. Took me until I was about 60 to say no to the people who told me what I had to be. You did it in half that time. Good on you.”
Derek let out a low, disbelieving laugh. “I thought you’d say I was throwing away everything our family built.”
“You are,” Peter said, bluntly enough to cause Derek to wince. “-but our family was built on the idea that you owe the world your entire life. We’ve bent our knee to the culinary gods since our first seared steak, and all of the world’s expectations that followed. That’s a shitty foundation, if you ask me, to build your entire life on. Shitty, sad, and empty.” He leaned back in the chair, sampling his wine. “Your parents would have been disappointed. Laura would have been furious. But you know what? Everyone carries disappointment. All of us. It’s a ghost that never leaves. Like Catholic guilt.”
Derek said nothing.
Peter pressed on, voice softer now. “You get to build your own legacy, kid. You can choose something different. The Hale blood is whatever you want it to be now. Seriously, it’s all yours to do with.”
They sat in silence, the hum of the kitchen just audible through the door. At last, Derek said, “What if I don’t know what that is?”
Peter smiled, thin and sharp. “Nobody does.”
Derek stared at his hands, then spoke before he could think better of it. “I like… Teaching. I want… To Teach. To show others how to do what I do.”
Peter set down his glass. “You want to teach? Really? I can see the headlines now. Hale Can’t Cook, So They Teach. You sure about that one?”
“Yeah,” Derek said, voice rough. “I want to share what I know, but without all the… pressure. I’ve done a little here lately, and-” He remembered the pride in how he felt showing Scott and Liam how to grow as chefs. He smiled, remembered how good it felt to be taught by Stiles, without the pressure to succeed. All of it had built up. “Maybe I’d open a teaching restaurant. I don’t know, someplace people could learn, make a living off it, and get real world experience. I- I’ve only just started thinking about it. I have no idea how it would work, and it might be awful, but I-“
Peter considered him, then said, “Do it.”
Derek paused his ramble. “…just like that?”
“Just like that,” Peter snapped his fingers. “This is your legacy. I’m going to support the legacy of Derek Hale. Not the Hale Family, mind you, but Derek Hale.”
Derek didn’t know what to say to that, so he just sat there, letting it sink in.
Peter stood, straightening his lapels. “When you’re ready, let me know. I’ll help. I’m a bastard, but I’m a damn good teacher. And if the world hates you for walking away from their expectations, fuck ‘em. We know what matters. So figure your shit out, and let me know where I can help you.” He started to leave, then paused at the door. “One more thing.”
Derek looked up.
Peter grinned. “That baker boy of yours, is he in your plans?”
Derek thought about it for a moment, the real future for the first time. “Yeah,” he said. “I hope so.”
Peter nodded, satisfied. “Good. I like that one. If you ever get tired of him, let me know. I'm not afraid to be his sugar daddy,” He left with a wink and a click of expensive shoes on tile.
Derek sat in the quiet, the noise of the world fading into a distant echo. For the first time, he didn’t feel like a ghost in his own life.
He picked up his phone, scrolled through to Stiles’s contact, and typed:
Let’s make dinner together. No recipes, no rules. Just us.
He sent it. A minute later, the reply came.
OMG YES. CAN WE MAKE EACH OTHER BASKETS OF BLIND INGREDIENTS AT THE GROCERY STORE? I’VE ALWAYS WANTED TO DO THAT STUPID FOOD NETWORK SHOW IRL.
Derek smiled, and through the text messages, he started planning the future, his future, one step, one flavor, one ordinary day at a time.
Notes:
Hope you enjoyed! Comments and feedback are always appreciated and thanks for reading!
Chapter Text
The Beacon Hills Chamber believed in going big or going home, and for the Halloween round of the contest, they’d gone the nuclear marketing option.
Overnight, a sea black and orange overtook the mall, with realistic spiderwebs clinging to the rafters, LED candles flickering on every flat surface, with even the escalators having bloodstains painted on the glass paneling. Costumed members of the chamber gave out candy to children and adults alike, inviting them to the cooking event.
Stiles arrived two hours before the event, costume in tow. The rules demanded “festive attire” and he’d committed, showing up as a plague doctor, perfect for his crisp white chef’s coat, antique beaked mask, and black nitrile gloves. A bit of a cop out, but he’d spent most of the night before assembling hundreds of “candy not candy” pieces for the sampling portion, each one hand-molded and filled with sinister surprises. He and Derek finally agreed on a pumpkin truffle that looked like a knockoff labubu, but when bitten into, “bled” a bright red cranberry sauce, among other cutesy designs.
Derek showed up looking like he’d mugged a Parisian mortician, black suit with blood-red ascot, the sort of thing that would have gotten him mocked on a real runway but here made him the second best-dressed man in the mall. He carried his half of their fusion, a full on haunted mansion of French spice bread with decorations made from the same pumpkin truffle, but each one with their own “surprise”, like a cute looking bat that oozed a green lime sauce so sour that Stiles almost considered it an affront to the Geneva Convention.
The competition was packed. Even before it began, the atrium swelled with the scent of caramelizing sugar and deep-fat fryer, and the sound was a rolling, sticky buzz. Teams bustled around the side stages, prepping displays or running emergency drills for their assistants. There was a local newscaster in front of a ring light, rehearsing Halloween puns with the stamina of someone desperate for a Pulitzer.
Stiles tried to ignore the crowd of costumed kids and adults, getting their Halloween candy from the contestants and Chamber’s version of Mall Trunk or Treat, focusing instead on plating, making sure every truffle had its vein of raspberry gel exposed just so. He worked with manic energy, alternating between making Derek taste-test the flavors (“You’re my canary in the coal mine, babe”) and humming through Thriller. It was all going fine until the main event, when they were ushered onstage and told to make the presentation for the public, and, unbeknownst to Stiles, the entire goddamn town.
“What. The. Fresh. Hell.” Stiles whispered as he finally caught sight of the crowd.
Easily tripled the original crowd, with more cameras filming, and Stiles could see off in the distance a few familiar Food Network logos on scouts and producers. Though to his surprise, it was the townsfolk that made up most of the crowd. Not tourists, not foodies, these were his neighbors and friends he’d known his entire life. Some people who Stiles hadn’t seen in ages, not since he was a geeky assistant in his mother’s shop.
A strange thumping struck Stiles’ chest. He averted his eyes. Something made him feel uncomfortable. Like he didn’t want to be seen by them, the people who’d known him as a child, a teenager, a grieving young adult, and now… A pseudo-celebrity in a niche food circle.
The MC bellowed, “Welcome our returning champions, Team Haleboy!” and the applause that came was thunderous.
Stiles and Derek carried their haunted house to center stage. Stiles forced his nerves down, calming himself down by picturing Derek in his underwear. “Ladies and gentlemen, tonight we provide to you a childhood delight for the adult palate, that will terrify you to your core when the food’s image and flavor send you shuddering. Derek deadpanned a joke about “sugar so good it might kill you” with a creepy face, and the audience laughed.
It was going well. Better than well, honestly. Stiles went through his entire speech without a single mistake. Stiles was pulling out his pre-prepared truffles, readying for the final “tah-dah” of the night, when he saw him.
In the front row, a shock of thinning blond hair and a battered Beacon Hills Police windbreaker. Wrinkles against his aging skin. A proud expression on his face, but so much fear deep inside his dead eyes that Stiles wondered if he was in pain.
Noah Stilinski was here. Sitting with the other VIPs, wedged awkwardly between the Mayor and a local food blogger. His father caught Stiles’ eye, offered a shaky, hopeful little wave.
Stiles’s brain shut off, and he lost track of the script on the final sentence, ending with an audible pause that made the audience cringe. He barely registered the forced applause, as if the audience was telling him “it’s okay, everyone gets stage fright”. His hands began to sweat under the gloves. He heard Derek say, “You good?” under his breath, but couldn’t answer.
They moved to the demonstration table, where Stiles was supposed to theatrically torch the truffles, setting off a simple chemical reaction of “ectoplasm” (syrup) down the haunted house that would make it appear as though specters were haunting it. He lit the torch, flicked the trigger –
“Yes, I sold the bakery. We made some good money off it. I didn’t want to tell you today, but.. The contract was sent in a while ago. They signed it today. It’s done. It’s final. I’m sorry. I didn’t want you finding out this way, but it’s done.“
In a vivid memory, Stiles remembered hearing those words, right out of his father’s mouth, over his mother’s graveside service. He remembered the rage that followed. The argument he and his father had on the worst day of their lives, in public, to a group of friends and family that looked on in horror. A horrible fight that lasted from the tail end of the funeral back to his childhood home and ended in the two men having a fist fight. Noah’s fist was a lot stronger than Stiles’, and it left a black eye for a few days, but Stiles had managed to get in a good kick in the old man’s bad knee.
After flicking the trigger, Stiles flinched, missed the syrup entirely, sending a plume of butane flame, much stronger than he’d intended, to scorch the house instead. The bread house sizzled, wobbled, and collapsed forward, right onto their tray of truffles, upending the lot and sending two hundred pieces of painstakingly crafted food skittering across the floor like a flock of mutant bugs. Fire, thankfully, died out as quickly as it started, with Derek’s quick thinking of pouring his bottle of water over it, stopping a full-fledged catastrophe.
The silence that followed was absolute. Even the children stopped mid-scream.
Unfortunately…. The laughter started. First a single snort, then a rising ripple, then the whole damn crowd, all at once. The MC tried to salvage it with a “My apologies to the fire department, I know you and the fire inspector have been buzzing for action all night, but I think that’s going to be it for tonight.”
Stiles could already feel the heat of humiliation climbing up his neck. He stooped to gather the ruined food, hands shaking, needing to put this back together. His gloves were slick and useless, and everything he touched broke in his hands in a soggy crumble.
Derek joined him, kneeling, wordlessly brushing his hand along Stiles’s arm. “Don’t worry. We still have plenty in the back for tasting.” he started, but Stiles jerked away, chest hammering.
He shot one more look at his father, who now looked stricken, his hands clutched together in a white-knuckle knot. The fear in the man’s eyes before was tenfold as he saw the pure, violent rage gathering in Stiles’.
The moment the stage manager said, “Thank you Team Haleboy, please exit left, I think that’s where we will call your evening,” Stiles threw down the tray and marched off, straight through the curtain and into the backstage corridor. He didn’t even care that the entire food court could see him throwing a tantrum.
Derek trailed behind, catching up under the tent, where Stiles was already yanking at the straps and gloves of his costume with so much force he nearly snapped them in half.
“Stiles, what’s going on? What happened?” Derek started, but Stiles shook his head, jaw tight.
“Give me a minute,” Stiles snapped, flinging his costume into a trash bin. “Or, actually, don’t. Don’t give me a minute, I’m going to need at least ten to hide a fucking body.”
He turned, zeroing in on where Noah stood, hovering just beyond the reach of the security ropes – where he seemed to be waiting for Stiles. The old man wore the sheepish half-smile he always used when he didn’t know if a joke had landed, or if he was about to be thrown out of the PTA meeting.
“Dad,” Stiles said, in a hushed whisper. He yanked Noah under the tent, away from the public eye. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Noah flinched, hands up in surrender. “I just came to watch. You were doing great, kiddo. I saw the whole thing on the local news last time, I saw you’ve got yourself a nice partner, Doughboy is doing great, so figured it was about time I stopped by and tried to-”
“Don’t,” Stiles said, voice dropping to a hiss. “Do not ‘kiddo’ me. You don’t get to show up now. You don’t get to act like you care. Ever since Mom got told she was going to die and up to now, you have not “cared” about anything but yourself, you selfish fucking monster.”
The few nearby staffers and volunteers suddenly found the floor or their clipboards very interesting. Only Derek seemed to notice the edge in Stiles’s voice, the way his hands were balled into fists hard enough to leave marks.
Noah tried again, quieter. “Please. I’m trying to make everything right. I did some stupid things back then, I’d say we both did, but you-”
Stiles laughed, sharp and ugly, cutting Noah off. “Dad, it’s too late. So why don’t you hop in whatever mid-life-crisis car you’ve bought with Rosemary’s blood money and fuck back off to your sad lonely life of microwave pizza rolls and jerking yourself off to porn?”
Noah’s face went still. Even Derek, who’d heard this story only in pieces, seemed to feel the sudden freeze. He took a step away from Stiles, and felt absolutely small, despite the high, weight, and muscle difference between them.
Stiles pressed on, unable to stop himself. “You couldn’t handle Mom’s last wishes. You couldn’t handle her wanting to use her last year fulfilling her lifelong dream. You wanted her hooked up to machines, suffering with some of the worst fucking medicine in the world, even though it would have bankrupted you both and made her last year nothing more than a pain induced coma and misery. You hated that bakery and her passion so much you had to bury it with her. Sold it to the goddamn mall developers before the funeral flowers were even wilted. All for what? So your fee-fees felt better? So you were the big man who got the last word in? Or was it just the payout? Thank God mom left me the cookbook in the will and I had the sense to save it, or you probably would have burned it!”
Noah’s voice was raw. “Stiles, it’s not like that. You don’t know what she wanted. At the end, she realized what you’d sacrificed to come home. She found out about Vegas and-”
“I know exactly what happened, and I don’t fucking need you to tell me anything else.” Stiles interrupted, his anger sharp enough to cause Noah to wince in pain. “You killed her memory. You took everything she loved and paved it over for a parking lot. Now you want to show up and play the loving dad who made some sort of big mistake, who’s going to be the “bigger man” and apologize so we can hug and get to know each other again? Fuck you. Go to hell! Why don’t you actually just-”
Derek stepped between them, gentle, but firm. “Hey. Maybe not the best place for this.”
Stiles wasn’t done, and he shoved past Derek. “No, it’s perfect, actually. This is exactly how he likes it. Big audience, just like the funeral. Gets to feel like a real big man and throw his weight around. Go ahead! Cry about your sad, pathetic life to me. Make me feel sorry for you. Really, I’ll get the popcorn! Should be a fun time!”
Noah’s mouth worked, but no sound came out. For a moment, he looked every one of his sixty-odd years, the lines around his eyes deeper than Stiles remembered. “I still have the money,” he said, quietly. “I’ve never touched a dime. It was for you. Your mother wanted you to have it, so you could…”
“Don’t,” Stiles said, voice trembling. “Don’t you dare try to buy your way out of this. You want to give me an inheritance? Fuck off and die. That’s when I’ll accept it.”
Noah’s hands fell to his sides. “Please, Stiles. I want to talk. Just talk. Thirty minutes. That’s all.”
Stiles stared at him, the words curdling on his tongue. “You don’t get to want anything. Not from me.”
He turned, grabbing Derek’s sleeve, and stormed out through the service entrance, the echo of his father’s voice trailing after them.
Behind them, Noah watched, frozen in the glare of the security light, until even the staff stopped pretending they weren’t listening, and the silence swallowed him whole.
Stiles hid in the back tent for nearly half an hour as pure hatred poured through his veins. He hated when he got this way, hated how ugly of a person he became, but his dad brought out the worst in him. The worst years of his life would come flushing back, and he was that scared, naïve, grieving 19-year-old again, who was helpless to stop anything in his life.
Stiles couldn’t save his mom. Stiles couldn’t stop his parents from fighting all the time. Stiles couldn’t save Rosemary’s. Stiles couldn’t help his dad feel better. Stiles couldn’t keep his own dreams alive. Stiles couldn’t even be there with Claudia when she died, she had to leave this world alone, sleeping on the goddamn couch.
In moments like this, Stiles felt helpless. No, not just “felt”. He simply WAS helpless. He was nothing. Nobody. Noone. All at the same time.
Every time he started to calm down, a memory or imagined slight would snake through his head and reignite the fury, until it felt like his nerves had gone live-wire. He tore off the chef’s coat, balled it in his hands, and pressed it hard against his face just to stop himself from screaming. Or crying. Or both. He barely felt Derek’s hand rubbing his back in empathy.
Outside, the muffled sound of the contest went on as if nothing had happened. Another team presenting their treats, a distant MC hyping up the next “fang-tastic” round, the crowd’s canned laughter swelling and receding like a wave.
“Hey,” Derek said, the word so gentle Stiles almost spat at it. “You okay?”
Stiles laughed into the cotton, short and bitter. “Never better. Why do you ask?”
He let the silence stretch until he was sure Derek would give up and go away, but Derek just stood in the doorway of the tent, shadow broad and patient as he shooed away anyone that came close to them.
Stiles pulled the coat down and glared. “I know you want to fix this, but you can’t. No one can. This is the one thing I’m gonna be angry about until the day I die, and I’m not sorry about it.”
Derek stepped closer, arms folded. “I’m not asking you to get over it. I just want to know you’re not alone. -and if you want to talk…”
Stiles almost laughed again, but the sound got stuck somewhere in his chest. He looked away, out through the tent flaps at the chaos of the contest. “He ruined everything,” Stiles said, voice low and hoarse. “That bakery was all she had left. All we had left. I can’t even see it in person anymore. It’s gone. They tore it down..”
Derek moved to kneel in front of him, hands resting on his knees. “I get it,” He tried to put a hand on Stiles’s shoulder, but Stiles jerked away, raw.
“You don’t get it,” Stiles said. “You lost your family, but you… I don’t know. You made it into something. You turned it into a legacy. My dad just… He just threw mine in the garbage. Like it didn’t matter. Like mom didn’t matter. Like… He wanted to erase it. Erase me.”
The rage ignited again.
“If it weren’t for ME and DOUGHBOYS, she’d be gone from this world! If I hadn’t stepped up, he would have killed her all over again! That fucking bastard deserves to-“
“Stiles…“
The sound system outside glitched, and the feedback whined through the mall. A moment later, the MC bellowed: “The results are in! If your team isn’t up here in five, you’re out!”
Stiles barely heard it. He was shaking, teeth on the edge of chattering. He pressed the coat back to his face, feeling the scratch of the patch over his heart, the one his mother had sewn in for “good luck” before he went off on his own journey after high school. The irony was physically painful.
Derek stood, reached for the flap, then hesitated. “We need to go. They’re calling the teams.”
Stiles wanted to stay put, but something in Derek’s voice, maybe the strain, the worry, made him move. He followed Derek through the labyrinth of storage racks and pop-up tables, out onto the main floor where the lights were even harsher and the audience even bigger.
The scoreboard was already up. Third place went to Lucky Dragon, second to the fusion burger place, and first to a new team with a pumpkin spice theme and a YouTube channel. Stiles searched for their team name and felt his stomach flip.
Haleboy, fifth place, barely visible, a single bar above the cutoff.
They’d made it to the next round by five votes. Five. Almost beat out by the assholes that owned a McDonalds and the assholes who owned a KFC.
The MC shook their hands with a forced “Congratulations!” and asked them to pose for the photographers. Stiles did, jaw clenched, eyes refusing to meet any of the lenses. When the last photo snapped, he turned and walked away, letting Derek handle the polite small talk and the fake smiles.
Outside, under the pale lights of the parking lot, Stiles let loose. He slammed his fist into the rim of a trash can, the metal ringing out like a siren. He did it again, and again, until his hand stung and the bones in his fingers felt like they might snap.
Derek caught up, grabbed him by the wrist, held him steady. “You’re going to break something,” Derek said, voice soft but urgent.
“Maybe I want to,” Stiles barked, wrenching free.
He wheeled around, looking for somewhere to go, somewhere to hide. “I’m going home. I can walk. I need time alone, to think,” he said, words clipped. “Don’t follow. Please.”
Derek nodded, hands opened in surrender, but the look on his face was one of worry, not defeat.
Stiles walked in the cold October night, letting the wind strip the hot tears from his cheeks before they could stain his shirt. He ignored each person he came across, disassociating to the point that it was a miracle he didn’t get hit by traffic. Stiles reached home, locked the door behind him, turned off his phone, and curled up on the couch, coat still clutched in both hands, the patch pressed hard against his heart.
The thing was… He wasn’t just angry about his dad showing up. He was angry that he still felt this bad about it. He was angry that he let it ruin his and Derek’s chances at getting a better score. He was angry that he let Derek see the ugliest side of himself, a side he hadn’t let out in over a decade.
Stiles hated the weight on his chest. Hated how he felt after unleashing it. He would do just about anything to kill it, but even the bravest therapists hadn’t been enough for Stiles to ever open up fully about how he felt.
“Derek’s going to think twice about being around me, and I deserve it,” Stiles thought, as he surrendered his thoughts to a sleepless night of headphones blasting heavy metal music to drown everything out.
+++++
Derek tried to lose himself in work, but Stiles’s absence the last few days felt like a tooth with a cavity, a pressure that made the whole kitchen off-balance. Hales ran like a machine thanks to Boyd, even with Derek half-distracted, but there was a dullness to it, a mechanical repetition.
He could tell the staff felt it too: Boyd watched him with careful eyes, Scott seemed more subdued, and even Erica reined in her usual sass, throwing only the occasional barbed comment his way.
It didn’t help that Stiles wasn’t returning his calls. Or his texts. Or his DMs. The bakery had its regular hours, but every morning, the glass to the kitchen was steamed up and a “No Entry” sign hung in the window, with the door boarded and locked.
On day four, Derek finally caved and texted Isaac directly. It felt like a betrayal, but he needed to know.
“Hey. Is he okay?”
The reply came instantly.
“Define okay? Seriously, he’s alive, just a full-time mood tornado. This is how it gets when his dad gets involved, I’ve seen it once before but not this bad. Let him rage, he always comes out the other side. Just… don’t say the name or bring him up right now. Trust me. If you do, it’s just going to make this whole thing last longer.”
Derek sat with that for a long time, scrolling through the thread of half-started messages he’d written to Stiles, deleting all but the last: “I’m here if you need me. Anything at all.”
He never hit send.
Friday night, during pre-service, Boyd stuck his head in the walk-in. “There’s a guy out front says he needs to see you. Looks like a cop. Says he’s ‘family business.’ Want me to bounce him?”
Derek wiped his hands, heart pounding in a way he hadn’t expected. He had a terrible feeling about this but decided to go with it. “No. I’ll go.”
He stepped out into the empty room where they kept the extra tables and chairs, where Noah Stilinski waited in a windbreaker and jeans, and his shoulders stooped as if he’d been standing there a long time. His eyes were red around the edges, but clear. There was something familiar about the way the man set his jaw, the same stubborn line Derek saw every day in Stiles.
“Sherrif,” Derek said, unsure if the title still applied.
Noah’s smile was tired. “Just Noah, these days, I’m retired. Thanks for seeing me.”
Derek sat at the opposite end of the table, arms crossed. He waited.
Noah took a slow breath. “I’m not here to make things worse. You don’t know me, and I don’t expect you to care, but I need to talk to you about my son. About Stiles. Because… I messed up, and I don’t know how to fix it.”
Derek stayed silent, letting the man talk. He could see the tremor in Noah’s hands, the way he gripped a paper folder like it might float away.
“It’s about the bakery. About Claudia,” Noah said, voice going thick. “You ever hear of Rosemary’s? That was her place. She ran it herself, from scratch. It wasn’t much, but it was her world.” Noah smiled, a flash of old pride. “She taught Stiles everything he knows about baking in that place. More than anyone else ever could. I swear, everything she did was like magic.”
Derek nodded once. “I know.”
Noah’s eyes glistened. “When she got sick, Claudia didn’t want treatment. The doctors gave her a year without it, and maybe two with it. There was no “getting better” they said. I wanted her to get treatment. Because I thought… Even if there was a little bit of hope to live on, it was better than nothing. Instead, she said… She wanted to bake. To finish her part of that family cookbook. She wanted to die standing up in her kitchen.”
Derek slammed his eyes shut. A pained memory of Laura flashed in his mind.
“I didn’t agree, and I was… Vocal about it. I was going to watch her die. I hated it, not being able to do anything. In the end though, it was her decision. I wasn’t happy about it and I was cruel at times, but the real problem I had with it towards the end was… Stiles.”
Noah paused, biting the bottom of his lip. He thought long and hard about what he said before continuing. “Stiles… Left home to go to Vegas after high school. He had his own dream he wanted to do before coming back to Rosemary’s, which Claudia had offered him when he grew up. I don’t know the whole story, but he made a startup company out there, some kind of food truck that fused baking with other styles of cooking, both sweet and savory. Like, imagine a Taco Doughnut or a Hamburger Cake. I only tried that food of his once, and it was the best damn thing I ever ate. Hell, he was so popular in that beat-up food truck of his, that Caesars Palace was in talks with him coming on full-time. Word on the strip was he kept stealing their business, and they saw him as a rival.”
Derek’s mouth dropped. He’d never heard that. He knew Stiles talked about a job in Vegas before, but it seemed almost… Unimportant. A side comment that someone says with the same way the talk about traffic.
“When Claudia told Stiles about her illness, he sold everything and moved back home. That’s the kind of loyal man he is. He gave up his future to be here with his mom, for her last year. To help her make that dream come true. Then he talked about making sure Rosemary’s stayed open after she was gone. That he’d make her proud, and nobody would ever forget her. I think… That was the start of everything.”
Noah teared up, drops falling over the tablecloth.
“Of course, Stiles didn’t tell us about what he did, and what he sacrificed. He lied and said he’d put everything in storage and would go back later, but… He didn’t. I found out from one of his contacts calling the house and begging him to come back that he’d liquidated everything. Then, I told Claudia, because I loved my son and didn’t want him to lose his big chance, and… She regretted everything immediately. She felt like she’d just stolen her son’s future. I think that almost broke her right then and there.”
Derek nodded. He understood that feeling completely. Too well, in fact.
Noah took a deep breath. “Right then and there she wanted to sell Rosemary’s. She knew she didn’t have much time by then, a couple of months at most, and she wanted Stiles to have a future that was all his own. “I want my Doughboy to make his own magic” She said, her words, not mine. So, she had me draw up the sale with a business friend of mine, and the money was supposed to go to him. To help him rebuild his startup, leave this town, go to culinary school, buy his own place, or whatever he wanted. We were supposed to tell him together. Confront him about Vegas, tell him the plan, and we’d all work on a solution together, but…”
“…Life happened.” Derek offered, seeing the pain on Noah’s face. Even after all these years, talking about his wife’s passing was that painful.
“…she went so fast at the end, died in her sleep, still writing the last chapter of her cookbook. We thought we had a few more months, so… Neither of us had a chance to tell Stiles. He was in such horrible grief, and I didn’t have the heart to bring it up. The day she died, I was finalizing the paperwork. That was her last wish, and I made it come true. It closed not a few days later, on the day of the funeral. Stiles found out about it from an employee at Rosemary’s who was pissed about it being sold and made a lot of assumptions before I could even explain. Didn’t help that Claudia and I had a rough time in her last year. I’d been the villain for nearly 8 months at that point. I was angry and grieving too. We fought, got physical, hurt each other with words and fists.”
Derek felt his own throat tighten.
“He never forgave me. I never corrected him.” Noah said, staring at the table. “-and I let him hate me, because I figured… maybe he needed it. Maybe he’d burn through the anger and come out better on the other side. Then we could talk. Then I could give him what was his. But I was wrong. He’s carried it around ever since. Clearly, to this day, he’s still hurting. I heard about the hospital trip, and I’ve seen Doughboy, so I know… He’s still trapped back on the day of the funeral.”
Derek didn’t speak for a long time. Then, collecting himself: “Why tell me? Why now?”
Noah slid the folder across the table. Inside was a notarized contract, two faded signatures at the bottom. Claudia’s in blue ink, delicate and looping. Noah’s in black, blocky and upright. There was also a single sheet of notebook paper, creased and yellowed with age, the handwriting on it instantly familiar to Derek from Claudia’s own recipe book.
He didn’t read the note, but he just knew… It was Claudia, through and through. Written in her gentle French, with soft curves in her writing. A love letter, addressed to Stiles at the top.
Derek looked up. “You want me to show him this.”
Noah’s hands trembled harder. “He won’t listen to me. But he might listen to you. I don’t want him to hate me for the rest of his life and burn himself out like that. I want him to take the money so he can start the next phase of his life, with or without me, alongside you, or wherever he goes, I don’t care. I’m sure they’re too much bad blood over the years for him to want to know me again, but the idea of him still being that angry scares me. Besides… This was his mother’s gift. I’ve been wrong to not try and fix this sooner.”
Derek folded the letter, returned it to the folder. “You know he’s not going to take it well.”
“I know,” Noah said, voice breaking. “-but I’m out of options.”
They sat in silence. Derek thought about the stubbornness in both their bloodlines, the way love and pain ran tangled together. He wondered if he’d have the courage to do what Noah was doing, if it were his own child at stake.
“Honestly, you and Claudia both have as much fault in this as Stiles. Because, yeah, Stiles lied to you about Vegas, but BOTH of you lied to him about Rosemary’s and didn’t even give him a chance to talk about it. What if that’s what he wanted in his future? You took that choice away from him! Is that a thing your family does a lot? Lie to protect each other? Lie to spare feelings? That’s got to be exhausted.” Derek said, sending a deadly glare Noah’s way. In a weird way, Derek was happy for having Peter. Peter never lied. Yes, he was an asshole and brutally honest, but he could trust everything out of the man’s mouth.
“I know. I should have… Stopped the sale. Talked with Stiles about it. Maybe, deep down… I was angry at the place and Claudia, still. Maybe I honored her last wish a little too quickly. Because it made me feel better we were finally on the same page about something. I… I don’t know. All I know is I want to make it right. Whatever it takes.”
Noah choked at the end, his voice crackling as he finished.
“-and tell Stiles… He doesn’t have to see me again. I won’t show up again or try and approach him. If he still wants to hate me after you share this with him… I understand. Just tell him that I still love him. I want him to know that, at least. I love him.”
Derek stood, offering his hand. Noah took it, grip steady.
“I’ll try. Not for you. For Stiles. Because he’s still hurting from that old wound. He’s doing better, but he’s still bleeding, after all these years. I want to help him through that. Like he helped me through mine.” Derek said and meant it.
When Noah left, Derek lingered at the table, the folder heavy in his hands. He stared at the letter until the words blurred. Then he tucked it into his coat pocket, ready to carry it into whatever storm was coming next.
+++++
Derek waited until after dark, when he knew Stiles would be home from the bakery and alone, probably staring at the wall, probably playing music so loud the neighbors would complain. He parked in the street, took a moment to calm the thumping in his chest, and climbed the steps to the apartment, folder tucked under his arm and a take-out container of food alongside it.
He knocked, not expecting an answer, but the door opened on the second try. Stiles stood there in gym shorts and a tank top, hair mashed flat on one side. He looked smaller than Derek remembered, as if the last week had wrung him out and left only the essentials.
Stiles stared at him for a long, heavy moment. “I didn’t order anything.”
Derek forced a smile. “I brought you something good. You going to let me in or not?”
After a pause, Stiles stepped aside, waving him in. The apartment was stuffy, the air dense with the scent of yeast and burnt sugar. A baking sheet of half-eaten croissants sat on the counter, like a peace offering nobody wanted.
Derek set the folder down on the coffee table, clearing his throat as Stiles messed with the takeout. “I’m going to rip the band aid off. I have something for you. From your dad.”
Stiles’s whole body went rigid, and Derek saw that rage pulsing again. “Nope. Absolutely not. If you’re here to run interference…”
“It’s not interference.” Derek’s voice was even, but the words tasted like metal. “It’s proof. Of what happened. The sale, the bakery, all of it. I had my attorney look at it and make sure it was legitimate, and it is. I even talked to the mall owners, and they agree that what happened here is the truth. I wouldn’t have brought it to you otherwise. I wouldn’t just believe what your dad said without proof. I hope you know that.”
Stiles hovered near the kitchen, arms crossed, refusing to sit. “I already know what happened. I don’t need it explained to me like I’m a fucking child.”
Derek kept his hands visible, careful. “You don’t have to read it now. Hell, you don’t have to read it ever. But if there’s even a one percent chance that you’re wrong, if there’s even a chance that you are miserable over a misunderstanding, don’t you think you should check?”
Stiles glared at the folder like it might bite him. “I don’t need absolution. He did what he did. End of story. I can’t get Rosemary’s back. He can’t undo what he did. What else is there to talk about? I’m going to fucking hate him, and he can deal with that.”
Derek’s patience snapped. Not at Stiles. At Stiles’ stubbornness. At this horrible knife digging into his lover’s back, still bleeding, never healed the least bit all these years later. The same stubbornness that nearly got Stiles killed not a few months ago, which had him trapped in a personal hell of his own creature.
He closed the distance, picked up the folder, and brandished it. “Are you so in love with your own pain that you’d rather let that anger stay inside you? Just waiting to blow up in someone’s face in the future, because believe me, the Stiles I saw the other night was not pretty, and, honestly, you’re not the only one who’s ever lost a parent, but you might be the only one too stubborn to not want a piece of them back with you!”
Stiles flinched.
Then, in a split second, Derek felt the fury no longer directed at Noah. It was directed at him.
“Fuck you! You don’t know what it was like, in that last year of her life, hearing dad bitch about mom spending all her time baking and writing in her book, saying it was a waste of time, even though it was her dream! I had to hear him and his snide remarks for 8 fucking months, while he worked overtime to avoid us, so I was stuck being a nurse and baker for 18 hours a day! He couldn’t give her a moment of peace when she was in so much pain! He hated that place and everything it stood for! When she died, he made sure he got his final shot in and let it lie in rubble under pavement! THAT IS WHAT I KNOW, DEREK, IT’S THE WORST TIME OF MY LIFE, AND I SPEND EVERY FUCKING DAY REMEMBERING IT, BECAUSE I LOST BOTH MY PARENTS THAT DAY!”
Stiles was sobbing by the end, heavy, angry tears running down his face.
Derek set the folder down, gently this time. “He didn’t hate her, and he sure as hell didn’t hate you. He wanted you to have a future. Your mother wanted it too. Life just… Has this wonderful way of hurting people in the worst way possible. Especially when you’re all… Not on the same page.” He stopped, not trusting himself to tell the story right and hoping Claudia’s letter would do the heavy lifting.
Stiles’s eyes were wild, frantic, the pupils huge. “Why do you even care? He’s not your dad. You never even met him before last week! Where is this coming from?! I thought you’d be on my side, for fuck’s sake! He hurt me, Derek, and you’re defending him!?”
Derek felt something break loose inside him, a chunk of old, calcified grief. “I care because I love you, you idiot, and you’re hurting yourself.”
Stiles froze, mouth open, all momentum lost.
For a second, neither of them breathed.
There it was. Derek almost regretted saying it then. “Love”. That was not the time to bring it out. Not in frustration. Not in anger. Not when he was trying to get a point across. He wished, on everything he had, he could take it back.
“I don’t need your love,” Stiles spat, immediately confirming Derek’s thought. He fell in on himself, practically collapsing into a black hole of emotion. Like all the fire and rage had given way to a supernova and burned everything into nothingness.
Derek shuddered, the words landing hard.
Yep. He’d made a mistake, being true to himself in the moment. Now… He might not have Stiles by the end of this.
Still… Derek loved him. That much was true in his heart. Even if it wasn’t felt back right now, he had a job to do here. This fight, these feelings, he wasn’t going to waste them.
“Maybe not, but you need the truth to set you free so you can heal and grieve. Because I don’t ever have to see you as hurt as you were on the day of the contest again. Please, Stiles. You’re scaring me. Worse than the day at the hospital.” Derek begged.
Stiles grabbed the folder and hurled it at the wall. It hit with a soft thud, papers skittering free and fluttering to the ground like wounded birds.
“Get out…” Stiles whimpered, voice shaking. “I mean it. Get. Out. Before… Before I give you something to really be scared about.”
Derek stared at the mess, wanting to scoop it up, wanting to fix everything, but knowing that was a fool’s errand. He moved to the door, then paused with his hand on the knob. “When you ever decide to stop being miserable, call me. Or don’t. But don’t you dare waste your life like this. You deserve better because you’re a good man. A very good man.”
Stiles didn’t look up. He just stood there, hands at his sides, face wet.
“-your mom knew about Vegas and Ceasar’s. She knew you gave up everything for her and threw away your own dream. Think about how that made her feel and what she would want to do if she knew that.” Derek said, as his final words, before slamming the door behind him, the sound echoing down the stairwell.
Outside, under the streetlights, Derek let himself feel all the anger, sadness, the sharp bite of rejection. He pressed his back to the car, staring up at the blank sky, letting his mind wander. In that moment, all his passion for anything vanished into thin air.
Derek sent a message to Boyd. He was taking a week off work, leaving him in charge.
Derek then booked a flight and a hotel room. Two seats. Two separate rooms. He was leaving that evening. Europe. He needed to be far away right now. For himself. For Stiles.
Finally, Derek called Peter.
“I need help. Can you… Come somewhere with me? I’ve got plane tickets, and I need… At least a week of your time. I need my family. Please.” Derek said, with a fragile voice he hadn’t used since Peter told him that his parents weren’t coming home.
“Meet you at the airport. Better be first class,” Peter said, on the other line.
+++++
Inside, Stiles stood alone, shaking, watching the papers settle. The letter from his mother landed face-up in front of him, her handwriting curling across the lines in blue ink. At the top, he saw his name.
There was no mistaking her writing. No way could you fake it.
He hated himself for wanting to read it. Hated the idea of being wrong all these years. Hated how he’d spoken to Derek. Hated how he’s spoken to his Dad.
Stiles just… Hated.
But after a long, long while, staring at the letter from the past….
…he read it.
Notes:
This chapter was painful to write as the the big moment of the relationship conflict and the last of Stiles' "arc". I can confirm this was the most painful chapter in the entire story and things can only go up from here, thank you for reading, and I'd love your comments. I'm also going to start the general outlining my next story on the side, what kind of AUs or Sterek stories do you guys think I should give a shot next at?
Chapter 9: Freshly Baked
Chapter Text
The letter was folded twice, with the careful precision. Stiles held it between both hands, the pages soft at the corners but crisp in its center. He didn’t go to bed that night. He just sat on the end of the mattress in the dim room, waiting for the thin line of dawn to sneak through broken blinds. His hands trembled, so he set the letter in his lap, pressed his palms against his knees, and willed himself to open it.
Stiles didn’t know how long he’d spent staring at his mother’s handwriting, blue ink scrolled in that gentle way, the loops and accents so familiar that for a second, he felt her in the room, behind him, a ghost in the corner. He unfolded the page. There was no greeting, no preamble. Just Claudia, jumping right to the point.
If you’re reading this, it means my gut was right and I’m not going to live to see the end of this week. I pray that I’m wrong, but… My dough didn’t rise this morning, and my mother always said it was a sign of bad luck.
I wanted to write my feelings down, just in case. For you, my little doughboy. I would say them in person, but… Somehow, I’ve just got this feeling like this is something that should be put to pen. Another gut feeling. My mother always told me to trust those feelings. I suggest you do the same.
Sorry, onto business.
I’m assuming the sale of Rosemary’s went through. Noah told me it’ll be done in a few days, and he’s nothing if not reliable. Before we get any further, you should know that I approved of this from the get-go. I would have made this decision without your father’s input and found my own person to do it.
Why? I’m sure that’s the question you want to know immediately.
Well, I want you to know that I am not angry at you, even if you’re angry at me. Or at your father. Or at the universe, which frankly is a very valid option.
This isn't a punishment. This isn't because I lack faith in you.
All that being said, I am disappointed, my darling boy, not because of anything you did, but because you lied to me about your business and your success, and because you thought I would ever want my dying to be the reason you give any of that up.
I want you to understand that I never, ever wanted that for you. Had I known of your success, I would have done so many things differently. I took you away from the sun and made you live in darkness.
Stiles could see and hear her saying it, pushing her hair behind her ear, pinning him with those weirdly gentle eyes that never let you squirm away. In a way, he knew that’s how she would feel. He braced himself, holding back a sob.
Rosemary’s was never meant to be a shrine, Stiles. You were never meant to feel obligated to take it on as your responsibility. The bakery was my way of doing something beautiful in a world that makes everything so hard for ordinary people. I wanted to share a little magic with the people of this town, a magic that has been passed down my family for generations, and that has always been sacred and special to me. Not just master-class pastries, but the love and energy we put into those pastries, making the world a little softer for anyone that ate them.
I know it was sacred to you, because we built it together as a family, and you hold so many good memories there.
Yet, Rosemary’s wasn’t supposed to be your prison. Knowing that you gave up so much to come and run my quaint little shop, just for my sake, broke my heart.
I don’t want you to be like me. I want you to be better.
Stiles felt the breath leave him in a rush. His fingers went numb, then hot. The tears ran down his face, and he felt her firm, motherly grip on his shoulder. The grip she always had when he got scolded for misbehaving. Firm, but loving.
Your father is an impossibly stubborn man, just like you. I still love him, even now, though sometimes I want to wring his neck. I know we’ve fought and made things uncomfortable, but we fight and bicker because we love each other so much, and we both know the end is coming.
Please be kind to him, even when he makes it so, so difficult. Because, in the end, he only wanted to give you a way out, Stiles, even if it was the wrong way and even if we didn’t talk about it in person. Let it be forever known that I agreed to the sale. It was the last thing your father and I will ever agree on in this lifetime.
I wanted you to have the money, not because money matters, but because it was the one thing I could give you that would let you build something of your own after I was gone.
You can do more than I ever did. You can create something that lasts. Something people need, not just something they remember.
I’m gone, Stiles. You’re not. You can be there for people in a way that I can’t.
The world needs the living, my darling. Especially those that brighten the world in the way that you do.
Stiles heard her voice with every word, the lilt of it, the soft warning, the confidence so alien to him but so natural to her. He struggled to breath, hitching between soft cries.
I know you’re angry at me. Or you’re worried I’m angry at you.
That’s okay, Stiles. Whatever happens, I forgive you and I love you. That will never change.
I was angry at the world when I first got diagnosed. I wanted to scream and give up and let the anger and hatred spread through me. I almost did. Until you and your father’s love, showing me how much you both loved in your own unique ways, made me realize how small my anger was compared to all the love the world has to give.
Don’t be like me. Don’t waste time hating things you can’t fix. Life will take so much from you, but it cannot take the things you build yourself.
A tear hit the page and left a small starburst around the period.
I also should let you know, I’m not a Saint. I have my flaws. Don’t put me on a pedestal and make me out to be an angel, because I’m just as human as everyone else.
Before you left for Vegas, I wanted to sit you down and tell you that I believe in you, that you are better than I am, that you will go further, love harder, and fight longer than anyone expects. That’s the kind of man I know you are, deep on the inside.
The truth is, though… I was afraid you’d leave us for good when you found your place in the sun. I was selfish, Stiles. I wanted to keep you close, even if it meant keeping you small. So I didn’t support you in the way I should have back then. I could have given you money back then, to help your startup, or used connections to help you get a foot in the door somewhere. Instead, I did nothing. I let you find your own way, thinking you’d have to come back home sooner or later. I knew you’d succeed, but I could have made it easier for you.
That was wrong. I see that now. For that, I’m sorry.
He closed his eyes. The words blurred, but he forced himself to keep reading, the page damp in his grip.
Your father and I fought a lot at the end, but it wasn’t because we didn’t love each other. It’s because we loved too much and couldn’t see the shape of it anymore.
I think that… In the end, we all loved each other too much. We never wanted to disappoint or hurt each other, and because of that, we ended up doing just that. You lied to us so it felt normal for you to come home and be with me. We lied to you because we think we know best for you and don’t want to hurt you.
I’ve come to realize that love and hate are siblings, sometimes indistinguishable from each other. You cannot hate without having loved first.
Be patient with your father. He is you, in a suit, with a badge, and no one to talk to. You will both forgive each other, eventually, even if it takes a long time. Don’t rush it. Don’t pretend it doesn’t hurt, but don’t let it eat you alive.
He could feel her in the letter, a gentle kiss on the forehead, the smell of yeast and honey from his childhood home. Stiles pulled the sheet closer, until it was almost flush with his nose, as if he could smell it.
I want you to do something amazing with your life.
Go somewhere strange. Say yes to things that scare you. If you end up in Paris, eat too much cheese and never apologize for it. If you fall in love with someone, let yourself fall all the way. If you fail, fail so big that the world has to invent a new word for it.
You were my heart, Stiles. The best thing I ever made. Don’t let my last mistake be the one that keeps you small.
He was sobbing now, quietly, in the hush of his apartment. He clutched the paper with both hands, afraid he might rip it.
I will always watch over you, my little doughboy. Even if you can’t see me, I will be there. I hope you make something beautiful with the time I couldn’t have. I hope you forgive me, and your father, and yourself. I hope you never lose the hunger for what comes next.
I love you forever,
Mom
PS: You were always the best baker in the family. Better than I was. Better than your grandmother. Maybe the best in the family history. Your chapter in our book will be the one that all of our descendants will love the most. I just know it.
Stiles finished reading with the sun barely up, the shadows in his room navy and brittle, the heat from his body clinging to the sheet. He pressed the letter to his chest, hugged it, then set it under his pillow, as if hiding it would make it less real. He missed her so much he thought he might snap in half.
Yet, at the same time, he felt her there, in the stillness, in the dust motes, in the way the world waited for him to get up, wash his face, and go make something out of nothing.
Stiles wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, and for the first time in a decade, he laughed at how much he’d ruined his life. A cruel, cold laugh. The kind that would have gotten him a grippy sock vacation if he were in public.
Because… How do you go back from something like that?
How do you apologize to your father, after years of hate and vitriol, admitting you were partially in the wrong? How do you tell your boyfriend “I’m sorry I said I didn’t need your love”. How do you walk into the business you’d spent a decade building up, knowing it was the exact opposite of what his mother’s dying wish was?
How do you un-fuck a life that’s fucked up beyond repair?
Stiles’ laugher didn’t really know the answer. His covers didn’t know the answer either, but he pulled them up and around him, curling into a ball.
Because as much as he wanted to fix things, he didn’t think he deserved the chance to.
+++++
Stiles closed Doughboys for three days. He made sure his employees got paid even though they didn’t get work. It wasn’t their fault Stiles had destroyed his life.
By the time Stiles crawled out of bed on the fourth day, the world was gray.
The phone said three in the afternoon, though the light in the room made it feel like early morning, the hour of the dead and hungover. He shuffled to the kitchen for water, barely noticing the detritus of last night, of half-eaten doordash meals, and his mother’s letter already folded and creased from being clutched so hard and read so often.
On the way back to bed, he nearly stepped on the envelope Derek had brought with the letter.
The contract.
He’d thrown it across the room, but the pages had burst out on impact and now littered the floor like fallen leaves. Stiles knelt, gathered them up, and forced himself to look.
It was all there. The title, the buyer, the numbers. His mother’s signature, in blue, just like the letter. Her name so familiar it felt like reading his own on a test. And his father’s, blocky and defensive, in black Sharpie.
Stiles hated them for a second.
Not a clean, righteous hate, but the petty, burning kind that curls under your ribs and makes you want to hit something, anything. He wanted to go back in time and scream at both of them: TELL ME. He pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes, breathing through the memory.
The thing was, he had secrets too. He’d never told them about Vegas, about the six months in a duct-taped food truck. Stiles never told them how he’d almost landed a slot on a Food Network spinoff, how he was already in talks with Ceasar’s Palace attorneys with an executive chef gig, and how his truck in just a week of sales made more money than Rosemary’s did in a month. Stiles was... Rich. Stupid rich back then.
Stiles was going to go home and surprise them that Christmas. He was going to help his mom make renovations to Rosemary’s. Buy her a new oven. Take his parents to France and Poland, seeing both of his family lineages, eating at the best restaurants in the world. He had dreams of paying off their house, letting them both retire, and maybe someday, Stiles would have his own store in town.
Stiles wanted his mother and father to be proud of him. Show them that he was strong and could live up to his mother’s legacy. He could do all of that, in just a matter of a few years. Be one of those top 30 under 30, but not a crook or a scam artist.
All of that, of course, was before the night he got the call that his mother had less than a year to live.
After that, nothing tasted right.
Everything Stiles wanted to do for them? His mother would never see it, he didn’t have enough time to make her proud. By then, his father hated baking and cooking and saw it all as a waste of time on this planet, so how could he even pretend to be excited about any of it.
Guilt. Finally, Stiles had a word to put to the emotion.
Guilt is what made Stiles sell everything, drive home, throw himself into the bakery, all while pretending that his exile from the world was a noble sacrifice and not the coward’s way out.
Stiles was angry at them for not trusting him, but really, wasn’t that exactly what he’d done to them? The realization hollowed him out. He crawled back onto the bed and let the contract spill across his chest, the sheets cold as winter.
The rest of the day passed in snatches, sleep, wake, scroll the phone, stare at the ceiling. He thought about Derek, about the last fight, about the sharpness in his voice when he’d told Stiles to stop hiding, stop clinging to old pain like a blanket. He imagined Derek’s face right now: jaw tight, eyes narrowed, maybe regretting the whole damn thing.
He wished he could be angry at Derek, but the ache was too big, too raw. Stiles had fucked up with Derek the same way he’d fucked up with his dad. Anger. Hatred.
Instead, he rolled over and let himself disappear into the mattress, letting hunger gnaw through his insides without so much as a word.
The next day was worse. He didn’t shower, didn’t check the bakery email, didn’t answer texts from Isaac, who was probably fielding Doughboys solo at that point and fending off the endless stream of “Where’s Stiles?” from the regulars. He ignored the news, the social feeds, the world.
It wasn’t until late that night, when his phone finally pinged with something different, that he moved.
It was Erica. Her message read, in all caps:
IF YOU DON’T GET YOUR ASS OUT OF BED AND MEET ME TOMORROW, I’M GOING TO LET LIAM USE THE OVENS UNSUPERVISED.
There was a selfie attached: Erica in front of HIS oven in Doughboy, shotgunning an espresso and giving him the finger. In the background, Liam had his head down on the counter, eyes glazed and apron singed at the tips, presumably from his last “experiment.”
Stiles stared at the screen. The image of Liam in a kitchen, HIS kitchen, was enough to break the spiral.
He set the phone on his pillow, pulled himself to a sitting position, and stayed there, staring into the dark, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do with the rest of his life.
But at least he was sitting up. At least he was breathing.
Stiles took the letter from beneath his pillow, smoothed it out with slow, shaking fingers, and read it again.
This time, he didn’t cry. Not until the end, when the PS hit him so hard, he actually laughed, and the laugh bent itself, finally, into something closer to hope.
+++++
The bakery Erica picked for them to meet looked like someone had tried to recreate a Pinterest board in real life, then lost heart (or budget) halfway through. The walls were lavender, the tables clean but impersonal, and a flock of decorative spoons from every state in the US hung in a lopsided arc above the counter. The pastry case was full but untouched, as if the food inside was for show, not sale.
“Never heard of this place.” Stiles thought, realizing this bakery wasn’t even on the Chamber roster. Which meant Kira didn't think it would last longer than 6 months.
Stiles stepped in, blinking against the aggressive lightning, and saw Erica immediately, having staked out a booth in the back, arms sprawled across the tabletop like a queen in exile. She wore a shirt that said “Please Touch the Chef” and her hair was up in the most aggressively professional bun he’d ever seen.
The only other person in the place was a young woman at the register, who looked one more Monday away from walking into traffic.
“Stilinski!” Erica bellowed, like a drill sergeant greeting a recruit. “Jesus, you look like shit.”
“Nice to see you too, Reyes,” he muttered, and slid into the seat opposite.
Without waiting for pleasantries, Erica flagged the cashier. “We’ll have one of everything. And, uh, coffee. Black.”
The woman’s eyes widened, a dull glaze sparking to life. “Everything?”
“Everything,” Erica repeated.
There was a beat as the woman processed this, then she scuttled to the back, scooping scones and croissants and something that looked like a donut but smelled like dish soap. Stiles watched her go, then turned to Erica.
“That doesn’t… Look like food,” he said, a bit suspicious.
“Eh, it won’t kill you,” Erica replied. Then, softer, “You okay? A baker spending more than three days out of their kitchen isn’t a good sign.”
He shrugged, not even bothering to deflect. “Rough week.”
The food arrived all at once, in a pyramid of plates and paper baskets. Erica waited until the cashier retreated, then plucked a pink-frosted eclair from the top. “Alright, Prince of Beacon Hills. Try them. Give me the truth.”
Stiles picked up a muffin, gave it the once-over, and bit in. It tasted like wet chalk. He spat it out, it was too… Terrible. “Dry, too much baking powder, probably left in the oven a good ten minutes longer than it had to be. Then it’s been… Cursed by something evil.”
Erica’s turn. “Agreed. Next.”
He made it through four more: a biscuit that collapsed into paste, a croissant that was doughy in the middle, a Danish so sweet it definitely gave him a cavity, and a bagel that had the texture of a dog toy.
Erica watched his face with the glee of a Roman emperor watching gladiators get mauled. “On a scale of one to ten, how bad is it?”
“Negative infinity. Is this an intervention, or are you trying to poison me?” Stiles hadn’t been able to finish any of it.
Erica laughed, the sound sharp as lemon zest. “Just making a point.”
Stiles eyed the pastry mountain. “And the point is?”
She leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “The point is that this is what happens when you stop trying. You can tell exactly when someone gives up, Stilinski. Every single one of these is a cry for help.”
He bristled, but she cut him off with a flick of her hand. “I’m serious. Do you think any of these people dreamed of making food this bad? No, they probably started out wanting to be great. But then one thing goes wrong, and another, and soon they’re just… pushing out whatever, because the world expects nothing better.”
Stiles looked down at the table. “So what? Some people just aren’t cut out for it.”
Erica’s face twisted. “Bullshit. Anyone can do it if they work hard enough and stop lying to themselves. I mean, I’m a dumb bitch, let’s not even talk about my grades back in high school, and even I was able to learn this. To bring my point home, oh ye high and mighty-”
She reached into her bag and produced a box, smaller than a shoe box but heavier. She slid it across the table, eyes locked on him.
“Open it.”
Inside was a tart, pale and perfectly round, topped with glazed fruit and finished with a spiral of cream so precise it could have been piped by a machine. Stiles blinked, lifted it free, and set it on the napkin.
“Is this a setup?” he asked, voice hollow.
Erica shook her head. “Try it. Please.”
He picked up the fork, hands unsteady, and cut a sliver. The crust shattered, the filling held together without being gummy, and the fruit was just sharp enough to offset the sweetness. Stiles chewed, then froze.
Heaven. Heaven was in his mouth. A flavor profile so aggressive that it threatened to pull him into a sugar coma. Yet, the crust brought it all back home. The crust! She’s manipulated the crust to pull it all together.
There was no denying it.
Erica had beaten him. No, actually. She'd beaten his mother. The danish he’d spent months perfecting, the recipe his mother had called “magic”, this was sharper, cleaner, somehow brighter in his mouth. She’d taken his mother’s flavor and made it better.
Stiles looked up, stunned, and a little furious. That was HIS job to do. Not hers.
Erica’s smile was sad, but not mocking. “I’ve been working on it since the taste test. Your mom’s recipe inspired me to bring it back to life. With my own take on it, of course. I’m not a plagiarist. Which, is something you could have done, if you had the balls for it.”
He wanted to be angry, but the taste was too good, and the logic in her words undeniable. He set the fork down, unable to speak.
She let the silence stretch. “You know why I asked you here, right?”
He shook his head, eyes stinging.
“I don’t know what happened with you and Hale. I heard rumors about your mouth being worse than Gordon Ramsey’s against your dad, but in reality, it seems like you two broke the sun and forgot to fix it, so you're both stuck sleeping all the time.”
Erica sipped her coffee, watching him over the rim. “I don’t care about your drama, but I do care about you going all existential and letting your bakery rot into one of these disaster cases. You’re better than that, Stilinski. You are my best rival and gave me a passion to work towards that I hadn't felt in years. You made Derek into the happier man he was until recently. If you give up now, I will never forgive you and I might just have to choke you with this place's muffin in the process.”
He wanted to argue, to tell her it wasn’t that simple, that some things in life can’t be fixed. Wanted to admit to all the terrible things he’d said and done in his life, all the shame and guilt that still festered inside of him, and yet…
Erica, sensing his retreat, slammed her hand on the table, rattling the plates. “-and don’t you dare pretend there’s nothing you can do. That’s a coward’s move. There is no one single recipe for life, hell, there’s no recipe at all! Do something! Fail! Succeed! Who gives a fuck!? Just make a move and step up! Please!”
Stiles swallowed, tried to find words, and finally managed a blubber. “I can’t… I don’t want to… I fucked up, I fucked up so bad, there’s nothing I can do to fix this. Why bother trying? Seriously, I can't-“
Erica reached across the table and slapped him. Sharp and hard enough to leave a red mark blooming on his cheek and a crack that echoed through half the town. The cashier, startled, gasped aloud, caught between wanting to call 911, watch the drama unfold, or running out the front door.
“Wake the fuck up,” Erica said, low and urgent. “You get one shot. One. Either you put in the work and fix this, or you’ll regret it every day until you die. Forget the past, forget what you can’t fix, and worry about what you’re doing now, and what you can do in the future. If not for you, then for your employees, for Hale, for me. For the people that love you, Stiles. -and believe me.. There are a lot of people that love you.”
Stiles blinked, stunned, cheek burning. For the first time in a week, he felt something cut through the fog. Maybe it was his imagination. Maybe it was Erica’s bun, or the way she talked, but… He saw her.
Claudia.
Angry tears streaming down her face. A desperate need to make a point come across.
A flash of flavor on Stiles’ tongue. Erica’s tart. The “magic”.
In that moment, Stiles smelled the faintest scent of honey and yeast.
“I believe in you, you know?” Erica said, with the faintest echo of Claudia’s voice in the background.
Stiles rubbed his sore cheek, surprisingly grateful for the pain. He said nothing, instead choosing to merely nod in agreement.
Erica sat back, arms folded, satisfied. “Good. That’s the start. I’ll be by Doughboys next week. I expect a Danish to compete with that tart. Whoever loses has to teach Liam the proper way to make a souffle for his final exams.” Erica finished her coffee, set the cup down, and stood to go. She left without waiting for a reply, the door chime echoing behind her.
Stiles stared at the table, at the remains of the tart, the slap still tingling on his skin. The taste lingered, bright and impossible. He didn’t know what he’d do next, but for the first time since the contest, he wanted to find out.
+++++
Stiles didn’t know what possessed him. He walked past the cashier of the terrible bakery, and into the kitchen, without asking.
The back of this bakery was a world apart from the lavender sterility of the front. Here, the walls were battered with years of flour and steam, the linoleum worn to the color of parchment, every surface dusted with a fine coat of sugar and defeat.
Stiles almost missed the old couple at first, clearly fresh into retirement age, they stood together at the prep table, small and hunched, their matching hairnets giving them the look of retired astronauts lost in a zero-g kitchen.
He cleared his throat. “Hi. Sorry. I’m, uh, Stiles.”
The man looked up, eyes clouded but sharp around the edges. The woman, taller by half a head, put down her rolling pin and wiped her hands on her apron.
“We know who you are,” she said, voice like crepe paper but with a snap to it. “You’re the Doughboy.”
Stiles fought the urge to deny it, instead giving a weak smile. “That’s me.”
The man squinted. “You used to work at Rosemary’s. Claudia’s boy.”
He nodded, throat tight.
The woman softened. “She made our wedding cake. We still talk about it. There was a little marzipan puppy on top, with a frosting tail that wagged in the breeze. Looked just like our dear Gilbert”
The memory hit him sideways. “My mom loved that cake,” he said. “She talked about the puppy for months. Mom said that’s how you two met, so she wanted to make it special.”
The couple beamed, and for a second, the years seemed to fall off them. “We always wanted to open a place of our own,” the man said. “Took us fifty years, and three heart attacks, but here we are.”
The woman nudged her husband. “We’re terrible at it, but we’re stubborn. We’ll figure this baking thing out one way or another. Our grandson keeps sending us the Youtubes and the Tikytoks on how to make things!”
Stiles glanced at the racks of cooling pastries, which were flat, overbaked, a little sad. “Do you want a hand? I could show you some ropes?” he asked, and meant it.
The man hesitated, pride and relief fighting for room in his expression. “We’d be honored,” he said at last.
Stiles rolled up his sleeves, dusted off the bench, and set to work.
He started with a dough he hadn’t made in years, a spiced, yeasted ring, somewhere between a donut and a brioche, the kind of pastry that could go sweet or savory with a shift in the glaze. In Vegas, it had been a crowd favorite: coated with cinnamon and cardamom in the morning or split and filled with pulled pork or smoked chicken at night.
Stiles worked the dough by feel, guiding the old couple through every step. The woman, whose name was Serah, had a knack for kneading, and the man, Ralph, could stretch a sheet of dough thinner than parchment. He taught them the trick of the second rise, the way to oil the pan so the crust wouldn’t toughen, the secret to getting that first bite to crackle.
Hours passed. They talked as they worked. Ralph had been a plumber, Serah a school nurse. They’d spent their lives in Beacon Hills, always wanting more but never daring to ask. The bakery was their second chance to do something with their lives. Stiles listened, but mostly he watched the way they moved together, never bumping, always passing tools without a word, like a team that had practiced for decades.
The first batch came out golden, fragrant, perfect. Serah cried when she tasted one, and even Ralph teared up, though he pretended it was just the cinnamon.
Stiles snapped a photo, posted it to Doughboy’s feed, and then cross-posted it to their bakery’s barely-used social feed, and tagged it with #SecondChances.
Within minutes, the feed started to ping. Old friends, neighbors, even a few regulars from Doughboys, all promising to come by, to support the new business, to try whatever “The Prince” was making next.
Before long, Stiles was showing them… Nonsense. The kind of things he knew would sell well in bulk, be easy enough for the couple to replicate, but were crazy enough to get attention. His recipies. Not his mother's. The kind he wanted to share with others, because he still wasnt' sure if he could make it in Doughboys. At the very least, he knew they'd sell well and help this sweet old couple out.
With each new batch, the crowd outside grew bigger and bigger. No matter how fast Stiles went, even with the old couple’s help, it wasn’t enough.
At the end of the rush, Sereh insisted on giving Stiles a box of donuts (which they’d made themselves, under Stiles’ supervision) to take home. He accepted, said his goodbyes, and stepped outside for air.
It was only then, blinking in the sunlight, that he saw the bakery’s sign over the door. The script was uneven, the paint still fresh: “Forget-me-Not”, with the old man and woman hugging each other on the opposite side.
Stiles laughed, choked and shivery, and wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist. The world was still broken, but maybe there was room for something better than what he’d lost.
He took a donut from the box, bit into it, and let the flavor fill his mouth.
“She still puts way too much flour in this.” Stiles thought, promising to return with proper lessons in the future. Or, maybe, he should make some "Tikytoks" to help them out.
+++++
Two weeks passed since the last contest round and Stiles’ crashout. November was well under way, and the snow had finally started to become regular around Beacon Hills.
The coffee shop Stiles found himself in was half empty, just a scattering of students bent over laptops and a mother bribing her toddler with chunks of cookie. Stiles picked a window seat, set a mug of black coffee between his hands, and stared through the glass at the slate November sky. The next round of the contest was weeks away, but already he could feel it looming, a deadline humming in the bones. Neither he nor Derek spoke about it. The theme was “Family Recipes”. Which was possibly, the cruelest theme for either of them to take to heart.
Though… The hurt was lessened. He’d started therapy. Not the touchy-feely kind, but the hard, grinding sort where the counselor asked questions Stiles never wanted to answer, and wouldn’t let him joke his way out of anything. The counselor, Malia, was like a wild animal that broke him down in ways he wasn’t sure if he could recover from. He told the woman everything: about Claudia, about Rosemary’s, about Doughboys and Derek and the letter. About how anger was a living thing in him, how grief was something he wore like a spare shirt under the real one.
It helped. To talk about things. She helped him understand his feelings and not just try to "fix" them and run through them. Though the real test had yet to come, which is how he'd react when the anger and hatred flared up again.
The bell over the coffee shop door jangled, and Noah walked in. He’d lost weight, and the bags under his eyes had settled in for the long haul, but he looked sober, sharp, and more awake than Stiles had ever seen him. Noah saw Stiles, gave a little nod, and limped over to the table, like a wounded dog around an apex predator.
They sat in silence for a minute. Stiles took a long drink, letting the bitterness linger on his tongue.
Noah said, “I got your message. Wasn’t sure if it was a trap.”
Stiles snorted. “If it was, I’d have sprung it already. I’m evil like that, you know?”
Noah’s mouth twitched at the edge, the ghost of a smile. “Good. You get that from your mother. I’ve always been the law abiding one in this family.”
It was the opening Stiles needed, the line to tie them together.
“I got her letter,” he said. “-and the contract. I know it was all above board.”
Quietly, Stiles said the three words he thought he’d never speak. “I’m sorry, Dad. I'm still mad about it, because you didn't talk to me, but... I'm sorry. A lot of things I said were cruel. I know I can't take them back.”
Noah’s hands shook, just a little. “I accept it, Stiles. Hell, I should have told you sooner. Then your mom died, and I figured maybe you needed something to hate more than the cancer.”
Stiles nodded. “Turns out I’m great at hating things. It’s like my superpower.”
They laughed, and it wasn’t bitter, not really.
Noah took a breath. “I’m sorry, Stiles. About all of it. I should have asked how you felt about everything. I was scared, I was angry, I was grieving myself, and I guess I figured if you had the money, you could do anything you wanted and Claudia would be happy. That… That wasn’t the case at all.” He dropped his head, staring longingly into his coffee.
Stiles wanted to be angry, to yell and scream about how he wanted to be told, but… He’d gotten all that out in therapy. Malia let him scream at her for three hours, in what she called “anger therapy”. So, instead of angry, Stiles just felt tired. “You know what’s funny? I thought if I held onto the bakery, or the memory of it, or the anger, that I’d be keeping her alive somehow. Like if I never let it go, she’d never really be gone.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Turns out she’s the only one of us who knew what came next. It’s like she knew I was going to screw up and wrote that letter. Fuck, I’m starting to think there really are witches in our family.”
Noah blinked, then looked away, voice rough. “She always did have a sixth sense. I don’t know about witchcraft, but… I swear, anything she cooked had this way of… Making everything better. Your cooking did the same.”
They sat, letting the words settle.
Noah reached into his coat and slid a thick manilla envelope across the table. “This is for you. The inheritance. I’ve been sitting on it, waiting for you to want it. You don’t have to do anything with it right away, but this is yours.”
Stiles stared at the envelope, peeked inside at the old bills wrapped up in bundles, then pushed it back. “Hold onto it a little longer. To be honest, until I live up to mom’s letter, I don’t think it’s fair. I want to earn it.”
Noah smiled, slow and sad. “You already did.”
They let it sit on the table, neither pushing nor pulling.
After a long time, Stiles cleared his throat. “I’m doing Thanksgiving this year. At the bakery. Just a small group: Isaac, Allison, a couple of Derek’s chefs, this old couple I met across town, and maybe Erica if she’ll stop announcing herself as Bobby Flay and wanting to beat me down all the time. You should come.”
Noah looked surprised. “You want me there?”
Stiles shrugged. The bridge between him and his father was still on fire, but Stiles wanted to slowly put that out. “If nothing else, we can compare notes on the worst pies in town. Bring booze. We’re all going to get drunk at the end and watch Worst Chefs in America.”
Noah huffed a laugh. “You got it.”
The silence this time was easier, a kind of truce. They both felt and knew there was still bad blood, but for the first time in a long time, things felt… Easier. Noah stood first, tucking the envelope into his pocket when it was clear Stiles wasn’t taking it. “You heard from Hale?” he asked.
Stiles looked at his hands, the coffee gone cold. “Last I heard, he was in Europe. Paris, I think. Boyd’s running the restaurant. Derek’s phone’s off. I haven’t texted him in a while. I’ve had… A time of it.”
Noah frowned. “You two have a fight?”
“Something like that,” Stiles said, soft. “I think I broke him. Or maybe just scared him away.”
Noah shook his head. “I didn’t know him that long, but I got the feeling he’d walk through fire for you. Don’t count him out yet.”
Stiles wanted to believe it. He really did.
+++++
Paris in November was mean and beautiful; all wet cobblestones and skeletal trees and the smell of diesel laced with burnt sugar. Derek pressed his forehead to the bus window, watching the world smear past in a gray-blue wash. He’d forgotten how cold Europe could get, how the wind could cut through a coat and leave your bones ringing.
Peter sat next to him, gloved hands folded over the handle of an umbrella, the picture of upper-class ennui. Every so often he’d click his tongue, glance at Derek, and smirk like he knew the ending to a joke Derek hadn’t even told yet.
“Let me get this straight, because I still can’t quite believe you’re doing this,” Peter said, voice low enough for only Derek to hear. “You’re about to walk into the single most exclusive kitchen in Paris, a place that chews up and spits out Michelin inspectors for fun, and you’re going to challenge Deucalion, your mother’s finest apprentice that many argue outclassed her, and your first professional mentor that left a scar on your face, to a cook-off. Like you're in some sort of cooking Hallmark movie, and this is the start of the third act?”
“That’s the plan,” Derek said, not looking away from the window.
“-and from what you’ve told me, you don’t plan on cooking anything from your repertoire. You’re going in with a brand new menu that you came up on the plane ride over here. Something you claim is… Anti-Hale?” Peter asked, chuckling as the words left his mouth.
“This is a world first. It’s not even French cuisine. This… This is me. I've been inspired lately, but a lot of people.” Derek admitted.
Peter’s reflection in the glass raised an eyebrow. “Have you considered therapy instead? Perhaps something a little less dramatic? Because, Derek, you know Deucalion. If he beats you, he’s going to be cruel about it. In ways that could very well mean the end of your professional career.”
“I know,” Derek said, thumbing the scar on his face. “I’m painfully aware of how cruel he is. That’s why I chose him. There’s nobody better in the industry for this. If I’m going to do this, it’s going to be against the best.”
Peter paused. “Are you doing this for Stiles?”
Derek took a long, deep breath. That was a compilated question. One that was both "yes" and "no", but Peter didn't need to know that. “I’m doing it for me. I’m going to prove that I am Derek first and a Hale second. This… Is me taking the reigns of my legacy and making it my own. This is me breaking away from the ghosts that haunt me. So when I go back home, regardless of what happens, and regardless of if Stiles and I stay together, I can walk with my head high and accept what comes next in my life.”
Peter’s smirk softened, just a fraction. He gripped Derek’s shoulder, shaking him for good measure. “Good answer.”
Chapter 10: Special Serving
Chapter Text
The flagship restaurant, Deucalion’s, was tucked just between the shadows of the Eiffel Tower, always illuminated in sunlight all hours of the day, as if daring the city to outshine it.
Deucalion’s was a shrine to everything Parisian and beautiful: velvet banquettes, gold-leafed mirrors polished to madness, glassware that caught the sun and cut it into daggers of prismatic light. Inside were multiple paintings that could have belonged in a museum. The plaque outside the door, the only signage that dared advertise the restaurant read simply “Duke” in letters so discreet they might as well have been a threat to anyone that made less than 6 figures.
Derek paused on the threshold. He could feel the hum of the room even before stepping inside. A tension, an almost mythic expectation of perfection. There were faces he recognized in the crowd, the New York Times food critic who had badmouthed his sister’s legacy, the sommelier who’d once banned Derek from the premises for calling a Burgundy “overwrought”, a coven of cult-like bloggers already live-tweeting every moment, and plenty of the other chefs that Derek had trained under, all as bloodthirsty and arrogant as he day he’d met them.
“You can do this,” Derek said to himself.
The plan came to him the moment he left Stiles’ house. As much as he preached to Stiles about not being tied to the past, the truth was, he’d been a hypocrite. There was still so much that anchored him to the past, things he couldn’t get out of his head unless he did something as drastic or dramatic as Stiles had gone through with his father.
Hence, the goal. To free himself from the shackles of Hale cooking, and replacing it with his own style. To have that new art recognized by an authority he could respect. His first mentor and his mother’s best pupil, Deucalion.
“Come along. You did this to yourself,” Peter said, leading the way. He wore his customary armor, a suit so precisely tailored it made everyone else look like they’d just crawled out of bed, and never broke stride, not even as the maître d’ greeted them with a bow so deep it bordered on satire. “Monsieur Hales. Chef Deucalion wishes you to sample his menu before the main event.” The words hung between them, and the room turned, every eye sharpening. Derek fought the urge to hunch, instead rolling his shoulders back and following his uncle across the floor.
Their table was at the edge of the kitchen pass, a glass wall separating the diners from the fire and fury of the line. Through it, Derek could see the kitchen brigade in perfect motion, black jackets and white gloves, every station lit like a stage. At the center, Deucalion himself presided, a silver fox with the lithe body of a runner and the smile of a fox. He was plating something with tweezers, eyes narrowed, the whites flecked with blood vessels from decades of sleepless nights. When he spotted Derek, he didn’t wave, but a flicker of recognition rippled across his face. One bold enough to say “I see what you aren’t. You aren’t enough.”
Peter didn’t speak until the first course arrived, as Deucalion refused to let his customers order dishes, only ever serving what he pleased. Before them was a dish so self-indulgently “Hale”, right out of his mother’s famous works. Ribbons of raw scallop, rhubarb, and a patterned lace of black sesame tuille. “You nervous?” Peter asked in French, just loud enough to carry to the next table.
Derek shrugged, though his hands vibrated against the linen. He pulled out his own French, glad he’d always been fluent with it. “Not really. I just want it over with.”
Peter smiled, the way a cat smiled at a goldfish bowl. “Of course you do, but you wouldn’t have come if you didn’t want to win.”
Derek wanted to argue, to claim the bravado and confidence he usually had, but Deucalion’s food was shockingly good. He ate it in two bites, the acid and sweetness so perfectly balanced it made his teeth ache. He remembered how Laura used to eat, like every meal was the first, or last, she’d ever have, and for a second, the pain of her memory came back, quick and mean.
He stared through the glass, watching Deucalion assemble the next course, a tight ball of muscle and rage. This man had been taught by Talia for over a decade. He had taught Laura too. Widely regarded as the greatest French chef in the modern era, having earned 2 Michelin stars on his first-year opening. The man had, in some sense, created the version of Derek that still bled for perfection, even if he spent most of his adult life denying it.
The meal wound on. Peter made small talk, dissected the crowd, pointed out which bloggers would sell their souls for a free meal. At the end of the second course of a perfect lamb, a server materialized with a tray. Three small glasses of Calvados, neat, and a card with the D.C. logo pressed into the stock. “The Chef would like to invite you to his private room.”
Peter drained his glass and gestured for Derek to do the same. “Now or never,” he said.
They followed the server down a hallway lined with framed menus, decades of obsessive detail, signatures faded from ink to shadow. The private room was smaller than expected, furnished with only a single slab of marble and two chairs. Deucalion waited, dressed in whites so immaculate they seemed to glow. He didn’t stand, but extended a hand, the gesture more a command than invitation.
“The last living Hales,” he said, not bothering with first names. “You came.”
Derek shook his hand. Deucalion’s grip was gentle, lifeless, almost cold. As if Deucalion didn’t’ have the respect to shake it properly.
Peter spoke first, with a venomous tone that was well practiced and feared throughout the culinary world. “I assume you have no objection to my nephew’s challenge, seeing as you’ve packed the restaurant with guests and reviewers ready to cut him down.”
“Derek should know by now that my teaching methods always put him on a knife’s edge. If he hasn’t learned that and is frightened of his career going up in flames? Well, then I’ve been a poor teacher and he’s learned nothing about the way the world works,” Deucalion chuckled. He crossed his legs, raising a curious eyebrow. “Of course, don’t get me wrong. I’m happy to facilitate this contest of strength, though I am surprised you chose me out of everyone. Challenging a smaller contender might have been the wise move.”
Derek froze. He opened his mouth to bite back, but was interrupted by Peter covering his mouth.
“Seems only proper that Derek’s mentor should be the one to experience this event. Unless you’d like to back out. Though I’m told you have a “reputation” to protect here. Might be quite the tarnish if you didn’t see this through now.”
Deucalion smiled, all teeth. “I wouldn’t dream of backing down. Shall we set the terms? Since this is my kitchen, I’ll set the basic rules.”
Derek nodded, because it was easier than speaking.
Deucalion steepled his fingers. “Three courses, back-to-back, no prep time. You may use any of my equipment and anything from my pantry. You’ll be required to feed my guests, who have already partaken of my superb courses time and again. Each course judged blind, by one of mine, one of yours, and one outside neutral party. They may consider the audience’s reaction as part of the score. If I win—”
“-you get my name. The rights to my legacy. I’ll sign over all of mother’s books and creative rights she left to me,” Derek finished, surprised by his own boldness.
A quiet cold shot down his spine, and a genuine shock on Deucalion’s face. Derek’s inheritance was on the line. There was only one reason Deucalion would ever stoop to Derek’s level and agree to this. He’d known in advance it was the only thing the bastard would want, the one thing he could never have, a Hale name.
Deucalion inclined his head. A devious smile crossed his lips. “Very bold of you to offer. I accept that term. Though, if you were to win?”
“-you recognize me as Chef Derek. Not Chef Hale. To the public. You never speak the name “Hale” again from your lips when referring to me,” Derek ordered.
Because if he had any chance of freeing himself from his legacy, the world needed to know him as “Derek”. Not as a Hale chef. Deucalion was one of the few people in the world that could do that.
A laugh. Deep, cruel, and calculated. Like a lion bargaining with a mouse over a piece of cheese. Deucalion nodded, letting out a deep, satisfying sigh. “Very well. Let’s see what 50 years in this industry as a paragon of perfection does against an emotional wreck of a man who needs to cut off mommy’s apron strings to feel good about himself.”
Deucalion stood, the same height as Derek, but easily half the weight. Though you wouldn’t know it from the sheer confidence in his cruel gaze. “The last time I dined at your establishment, I said your technique was promising but lacked the true skill that a Hale should have. You still allow softness into your cooking, which blinds you. I’m hoping to see cruelty tonight. Pure perfection. I’m hoping to see Laura Hale in her prime tonight. Or Peter, before he lost his balls. It’s been so long since anyone bothered to be a challenge to me. To be blunt, if you want to win… You’ll need to be better than perfect.”
Peter made a small noise, almost a laugh. “You heard the bastard, Derek. What do you say?”
Derek looked from one to the other, the two men who had shaped his life, one by cruelty and expectations, the other by love and unconditional honesty. He thought of Stiles, of the letter, of Claudia and her bakery, of his “student” Liam, of Erica, Boyd, and Scott, and the last months of his life being some of the brightest days.
“I’m sorry to say, that Hale you knew is dead. Tonight, you’re faced with just me. Just Derek. I’ve embraced my softness, and it’s who I am now.”
Deucalion’s smile wavered, just for an instant. Derek couldn’t read the man well, but it was either disappointments or fear. “Very well,” he said. “Then let’s see if you deserve the name of Chef Derek.”
The handshake that sealed it was brief, almost ritualistic. Then Deucalion vanished, leaving Peter and Derek in private, the silence heavier than any wine.
Peter put a hand on Derek’s shoulder. “You know he’s terrified of you, right?”
Derek almost laughed. “He doesn’t seem terrified.”
“Good,” Peter said, smiling sharp. “That means you’re getting to him.”
They walked back through the kitchen, the staff already rearranging stations, the pass gleaming and bare. Derek breathed in, the air thick with anticipation, and tried to forget every lesson he’d ever learned from Peter, Laura, and Deucalion. Tonight, he channeled Claudia and Stiles, which helped shape his new self, hoping for a little of their magic to rub off on him.
He tied on an apron, pulled his hair back, shooed away everyone in Deucalion’s kitchen except himself, and took his place at the pass.
Outside, through the glass, an entire restaurant waited to taste his food alongside the great Deucalion, hungry and unmerciful. He took a deep breath, and got to work.
+++++
The kitchen, under Deucalion’s regime, was exactly like what Hales was back home. A masterpiece. Perfection. Every item was in its proper place. Cold. Uninviting. Meanwhile, the pantry was a cathedral, every ingredient stacked and indexed, the coolers so clean he could see his reflection in the stainless steel. He ran his fingers along the row of citrus, then stopped and doubled back for the blood oranges, Stiles’s favorite, something he’d confessed late one night in bed.
Derek set up his station and let muscle memory take over. Knife in hand, he found his rhythm, but not the one Deucalion had taught him. Not the clinical, atom-perfect choreography, but something rougher, alive. The menu that came to him on the plane ride over, a menu he wanted to prepare for Stiles when he came home to talk again. Either as an apology, a gesture of love, or a goodbye.
The first course was simple enough, seared scallops, barely set, on a fork-sized bed of risotto and shaved asparagus. A joke at Stiles’ expense who always complained about small portions but loved Derek’s flavors anyway. He reached for the fennel, then stopped, realizing it was too obvious and expected. In that moment, Scott was at his side, making a naïve note about bitterness, and Derek swapped for tarragon instead. He tasted as he went, dragging his finger through reductions. He burnt the first risotto because of the last-minute changes, laughed, and started over.
Second, his personal love letter to cooking and to anyone he cared about. The filet mignon, classic as Derek had prepared it in private for a decade, but with a crust of smoked salt and cocoa. Truffle mashed potatoes on the side, but he roasted the shredded skins and blitzed them into the mix, adding a grit and earthiness that would have gotten him exiled from most Paris kitchens. Boyd taught him that one, it was something his family did for years back home. For the green, he charred the asparagus over the open flame as he plated, just the way he’d taught Liam.
Dessert for his last course was a gamble. He’d spent years mocking such uncouth pastries, but tonight? Fuck it. A dark chocolate croissant, Claudia’s magic weapon, but filled with a blood orange compote that her son went crazy for and plated over a puddle of salted caramel that Erica served him once that gave him a big smile. He laminated the dough by hand, refusing the machine, feeling every turn, every layer, the butter pushing back as he rolled. He could almost hear Claudia and Stiles behind him, groaning at his impatience. “Not like that. Do it properly. I don’t care what you’ve been taught, it’s soulless!”
As he worked, the kitchen buzzed around him, some staff whispering, others pretending not to care.
“What is he doing?”
“That is not proper technique.”
“The Americans, they’ve broken him.”
At first, Derek ignored the stares. Then he started to relish them. One of the sous chefs came by and tried to correct his grip on the piping bag he used for the dessert. Derek let him, then deliberately swapped it back the moment he left. He said thank you, but made sure it sounded like go fuck yourself as he did it his own way.
He plated the first dish, hands steady. The scallops were golden, still trembling in the center. He dotted the plate with blood orange pearls for color, then finished with a dusting of powdered olive over the risotto. It looked nothing like Deucalion’s version, but Derek thought it looked like sunrise.
Derek lined up the filet mignon and mashed truffles, not caring in the moment that he was plating it like a family meal instead of a Michelin manner, because it’s the kind of plating he would have done in the comfort of his kitchen. Arranged in a way that made him feel like he was expressing his love to others. Like they were guests in his home and he wanted them to stay for dinner. Not the cold and “artistic” manner that would look good on an Instagram snapshot.
Lastly, the dessert. Derek struggled at first to make changes to Claudia’s croissant but tonight was about letting go of the past. So, he followed her steps in baking, but as far as the filling and additions? A whimsical adventure. Something Erica and Stiles would be proud of. Had Derek ever served it in his youth, in Deucalion’s kitchen, he would have gotten a much larger scar. Possibly even thrown into the sewers to feed the rats.
The magic that evening, if there was such a thing, came not in the technique but in the choices. He broke eggs one-handed with the wrong grip, like Stiles had shown him; he scraped down bowls with his bare fingers, then licked them clean. He salted by feel, not measure, and once, when he thought no one was looking, he murmured to a piece of beef: “You’re going to be perfect, aren’t you? I can tell. You’re a masterpiece waiting to happen.” It felt insane, the sous chefs banished to the sidelines looked at him like he was a nutjob, but it worked. The steak came out with a crust that shattered under the knife, while the meat inside was a tender masterpiece.
“Thank you,” Derek said, as he plated it up.
Plates went out in waves, carried by servers whose faces never betrayed what they thought of the food. The room beyond the glass was dark, but he could sense the crowd, every movement on the floor, every tinkle of glass and ripple of applause. After the first course, the volume in the dining room doubled. After the second, it doubled again. To his surprise, it tripled afterwards.
This was the real challenge. Not just impressing the judges who would vote but impressing all those who had come that night. Derek would need to win more than the hearts of three people to claim victory. He would have to win over Deucalion’s favorite guests, in his own kitchen.
No. That wasn’t right. Derek would need to win the hearts of Parisians, of guests who had been stuck in the past, only accepting one method of cooking. He needed to break not only his own shackles, but the shackles of others as well.
The last table that night was the judges. The last serving before Derek’s service was complete? Their croissant. He plated the best ones for the judges, then stared at it for a long time, hands still.
Derek leaned in, just before the runner came to take it, and whispered:
“Please make them happy. I think, at the end of the day, that’s all I want. I want to make people happy with my food, I want to teach others so they can also make people happy, and I… I want to show my love while doing it. That’s the kind of chef I want to be. A chef that brings joy into the despair of ordinary life.”
The runner left. The kitchen fell silent, save for the click of cooling burners.
Derek stood at the pass, breathing hard, sweat trickling down the back of his neck. He felt raw and exposed, but not defeated. He’d cooked with his whole fucking heart, for the first time since Laura died, and it was enough.
Now, all he had to do was wait.
+++++
Derek had never felt so naked in his life. So raw and exposed to the world. What’d he’d presented was HIM. Not the Hale Legacy, not his years of skill and education, HIM. All while waiting for them to come back and say if he was enough or not.
The kitchen closed behind him as he walked into the dining, and the white noise of the line was replaced with the roar of a hundred voices, all fighting to be heard. This wasn’t the polite hum of a Michelin-starred dining room, it was a fucking coliseum.
People in evening wear stood, waving forks like sabers over loud yelling. A table of journalists argued so hard a glass shattered, and nobody seemed to notice. The bloggers were already filming themselves, cheeks flushed, hands shaking with adrenaline and sugar as they were recording a live video response.
Derek raised an eyebrow. What on earth was going on? Why were people fighting? More importantly, why were the servers and guests looking at Derek with reverence one might have for the Gods?
The guests, the bloggers, all of them spoke in angry, aggressive French.
“Are you daft? The execution was flawless. This masterpiece must be studied!”
“The plating was novice at best!”
“The plating!? The plating?! Are you a fool!? I would have eaten it from a dog’s bowl if it were offered!”
“These meals, they are not proper. These are not the work of a Hale. You could not begin to compare the two. These are the work of a… A…”
“An artist.”
“No, no, that is… Too simplistic. Like a sculptor. A sculptor that needs just a bit more time upon the kiln to perfect it.”
“Decualion’s food was proper. The thing I would expect from a kitchen of this quality.”
“Yet, I must admit. I hunger for the Hale boy’s food. Not the meal I had tonight, but rather… The meal I hope he will serve tomorrow.”
“I suppose you are right.”
“Perhaps we should fly to America and taste what else he has to offer.”
Derek searched for Deucalion, found him at the chef’s table, hands laced together, the mask of composure shattered. The man stared at the empty plate in front of him as if trying to read the future in the chocolate smears. It took Derek a moment to realize, but…
Deucalion had eaten every morsel of Derek’s meal.
Not a tasting bite, no. He’d devoured the entire thing. Potentially a first in the man’s long career of spitting on the talent and work of others, none of his students ever managed to get more than a bite or two of their work in his mouth.
A server in a waistcoat guided Derek to the main table, where the judges had already convened. Peter, of course, presided sitting with his chair tipped back, a look of savage amusement painted on his face. Next to him was a woman with a jawline like a guillotine, a former Michelin inspector Derek recognized. Armand, Deucalion’s own head chef, who glared at Derek with open loathing – as if he’d witnessed Derek commit an abominable sin against God himself.
Peter tapped his water glass. The sound cut through the din.
“Order, please!” he boomed, the voice of a man who’d once run a kitchen with an iron fist and a sharper tongue. “It seems we have a verdict.”
The crowd, sensing drama, leaned in.
Peter gestured magnanimously to the woman. “Madame Rousseau, would you like to begin?”
Rousseau, the former Michelin reviewer, barely glanced at Derek. “Technically,” she said, voice pure granite, “The Deucalion menu is faultless. Every texture as promised, every note hit with precision. It is as I would expect from one of the finest chefs in the world. There is no denying, it is… Perfect.” She paused, then flicked her eyes at Derek. “But for pure taste, the Hale menu is superior. The flavors are bolder, the contrast more memorable. It is food that lingers in the mind. Tastes I will dream of in my sleep. A work that I would gladly fly across the world to taste again. A magic that brings tears to my eyes.”
Armand, Duke’s chef, scowled. “I could not fault your scallop, or your steak. The truffle in the potatoes with the rind, it is blasphemy, but the kind a heretic might be willing to die for. Your dessert… I have no words, other than I never seen our Chef eat a croissant with his hands, like a child.”
Derek risked a glance at Deucalion. The man was watching intently now, lips pressed tight, knuckles gone bloodless. A sticky remnant of Derek’s croissant was on his fingertips.
Peter held up a finger, savoring the moment. “I’ll make it quick. Deucalion’s food is flawless. It’s also the same food he’s cooked for the last 50 years. I could’ve told you his entire menu from memory before tonight. It’s the kind of perfection that doesn’t care if you love it, it expects you to bow before it and kiss the ring. Deucalion is a chef who cooks for himself and expects his legacy and honor to force you into submission. Derek, on the other hand-”
He let the words hang, then turned, almost tenderly, to Derek. “Yours was wild. You made mistakes, things I’m frankly embarrassed about for you and will chastise you for later. Yet, you did things I’ve never seen, and I’ve seen everything twice. You made us want to argue about it and have caused such a fuss in this dining room that has never before been seen. Even then, we yearn to go back for more. It was, in short, alive. A living, breathing piece of art that is a love letter to cooking, showing us, that perfection is painfully boring and we can find joy and beauty in flaws and new cooking conventions.” He raised his glass in mock salute. “I suspect that’s the influence of your boyfriend, who I can now say for certainty has forever corrupted the Hale bloodline with his witchcraft.”
There was a ripple of laughter, then a hush.
Peter turned back to the crowd. “Here’s our judgment. On points, it’s a draw. We could not come to a consensus of which one was “superior”. Deucalion’s technical skill was greater this day but bored us to tears. Derek’s unique perspective and flavor won our hearts, and we look forward to seeing him thrive in the future. Therefore, our official declaration is that of a tie, though in my heart, I see this as a victory for my nephew.”
Rousseau chimed in, raising her class. “If I had to eat one meal for the rest of my life, I’d take the one that surprises me, every time. That means you, Derek. Congratulations, young man. You have a bright future ahead of you.
“Here, here,” Peter said, with a warm, loving smile.
Armond said nothing, yet raised his glass in support.
The crowd applauded, in a kind of cathartic, relieved applause, as if they’d just witnessed something unspeakable and beautiful. Even the critics who’d come to gloat nodded, grudging respect in their eyes.
Derek bowed, a warm smile lighting his face.
Deucalion, on the other hand, was a pale and lifeless shell. Derek watched the man’s pride break down and shatter. Because, for a chef to be called “boring” in this line of work, with his pedigree and fame, especially when compared to a young blood like Derek? That was a touch of death. The kind of thing a career could end over.
Peter stood, smoothed his jacket, and addressed Deucalion directly in a faint whisper that only he and Derek could hear as the crowd returned to their dining. “You’re a legend, Duke, but legends have a way of turning into their own tombstones. I’d suggest you find yourself before you stagnate into little more than a footnote in Talia’s biography. Even after all this time… You’re still the same scared chef that couldn’t get out of Talia’s shadow, and now… You’re going to start living in Derek’s.”
Deucalion’s mouth twisted, but he nodded through clenched teeth and a now-bleeding lip. He stood, eyes refusing to meet Derek. “Well cooked, Ha-“ He paused, correcting himself. “Well cooked, Chef Derek. It would seem as though… You had no need of that name after all.”
Derek felt a hot sting behind his eyes, but refused to let it show. He only nodded, then shook the hands of Deucalion, each judge, and Deucalion’s sous chefs, his former coworkers.
The next few minutes were a blur. Diners pressed in, wanting autographs or selfies or scraps of inside gossip. The New York Times critic, in awe, stated “That steak will haunt me, in the best way.” The bloggers mobbed him, asking for the “secret” to the potatoes, to the croissant, to the way he’d managed to pull off the impossible.
Derek wanted to say there was no secret, that it was just work, and pain, and learning to listen to the people who mattered. Instead, he just smiled, gave them what they wanted to hear, and excused himself as soon as he could.
He found Peter smoking outside, leaning against the wall beneath a flaking poster of the restaurant’s first anniversary. Peter held out a cigarette, but Derek waved it off.
Peter shrugged. “You did good. Proud of you, son,”
Derek laughed, the sound raw. “Thanks. I didn’t win, though. Still… Surprised Duke still called me Chef Derek.”
Peter flicked ash onto the pavement. “You’re missing the point. You tied the best chef in Paris, in his own kitchen, with his own rules. You did it while making half the room cry and the other half fight to the death over whose was better. That’s not a tie, Derek. That’s evolution. That’s a change in the status quo. You are the real winner in all of this, Derek. You. Not the Hale name. You.”
They stood in silence for a while. Derek watched the city, the cars, the wild energy of a place that had never once cared about his feelings.
“Thank you,” Derek said at last. He meant it.
Peter finished his cigarette and ground it out with his heel. “Don’t thank me. I’m just the old man who tells you when you’re being an idiot. The rest? That’s all you.”
He clapped Derek on the shoulder, then melted into the night, leaving him alone with the echo of applause and the knowledge that, for the first time in a long, long time, he wasn’t afraid of the future.
Somewhere inside, Deucalion would be licking his wounds, plotting his next move.
Derek hoped he did. He couldn’t wait to beat him, for real.
+++++
International arrivals at the airport were always a letdown, the same bland tile, the aroma of burnt espresso, a crowd of jetlagged strangers all pretending not to notice each other. Derek trailed a step behind Peter, shoulders sore from the transatlantic flight, the taste of airplane air still clinging to his teeth.
He should have been exhausted. After battling Deucalion, he and Peter made the most of their time together in Paris before coming home. A vacation, the first one he’d taken since high school. He went back to see some of his old haunts, ate some of the best food the country had to offer, and carried Peter’s shopping bags as they walked around some of the nicer fashion plazas as a thank you to supporting him in this endeavor.
Instead of tired, he felt alive, every cell buzzing with leftover adrenaline. The words of the judges, especially Peter, replayed in his head on a loop, the near-misses and moments of grace, the way he’d plated that last croissant with trembling hands and then watched a room full of experts argue about it like it was a matter of life or death.
Peter sailed through customs, charming with word and expression, weaving his way through security as if it were nothing. Derek got flagged for a random search, his eyebrows all but guaranteed it, but even the TSA agent seemed impressed when she read his name on the passport. “Hey, aren’t you the chef from TV? The one that tied with Deucalion?” she whispered. He grunted a yes and moved on.
Outside baggage claim, Peter stopped to wait for Derek. He looked at his nephew with something close to fondness, the lines around his eyes softening.
“You look better now. Do you feel better?”
Derek walked with Peter outside to the rush of cars from the pickup line and stared at the traffic outside the airport, the way the headlights stuttered across the slick asphalt. “It still doesn’t feel real.”
Peter glanced sideways. “That’s because you’re not used to being happy.”
Derek almost laughed. “I guess so. Feels weird. Having all that weight off my shoulders.”
Peter’s smile widened. “I imagine it will only get better from here. After all, you’ve been going viral since you tied.”
Derek arched an eyebrow. “Wait, what?” He hadn’t heard that. He’d turned off his phone once he hit the international line and hadn’t yet turned it back on.
Peter reached for his own phone, flicked through a half-dozen notifications, and held it out. Derek saw headline after headline: local news, food blogs, and even international news outlets.
“HALE ROCKS PARIS.”
“AMERICAN CHEF SLAYS PARISIAN LEGEND.”
“CHEF DEUCALION RECOGNIZES CHEF DEREK – CLAIMS NEW LEGACY IS BORN”
“CRITICS FLOCK TO BEACON HILLS TO TRY HALES AFTER INTERNATIONAL CULINARY BOUT. BEACON HILLS FOOD MECCA ROCKED WITH RECORD TOURISM.”
Among the headlines There was even a clip of Madame Rousseau, the Michelin judge, saying something about “a once-in-a-generation talent.” Underneath, commenters who’d been present at the event tore each other apart about the steak, the truffle mash, the blood orange croissant.
#Haleboy trended again, this time global. The video of him and Stiles accounting their relationship was trending again. All of the locals were cheering his success.
Derek’s face went red hot. “You’re kidding.”
Peter pocketed the phone, satisfaction glinting in his eyes. “You’re a star, kid. Get used to it.”
A nearby car honked, the sound was bright and impatient. It sent a twitch down Derek’s spine, but he ignored it.
“A star? I think that’s a bit of a stretch. Though I’m not going to complain about the marketing. I need to get back to Hales. There’s going to be a lot of changes,” Derek said.
The car honked again. An annoying, repetitive honk that started to grow a bubbling rage in Derek’s chest.
“Don’t you think there’s someone you should go visit first?” Peter asked, eyebrow raised.
Derek sighed. He pictured Stiles. How angry he’d been a few weeks earlier. How he’d all but broken up with Derek. Yet, there was nobody he wanted to see more in that moment, but he worried if it was still too soon.
A third, louder, unending honk finally caused Derek to snap.
“CAN YOU STOP HONKING YOU SON OF A BI-“
Derek glanced up, ready to throw hands, when he saw a familiar run-down jeep as the source of the honking. Sitting in the driver’s side window was Stiles, in a red sweatshirt two sizes too big, and a toboggan shielding him from the snow falling across the airport.
In his hands was a sign that read “WELCOME HOME CHEF DEREK” in neon red marker.
Stiles’ face, bright red from the cold, or possibly from crying, stood waiting for him.
Derek froze. “Is that—”
Peter grinned. “I thought you might need a ride, so I called ahead. I’ll catch an uber.”
Stiles bounded out of the car, sign waving over his head, nearly colliding with a family of tourists. He stopped short, breathing hard, and for a second, neither of them knew what to do.
There were so many versions of the reunion Derek had imagined. Awkward, tearful, angry, but in the end it was just Stiles standing there, shuffling his feet, eyes wide and shining. Gone was the terrifying anger in his eyes, and there was an odd calm Derek hadn’t seen before. A gentleness, as if Stiles’ heavy burden had been lifted from his shoulders.
“Uh,” Stiles said, voice cracking, “Did you want a hug or a kiss or should I just… I mean, I was an ass to you, I’m sorry for everything I yelled at you that way, I was so mad and you didn’t deserve it, and I directed it all at you, and… ”
Derek didn’t answer Stiles’ rambling. He just closed the distance, wrapped Stiles up, and breathed him in, yeast and coffee and the sharp, electric scent of hope. Stiles hugged back, fiercely, arms tight around Derek’s neck.
Stiles peeled back, grinning, and wiped his tears on the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “I made a cake for you, to celebrate you doing that crazy Iron Chef bullshit in Paris. It’s shaped like a croissant, but it’s actually steak and potatoes on the inside, like a fucked up pot pie. I broke Liam’s brain with it, but Erica says it’s the best damn fake cake she’s ever tasted.”
Derek shook his head, already picturing the monstrosity. “You’re insane. So beautifully, wonderfully, insane.”
Stiles smirked. “Takes one to know one, Der.”
There, in the briefest of moments, neither needed the words to say it. Their burdens had eased. Their hearts were in the right place.
Stiles leaned up, pressing a deep, long kiss into Derek’s lips.
Derek leaned forward, down into Stiles, kissing right back.
They held onto each other, and in both of their minds, they knew, they’d never let each other go again.
Chapter 11: Nostalgic Taste
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Derek’s apartment still smelled like him, even after all the days away. A little ozone from the cheap air filter, a clean bitterness from black coffee, and the deeper, loving warmth of his stale cologne that Stiles had never found anywhere else.
The TV was on, volume low, news cycling through the same three minutes of local footage. A car crash on the highway, the mayor’s new plan to widen the park, a Thanksgiving promo for the Best Beacon Bites contest, with Kira in an oversized Turkey costume.
Stiles sat on one end of the couch, legs folded, a mug of tea in hand. Derek was at the far other side, arms draped over his knees, eyes fixed on the television but not tracking anything. There was a large space between them, that neither had quite yet breached.
In fact, they hadn’t said much since the airport, since the parking lot hug that nearly knocked Stiles on his ass, since the long drive back in near-silence. Stiles had always imagined reunions as a rush. Tears, confessions, heat, but this felt more like an ache after a long sprint, a pain you couldn’t massage out with words or motion.
He watched Derek for a while, the steady, careful breath, the small flicks of his thumb against his own knuckle, the way his hair was sticking up at the back from where Stiles had dug his fingers in, desperate and clumsy, the moment they’d seen each other at arrivals.
Stiles loved watching him, even when it hurt. He set the mug down, cleared his throat, and instantly wished he hadn’t.
Derek glanced over. “You want the remote?”
Stiles shook his head. “Nah. I like the background noise. Keeps me grounded. Especially when I’m anxious, and right now… I’m more than a little anxious.”
A smile twitched at Derek’s mouth, small but real.
“I mean, not about you! I mean, sort of about you, about us, about everything, but I just-” Stiles shot back, too fast. He looked away. “I… uh. I’m trying, Derek. To get better at this. At saying what I mean. Being honest. Not making everything a joke.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He picked at the seam on his pants, found a thread and wound it around his pinky. “I’m… I’m sorry for the shit I said last time we talked. For yelling and saying I didn’t need your love, which was the biggest fucking lie I’ve ever told. I was an asshole to the person who was just trying to help me.” The words burned on the way out. “I’m going to therapy now. Real therapy, not just YouTube. My therapist, Malia, has been kicking my ass. I think that’s what I need right now.”
Derek let out a slow breath, like he’d been holding it for hours. “I’m sorry too,” he said, voice low. “I was hard on you. I knew how bringing up your Dad would land, but I did it anyway. It was easier to point at your mess than deal with my own.”
Stiles squinted. “When did you become emotionally literate?”
“About twenty minutes after I left your place,” Derek said. “Peter was insufferable about it.”
“Yeah, he would be.” Stiles rolled his eyes, then looked at Derek directly, finding the old, raw comfort they shared between each other. “I saw my dad,” he said. “We’re… I don’t know. Trying to un-break the bridge. He’s still terrible at feelings, so am I, but it’s less like walking into traffic every time. We both admit we were wrong about a lot of things.”
Derek nodded, listening the same way he cooked, with complete focus, no wasted motion. “That’s good. You deserve better from him.”
“Maybe I do. Maybe I’m just as bad as he is. Maybe that’s why it’s so hard to stop being mad at him.” Stiles scratched at the side of his nose, stalling. “I missed you.”
Derek’s expression cracked, just a hairline. “I missed you too.”
They let the silence build, a space where the next words could hang without collapsing. They both inched closer to each other on the couch, still a full arm’s length away.
“Paris was… a lot, wasn’t it?” Stiles asked, softer.
Derek shifted, his knee almost touching Stiles’s foot. “It was the worst and the best. I was scared I’d choke or not be enough, but it turned out to be easier than I thought. I realized the only reason I ever cooked like a Hale was because I didn’t know what else to do.” His voice got smaller, more precise. “I’m not that anymore. I’m just me. Derek.”
Stiles blinked, a little stunned by the vulnerability, the unpracticed honesty.
“That’s the whole point, isn’t it? You’re supposed to be you. I’m supposed to be me. No ghosts, no baggage, no… nothing.” Stiles made a grab at his tea, spilled a few drops on the cushion. “Sorry. I’m a disaster.”
“Not a disaster.” Derek reached over, wiped the spill with his sleeve. “Just human.”
They were closer now, the length of the couch shrinking to nothing. Stiles could see the veins in Derek’s hand, the pink crescent of a healing cut on his thumb, the constellation of freckles that never made sense on someone so otherwise dark.
Derek let his hand rest on the edge of the cushion, between them.
“I shouldn’t have said I loved you when we were in the middle of a fight,” Derek said, abruptly, like the words had ambushed him. “It was bad timing. I was angry, and I wanted to make a point, and it came out all wrong.”
Stiles stared at the hand, then at the line of Derek’s jaw. “Say it again,” he said.
Derek’s eyes snapped up. “What?”
“Say it again. I feel like now’s a pretty good time. I mean, we’re both better people than when we were last time we saw each other. I think… For me at least… I’m ready to hear it.”
For a second, Stiles was sure Derek would retreat, wall up, maybe even laugh it off. But then Derek turned, shifting his weight, shoulders hunched but face open, and said, “I love you, Stiles.”
It didn’t feel staged. It didn’t feel like a weapon. It landed in Stiles’s chest and stuck there, the way a good memory should.
He scooted in, until their knees were flush, then leaned his forehead to Derek’s neck. “I love you, too. You are… The best thing that could have ever happened to me, and I can’t imagine not having you in my life. Sorry it took me so long to admit it.”
They sat like that for a while, bodies pressed together, hands finding each other and tangling without needing direction. Stiles could have stayed like that forever, eyes closed, body warm, the world reduced to the point of contact where their hands met.
He felt Derek’s breath, slow and steady, and let it lull him into sleep, his head falling to Derek’s shoulder.
When he woke, hours later, Derek’s arm was around him, the TV long since gone to static, and for the first time in years, Stiles didn’t feel hungry for anything but more of this.
Just this.
+++++
The Beacon Hills Mall was a supernova of sound, heat, and expectation. Even before Stiles made it through the main doors, the roar of the crowd hit him square in the chest. Louder, meaner, hungrier than anything he’d ever felt at a sporting event. Packed in the food court was TV cameras riding their rails, ring lights throwing shadows against the high ceilings, a scrum of journalists, fans, rival chefs, and what Stiles suspected was a growing Derek Hale fan club.
Derek found him just outside the event tent, shoving his way through a gauntlet of college-aged interns waving forms, microphones, and boxes of branded snacks. He looked unfairly good in his chef whites, jaw set, arms folded, a faint smile leaking out at the corners when he spotted Stiles.
“Ready for this? We had literally two days to prepare this.” Derek asked, deadpan.
Stiles took a second to orient himself, mind thrumming on caffeine and nerves. “Not in the least, but hey, we’ve got money and honor on the line. So I’ll lock in. You just better not hold me back,” he said, with a playful wink.
“Good.” Derek put a hand on his shoulder, squeezed, and for a second the noise fell away, like they were in the eye of the storm.
Inside the tent, the contest had already turned gladiatorial. The tables were laid out stadium-style, tiers of prep stations each with its own team, the rest of the world an indistinct blur beyond the ropes.
The VIP and commentary table was front and center, three chairs elevated like thrones. The panel today was a minor culinary murderers’ row: a food network legend with a seven-figure Instagram following, a French-trained pastry chef from LA who’d come to see Derek, and, to Stiles’s horror, the anchor from the Channel Six morning news who was already droning on in that fake voice all newscasters do. Behind them, a crowd of at least five hundred pressed in, everyone craning for a view of the main event: the Team Haleboy table, which was dead center, under the harshest lights, with an overhead camera aimed right at Stiles’s hands.
“Fuck me sideways,” he muttered, adjusting his apron.
Derek smirked. “That can be arranged, after we win. Just be patient, babe. You wore me out last night already.”
“You’re evil.”
“Only a little.”
At their station, the ingredients were already set, each in its own plastic bin: eggs, flour, sugar, butter, poultry, bread, and a gaudy pyramid of seasonal produce. The challenge was, as Kira had warned them, “Family Recipe” - any flavor, any technique, but it had to be related to family in some way. Of course, for the social media engagement, they’d be expected to share as they presented. Which, for Stiles and Derek, would have been hell on earth just a month ago.
Stiles surveyed the battlefield. Their opponents in the semifinals were tough, and were on a high after the win from the last round. A quiet mischief grew in Stiles’ chest. “You mind if I try something crazy? Or would you prefer I do something traditional?”
Derek’s eyes glinted. “Why not both? I’m doing both.”
When team Haleboy was given the greenlight to start their presentation, Derek took the lead, chopping onions and celery with the precision of a surgeon, then reducing stock, then crisping bacon, the scents fighting for supremacy. “My parents, as you all might have realized, came from a long and proud legacy of chefs. So, you can imagine that their Thanksgiving dinners were spectacular. Well, to be honest with you all at home, Thanksgiving was always some of the worst days of my life.”
The crowd gasped. The cameras zoomed in. Peter, from his spot in the audience, nodded in a knowing agreement.
“Thanksgiving is a time to be thankful for what we have. A time for tradition and gathering. For my family? Thanksgiving was always a war. We always had to improve on what we’d made the year before. Couldn’t revel in a memory, because the only think we cared about was improving our craft. So much so that we didn’t even enjoy the food we made. As a kid, I always dreamed of having the turkey and stuffing my classmates had. An ordinary dinner, where we could just be a family, and not... The Hales. So…”
Derek pulled out the pre-prepared turkey meat, brought out a bowl of cranberries, and from dozens of other components, swiftly whirled three separate bowls of. A wide, almost crazed grin crossed his face. “Today, I’m going to show you all how to make a stuffing out of memories. The best meals I can remember having in my life around this time of the year, with the many families I’ve lived with and worked with across Europe. In honor of my family, who never got to taste it.”
With simple words and simpler directions, Derek brought the traditional thanksgiving turkey, stuffing, and cranberries into three unique pie filling. How to season and prepare the turkey to bake in the oven, prepare a cranberry compote that would be better than anything out of a can, and his own take on traditional stuffing. He showed the audience how to prepare it with a French touch, through multiple spices and additions that might not have gone in a traditional American dish. Though, most controversial, was the use of rye bread as the base for the stuffing, which sent every traditional home cook in the audience to gasp, a few yelling at his blasphemy that he waved off.
Before long, the camera swung to Stiles, who was working on a pie crust in a massive, deep dish pan, all while dusting a slab of dough on the side with flour, and rolling it into thin ropes. He explained the process of a good, simple, homemade pie crust, but then went into directions on creating “molding dough”.
“My mother loved baking, but I’m sure you all knew that by now. Surprisingly, though, there was one weakness she could never quite get over, which was sculpting.” Stiles took the ropes of dough and began to weave them in between his hands, creating a delicate lattice as the top crust.
“Thing is, because my mom had me in a kitchen since I was old enough to walk, and let me play with my food, it allowed me to experiment and grow in ways she never got to. Case in point, I am spectacular when it comes to sculpting and molding. Food is like performative art to me at heart, and I love to create masterpieces,” Stiles said, finishing the lattice, showing the craft needed to make doughy autumn leaves, and starting on something new and unexpected in the moment.
In the middle of the lattice work, Stiles began molding dough into shapes, showing the cameras his gentle handwork. Before long, the dough began to shape into a cartoonish turkey, strangely realistic and magical, as if it could fly off the table at a moment’s notice. The feathers he colored with little bits of dye, and before long its face even had emotion, as it were about to take flight into the air and flee the contest hall.
“Mom’s pie crust recipe is a thing of legends. It’s crunch will knock your socks off. Though if you want to get creative, you just make a few changes for molding dough, and you too can create a beautiful conversation piece for your loved ones, and get to eat it, too!”
Stiles finished the turkey mold, setting it to the side, with many “oohs” coming from the audience, and the owner of Lucky Dragon swearing in the corner that they were doomed.
The crowd caught on, phones rising in a wall of black glass, the live camera zooming in as he finished the pieces with a gilded egg wash.
As their presentation came to a close, Derek stuffed his filling into the pie. A bottom layer of thick stuffing, a ribbon of cranberry atop that with a separating line of dought, sealing the top with slices of turkey before being sealed into the latticework and turkey model on the top.
They turned to the prepped oven, which had been baking their pre-prepared portion for a while. They pulled it out, filling the entire food court with the smell, rich, yeasty, smoky, sweet, and savory. Stiles closed his eyes, breathing in, and for the first time since the contest started, he felt it. The thing he’d chased ever since his mother died. That moment when the world shrank down to just the food, just the people who made it, just the handful of seconds where it was all heat and hope and waiting to see if it would work.
When placed in front of the cameras, the turkey crust had bronzed, the lattice crisped to a cathedral of golden arches and autumn leaf patterns. When they set it on the judging table, there was an audible gasp. Even the rival teams leaned in to gawk at the masterpiece.
Derek sliced into their masterpiece, pulling out a steaming pie slice with crispy baked turkey slices, bubbling cranberry compote, and a moist stuffing that smelt of spice and pure carbs.
“We call this… “A Fond Memory”. Because it’s the things about our past that we want to remember, combined with the knowledge that we can use those memories to make something amazing.” Derek offered, in a soft, somber tone.
The VIPs and first test tasters attacked with surgical precision. The food network star started with a macro shot on their phone, then scooped a perfect wedge onto their plate, the lattice holding its shape, the filling layered like a geological core sample. The French pastry chef dissected the crust, muttering approvingly in his own tongue and moaning as he took his first bites. The news anchor just smiled, closed her eyes, and ate, one bite at a time, as if nothing else mattered, and had to be brought back to reality multiple times by her camera operator.
Derek and Stiles stood with the MC and the other contestants as their serving portions were devoured. As they were the last team to go, last place in the last round, it didn’t take long for the votes to come in. The points tallied in silence, the air stretched thin as plastic wrap.
The MC was handed a note from Kira not long after. “The winner of today’s round, moving on to the Grand Finale next month… Team Haleboy!”
A wall of sound hit them. Stiles flinched, then grinned, then promptly lost all muscle control and had to grab Derek’s arm for support. Derek didn’t even pretend to hide his relief; he wrapped Stiles up, lifted him half off the ground, and spun him once, laughter leaking out in a way Stiles had never heard before. A lot like their first round, but this time, Derek kissed Stiles, passionately, on the lips. The crowd roared at that, many snapshots and images soon pinging throughout the food court and the world wide web.
Stiles, not to be outdone, hooked his legs around Derek’s waist, grabbed the MC’s microphone, and while hanging off his boyfriend like a monkey, began a long winded proclamation of victory that was equal parts embarrassing, charming, and would become the viral clip across social media for days to come. They'd be going against Lucky Dragon, for the grand finale.
+++++
December, and by extension, Winter, rolled in, and more than just the seasons changed.
The kitchen at Hales was not the same environment it had once been in. Gone was the steady, perfect, military style and precision. Replacing it was a wild, unknown energy that Derek couldn’t quite place.
For himself, Derek let go of the rigid procedures he’d always known. He experimented with techniques and recipes, savoring each failure and learning from it. From those failures, a new menu at Hales’ was born – with the food he wanted to cook, that he knew people would love. At its heart? The Filet Mignon and sides he'd made in Paris. Other dishes were built around that basic creation. When it was learned that the dish that almost beat Deucalion would be served? Their reservations were booked out for the next 6 months.
Though it wasn't just Derek who'd changed.
Liam, freshly graduated from culinary school, (and promptly stolen out from under Stiles before he had a chance to make a real offer), was so high on life it was a miracle he hadn’t floated into the vent hood. Derek placed him on the cold line, the same place he'd started at Deucalion's restaurant. Without even being asked, Liam already memorized the entire new menu and treated the preparation of their salads and cheeses as though it were the most important cause in the world. Derek smiled at Liam's passion, and was glad to have him on board. Though Derek would never admit it, teaching Liam had been part of the reason why he'd become who he was today - and he would be damn sure Liam got a world-class training under his belt.
Scott, taking on Liam under his wing, served as a great mentor. When Scott called for an ingredient, Liam was already prepping two steps ahead. When that prep wasn’t satisfactory, Scott was quick to correct him, showing him the same steps Derek had once taught him. There was no screaming and no violence in the Hale kitchen, only learning and growth. Derek appreciated Scott's gentle soul and natural leadership. In the future, Derek could already see him becoming a head chef someday, perhaps at a future restaurant of Derek's, or maybe he'd split off and be his own chef.
Boyd, taking Derek's place as the head chef, watched from his station with an impassive calm. Every so often, he’d point at a dish or call out a correction, but mostly he let the younger chefs tucker themselves out before stepping in to set things right. The sous chefs and line chefs treated him with awe and respect, as he was often complimenting their work or offering constructive criticisms on how to grow. The calm Boyd brought wasn't the same as the forced quiet Derek once brought. Derek knew he's made the right decision.
Derek loved it all. He loved the noise, the small arguments about seasoning, the addition of Spotify playlists that veered from Bach to Beyoncé with no warning, the way the kitchen had transformed from a rigid military camp to a messy, creative, occasionally ridiculous family. He loved that his own hands weren’t always on the pass anymore, that he could walk the floor, taste a spoonful here, a crumb there, and know the place would keep humming without him.
Though there was one small hole in his life now.
Erica.
Because of course, it would be Erica. She’d given notice two weeks back, her “final promotion,” she called it and took a new job at Doughboy, where Stiles had immediately named her Head Pastry Chef and given her full creative control over the cases, while Stiles did what he loved most, molding and crafting unique special orders.
Thankfully, they’d brokered a deal over that to ensure Derek didn't have to strangle his boyfriend over poaching his best chef.
Which was why, on a gray Monday in December, Erica and Stiles appeared in the side door, arms loaded with plastic-wrapped trays, faces flushed with cold and excitement.
“Special deliveries! Erica’s latest and greatest masterpieces are ready for you, but are you ready for them?” Stiles called, barely through the door before Liam tried to high-five him with a rolling pin. Erica peeled off to the prep table, where she started unpacking laminated sheets, design documents, and sticky notes.
Derek found himself grinning.
In a way to both support his boyfriend and save his lack of a pastry chef, Hales had given an exclusive contract to Doughboy. In exchange for a boatload of money (paying what they were due), Doughboy would provide freshly pre-prepared items that his chefs could create during dinner service, including instructions on how to prepare them.
Derek had worried, at first, giving up that control. Though when the word went out that Doughboy and Hales were partnered up, their numbers during dinner service grew by 20% overnight and the compliments never stopped coming in. As one reviewer put it, it was “the best of two worlds”.
Erica was already at a prep table, showing Liam and the other line cooks how to assemble, while giving Scott and Boyd the step by step on baking and plating.
Stiles plopped down next to Derek at a side table, holding two to-go coffees. “I’m glad everyone gets along so well. It’s like we’ve got a big, happy work family. In a good way, not in the “work you till your dead” kind of work family.”
Derek took the coffee, let his fingers brush against Stiles’s. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Stiles leaned in, his voice dropping. “You want to sneak off and make out in the walk-in?”
Derek glanced at the chaos, calculated the risk, and shook his head. “Boyd will give me the look, and then I have to deal with the fact that Boyd knows how I look when you get me hot and bothered.”
“True,” Stiles said, though he looked disappointed. “Rain check?”
“Always.”
When the kitchen was fully focused on Erica’s instructions, Stiles pulled Derek into the narrow hallway between kitchen and office. There, in the relative quiet, he dug around in his messenger bag and produced a thick roll of blueprints.
Derek raised an eyebrow. “Robbing a bank or starting a cult?”
“Not unless you count gluten as a religion,” Stiles said. He unrolled the sheets on a utility table. “Check it out.”
It was, Derek realized, a full set of architectural plans: a bigger, brighter, thoroughly modern bakery, with a proper kitchen, seating for a hundred, and a full-service coffee bar that took up a third of the front of house.
“I decided to finally pull the trigger on this. You should have seen Dad crying when I went to get the money from him,” Stiles said, all nerves now. “Used the inheritance. Bought a huge lot, and I’m breaking ground in the spring. Going to call it Doughmaster. I wanted a distinct brand different from Doughboy that was all my own. It’ll have real staff, not just me and Isaac. Lunch and dinner service with a revolving seasonal menu. Coffee bar that also doubles as a real bar, so people can have regular booze, fancy booze, coffee booze, or just coffee. The food is all pastry based, and I’m considering banning all forms of utensils and making it a "hands only" kind of restaraunt. Sort of the chaos I had back in Vegas, but dialed up to an eleven because I'm just that fucking good.”
Derek ran his hand over the plans, taking in the detail, the ambition. “You did this?”
“I did this. Well, the architect did it from my really shitty drawings, but… Yeah. This is mine. All mine,” Stiles said, a little awed. “I wanted to show you before anyone else. To thank you. For pushing me. For not letting me quit when I wanted to. For believing in me even when I was a mess. Because now, I’m… I’m going to get to bring back one of my dreams to life. The place I always really wanted.”
Derek didn’t trust himself to speak, not at first. He just pulled Stiles in, arms tight, the smell of croissant and citrus and sweat sharp in the air.
“I’m proud of you,” Derek managed.
Stiles’s voice was muffled against his shoulder. “I’m proud of me too. I’ve come a long way. God, that sounds arrogant, doesn’t it?”
“No,” Derek said, and meant it. “It sounds right.”
They stood that way for a long minute, the chaos of the kitchen seeping in around the edges, but unable to touch them.
When they broke apart, Stiles tapped the plans. “You’ll be there in a suit and tie beside me, right? I could sure use some free publicity from my hot boyfriend, who’s the hottest thing in the culinary world since fire.”
Derek smiled. “It’s a deal.”
Back in the kitchen, Erica was instructing Liam on the fine points of pastry lamination, while Scott and Boyd watched, arms folded, arguing over the best method for proofing dough. The music had switched to holiday pop, and someone, probably Liam, had decorated a tray of buns with googly eyes.
For the first time, Derek didn’t see ghosts in the kitchen. He saw the future, bright and a little bit messy, and thought it looked just about perfect.
+++++
Derek drove them north, out of town, the sky a bruised purple and the road still slick from the morning’s snow. Even with the heater on full blast, the windows misted over every few minutes, so Stiles drew crude stick figures in the glass, including a facsimile of Derek himself, complete with perfect scowl and monobrow. Derek groaned, pretending not to care, but he cared. Immensely.
The Beacon Hills Cemetery waited at the edge of a dense stand of pines, the entrance marked by two battered iron gates and a drift of old bouquets frozen into the chain link. Derek parked on the shoulder and killed the engine. The silence landed like a weight.
“You sure you want to do this today? I know you’ve got your first real “Derek” service in just a few days.” Stiles asked, fiddling with the flowers in his lap, a mixture of roses and sunflowers, Stiles and Derek’s favorite blooms.
Derek nodded. “It’s time.”
Stiles shrugged, gathering his coat and scarf. “After you,”
The snow was coming down harder, flakes sticking to their hair and lashes as they wound up the path. Grave markers here were low and plain, set in rough rows with patches of dead grass peeking through the frost. Derek could have found the plot blindfolded, even after all these years. His feet knew the turns, the slight rise in the land, the way the wind shifted just before the Hale stones came into view.
Derek stopped a few paces away, unsure if he wanted to step closer. The four stones stood together. Talia, Robert, Cora, and Laura, with only the dates to tell which life ended first. Someone (Peter, probably) had left a bottle of whiskey by Talia’s marker, the glass already half-buried in snow and the cap missing. A tangle of white lilies and an abandoned chef’s apron sprawled at the base, as if to keep the grave warm.
He didn’t say anything at first. He crouched, brushed the snow from the lettering, set down a set of roses with slow, careful hands upon each graveside. Derek wondered if it mattered that he hadn’t been here more than once since Laura died. Wondered if it made a difference, if any of them were even able to see he was there. Or if any of them could even hear him as he approached, let alone want to listen to him after everything happened.
Stiles hovered at the edge of the clearing, polite, letting Derek say his piece.
Derek cleared his throat, the words dry in his mouth. “Hey, it’s me.”
The wind picked up, tossing snow sideways.
He kept going, voice quieter now. “You probably saw what happened in Paris. Or Peter told you. Maybe you heard what all the media talked about, with the match with Deucalion. How I almost won, and probably should have won. How I didn’t flinch, even when my mentor’s presence made me feel small.” He hesitated, gloved fingers tracing the edge of the granite. “I think you’d have liked that meal, Laura. You always said the point was to show off. I never got that until now. In a way, Paris was me showing off.” A warm smile crossed his lips. “Dad, you’d hate how I prepared everything, but would have complimented the flavors. You always liked a perfectly chopped vegetable, and I definitely didn’t do that, but I like to think the flavors would have made you proud. Mom, you would have been sad to see how far Duke has stagnated since you left, but… I think he’s going to come around. I’ll keep him in check, keep him humble, like you used to do. Cora? Man, I wish… I wish you’d been able to see more of the world. You would have loved Paris. You deserved… To see so much more.”
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath as the hot tears grew behind his eyelids. “I’m here to tell you all something. Something that’s hard to say.”
Stiles stepped forward, placing a warm hand on his shoulder. The warmth grounded him, giving him renewed strength.
“I’m not a Hale chef anymore. Not the way you wanted, anyway. I’m just… Derek. I’m not going to open in New York, in Europe, or chase stars, or do any of the things we talked about when I was a kid. I’m going to run my own place. Teach the next generation and maybe even open up a teaching restaurant. Try not to burn out like everyone else did.”
He swallowed, pulse beating in his ears. “I’m sorry. For letting the family legacy die with me. For letting you all down. I know you wanted more, but… I don’t want to be more than just me. I want… To be happy. To love life. To love cooking. To want to get out of bed in the morning and not dread the day ahead of me. To… Love my boyfriend. To have time to spend with him, even if it’s just us in our underwear eating cheese and crackers.”
He heard Stiles shift behind him, a gentle, warm laugh, and the faint crunch of snow. Derek didn’t turn. He didn’t need to. He could already see Stiles’ loving face in his mind.
“I’ll make you proud. Because I’m going to be proud of myself. So, when people remember me, Derek, they’re going to remember my family too. The family who made me love cooking and taught me everything I know. That much I can promise you. So, just know that… I love you all, but now I’m going to move on with my life. From now on, I’m going to remember you as my family that I loved, and not as ghosts who are haunting me to be something I’m not.”
He stood, the cold biting through his jeans, the heat from his cheeks already gone. He glanced at the whiskey, considered it, then left it alone.
Derek turned to Stiles, who nodded as if on cue. They moved together, not speaking, a shared choreography born of months spent in each other’s orbit.
“Your turn,” Derek said, gesturing toward the next plot, a few rows down.
Claudia Stilinski’s grave was easy to spot. The stone was well-tended, the script brighter, and someone (Noah, almost certainly) had placed a ceramic pie dish with real flowers making a “crust” on the flat. The snow had started to melt around it, creating a perfect ring of damp earth.
Stiles stared at the marker for a long time; the flowers pressed to his chest. His breath fogged the air in front of him, and when he spoke, it was almost to himself.
“Hi, Mom,” he said. “Sorry it took me so long to come back. You know how I get, right? It’s not you, it’s me. I’m still stubborn. Still loud. Still the most annoying person in any room, according to literally everyone I know.” He smiled, the lines at the corner of his eyes deeper than Derek remembered. “I brought you some rosemary, for remembrance, and sunflowers, because… Well, I’ve just always loved them.”
He laid the sprigs gently over the pie dish, then crouched, brushing snow from the letters.
Stiles bit his lip. “I’m going to be honest with you. Because that’s what I am now. Honest. Because being honest with myself and my feelings is what’s going to help me deal with my anger and grief.”
Minutes passed in silence as Stiles gathered up his courage. Derek’s hand rested on his neck, gently grasping it to keep him rooted.
“I’m… Mad at you for lying to me. Or not telling me the truth. I’m mad that you and dad conspired to sell Rosemary’s. It pisses me off that we couldn’t’ talk to each other.” Stiles’ tears dotted the ground beneath him. “I’m mad that I lied to you guys, too. I was so scared of you dying and so mad at dad for trying to control you that I… I forgot that you guys loved me. I forgot that I loved you.”
Stiles huffed, shaking his head. “I know you wanted me to keep going. To make something better than what you left behind. I wanted that too, but I think I was more interested in staying angry. At Dad, at you, at the universe. I wanted it to be someone’s fault you were gone, because then it wouldn’t have to be mine.”
He blinked, a tear tracking down his cheek, freezing before it hit the ground.
“I’m going to do what you asked, but I’m going to do it for me, not just for you. I’m going to build something no one can take away. I’m going to make the best food I can, my food, my way, using what you taught me to make it magical. Then I’m going to be successful, I’m going to go to work every day doing what I love, teaching people what I’ve been too scared to teach, and… I don’t know. Be happy for once? Yeah, that sounds good. I’m going to be happy now. It’s my turn, and I deserve it. Because as my therapist says, I’m Stiles Motherfucking Stilinski, and I am… Strong.”
He paused, wiped at his nose with the back of his sleeve.
“Anyway. That’s what’s up. Also, I have a boyfriend now. His name’s Derek, and he’s incredible. He’s the best chef in California, maybe the world, but he’s also the only person who’s ever made me want to wake up at four in the morning just to watch him make coffee. He’s why I’m not a mess right now. Mostly. Also, he has a cute butt and I cannot believe I went 35 years without sex, but his sex is… Wow. Worth the wait.”
He glanced back at Derek, whose face was beet red. Stiles grinned, wide and true. “I’ll introduce you sometime.”
Derek stepped closer, placed a hand on Stiles’s shoulder, steady.
“Thanks,” Stiles said, voice small now. “For everything. I love you, Mom. I miss you, but… I’m going to try to finish grieving. For me. For Derek. For my future. For… Dad.”
They stood in silence for a while, the snow softening all the edges, the wind dying down until the world felt muted and private. Derek could feel the tension drain from Stiles, like a fever breaking.
He spoke, not sure if it was for Claudia or for Stiles. “You raised a good one. I’ll take care of him, I promise. Just like he takes care of me.”
Stiles laughed, a wet, hiccupping sound. “She’d have liked you, you know. I can see it now. She’d pull you in and put your ass to work.”
“She would have run my ass off more like it. The second a Hale stepped into her kitchen. I get the feeling she probably knew the histories quite well…” Derek said, dead serious.
“True.” Stiles nudged him. “But only after she made you a giant tray of cookies.”
Derek looked down, the snow gathering in his hair, the cold no longer a threat. He saw the two grave plots, their separate stories, their old wars, and felt, for the first time, like the past had finally been put to rest.
The world was dark now, the only light coming from the reflection off the snow and the moonlight above. Stiles’s hand found Derek’s, fingers threading tight, and they turned together toward the car.
At the gate, Stiles paused, looked back one last time. “Do you think they’re okay with this?” he asked, not specifying what “this” was.
Derek squeezed his hand. “I think they’d want us to be happy, and to eat well,” he paused, for a moment. “Sometimes, I think we craft a worse narrative in our head about what people think of us than they ever did in the real world. My parents loved me. Laura loved me. Cora loved me. Your mom loved you. There’s a good chance all the stress and grief we put into our heads was just that… In our heads.”
Pausing, Derek sighed. “They loved us. That’s all we really need to know. We can’t, and shouldn’t, try to put words in their mouth that they never said and assume they felt a certain way.”
“Yeah,” Stiles said, smile tugging at his mouth. “I think so too.”
They walked back to the car, boots crunching through the new powder, their breath ghosting into the night. The engine started slow, reluctant, but eventually caught, and the heater blasted them with welcome heat.
For a long time, neither spoke. They just sat, hands entwined on the console, the silence easy and absolute.
When they pulled onto the main road, Derek glanced at Stiles, who was already half-asleep, forehead pressed to the glass, mouth turned up in a private smile.
Derek kept his eyes on the road, the way ahead lit by the scatter of headlights and the white hush of snow. He drove slow, taking the turns careful, never in a hurry to reach the end.
Somewhere, behind them, spirits watched, satisfied and free, as the boys they’d left behind carried their memory into the new, bright, hungry future.
Notes:
One more chapter to go! This has been a fun writing challenge for myself, and I'm glad I was able to construct this in the month of August as I try to get back into my own passion of writing. Thank you for reading, and I'm looking forward to starting the next story after this one. :)
Chapter 12: Just Desserts
Chapter Text
The week before Christmas, Beacon Hills Mall was alive and thrumming like never before, a testament to both capitalism and the joy of the season in equal measure.
While the parking lot shimmered with exhaust haze and the gentle beeping of desperate families hoping to find a spot, inside, every corner seemed wired to short-circuit the nervous system. Relentless carols played by paid actors, window displays blaring with vibrant greens and reds, and crowds so dense they moved not as individuals but rather as a single, roiling organism.
The contest finals had drawn a standing-room-only audience, and the main atrium was choked with the bodies of parents, kids, food bloggers, camera crews, and foodies from across the land.
Stiles spent the first half hour backstage just getting his hands to stop shaking. Not out of fear, he was way past stage fright at this point, but rather due to a kind of mad, gladiatorial glee. Because of the noise, the anticipation, and the sense that the whole town was holding its breath just to see what he and Derek would do next.
“Christmas” was the theme for the final round. Bring the holidays alive, they’d demanded, and damn if Stiles wasn’t ready to deliver.
Isaac had shown up to help with backstage prep, hair slicked back and his favorite Doughboy T-shirt layered over a turtleneck. He circled the table like a cat, fending off reporters and setting out the cake tiers with the same reverence he reserved for rare vinyl. The MC, resplendent in a hideous Christmas blazer, hovered nervously on the periphery, clutching the event script like a life preserver.
The other finalist, Lucky Dragon, had rolled in with three generations of family in matching chef coats. Their matriarch was a legend, tiny, imperious, and rumored to have once thrown a boiling pot of soup at Bourdain. Their table was a minefield of gingerbread pagodas and gently carved cookie animals, accented with realistic edible plants and shrooms expertly tended by their Shroomshake partner, while the koi ponds filled with a mix of sweet and herbal teas, the air above it thick with a calming scent.
Stiles looked over the war zone of the competition tent, then down at his own hands. The flour dusting was already clinging to the fine cracks in his knuckles, but he didn’t care. This was his Super Bowl. His Olympics.
Derek materialized at his elbow, wearing a black Henley and jeans, not even bothering with a chef’s coat. He scanned the prep list, then the crowd, then leaned in close enough that Stiles could feel his breath.
“How’s your pulse?” Derek asked, voice pitched so low it vibrated in Stiles’s sternum.
“About two hundred and rising,” Stiles said, grinning. “I think the MC might actually throw up on live TV. Did you see the Food Network people in the crowd? Kira’s practically foaming at the mouth.”
“They’ll survive.” Derek nodded toward Lucky Dragon. “Their koi pond is a flex, the lighting isn’t doing it any justice. Think you can top it?”
Stiles snorted. “If I can’t, I’ll retire and become a mall Santa.”
Derek smirked, eyes gone soft at the edges. “I’d pay to see that.”
“You’d better. My lap is open all December for your sitting pleasure.”
“Here I thought you were the one who liked sitting on laps.”
Isaac made a strangled noise, then coughed violently, earning them a glare from the event coordinator.
The five-minute warning rang out over the loudspeakers. The camera crew repositioned, a spotlight ratcheted into place, and Stiles forced himself to take one last look at the centerpiece, the thing he’d sunk a hundred hours and most of his sanity into.
The Christmas tree cake, most of which had to be prepped in advance, was just at six feet tall, a layer of dark brown bark of carved fondant, filled with alternating layers of cherry-rose jam within its many different cake bases, decorated pistachio cream that somehow smelled like pine needles, and a whipped mousse that shimmered with gold leaf to fill in the cracks. Every branch was hand-piped with edible pine needles sticking out, tipped in sugar frost.
Stiles’s secret weapon, of course, was the ornaments. Each was a hollow sugar sphere that could be cracked open, each one filled with “gifts”. Truffles, tortes, cakes, or piping hot bread or (his personal favorite) a one-bite cheese soufflé that exploded on the tongue.
Derek’s job was the ornament station, making and filling the spheres, then attaching them to the tree with spun-sugar thread. He worked with the calm of a bomb squad technician, every movement deliberate, no wasted energy, and yet, with a newfound softness as he smiled with each little touch of color or design he would add that wasn’t on their original design document.
“Thirty seconds!” the MC bellowed, eyes wild.
Stiles and Derek double-timed the last layer, Isaac following behind with a blowtorch to set the sugar snowdrifts. Lucky Dragon was plating up the koi, their matriarch directing with sharp little chirps, her hands moving at a blur.
The MC, voice trembling but determined, took the stage. “Ladies and gentlemen, the moment you’ve all been waiting for, the grand finale of the Beacon’s Best Bites Christmas Showdown!”
The room went near-silent, broken only by the whir of drones and the distant, off-key sleigh bells of a holiday playlist.
“First up, Doughboy and Hale’s, with their… is that a Christmas tree? Is that actually cake?”
Stiles rolled it out from behind the tent, heart pounding, and let the crowd absorb the absurdity of it. There was a moment, just a beat, when the whole place went absolutely still. Not awe, not yet, but the sharp, disbelieving hush of people recalibrating reality.
“Magic”, as Stiles’ mother would have called it. Because when Stiles finally got a good look at it, his and Derek’s tree looked just as real as the trees lining the sides of the stage. Hell, if Stiles had to argue, theirs looked better.
The MC, sweating bullets, edged closer. “Is that real? I mean, can I, may I,”
Stiles grinned, bowed with a flourish, and handed him a carving knife. “Be my guest, sir. Don’t let the structural integrity intimidate you.”
The MC poked the trunk. The tip sank in with a satisfying give, exposing the mosaic of filling inside. The crowd gasped, then roared. Kids in the front row pointed, eyes wide as saucers. Even the Lucky Dragon contingent leaned in, matriarch’s mouth puckered in a silent “well played.”
Derek, meanwhile, had filled the tree’s base with tiny presents, as a last minute addition. Macarons in gift-wrap foil, miniature gingerbread sleds, even a marzipan reindeer perched at the very top. It was insane. It was extra. It was, by any reasonable metric, an act of culinary hubris.
“Don’t forget the ornaments!” Stiles said, taking one of the glass-like orbs from the tree, cracking it open with a flourish, and presenting the inside to the MC. They at it, with glee, moaning as the taste sent him off to another galaxy.
The MC, at a loss, tried to continue. “…and… our other finalist, Lucky Dragon and Shake King, with a gingerbread pagoda, and what looks like a living pond of tea and koi!”
There was a moment of respectful silence for the artistry, then a burst of applause. Stiles caught the old woman’s eye, and she dipped her chin, approval and challenge in equal measure.
The VIPs from the crowd, and the crowd themselves, made their rounds. They peered, they poked, they dissected. One food blogger teared up when presented with a sugar ornament from Derek himself, snapping thirty photos before daring to eat it. The Channel Six anchor went off-script, describing the taste as “liquid Christmas joy with a side of childhood therapy.” A French-looking chef, who seemed just angry at Derek in general, just muttered, “magnifique,” and pocketed a macaron for later.
At last, as the people of the mall enjoyed the amazing displays from both competitors, and as the voting section came to a hurried end, the MC reconvened the finalists at center stage. Stiles and Derek stood shoulder to shoulder, hands slick with nerves and icing, as Lucky Dragon rolled their pagoda up beside them.
The MC cleared his throat, crumpled the cue cards, and said, “I’d like to pretend this is a close call, and play this up for the viewers, but let’s be honest… Doughboy and Hale’s, you have out-crazied us all. Congratulations!”
The floodlights went nuclear, confetti cannons erupted, and the crowd let loose with a roar that nearly lifted the banners off the rafters. Stiles blacked out for a second, then found himself bear-hugged by Isaac, who immediately let go so Derek could sweep him up in a spin that was way more romantic comedy than he’d anticipated.
On instinct, Stiles kissed him. Not on the cheek, not in some subtle, PG-rated “aren’t we good friends” way, but a real, public, crowd-hushing kiss, Derek’s hand knotted in his apron, their chests pressed so tight it was a wonder the cake didn’t topple behind them. For a long, giddy second, Stiles forgot the audience, the cameras, the competition and just clung to Derek, laughing into his mouth.
The crowd, predictably, went berserk. Someone started chanting “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” and, because this was Beacon Hills, the rest of the mall picked it up by the third repetition.
The MC, not missing a beat, shoved a gigantic novelty check into their hands. “Ladies and Gentlemen, we finally have the winners, Hales and Doughboy are Beacon’s Best Bites!”
Reporters surged forward, microphones and ring lights in a tide. Questions flew: “How did you come up with the idea?” “How did you execute something so realistic? “Is the romance for real?” “Are you going to open a restaurant together?”
Stiles, dazed but riding the high, answered as best he could:
“It’s all Derek’s fault. He said we had to go big or go home.”
“I think we’re just getting started. Like, the sky’s the limit.”
“No, really, I have no idea how to top this next year, but I promise we’ll try.”
Through it all, Derek stood at his side, smiling a little, blushing a lot, and deflecting most of the questions aimed his way.
Eventually, they were herded backstage, past a gauntlet of well-wishers and rivals. The tent beyond the atrium was lit soft, fairy lights strung overhead, and the sudden quiet made the world feel small and safe again. It was there, in the makeshift green room, that the real party started.
Scott and Liam burst in first, yelling “You did it!” at the top of their lungs. Erica followed with a flask, which she presented to Stiles with a sly, “For courage, chef.”
Boyd arrived with a tray of Lucky Dragon’s leftover koi, and they ate them all, fighting over the last one.
Peter, in a suit so dark it seemed to eat the light, hovered at the door with a look that was almost proud. He caught Derek’s eye, gave the briefest of nods, then melted back into the chaos, content to watch from the edges.
Stiles let himself collapse into a folding chair, feet aching, shirt streaked with color, and for the first time in weeks, let the victory settle in. He looked around at the circle of people, his people, and felt something he hadn’t in a long time.
Whole.
Derek pulled up beside him, balancing two cans of LaCroix. He handed one to Stiles, then just sat there, close enough their knees touched.
Stiles took a swig, wiped his mouth, and said, “Did that really happen?”
Derek leaned in, kissed the corner of his mouth. “It happened.”
Stiles let himself believe it.
The tent echoed with laughter, and the smell of sugar and citrus and fried dough was thick in the air. Beyond, the mall was winding down, the world returning to its ordinary madness. But here, in this soft pocket of light, everything was exactly as it should be.
He turned to Derek, pressed their foreheads together, and whispered, “Let’s never stop doing this. Let’s always be a little crazy in our life, okay? Because… I don’t want to stop.”
Derek smiled, warm and unguarded. “Never.”
And for once, Stiles knew he meant it.
+++++
Moving day was supposed to be a formality. Derek’s life fit neatly into a pair of suitcases, one plastic storage bin, and a battered duffel bag that still smelled faintly of stale laundry and airport tarmac. He’d been living out of rented rooms and chef’s apartments so long that the prospect of moving into a real house again felt more like an elaborate prank than a milestone.
Stiles had spent the week prior cleaning his house with the intensity of someone prepping for a CDC inspection. He’d emptied two closets, reorganized the pantry, and in a move so on-the-nose it nearly made Derek laugh, had labeled the fridge shelves “Hale” and “Stilinski” in neat block letters, with a smiley face on the middle shelf for “Shared.” He’d even purchased a second coffeemaker, so they could each prepare their own preferred blend.
Derek parked on the curb, hands gripping the wheel for a full minute before getting out. The air was cold and sharp, the kind that made the inside of your nose sting. He shivered, then popped the hatch, hoisted his boxes, and trudged up the walk.
The door swung open before he even got to the porch. Stiles stood there, barefoot in pajama pants, a wild tangle of bed hair and an expression that was trying and failing to be nonchalant.
“Perfect timing! I just cleaned out from under the oven and totally didn’t barf!” Stiles said, voice pitched just above casual. “All for you, babe.”
Derek set his stuff down inside the foyer. He scanned the house, mapping the layout against the memories he’d accumulated over a dozen late-night visits. The living room with its mismatched sofas, the kitchen already humming with the scent of yeast and cinnamon, the staircase with its persistent third-step creak. It didn’t look different, but it felt different. Like the entire structure was waiting for him to exhale. Waiting for him to welcome himself.
He rolled his shoulders, more to ground himself than anything. “Where do you want this?”
“Anywhere. Everywhere. It’s your house too now, you know?” Stiles tried to sound offhand, but there was a tremor under the words. “You want coffee? I’m pretty sure I can make it to your specs.”
Derek managed a real smile. “I’ll survive if you mess it up. Show me the way.”
The kitchen was warm, the counters already cluttered with flour, egg cartons, and a rapidly-expanding ecosystem of sticky notes. On the fridge, the “Hale” side was empty but for a bottle of cold brew and a half-used container of oat milk.
Stiles followed Derek’s gaze. “I was going to do a ceremonial first fill of fresh groceries for both of us, like, you know, christen your shelf with something epic. But then I panicked and realized I have no idea what epic is in your world, so I just left it and figured we could go shopping together. Sorry, but a Megamart trip is in your near future, unless you want pizza rolls for dinner.”
“It’s perfect,” Derek said, and meant it.
They moved through the kitchen together, bumping elbows, shoulders, hips, each collision a little more intentional than the last. Stiles chattered, half to fill the air, half to keep himself from combusting.
“Did you know they’re doing a post-contest interview with all the finalists? Kira wants to come by later and shoot a segment. I told her we’d be in our natural habitat, which means, ” Stiles gestured at the table, currently buried under a pile of unpacked spice jars, scattered mail, and a single, gleaming chef’s knife.
Derek surveyed the mess, then set to work sorting the spices into neat rows. “You know she’s just coming for the food. Not the journalism.”
“Of course. She texted me four separate times to request my gooey chocolate chip cookies I started selling last week. You know, the ones that look like the Ghibli food when you break them open hot?”
Derek snorted. “They’re not even your best work.”
“They’re my most Instagrammable, and she’s always looking for ways to improve the town.”
They worked in tandem, clearing the table, unpacking Derek’s boxes, and merging their culinary arsenals. Stiles had left an entire cabinet free for Derek’s knives, oils, and ferments. They traded stories about the origins of each item Derek’s antique chinois, Stiles’s battered stand mixer, the weird ceramic cat from Isaac that doubled as a salt cellar. The act of placing things side by side, of allowing overlap, felt oddly intimate. Each new object was a commitment, a way of saying: “Yes, I want you in my space, even if it means sacrificing shelf real estate and enduring the occasional argument about the correct orientation of Tupperware lids.”
Once the last box was emptied, Stiles collapsed into a chair, panting in exaggerated relief. “Okay, so now what?”
Derek leaned against the counter, arms folded. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, the contest is over. The victory hangover’s barely faded, but for the first time in, like, a year, there’s nothing on fire. No secret deadlines, no psychotic baking marathons. Just us.” Stiles gestured at the house, the world, the universe. “What do people do when there’s nothing to run from and we actually want to run towards the future?”
Derek blinked, caught off-guard. “I… don’t know. I’ve never tried.”
Stiles chewed his lip, then brightened. “Maybe we go on a date. Like a normal “date-date”, one that doesn’t involve food for cooking for each other.”
Derek considered. “I’d like that. Or we could take a weekend and drive up the coast. You always said you wanted to try real seafood, not just what we get shipped in.”
Stiles nodded, warming to the idea. “Or we could do both. Road trip up to the coast, eat our way back down at everything that looks good. Just us, the open road, and no one to stop us from making a cursed playlist of whatever the hell it is you listen to.”
Derek smiled, picturing it. “You’d hate my music.”
“That’s the point, Derek. It’s the journey, not the destination.”
They laughed, the sound bouncing around the kitchen, softening the edges of the morning.
Stiles stood, fetched a battered notebook from a drawer, and plunked it down on the now-cleared table. “Okay, actually, I love the idea, but what if we started a list?” He flipped the cover, revealing the blank first page. “Not a to-do list, like, chores or errands, but a fun list. You know, stuff we want to do now that we’ve, uh, survived. Things we can look forward to doing when we take breaks and aren’t working our asses off.”
Derek picked up a pen, rolled it between his fingers. “You want to start now?”
“No time like the present. First item: Eat real seafood, straight from the ocean. Second item: Watch the sunrise somewhere that isn’t haunted by childhood trauma.”
Derek added, in careful block letters, “Build a garden. Grow things that don’t die on the windowsill.”
Stiles scribbled underneath, “Learn to cook something French that isn’t baking. Derek has to teach me.”
Derek wrote, “Write a cookbook together.”
Stiles paused, pen hovering. “You serious?”
Derek nodded. “Why not?”
Stiles swallowed, a flush climbing his cheeks. “Okay. Deal.”
They took turns, volleying ideas back and forth: “Go to Japan and try every ramen shop on a single street,” “Swim in the Pacific, even if it’s freezing,” “Invent a pastry that no one’s ever seen,” “Host a dinner party for everyone we love, and make them cry from how good it tastes.” “Win Beacon’s Best Bites every year or die trying.”
By the end of the hour, they’d filled ten pages.
Derek flipped to the first, ran his finger down the columns. “That’s a lot.”
Stiles looked at the list, then at Derek, and smiled, crooked and unguarded. “It’s not enough. We’ve got decades to fill.”
Derek pulled Stiles in, their foreheads touching, the morning light catching on the curve of his cheek. “We’ll do it all.”
Stiles closed his eyes, breathing it in. “Promise?”
“Promise,” Derek said, and this time, it was the easiest thing in the world to believe.
++++++
Three years later, Stiles was thirty-three, had let his hair grow out, grew a respectable beard that rivaled his boyfriend’s, and… A lot had changed for him.
Doughmasters was a miracle. A cross between homestyle comfort and artistic spectacle. The scent of caramel, proofing dough, and espresso mingling with a hint of showmanship. Floors gleamed, a blend of terrazzo and warm wood, while velvet banquettes hugged the walls, and gold-trimmed tables sparkled beneath actual iron torches that lit overhead. At the heart of the main room stood a pastry counter, arched and backlit like a stage in a Vegas lounge, displaying a wide variety of off-the-wall pastries in neat, artful rows.
“What’s the new pastry this week!?” was on the lips of every tourist and local alike.
Staff moved with choreography to a separate dining area, carrying trays piled high with glossy cakes and steaming baskets of breads, weaving between diners who lingered over brunch and couples nursing mimosas at marble-topped bars.
Every detail whispered tradition and comfort, but every flourish exclaimed indulgence, the kind that belonged in a five-star casino lobby, where the ordinary was polished to a shine and every guest felt like a winner. From the open kitchen came the rhythm of whisks and laughter, all visible through glass panels etched with flourishes that caught the morning sun.
The walls bore murals: some flour-dusted, some slick with neon, all painted by local hands. Doughmasters was as much a gallery as bakery, and was the most-visited tourist destination of Beacon Hills, which had officially become one of the food capitals of the United States.
Each day, the line outside started before sunrise, curling down the block like a living thing. The crowd was always a mix: tourists, locals, foodies, students, nurses, a lacrosse coach who bought four dozen cronuts for “team morale,” and, todaym a pair of television producers arguing over whether to film by the counter or the window.
Stiles wove through his staff with the grace of a linebacker in a tutu. The new intern from the culinary school, Hayden, was trying to frost cupcakes, and Stiles did his best to help guide her hands without taking too much control. At the back counter, Erica had a small circle of acolytes, teaching them to laminate dough that morning. She never raised her voice, never needed to, one look from Erica, and even the loudest dudebro would shut up and pay attention. The latest crop of new hires for the shipping side of the business Dough-To-Go, watched her hands like they were the hands of God. Isaac? Well, Isaac was having fun being the Head Chef at Doughboy with Allison. The two of them were working on a pitch to buy the place from him, and Stiles was just about ready to listen to it.
Stiles stopped to check the proofing baskets, then turned to find a reporter waiting, recorder already out. A new normal in his life that he’d long since gotten used to.
“Can you describe the Doughmasters philosophy in one sentence, to all the young chefs out there looking to get into the business?” the woman asked, eyes sharp.
Stiles thought about it, then said: “Love baking, love yourself, love learning, and love making mistakes. If you can’t love all of those things, then you’ll have a hard time in not just baking, but life in general..”
The reporter grinned. “That’s two sentences.”
“Not if you use a semicolon,” Stiles replied. Then, softer, “My mother taught me that.”
The reporter caught that, and Stiles felt a haze of embarrassment, he never got used to the way people wanted to mythologize him, or worse, his family or his boyfriend. Yet, the world did, and it was out of his hands.
Luckily, the morning rush came and went. By noon, the shop had sold out of raspberry-custard éclairs and the new “Nostalgia Bombs”, chocolate donuts filled with marshmallow cream, dusted in neon powder. Emily tripped and dropped an entire tray, and instead of getting mad, Stiles gave her a fist bump and said, “I once dropped a tray of cream puffs on a bride’s mother right at the start of a wedding. We both survived.” Hayden laughed, and dusted herself off.
At two, with the lull, Stiles snuck off to his office. A closet-sized room, half filled with bags of flour and signed books from other chefs he kept on display, mostly for the reporters that would come through.
There, on the desk, sat a plain cardboard box with a publisher’s label. Stiles stared at it for a minute, palms sweating. The box came early. He thought he’d had a few more days to agonize over it. He wasn’t ready. He was never ready.
Stiles opened it anyway.
Inside was a stack of hardcover cookbooks, wrapped in tissue. The title gleamed in old-fashioned golden script against a violet cover.
The Magic of the Levasseur
He ran his thumb over the letters. Underneath, in smaller print: “A Family’s Recipe, With Notes by Stiles Stilinski.”
Stiles sat, hands shaking, and lifted one out. The cover showed a black-and-white photo: his mother in her twenties, arms dusted with flour, mouth caught mid-laugh, holding a newborn Stiles in Rosemary’s kitchen, with his father off in a corner with a rare-captured smile. It was the photo his mom and dad always hated, because it didn’t look “professional”. Stiles loved it. The cover photo had been his last act of revenge, he supposed. A last anger, which was finally extinguished in his heart.
He blinked back the sting around his eyes, flipped pages, feeling each as if it might dissolve.
The recipes were all there. Each one a family legacy, written in Claudia’s exact words, no edits, no tweaks, just her writing, sometimes rambling, sometimes bossy. The latter half of the book was all Stiles’ work, his own set of chapters. He didn’t improve a single receipie. Instead, he made all new ones. Each one written a lot like his mom’s, in a way that made sense to him and how he thought each recipe would want to be treated.
Stiles read the opening he’d written to the book. The one he’d almost pulled out at the last second, but didn’t, thanks to Derek. He read it aloud, voice rough.
“Cooking is a way of loving people when you don’t know how to say the words. If you ever taste something and think, ‘I want to share this with someone,’ or ‘I feel better now’, that’s all the proof you need that magic is real. This book is a record of every bit of magic my mother ever cast on this world, which made it a better place. My chapters are my own brand of magic, that I’ve made over the years for the people I love dearly. Don’t follow the recipes exactly. Make your own magic.”
He set the book down, hands pressed to his eyes. It wasn’t the worst crying fit of his life, but it was top five.
A knock at the door. Erica poked her head in, saw the book, saw his face, and wordlessly handed him a napkin. She leaned against the wall, waiting for him to compose himself.
“Is it as good as you hoped?” she asked, after a minute.
Stiles nodded, too choked to talk.
“Your mom would be proud. I’m proud.” Erica sounded fierce, like she’d fight anyone who argued.
He wiped his eyes. “I got an email, too. From the publisher. They said the first print run is already gone. Sold out everywhere. Every bookstore and cooking shop wanted to stock it. Now… Everyone’s going to remember her, and her image is going to be remembered forever. I did it my way. I feel… Good about it. Letting it go.”
Erica smiled, wide and warm. She hugged her friend tight.
Stiles laughed, then let it fade into the silence. He opened the book again, traced his mother’s name with one finger.
Outside, the clatter of pans and laughter of his staff seeped through the wall, like a promise that the world kept spinning, even when it broke your heart.
Stiles looked up at the sunlight shafting through the window. He didn’t pray to spirits, or talk to ghosts, or believe in omens. But for the first time, he closed his eyes and said, softly..
“I hope you’re watching, Mom. I hope you see. I’m happy. I’m proud of myself. I hope… You can see that.”
He didn’t hear an answer.
He didn’t need one.
+++++
The kitchen at Hales thrummed with the frenetic, lopsided energy of twenty teenagers operating on sugar, adrenaline, and the shared terror of failing in front of a celebrity chef.
Derek stood at the head of the main prep table, arms folded, watching a cluster of students debate the correct way to chiffonade basil.
On day one of the Hale boot camp for aspiring chefs, they’d all started out cocky, each convinced their home recipes would wow the room, earn Derek’s eye, and launch themselves into fame and fortune. By day one and a half, after seeing Derek’s level and tasting his food, they all had a haunted look about themselves of the sheer mountain they would need to climb. Many expected the rage and shaming many would expect from celebrity chefs.
Except there was no shaming. Not anymore, never in his kitchen. Derek had learned, painfully, that humiliation didn’t breed greatness. It just made people scared to try.
Which is why, by day three of Hale boot camp, the room was filled with the noise of excitement, glee, and constant unashamed, but naïve, questions.
“Try moving the knife like a hinge, not a saw,” Derek said, voice pitched low and gentle, as a trembling freshman fumbled the herb. “Let the weight do the work for you.”
She did, and the leaves curled into perfect green ribbons. The rest of the group exhaled in relief.
“That’s it,” Derek said, and smiled. “Keep going just like that. Practice will improve your muscle memory.”
On the other side of the kitchen, Peter was orchestrating a sauce station for older chefs, most of them in culinary school, with all the subtlety of a Vegas pit boss. He wore a purple cravat today, and delighted in telling horror stories about the overseas schools of his youth and his own journey through hell.
“If you cannot taste the difference between reduction and reduction, you are doomed to a life of mediocrity,” Peter pronounced, swirling a spoon. Then, to a startled student, “But in your case, it might be an improvement.”
The kids laughed, unfazed. Peter had become their favorite, somehow, less for his wisdom, more for his sarcasm and the way he’d always sample a mistake before tossing it. “Never trust a chef who’s never made a mistake, for they are fools,” he said, once, and Derek watched as half the class internalized the rule for life.
In today’s lesson, they were making stew. Not just any stew, Derek’s, the one that had been on his menu since his grand re-opening three years earlier. It was a monster of a recipe, onions, garlic, beef, tomatoes, a slew of spices, and a patience that would put most to sleep. The air shimmered with heat and the slow burn of garlic. Several kids had tears streaming down their faces, and not from emotion.
Derek moved through the stations, stopping to adjust, to taste, to steady a shaking ladle. He could see his old self in them, the fear, the yearning to impress, the moments of pure joy when something actually worked.
He didn’t miss the old Derek, who was “perfect”. He liked this one, the happier one, a lot better.
At half past eleven, Boyd poked his head in from the hallway. He looked the same as ever, solid, calm, the kind of person you’d want at your back when the line went down or the fryer burst into flames.
“Hey, Chef,” Boyd called, holding up his phone. “You got a minute?”
Derek excused himself, then crossed to the office, where Scott and Liam were waiting.
Scott was mostly the same, still learning, still growing, and the favorite executive chef of the staff by a long shot. Liam, still Scott’s protégé, was now about at Scott’s skill level from 3 years ago, and was the hotshot of their kitchen. A little too cocky, if Derek was being honest, but given his growth, he had the potential to warrant that cockiness someday.
Both looked like they’d just chugged a gallon of cold brew. Liam bounced his knee under the desk, nearly rattling the chair apart.
“What’s up?” Derek asked, already bracing for disaster.
Scott shoved a tablet across the desk. “Read this. Now. Please.”
The article was from the Michelin Guide.
Derek’s heart stuttered.
Technically speaking, Derek refused to “aim” for a Michelin star. He would cook how he wanted to cook, and his restaurant would run how he wanted to run it. Under no circumstances would he ever try and impress the Michelin reviewers with stupid gimmicks or the tired “outline” like Laura had tried.
Still, with Stiles’ insistence, Derek had allowed their standards to improve. Little things here and there, that would make them more eligible, but still keep Derek in creative control.
“You don’t have to give up on greatness. Just make greatness come to you.” Stiles had told him.
Derek read the review, line by line. After three years of just being himself, he’d finally earned a full review.
“Hales is an experiment in reinvention: a kitchen that refuses to coast on legacy and instead forges its own relentless, intimate path. What stands out here is the sense of home, of risk, and of never being content to repeat the past…”
Derek felt the edges of the world sharpen.
“…the food is, without question, some of the finest things I have ever eaten. The warmth in my heart and stomach after each visit has been magical. Though, in truth, we have struggled over the years to write a proper review. Given the plating, service, and atmosphere of Hales is that much like Chef Dere. Raw. Emotional. Untested. New to the culinary world. The service and atmosphere are very much like its home of Beacon Hills in its small-town ways, and at times, it lacks a refined elegance to it that has left many of our reviewers over the years arguing and had led to two physical altercations in our staff!”
Derek sighed. That was fair. Derek wanted comfort and warmth in his restaurant. The opposite of Deucalion’s. Ever meal was meant to be filled with love. So, naturally, he wouldn’t fit in with high standards like that.
“…we have returned to Hales three times in as many years, each visit a new permutation, a new revelation. There are echoes of the classics one would expect of the grand Hale Legacy, but always filtered through the discipline, and, yes, the bruised hope, of a chef who refuses to be haunted by his own ghosts.”
Liam was biting his fist to keep from yelling.
Scott grinned. “Keep reading, man. It gets better.”
“…if you are lucky enough to come on a night when Chef Hale is on the pass, watch for the way he walks the floor. He treats every mistake as an opportunity for growth, every compliment as something to be paid forward. It is not just the food that makes Hales a star, but the people, the relentless drive, and the way the kitchen acts as one bruised, wild, miraculous heart.”
Derek scrolled to the end, tears welling in his eye as he read ahead.
“We grant Hales its first Michelin star, with every confidence that it will continue to grow. This is a restaurant for the next generation, a place where the future is not just welcomed, but built. We encourage Chef Derek to continue to break the mold and the expectations of the culinary world.”
For a second, nobody moved.
Then Liam punched the air, howling. “YESSSS! I KNEW IT! I TOLD YOU, SCOTT!”
Boyd patted Derek on the back, hard enough to knock the wind out. “Congratulations, man. You did it.”
Scott pulled Derek into a hug, then broke away, eyes wet. “I’m so fucking proud of you, Chef.”
Peter entered, waving a spatula. “Are we celebrating, or is this just another one of those millennial therapy sessions you all enjoy so much?”
Derek looked at him, looked at all of them, and felt the tears prick his eyes. “They gave us a star,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.
Peter’s face did a complicated thing. Pride, nostalgia, a flash of old pain. A rare tear that he would deny until the day he died. “Of course they did,” he said. “What else could they do? A shame it took so long.”
Liam was already texting everyone he knew. Scott started calling his mother. Boyd snapped a picture of Derek, stunned and red-faced, and sent it to the staff group chat with, “Told you he’d cry.”
The kitchen was chaos now, word rippling out, students and staff hugging, whooping, banging spoons on pans. Derek stepped outside, into the morning air, heart pounding. He watched the sunlight catch on the metal roof, watched the steam rise from the prep room windows.
He’d always wanted to win, to prove himself, to outpace his own fear. But in this moment, he realized: it wasn’t the star that mattered. It was the place, and the people in it, and the knowledge that every broken piece of his life had gone into making something beautiful.
He walked back into the kitchen, and the world welcomed him like a hero come home.
+++++
The night Derek earned his Michelin star, Stiles found his boyfriend on the balcony above the restaurant, a glass of wine cradled in his hands and the whole town mapped out in lights below. Air around them was thick with the smells of summer, of cut grass, grilling, a distant whiff of fireworks left over from some city festival. Downstairs, the last of the staff were cleaning up, loud and a little drunk, singing along to the kitchen’s playlist.
Stiles let the screen door bang behind him, then slid onto the bench beside Derek. The wood was hot from the day, and the glass in his own hand was slick with condensation.
“Are you just going to brood out here forever, or do I have to seduce you back inside?” Stiles asked, nudging Derek’s thigh with his knee.
Derek didn’t look away from the view. “Give me a minute. I want to remember this.”
Stiles let the silence run. The only sounds were the buzz of insects and the clink of bottles as someone in the kitchen dropped a crate. He could feel the tension in Derek’s body, the way the night had him wound tight and unspooling at the same time.
“Do you ever think about how far we’ve come?” Stiles said, softening his tone. “Like, statistically, we should have died young, angry, and alone. Instead, we’re here. You’ve got a star. I’ve got a fucking amazing bakery and a bestselling cookbook.”
Derek smiled, just barely. “I do. I think about it… Every day. Today, especially. We wouldn’t be here right now without each other.”
They sat like that for a while, the edge of the world marked by distant headlights, the occasional shout from the street, the sound of someone dragging garbage cans to the curb. Stiles found it weirdly perfect.
He knocked Derek’s shoulder with his own. “I think we’re well overdue to revisit The List. I think we both deserve to do something big and crazy! Like, let’s take a whole month off or something to celebrate! Boyd and Erica can keep our empires running.”
Derek’s mouth quirked. A low blush crossed his face. “What are you… Thinking of?” His voice was choppy. Nervous.
Stiles set his glass down, standing up and pacing the length of the balcony. “Rome. We do a food tour, see the ruins, eat so much cheese they won’t let us on the return flight. Then we come back and maybe… I don’t know, take the whole staff to Disneyland, though I’m pretty sure Erica wrote that in our book when we weren’t looking. Or open that bar we were talking about and hire that Theo guy you liked! Or get a dog. Or-”
He stopped, realizing Derek wasn’t moving, wasn’t even breathing. In fact, Derek looked… Terrified. Scared in a way he hadn’t seen in a long time. “What are you so nervous about? I’m not going to suggest a baby goat farm again, I swear. I know Kira would never give us the ordinance for it.”
Derek put his glass down, stood up slow “Stiles,” he said, voice serious.
“Yeah?”
Derek reached into his pocket and knelt down. Not like in a movie. He was awkward, stiff, one knee popping as he moved. He held out a small, plain black box.
Stiles’s mouth fell open.
“I love you,” Derek said, each word like a new line on a blank page in their list. “I loved you even when I hated myself. Even when you drove me insane. I want to spend the rest of my life figuring it out, with you. Because… We make each other happy. We make each other better. We make our dreams come true, and…”
Derek opened the box. The ring was simple, hammered gold, nothing flashy. Just like Stiles liked and wanted.
“I want to get old with you,” Derek said. “I want to wake up every day and see what you do next. Even if it’s dangerous. Especially if it’s dangerous. So that you can help me do the same.”
Stiles was crying before he knew it, the tears hot and stupid, blurring the world to a soft glow. He nodded, breathless. “Yes. Yes, you idiot, yes.”
Derek stood, ring still in hand, and Stiles crashed into him, all arms and laughter. The kiss was messy and hard and perfect, the kind you get once in a lifetime, if you’re lucky.
“Do you want to put it on or should I?” Derek asked, eyes crinkling.
Stiles swiped his nose. “You do it. My hands are shaking too much.”
Derek slid the ring onto Stiles’s finger, and Stiles twisted his hand in the light, grinning like a maniac. “God, it fits,” he said. “Of course it fits.”
Derek held him close, their foreheads pressed together, the future bright and terrifying and impossibly good. They kissed again, longer this time, until the world narrowed to the two of them and the lights below.
They stood on the balcony, holding on, the rest of their lives spreading out in front of them.
Messy, hungry, alive.
++++++++++++++++++++++
Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed it. <3
Here are some fun facts that I wanted to include in the story, but just didn't have the chapters or the narrative space to do it.
Think of it as its own little fun anecdotes in this world!
1) Liam HATED working at Doughboys and developed a hatred of baking as a result, because Stiles would never let him do anything. The only reason he didn't quit is because he needed it for school. Years later, Liam would admit this to Stiles, who would gently finally teach him all the things he should have learned. Liam still hates baking.
2) Isaac and Allison, working in Doughboy, slowly developed a quiet relationship. Though both of them would struggle with it, because they both also had another soul they were looking at. Scott, sweet oblivious, Scott. When Hales and Doughboys got closer, and they spent more time together, Isaac and Allison finally had a very healthy talk together and invited Scott to become part of a thruple. Scott was dumbfounded for a long time at being "wanted", but soon, they became a loving group. They'd eventually have kids, two boys and a girl. None of their kids care about food in the slightest and all go find their own paths in life - mostly in modeling and athletics. Eventually Stiles sells Doughboy to the trio, who run it with the love and attention it deserves. Though Scott still works at Hales well into his retirement age.
3) Erica and Boyd absolutely had romantic tensions behind the scenes, but I couldn't fit it in. After Erica quit Hales, they officially started dating like two weeks after. They were married a few years later, and Stiles made the wedding cake that was so good that Erica cried at her reception and promised to one-up Stiles when he eventually got married. (She does.) Erica and Boyd had a pair of twins (one boy one girl), both of who followed one parent into the culinary world. Erica's son would become a pastry chef and eventually go on to being quite accomplished, and have a COMICAL rivalry with Stiles to the point he's show up for cooking battles. Boyd's daughter would follow in his footsteps, and the two of them would open their own restaurant together, creating their own legacy. Boyd's daughter would have her own rivalry with Derek, determined to beat "The Mountain".
4) Noah and Stiles eventually repair their relationship. It's awkward and tense for many years, but by the time Derek and Stiles get married, Noah's a central part of their life and is a groomsman at the wedding. Stiles and Noah still argue, but it's about normal things, like sporting events, politics, and what to cook at the holidays. Noah comes to Stiles' bakery every day and samples something his son made.
5) Derek re-challenges Deucalion years later. Derek slaughters Deucalion, who didn't really learn his lesson and still tried to hold onto Talia's way of cooking. Deucalion would retire early, unable to get the taste of Derek's food out of his mouth.
6) Claudia's bloodline was actually witches and could actually do magic in the olden days. Their oldest ancestors actually served pastries to the people of France that healed illnesses, helped "romance", and little things like that, but kept that fact secret to the world. One of the reasons they fled France in the first place was to escape the allegations of witchcraft. All the little things they did with the dough were somatic components of a spell into the dough, infusing it with magic. With each generation, the magic got weaker and weaker, and it was more of a "vibes" magic by the time Claudia and Stiles came around. So when Stiles made food that made him happy, he put happiness into his pastries, which helped develop flavors and instill happiness in others. Don't get me wrong, Stiles is still very skilled at baking and could make good food on his own, but it's just a little "edge" he has, a lot like his Spark magic in Teen Wolf was about visualization and imagination.
7) Derek would go on to earn full Michelin stars for Hales'. When he does, he decides to open another restaurant and see if he can do it faster the next time, and see how far he can push the michelin reviewers out of their comfort zone.
8) Derek and Stiles' wedding is catered by the best chefs in the world. Many still talk about the culinary masterpieces on that day. Erica's cake was the winner of the day.
9) Derek and Stiles would go on to adopt Eli, who was a kid in the Foster System in this world. Derek and Stiles bond with Eli by showing him how to cook as he grows up. To their surprise, Eli develops his own love of Italian cuisine and forges his own path forward. Both of his dads are open with communication with him, so that they don't repeat the mistakes of their own parents. They shower Eli with love and support, sending him through Culinary school, letting him travel Italy to learn from masters, and when he was ready to come home, Eli started a food truck of his own, which became one of the most popular places in Beacon Hills. With the help of his dads (when he was ready), he eventually opened up an Italian Restaurant, with Grandpa Peter acting as his guide. Grandpa Peter would return to the world of cooking for his grandson's sake, sassing and teasing him the same way he did Derek.
10) Sitles passes on the Levasseur Cookbook to Eli when Stiles retires. Eli is worried because he doesn't bake that much and Stiles tells him to just wing it. So Eli does, and with the help of his dads, he starts a brand new chapter on home-cooked meals that feeds the heart and soul. Many many generations down the line, the Levassuer cookbook becomes a tome of sacred cooking knowledge of every known technique that is a priceless artifact.
11) Derek eventually teaching at a culinary school as a guest professor when both of his restaurants are successful. All of his students go on to do amazing things with their lives, and Derek's legacy lives on in all of his student's hearts.
12) Talia and Robert Hale, in the afterlife, genuinely regret all the pressure they put on their children. Had they lived, it would be likely that they would have tried to improve conditions in the Hale Family. The same with Claudia, who regretted how the Rosemary's situation was handled. Had she lived a little longer, there would have likely been a fight and an argument, but it would have come out so much differently.
13) Laura worked so hard because she wanted to take on all the pressure of the Hale Legacy. She wanted to become the greatest chef in the world, so that Derek could follow his own passions. She wanted to shoulder the burden for him.
14) Beacons Best Bites would actually become an annual competition that would eventually become a televised event. Soon, it became on-part with Iron Chef and other cooking competitions. Though the "partners" aspect would never be allowed again, after every chef in the original tournament threatened to never do it again at best, and would vote Kira out of the Chamber at worst. Stiles and Derek would fight against each other every year in the new Best Beacons Bites. There's an official score count kept of wins and losses, but neither of them care about it much.
15) Derek and Stiles finish everything on their list. When they retire from cooking, they travel around the world and go on crazy adventures, still learning and growing into their 80s with new techniques. They teach anyone who wants to learn along the way.
16) Lucky Dragon is actually the name of a place I ate when I was a kid back in the early 90s that has long since gone out of business. I miss the owners, who have long since passed on, and were wonderful people, who inspired some of the nameless characters in this story.
Pages Navigation
glaicie on Chapter 1 Fri 15 Aug 2025 03:42PM UTC
Comment Actions
PeterChristensen on Chapter 1 Sat 16 Aug 2025 01:54PM UTC
Comment Actions
redenodersterben on Chapter 2 Mon 04 Aug 2025 04:50PM UTC
Comment Actions
PeterChristensen on Chapter 2 Mon 04 Aug 2025 05:00PM UTC
Comment Actions
redenodersterben on Chapter 4 Thu 07 Aug 2025 10:15AM UTC
Comment Actions
PeterChristensen on Chapter 4 Thu 07 Aug 2025 01:33PM UTC
Comment Actions
Heha on Chapter 4 Sun 10 Aug 2025 05:39AM UTC
Comment Actions
PeterChristensen on Chapter 4 Sun 10 Aug 2025 01:56PM UTC
Comment Actions
Kifo on Chapter 5 Sat 09 Aug 2025 06:55AM UTC
Comment Actions
PeterChristensen on Chapter 5 Sat 09 Aug 2025 03:03PM UTC
Comment Actions
savethelastdance on Chapter 5 Sat 09 Aug 2025 07:09AM UTC
Comment Actions
PeterChristensen on Chapter 5 Sat 09 Aug 2025 03:03PM UTC
Comment Actions
redenodersterben on Chapter 5 Sat 09 Aug 2025 01:42PM UTC
Comment Actions
PeterChristensen on Chapter 5 Sat 09 Aug 2025 03:03PM UTC
Comment Actions
Heha on Chapter 5 Mon 11 Aug 2025 12:11AM UTC
Comment Actions
PeterChristensen on Chapter 5 Mon 11 Aug 2025 01:10AM UTC
Comment Actions
redenodersterben on Chapter 6 Mon 11 Aug 2025 08:22AM UTC
Comment Actions
PeterChristensen on Chapter 6 Mon 11 Aug 2025 12:21PM UTC
Comment Actions
Heha on Chapter 6 Tue 12 Aug 2025 06:13PM UTC
Comment Actions
PeterChristensen on Chapter 6 Tue 12 Aug 2025 07:12PM UTC
Comment Actions
DAWNKER (Guest) on Chapter 6 Fri 05 Sep 2025 04:45AM UTC
Comment Actions
redenodersterben on Chapter 7 Wed 13 Aug 2025 02:14PM UTC
Comment Actions
PeterChristensen on Chapter 7 Fri 15 Aug 2025 02:42AM UTC
Comment Actions
Heha on Chapter 7 Sat 16 Aug 2025 01:26PM UTC
Comment Actions
PeterChristensen on Chapter 7 Sat 16 Aug 2025 01:53PM UTC
Comment Actions
Kifo on Chapter 8 Fri 15 Aug 2025 06:48AM UTC
Comment Actions
PeterChristensen on Chapter 8 Sat 16 Aug 2025 01:54PM UTC
Comment Actions
itryedandgaveup on Chapter 8 Fri 15 Aug 2025 06:52AM UTC
Comment Actions
PeterChristensen on Chapter 8 Sat 16 Aug 2025 01:54PM UTC
Comment Actions
redenodersterben on Chapter 8 Fri 15 Aug 2025 06:13PM UTC
Comment Actions
PeterChristensen on Chapter 8 Sat 16 Aug 2025 01:54PM UTC
Comment Actions
redenodersterben on Chapter 9 Sun 17 Aug 2025 04:08PM UTC
Comment Actions
PeterChristensen on Chapter 9 Mon 18 Aug 2025 12:05AM UTC
Comment Actions
redenodersterben on Chapter 11 Sat 23 Aug 2025 07:46AM UTC
Comment Actions
redenodersterben on Chapter 12 Sat 30 Aug 2025 10:48AM UTC
Comment Actions
Heha on Chapter 12 Sat 30 Aug 2025 03:46PM UTC
Comment Actions
Pages Navigation