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Peter isn’t expecting Stiles back for another three hours. He’s supposed to be on second shift and he won’t be home for his dinner break until then.
He figures he can get rid of the evidence in time. Stiles will be none the wiser. All he has to do is replace the ones that are missing. He even took pictures of the exact assortment remaining. (Well, the operative word being… remaining. What had once made up the contents before “mysteriously” disappearing is immortalized in his phone).
Easy, right?
Rubbing his face with both hands, suddenly Peter’s not so sure.
Thick lashes flutter rapidly.
It’ll be okay. In case of emergency there’s another tin under the sink. If he’s quick enough, Peter can reproduce the arrangement, down to the correct count. Then he’ll still have to get another unsealed tin to hide in place of this one.
One thing at a time.
This will work. Yes! Brilliant!
No. Wait. Their freshness might tip off the young cop. The “misplaced” cookies in question were opened 4 days ago. Shit, I should have aired them out.
There’s still time. Peter flings open the cabinet doors. If he turns on the oven, puts some of them in there at a low temp, maybe they’ll dry out enough…
Blood and all its heat leaves his face, only to settle under his feet.
OH. MY. GOD.
The fresh tin is gone.
Hands rake through his ruffled hair. Peter tries to make a noise but nothing comes out.
Where are the fucking cookies?!
From his seat in the corner of the room, Jacob’s dark eyebrows shoot up in a questioning arch. Peter tilts his head as he silently prays to the baked goods gods.
Jacob snorts.
“What?!” Peter’s pale lips thin. “This is going to work!” Somehow, he wants to add. This is going to work somehow.
The baby's giggles flutter freely in the air. Peter is not amused.
“Sure. Laugh… “ he mumbles. “Remember you’re an accessory!”
Large blue eyes blink back at him.
-
Derek’s voice rings through the kitchen shortly after. The speakerphone is obnoxiously loud.
It competes with the clang of Peter opening and closing cupboards with fervor.
“Peter… is everything okay?”
Hands flatten on the marble countertop. Peter lets his head fall between his toned arms.
“No. Not at all. This is an EMERGENCY!”
Derek gasps. “Oh my god, what happened?!” His deep voice immediately coats in concern. “Is Jacob okay?”
Peter lets out a long sigh, a steel blue gaze darting to his son. “Jacob’s fine. It’s me. I’m the one who’s dead.”
His nephew is no mind reader, and when Peter gets this dramatic, it’s best just to drag him back down to earth.
“Uncle… what are you talking about?”
Peter rubs his temples. “The Danish, Derek. The damned Danish.”
“I’m not following Peter.”
He really isn’t. Derek’s now hypothesizing that Peter might be inebriated. With a child in the house. “Have you been drinking?”
Peter scoffs. “Of course I haven’t been drinking. If not for delicious coffee. It’s the cookies, Derek. THE COOKIES ARE GONE.”
The silence is overwhelming.
“Stiles’ stash of butter cookies?!” Derek draws out slowly.
Peter nods, then realizes Derek can’t see him. “Yes. For the love of all that is holy… Stiles’ stash is gone!”
His nephew has clasped his hand over his mouth. “Peter, what did you do?! Where did they go?”
He has half a mind to blame the child outright, but Derek’s not that gullible. That would just be the act of a desperate man. Which he is. But that’s not the point.
“Where did they go? Into my stomach. I ate them.”
“You ate them?!”
Peter’s as disgusted with himself as Derek is. “Yes. I ate the remaining 19 Danish butter cookies Stiles had hidden at the back of the pantry. His stress-eating stash. Sue me.”
Shock might be the only word to properly describe Derek’s tone. “Let me get this straight. You sat down and ate NINETEEN Danish butter cookies, which… correct me if I’m wrong… contain roughly 180 calories per serving?”
“Yes. But Jesus I didn’t eat them in one sitting. It’s been a long day. And, to be precise… I think it’s more like 160 but really who’s counting… ”
“And a serving is how many again?” Now Derek’s struggling to stifle the laughter.
Peter throws his hands up in the air. “Is that really important, Derek? Don’t you know they’re the ideal complement to a cup of coffee or a glass of milk?! Focus here! I ate his stash and when I went to grab the back-up, found that it’s missing as well!”
“You need to get another immediately. He’s going to flip.”
Stroking his light beard, he contemplates his next move. “Derek, you do it. Please. By the time I pack up Jacob and … please run to the store and get another one for me?”
On the other end of the phone, Derek kneads the stiff muscles of his neck. He looks down at himself. He’s still in pajama pants in the middle of the afternoon. “Why don’t you just fess up?”
“Fess up?! Need I remind you of the apple pie incident of 2017? He wouldn’t speak to me for a week.”
Derek really doesn’t want to go out. He had the night shift at the hospital and…
“This seems like a lot of work, Peter. Maybe he’ll understand? He’s changed since Jacob.”
“Derek, if you could see my face right now… don’t make me swear in front of my kid. Have you met my husband?! I’m taking this to my grave.”
“I hate you, Peter.”
Full lips blending into a strong chin curl up into a smile. “I love you, nephew.”
-
They’re staring at it like it’s an alien object. Not even when Derek performs surgery…
Peter’s glancing askance at his phone, two cookies held between the fingers of his hands.
“These are the last two. I think we’ve got it. Don’t you think we’ve got it?”
Derek wags his head. “Jacob, your father is insane.”
The baby coos.
“Yoo-hoo! Focus here, Dr. Hale. If you operate with this level of concentration remind me never to get sick.”
Derek purses his lips, his signature eyebrow raised in derision.
“Give me those…”
Peter supervises as the arrangement is completed. His lungs empty in relief. It's as if they just finished a heart transplant.
“Great. Perfect. Looks just like the photo.”
“Are you sure you’ve got the depth correct?”
“I think so. It was the last row. One deep.”
Derek wipes his hand against his apron (yes, they’re both wearing aprons) and a few crumbs fall to the tile.
“Move! No evidence of the crime!” Peter screams. He grabs the hand-held vacuum and bends to dirt devil up the bits.
“If you ever kill anyone, don’t call me to help you get rid of the body.”
He shoots him an eye dart as he snakes it up Derek’s legs. Peter “accidentally” passes it over his crotch.
Derek skips back and smacks him. “What is the matter with you?!”
-
Finally, Peter can relax. Well, almost.
Derek sits at the table, making funny faces at Jacob, while Peter surveys the room.
“Okay. Things look pretty much like they were when he left. My only concern is the brand. What if he notices it isn’t the same one? He’s like a butter cookie bloodhound.”
Jacob’s tiny hand wraps around Derek’s fingers. He smiles sweetly at his cousin.
“We put the new ones in the empty tin. If after all this he’s some kind of biscuit sommelier… well, you’re screwed.” He smooths down the boy’s hair.
A door slams and Stiles’ voice carries all the way to the kitchen. “I’m home early!”
“What’s he doing back in the middle of shift?! Shit, he’s here! Act normal!”
“You’re telling ME to act normal?!”
“In here!” Peter yells, trying to keep his tone casual.
Stiles pushes the door open to find Derek and Peter seated at the table. Both stiff and wide-eyed.
Could we look more guilty? Peter thinks. Even Jacob vocalizes like he’s about to spill the beans.
“Um, hey Der. What a nice surprise. What are you doing here?”
“Hey baby… “ Peter steadies his voice with an effort. “Derek here just wanted to see his cousin. Keep me company. We’re not doing anything. Everything is okay. Just enjoying some time together. Chatting. Playing with Jacob.”
Derek waves and immediately regrets it. Why did I just wave? Who waves?!
“How incredibly specific,” Stiles cocks an eyebrow, bending down to kiss Jacob on the head. He sniffs the air as he does so.
“You two are acting weird.”
“We’re not acting weird… “ Peter pulls out a chair. “Here. Sit. You must be tired. Why are you back so early?”
Stiles’ cop senses kick in. He is increasingly suspicious. Something’s off. “I’m not, really. I forgot something and so I’ve popped back in.”
Two honey eyes scan the room. He puts a finger to his lips.
“Sooo, just hanging, huh?”
One man licks his lips uneasily, and the other looks away.
“Yup. Just me and Derek hanging out.”
Stiles hooks his thumbs onto his service belt. “Uh-huh. I see. Okay.”
Peter has missed a few crumbs near the counter. Stiles spots them immediately.
Gait slow and steady, he walks over to the pull out pantry. That’s where he keeps his comfort cookies.
“I’m a little peckish. Might have a couple butter cookies before I head back. A few hours until dinner, anyway.”
Two faces swivel, burning into the back of Stiles’ dark-brown head. Peter gulps.
Derek mouths “You are so screwed.”
Peter might be perspiring. “Sounds great, babe. Do you want some milk?”
Stiles eyes the container. Resting his ass against the dishwasher (which looks impressive in his uniform, but this is just an aside), he pops it open.
He’s squinting. He knows something is up. This isn’t good.
Silence has fallen over the room. Even the baby isn’t making any noise.
Stiles lifts a swirl to his dark pink lips and eases it in with his tongue. He’s eyeing Peter.
Derek wills himself to look away but can’t. It’s like witnessing a car accident.
“Good?” Peter asks. Shut up Peter!
“Mm… yup,” Stiles replies with his mouth full. He waits to swallow. “Good, except these aren’t my cookies.”
Shuddering as he draws in a sharp breath, Peter’s eyes open in terror.
“What do you mean?!” The tremor to his voice is more than revealing.
One step forward. “I mean…”
Another step forward. “… these are not the cookies I left in the pantry. They are cookies, but not THE cookies.” A mole-speckled cheek dimples in sarcasm.
“Someone ate mine. Replaced them with a cheaper brand.”
Without shame, Peter points to Jacob. “It was him! He’s been so hungry all day and I told him, they’re too rich for you, but do babies listen?!”
Derek face palms.
Stiles has reached Peter and is now adjusting his collar. “So you’ll have me believe our 12-month-old ate nineteen rich Danish goodies today? I can barely finish 3.”
Peter’s heart is racing. Stiles can see it pulsating in his neck.
“Like I said, he’s been starving… “
Arms crossed over his chest, Stiles shakes his head.
“Shame on you. The both of you.”
Derek opens his mouth to answer but Stiles uses his pointer finger.
“Ah ah ah. Don’t you dare say a word, Dr. Hale. An attending physician no less, messed up in this madness. You’re both regular Bonnie and Clydes. You honestly thought I wouldn’t notice?”
Peter shrugs and lifts his palms in the air. “Well… “
“It’s like you don’t know me at all. And then blaming our innocent son… “
Hardly daring to breathe, Peter plops down into the chair. “I’m sorry. I know how anal you are about your stash. I knew you’d be upset and… “
“And you thought you’d pull the wool over my eyes?”
Peter nods mutely.
“What gave us away?” Derek asks. “You know… for future reference.”
Stiles chuckles. He spews a laundry list. “Crumbs on the counter. The writing on the box wasn’t facing the way I had left it. Obviously the taste of the cookies. Peter reeks of butter and sugar and – oh. I can see the outline of the new tin in the trash. Not to mention he gave Jacob one, and a piece is caught in his bib.”
Breath sobbing, Peter looks up in astonishment. “You got ALL that from being here twenty seconds?!”
Stiles pecks the baby on the cheek, then angles up and kisses Peter, tongue lingering. Derek blushes.
“That’s why I’m good at my job," Stiles says as he pulls away.
"What, I don't get a kiss?" Derek quips.
Peter slaps his bicep and Stiles simpers. "Now, gentlemen, I need to head to the station. You have a good time scheming. I’ll be back for dinner.”
“Wait!” Peter stops him. “What happened to the one you hid?”
Grinning, Stiles fishes his keys out of his pocket. He straightens his shoulders.
“I took it to work. Keep ‘em in my desk.”
“Dammit,” Peter murmurs.
Jacob drops his rattle and blows a spit bubble.
“You should know better than to try to fool me, Peter!” Stiles yells from the living room.
Derek bursts into a belly laugh.
“Love you!” Peter maintains. The door slams before Stiles can retort.
“Well, that went well. Next time I’m just going to fess up.”
His nephew pats him on the back. “How about next time you don’t binge on tiny cakes made of pure cholesterol?”