Chapter Text
It look a long time to come up with a name for the bakery.
Or, it took a long time for Stiles to accept that “no, we’re not going to call it Stilinski’s Bakeski’s, what is wrong with you, it’s not even your business”. Which, yeah, wasn’t one of his greater ideas, but it was one of his ideas. Plural.
And, yeah, it wasn’t his business. Which totally removed any air of mystery they could have gone for, because across the front of the white-and-pink (“it’s peach. Don’t act like you don’t know.”) is plastered, in neat, cursive bubbly writing, Lydia’s.
Seriously, they could have called it, like, Bakery Machine, which is brilliant in so many ways Stiles can’t even begin to list them.
It’s just no fun to have to great every customer with, ‘Welcome to Lydia’s! I’m Stiles,’ and feel like he’s letting someone down, or something, even though he’s pretty sure that everyone knows he’s not Lydia.
That’s not the fucking point, though. The point is, like, principle, or something. They could have gone for something eccentric and draw in a very specific crowd, but they look like… a bakery, really.
Everything about Lydia’s looks like a bakery – which, yeah, it’s a bakery, and there’s a massive glass display cabinet and three-tier cake stands, with, you know, baked goods, but there’s a certain… vibe about it. The floor is black-and-white tiled linoleum, and the soft looking peach sofas are scattered. There’s a mini library sort of thing in one corner, where you can borrow a book as long as you put one there in return, which was Stiles’ idea (and Lydia huffed and said, “that’s a really good idea, Stiles,” which he wanted in fucking writing. Preferably in peach, plastered on the front of the bakery), and small round tables between sofas, scratched and coffee-stained and pastel-colored. When you walk in, it smells like bread and icing and coffee, and it’s always warm-but-not-uncomfortably-warm.
Behind the counter there’s a massive cork board with pictures from weddings and events they’ve baked for, ‘thank you!’ cards and pictures of the other employees (taken on Lydia’s pretentious Instax camera, because “you can just print the photos, Lydia, it’s actually cheaper,” but Lydia is going for a look, which Stiles understands but his wallet doesn’t) – him, looking stupid in every single one, like the one where he’s sprawled across the floor, covered in flour, a few of Erica who looks fucking gorgeous in every one, and a disturbing amount of Boyd, who no matter what always knows when a camera is pointed at him and will stop whatever he’s doing (including, one time, handing an ice cream to a child, holding it just above the kid’s reach. It’s fucking hilarious, and every time Stiles looks at the photo he cries) to stare deadpan at the camera. There’s also a bunch of Allison, and Lydia and Allison, because when Lydia claimed Allison as her best friend she also claimed all rights to her face, apparently, and has Allison from every angle. Stiles knows there’s a bunch more in a photo album in the break room, because when he’s the only one working (which is pretty often, actually) and no one’s in the bakery he likes to flick through it and smile.
Lydia also does this, and because she doesn’t know that Stiles does as well, he takes every opportunity to make fun of her for it.
Despite the tragic naming of the bakery, Stiles does love it. It pays well enough, it’s a cozy atmosphere, and he loves the customers. He does.
Which is why he’s not clawing his own eyes out right now.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but if you wanted the cake sooner, you should have-”
“What kind,” the woman seethes. She’s, like, scary angry, practically vibrating, “of bakery can’t bake a fucking cake.”
Stiles resists the urge to sigh and throw himself on the floor. He literally does not understand why she’s surprised – Stiles is good, but he’s not “bake a five tier cake, decorate it, and deliver it my wedding an hour out within two days” good. He’s just – that’s suicide. He wouldn’t do that.
“Ma’am,” he says, staring at a point behind her head – just above the door frame, there’s a small crack, and it’s suddenly fucking fascinating – and trying to keep his voice level as possible. “I only have a finite amount of time, and most of it is spent working-”
“Is this not work?” She demands. “Am I not offering to exchange a lot of money for goods and services? Is that not what work is?”
He grits his teeth. “Well, yeah, but a cake -”
“I can bake a cake in half a fucking hour, you have two days. To make, like, one thing -” it’s more than one thing, it’s a wedding cake, “-and Lydia’s is the best. You’re the best.” She pauses for a second. “Or should I go to Gerard’s?”
Stiles literally sees red for a second. Fucking Gerard. He’s not stealing Stiles’ customers again, ever. Fucking rat. Shit, but she’s got him. Her face is victorious, because she’s fucking won and she knows it. Just hearing his name and Stiles’ blood is roaring. “I’ll do it,” he bites out, and she grins. Slams down the list, the money, and saunters off.
Lydia is going to kill him, if this list doesn’t first.
Stiles slams his head down on the counter, groans. Crap, he’s going to have to do it now, but it is a lot of money she’s paying.
“Stiles?” A voice says, and Stiles didn’t even hear the bell, but his head snaps up so quickly he almost falls backwards, gets caught in the stool and has to drag himself back up to the counter, pretending his legs aren’t tangled right now.
Because, yeah, Stiles loves the bakery as a building, and he loves making shit, but this. This is his favorite part of working at Lydia’s.
Derek walks – more like stalks, really, because Derek has never, not once, done something normal in his life – up to the counter, eyebrows quirked in an expression Stiles has learned to mean ‘I’m amused, but what the fuck’.
It’s a good look on Derek. Fuck his life, everything’s a good look on Derek.
“Derek! Hey,” Stiles grins, acting for all the world he’s not losing feeling in his lower body. “What can I do you for, this fine morning?”
“It’s half three in the afternoon.”
“Ah,” Stiles points at him, “but it’s morning somewhere.”
Derek rolls his eyes, a smile playing at his lips. “Yeah, whatever. Caramel latte to go, please,” he says, like he ever gets anything else.
When Stiles turns his back to Derek, he doesn’t bother to hide his smile. Derek’s been a regular pretty much since this place opened and had barely one table, three years ago – he’s come in every Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday at half three on the dot (which is – totally coincidentally, because Stiles isn’t weird like that – when he’s always scheduled to work. Well, and Fridays too, but it’s okay that Derek doesn’t come in that day because Erica works Fridays) and Stiles doesn’t think too hard about why he knows this, or why this is his favorite time of the day.
He spins around with a flourish (more like he tries to turn and basically trips over his own laces, but Derek’s polite enough not to mention that) and grabs a sharpie from the counter, writing ‘Derek :)’ on the paper cup, a soft brown with a pink (“peach.”) lid. “Here you go,” he grins, and his heart stutters a little when Derek smiles back.
Derek takes the cup from his hands, and Stiles will go to his grave believing the finger-brushing was on purpose.
“What’s this?” Derek asks, putting a few dollar bills on the counter and picking up the list the lady left before.
Stiles doesn’t bother trying to contain his eye roll. “Some demon lady from hell’s order. Wedding cake for Thursday. Thursday. Like, why can’t she just get to the point and ask me outright to die?”
Derek snorts, and it makes something between Stiles’ ribs flutter, pleased. When Derek first started coming here, he’d barely grind out his order, and now they have easy banter. They’re friends, Stiles thinks – good friends, actually, and if they’re never anything more he’ll be glad of their friendship.
“Wow,” Derek raises his eyebrows. “Sounds like a bitch.”
Stiles laughs. “She was, but it was either kill myself or let her go to Gerard’s for the order, which – you know. I’d rather die than admit defeat. So.”
Derek nods. He’s not just humoring Stiles – or at least, not completely. He hates Gerard just as much as Stiles does, if not more. The guy’s a dick. And Stiles has a lot of pride over Lydia’s, even if the name leaves something to be desired.
“Well, I’d offer to help, but,” and Derek shrugs, and Stiles gets it. The one time he let Derek behind the kitchen (for baking only, unfortunately) did not end pretty. He thought Lydia would fire him for that one, for sure.
“Hey man, it’s cool. I’ll get it done, just pop a couple more Adderall.”
Derek looks unimpressed. “How about I take you for coffee on Thursday after work, instead?”
Stiles is pretty sure his heart stops a little. “Oh, dude, yeah. Sounds good. It’s a date. I mean, uh. Not, like, a date – well, Thursday does land on a date, but it’s not like it’s a – you know what?” He cuts himself off. “I’ll see you Thursday.” He can close up a little early on Thursday. It’s usually pretty quiet, anyway. His cheeks feel a little hot.
Derek’s just grinning, and says, “see you Thursday.”