Work Text:
“Santa Claus, 42, looking for a sweet angel, 18+, with big or small Christmas ornaments for not so silent nights together. Tree stand available and ready. No Santa hat, no action.”
Several people swivel around to glare at Stiles, but, really, he can’t be held responsible for this. Sure, a waiting room isn’t the best place to suddenly burst out laughing, but it’s totally the fault of whoever laid out the latest issue of Bella Diva. It’s not like Stiles normally makes a habit of buying and reading women’s magazines.
Apart from the occasional Cosmo. The quizzes are always hilarious.
Once the pregnant woman across from him has gone back to scrolling on her tablet, and the two older ladies in the corner have started talking again, Stiles sneaks a quick picture of the personal ad with his phone. He’s curious what kind of guy would put something like this out there for anyone to see, and Lydia and Ally will definitely get a kick out of it.
He forgets about the whole thing when his dad steps out of the doctor’s office, jumping up to demand a detailed update. His dad rolls his eyes, and grabs Stiles by the back of the neck to steer him outside, but dutifully lists Doctor Yukimura’s findings.
They go out for burgers—actual meat, but no bacon or cheese, because his dad’s cholesterol is down, but not down that much—before his dad has to head back to the station, and Stiles has to go home to change for his shift at the Beacon Bean. Working at a coffee shop is about as terrible as Stiles had always imagined it to be, but it pays well as far as summer jobs go, and he gets to drink as much free coffee as his stomach can stand, so it could be worse.
The after dinner rush is brutal, as usual on a Friday, but things calm down by nine, and get downright boring after eleven. There are a few high schoolers still hanging around, someone who looks hungover already at sitting the bar, a few business people with their laptops and serious expressions scattered around, and a few women getting ready for a night out in the booth in the corner.
No one has ordered anything in over half an hour. Stiles entertains himself by spamming Scott over text, but gets ditched the moment Kira arrives home. He sends Scott four whole rows of grumpy emojis, then opens his pictures to find something to annoy Isaac with. He snorts when he comes across the ad again. It gets posted in their group chat, then he saves the number that came with it in his contacts under Creepy Santa Guy. After a moment of hesitantly chewing his lower lip, he hits call.
Stiles and boredom have, historically, never been a good match. And what’s the worst that could happen, anyway?
It only rings twice before a smooth, slightly harried voice demands, “Yes?”
Only, it’s not just coming through the speaker, but also from the armchair across the room. Stiles’ eyes widen when he realises what’s happening, and he fumbles with his phone to hang up, nearly dropping it in the process.
The movement’s enough to get Creepy Santa Guy’s attention. He lowers his own phone, blinks once, startled, then looks over at Stiles, and raises a pointed eyebrow.
“Shit,” Stiles says.
The guy’s second eyebrow joins his first, and really, shit. Stiles should probably do some damage control. He’s already gotten two reprimands this month, and sure, they were both from their famously bitchy regular—one because his coffee wasn’t hot enough anymore after he added a shitload of milk too it, and the other because Stiles was too chatty early in the morning—but this guy looks like the sort of person who could actually get Stiles in trouble.
Rich, definitely, going by the fancy three-piece suit. Intense blue eyes, perfectly styled hair, thick, gorgeous neck, nice hands, expensive briefcase. Probably a lawyer.
So, of course, the thing Stiles blurts out after walking over to him with an apology cupcake is, “You’re not what I expected.”
The guy leans back in his armchair, and crosses his legs, all casual, looking amused. “Oh?”
“Yeah,” Stiles says, waving a hand at the guy’s—at his everything. “I mean, no offence, but I was thinking more of a, like, midlife crisis look?”
That makes the guy purse his lips. “And why would that be?”
“Well, you know.” Stiles shrugs, but plops down in the chair across from the guy. It’s not like he has anything better to do, and this has proven to be way more interesting than cleaning cups or restocking the teas so far. “Those are usually the people who go for ads like that. And, dude, come on, you have to admit it was kind of sleazy.”
And that’s putting it nicely, honestly.
“What ad?” the guy growls—actually growls, and Stiles’ absolutely does not shiver at the sound, nope—leaning forward, and narrowing his eyes at Stiles.
“Your ad?” When the guy just keeps looking at Stiles, uncomprehending, Stiles fishes out his phone, opening the picture, and slides it across the table towards him. “This ad?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” the guy mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. He reaches for his own phone with an apologetic, “Just a moment, please.”
When whoever he’s calling answers, all the guy says is, “You are dead to me, Cora,” and Stiles just about hears some gleeful cackling before the guy ends the call.
Stiles winces in sympathy. “Angry ex?”
“Meddling niece,” the guy says, then corrects, “Well, nieces. And a nephew.” He huffs, and rolls his eyes, but he sounds more fond than pissed. “Family.”
“I sense a story there,” Stiles prompts, waggling his eyebrows. He leans back in his chair, and gestures around the shop, now even more empty. “And I’ve got time.”
The guy takes a bite of his cupcake, studying Stiles as he chews slowly. “My sister’s kids. They’ve somehow gotten it into their heads that I need to settle down, and have been trying to set me up for months now.”
Stiles shoots a sceptical look at the picture of the ad still displayed on his phone. The guy laughs, and licks some icing from his lips, then smirks when he catches Stiles staring.
“I assume they’ve grown tired of my lack of cooperation, and decided to get creative,” he says. Then, sighing mock wistfully, he adds, “At least some of the dick pics I got when they secretly installed Grindr on my phone were actually usable.”
“Oh my god,” Stiles chokes out through his surprised laughter.
The guy grins, eyes crinkling, and holds out his hand. “Peter Hale. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he glances down at Stiles’ badge, “Stiles. At least they got my type right.”
Stiles can actually feel his cheeks heat. “I don’t know why your family thinks you need help picking up.”
Peter strokes his thumb over the back of Stiles’ hand, humming softly, mouth quirked mischievously. His voice is low, almost predatory when he asks, “When does your shift end?”
Liam, displaying some impeccable timing, walks through the door right then. Stiles has to clear his throat, which makes Peter chuckle, all self-satisfied, before he manages to say, “As soon as he’s settled in.”
“Well, then.” Peter lets go of Stiles’ hand and gets up, picking up his laptop to shove it into his briefcase. “I’m parked around the corner.”
With that, and a smile full of promise, he turns around, and leaves.
* * *
Later, draped across Peter’s chest, still panting, sweaty and sticky, and sore in all the right places, Stiles slurs, “I’ll sit on your lap any time you want.”
“Ho ho ho,” Peter says, deadpan, then proceeds to kiss the dumb laughter right out of Stiles’ mouth.