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“Welcome to the Beacon Blossom!” the saleswoman behind the counter chirps happily, and Peter watches, a little dazed, as the blinking plastic hearts attached to her headband bounce back and forth. “What can I do for you on this fine day?”
Peter deposits the bouquet of red roses on the counter, and nearly drops his wallet when the woman coos—actually coos—and says, nodding her head, “A classic. Your wife will absolutely love them, I guarantee it.” She swipes Peter’s card when he hands it to her, then points it at a basket stuffed full with some of the most garishly pink teddy bears Peter’s ever had the misfortune of seeing. “Now, since today’s a special day, if you buy a bouquet and one of our Sweetheart Bears, the cheaper item is 50% off.”
It takes some effort, but Peter manages to bite back his initial, sarcastic retort about the bear clashing with his furniture. Or anything else not absolutely, horrifyingly hideous, for that matter. “Just the roses, please.”
Once he’s finally back in his car, after having dodged the saleswoman’s attempts to foist some extremely tacky cards on him, more than half of Peter’s break is already over. Which means there’s no time left to get lunch, not if he wants to make it back to the firm for his next appointment, and some subpar snacks from the vending machine will have to do.
With an annoyed sigh, Peter starts the car, and pulls out of the parking lot. All this overly cheerful crap is exactly why he hates holidays, and this particular one especially; it turns people into sentimental, lovesick fools, who force themselves to forget how terribly boring their daily lives usually are with the help of cheap flowers and cheesy decorations.
There’s a reason why Peter, up until this year, had been more than happy to ignore Valentine’s Day altogether. Up until this year, Peter didn’t have Stiles, though.
In his forty plus years of life, Peter’d never felt the urge or need to find a steady partner, to settle down and start living the white picket fence dream. And then, over Christmas, a hyperactive barista had flailed himself into Peter’s life, all snarky quips and mischievous smiles, and Peter had been gone. Instantly and irrevocably gone.
Gone enough to brave a florist’s during lunch hour on Valentine’s Day. Because while Peter would, preferably, stay as far away from all this craziness as possible, Stiles is a hopelessly dedicated romantic. Intimate dinners for two, bubble baths by candlelight, taking moonlit walks along the beach, holding hands simply for the sake of it; Stiles loves it all. And while he hasn’t outright said anything about celebrating today, Peter’s not naive enough to think he doesn’t expect at least a little something.
Peter might not have a single romantic bone in his body, but he can buy some flowers to make Stiles happy. And then eat him out until he forgets everything but Peter’s name.
That thought lifts his, admittedly crabby, mood enough that he just smiles, obviously fake, when he comes across Deucalion on his way up to his office, and tells him to, “Kindly go fuck yourself, Duke,” when Deucalion spots the roses, and teases, “How very sweet of you, Peter.”
His secretary is already sitting at her desk, sorting through the files for his afternoon meetings. She glances up when he walks by, and almost makes Peter jump with her excited, “Oh, those are beautiful, Mr Hale! I could have pushed your appointments around if you’d told me you had a lunch date!”
She’s beaming at him over her glasses, all soft and—and motherly, good god. Peter blinks at her, and considers the possibility that he has, somehow, ended up in a parallel dimension. He’s been with the firm for over a decade, now, and he has never, in all that time, seen Ethel so much as smile before. She unofficially runs the entire department with an iron fist, has been for close to thirty years, and doesn’t take any shit from anyone, be they clients, co-workers, or Peter himself.
That’s what Peter appreciates about her, and the reason he kept her on when he took his current position. So, he thinks, it’s entirely justified that all that comes out of his mouth in reply to her uncharacteristic exuberance is a confused, “Uh?”
Ethel, undeterred, gets up, and ushers Peter into his office, tisking at him goodnaturedly. “You get ready for your meeting, and I’ll go and get you a vase for those flowers. Would be a shame letting those lovelies go to waste.”
Which is true, so Peter just nods, and flops down in his chair with a huff. It’s barely 1 PM, and he’s already more exhausted than after putting in a weekend shift for an important case. Of course, that’s the moment Kali’s intern pokes his head in through the door, and takes Peter being there as an invitation to come in, and perch on the edge of Peter’s desk.
Peter suppresses a groan, and raises an eyebrow at him. “Yes, Lukas?”
“Those are pretty,” Lukas says, stroking a finger over the bouquet, and over Peter’s fingers where he’s still holding it. He looks up at Peter through his lashes, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. “Have someone special at home?”
“Do I need to schedule another sensitivity training day for the department?” Peter asks, unimpressed when Lukas pouts at him.
“You’re no fun,” Lukas complains, but does get up again. He’s already out of the door, nearly around the corner, when he calls back, “Oh, Kali said to tell you that the Richmonds are here.”
Cursing Kali—who undoubtedly told Lukas to stall him so she could arrive before Peter, and make herself look better—Peter gathers up his files, and hurries downstairs to the meeting room. Kali smirks at him, Lukas next to her acting like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, and winks at him when Peter flips her off behind their clients’ backs.
Lawyers are the worst; Peter is one, he should know.
Despite their constant bickering and personal feuds, Peter, Kali, and Deucalion are actual professionals, and their clients leave, happy and optimistic, after an afternoon of gruelling but satisfying work. They disperse quickly after the obligatory handshakes and back slaps, none of them eager to stay any longer than strictly necessary.
Ethel has already packed up for the day when Peter gets back upstairs, but has left the roses in a vase on Peter’s desk, as promised. It’s only after Peter’s tidied up and grabbed his briefcase, though, that he realises the flowers don’t quite look right. A few of the stems are broken, petals are missing from most of them, and two are even on the floor under his desk, looking like they’ve been chewed on.
“Hellbeast,” Peter growls, too angry to take pleasure in the way Deucalion’s damned cat startles, and nearly falls off Peter’s bookshelf. “I sincerely hope those are poisonous to your devilish kind.”
The cat blinks at him, stretches, and then curls back up, going back to sleep.
Who ever thought office pets were a good idea, anyway?
Plotting felicide, Peter picks apart the bouquet, heart sinking when he realises almost none of the roses are salvageable. There’s only one that looks intact, apart from a bent stem. It’s a little short, once Peter’s cut off the damaged part, but otherwise it looks almost perfect. It’ll have to do. He wraps the stem in some wet tissues, then searches through his trash can for the plastic wrapping from earlier. It’s not dignified, but no one will ever have to know.
Miraculously, Peter makes it home without any further disasters, but he only relaxes once he has his door shut and locked behind himself. He takes off his coat, kicks off his shoes, and can’t help but smile when Stiles slides around the corner on socked feet, looking comfortable and at home in boxer briefs, and one of Peter’s own shirts.
He gathers Stiles in close, and Stiles comes readily, arms going around Peter’s neck as he brings their lips together. “Hi, gorgeous.”
Instead of answering, Peter kisses him again, a little desperate. Stiles makes a surprised noise, but melts into it, pressing closer. He’s flushed when Peter pulls back, shaking himself before grabbing Peter’s free hand to tug him towards the couch.
“Sit down,” he orders, and takes Peter’s briefcase, setting it down on the floor next to the couch. When Peter’s situated to his liking, he climbs into Peter’s lap, but tuts, and bats Peter’s hands away when Peter tries to shove them down his underwear. “Nuh-uh, not yet, you old horndog. I ordered food from your favourite Lebanese place, it should be here in twenty.”
Peter makes an appreciative noise, which earns him a quick kiss. “And I rented a movie for us to watch, one of those boring political dramas you like so much.” He unbuttons Peter’s waistcoat as he talks, helping Peter slide out of it, then sits back, hands on Peter’s chest, expression open and soft. “I know all this romantic shit isn’t really your thing, so I thought we’d compromise. Dinner and movie, both choices I know you’ll enjoy, you high-maintenance jerk, some cuddling, and definitely sexy times later.” He grins, suddenly, and pecks Peter on the nose. “Happy Valentine’s Day, boo.”
It’s—it’s exactly what Peter would’ve chosen, if he’d planned the date. It’s perfect.
“Come here,” Peter murmurs, and grabs Stiles around the waist, toppling them both over sideways.
Stiles shrieks, not expecting it, laughing and squirming as Peter peppers his face with kisses, protesting half-heartedly, eyes twinkling. His hair is a mess, his face red, lips still shiny from earlier, body warm where he’s lying pressed along Peter. He’s panting a little, letting out a giggle every now and again, fingers playing idly with the hair on the back of Peter’s neck.
Peter kisses his cheek, and holds him close against his chest while he leans over the arm of the couch to fish the—thankfully still intact—rose out of his briefcase. Stiles’ eyes grow wide, and then his whole face lights up with pure joy as he carefully takes the flower from Peter. “For me?”
“No,” Peter deadpans, “for the other live-in boyfriend I’ve hidden in the hall closet. Yes,” he grins, trying to evade Stiles’ pointy elbow, “for you. Happy Valentine’s Day.”
“You big softie,” Stiles says, resting his forehead against Peter’s. “I love you.”
“Love you,” Peter whispers back, and presses his mouth to the resulting blush that tints Stiles’ cheeks, and then, laughing, to Stiles’ mouth when Stiles asks, acting coy, “So. Wanna make out until the food gets here?”