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To Moon Moon: Wait, we're really doing Secret Santa?
From Moon Moon: Yeah...
To Moon Moon: I thought you were kidding!
From Moon Moon: Why??
To Moon Moon: Because you said "You have Peter, buy him cashmere camo print socks"!
From Moon Moon: Okay, I was kidding about the socks, but you really do have Peter
Stiles stares down at the texts from Scott. What...What?!
He has four days to find a gift for Peter, the pickiest person in the entire world. Shit.
Stiles mentally rifles through everything he knows about Peter's quirks. He only likes dark, pretentious and expensive coffee for his French press. If a sheet set has a thread count of less than 1,000, he won't even look at it. His shirts are all tailor-made button downs to accommodate his ridiculous shoulders, or expensive v-necks and sweaters because 'werewolf skin is just more sensitive, Stiles'. (He's totally calling bullshit.)
He knows Peter's dislikes, it's not like he's quiet about them, but things he actually enjoys? He tends to play those close to the vest. Stiles would call him paranoid, but considering his life, he supposes Peter's earned that.
Stiles digs through Amazon's idea boards from other users. Boutique Dog Toys, Weird Gifts and Eccentric Finds, and Books and Brews are all not helpful. He strongly considers MAKE YOUR OWN SLIME CHEAP AND EASY, a zombie plush, a grumpy cat plush (he could sew Derek's name on it) or a shrimp pillow, but discards those, too. Scott suggests a Google Home or Alexa, but Stiles is 100% sure Peter, unlike some, has read Nineteen Eighty-Four, and wouldn't appreciate the potential there.
And, okay, it may be stupid, but Stiles wants Peter to like his gift. He doesn't know the last time he was given one, when the last time someone paid attention to his wants and needs, and he doesn't want to cheapen that with glittery slime. And of course there's the inappropriate crush. Can't forget that. Damn it.
Stiles has two days left. He's lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to think. Sleep is on the edge of his mind but that's when he's done some of his best brainstorming. Stiles groans, throwing his arm over his eyes. Peter of course has to be difficult as fuck. What do you get for the man whose one true love is revenge?
Stiles sits up straight in bed, eyes wide. Revenge. He has some calls to make.
It takes the entire two days left to research until Stiles is satisfied he has everything accurate. He puts it all on a flash drive and puts it in the card's envelope just in time to leave for the pack Christmas party. He grabs the gift bag with the decoy present in it (he has a feeling Scott won't approve of what Stiles is really giving Peter, so, decoy) and heads out.
Derek's loft looks like Christmas threw up in it. Lydia had done a wonderful job decorating the huge tree in glittery pinks and silver. Next to it is another tree with multicolored lights and a mishmash of ornaments that everyone had contributed to. There's garland wrapped around every possible surface, little snowman or Santa figurines on every table.
No one was particularly interested in cooking so there's a feast of Chinese, Thai, and pizza for the pack to pick from. They all sit in the living room, munching on their eclectic feast, Gary Hooey playing in the background. They barely make it ten minutes before Erica's impatience wins out and she demands it's presents time.
There's not really a point to Secret Santa with werewolves when they can smell who their Santa is on the wrapping paper, but it's nice nonetheless. Erica starts, opening a set of massage oils from Boyd, who winks at her when she opens it. Stiles gags, but he doesn't mean it. They're disgustingly cute together. Boyd is next, opening a set of art supplies from Derek. The hug he gives him is tight and meaningful enough that Stiles actually feels a bit like an intruder watching.
Lydia is pleasantly surprised by a book on quantum mechanics from Peter, and then it's Peter's turn to open his. He opens the bag with Santa's face (with removable beard) and pulls out the shrimp pillow, looking at Stiles with a flat expression. The pack laughs at Peter's face but Stiles subtly points of the card discretely taped to the inside of the bag that has the flash drive in it. Peter glances and sees in Stiles' handwriting Open when you're alone then under that Not porn!! Peter nods slowly, making a show of rolling his eyes and putting the pillow behind his head.
Stiles goes next, opening a video game from Scott (he's 98% sure that Scott rigged Secret Santa but whatever), and pushes thoughts of Peter's gift from his mind. He manages to focus on the group through a few rounds of Cards Against Humanity (Isaac's gift), enjoying the way Derek goes from looking vaguely constipated to laughing openly.
Boyd insists they watch A Christmas Story, which Stiles actually hates, but since Boyd really asks for very little and it's rare that he insists on anything, Stiles keeps his mouth shut. He leaves about an hour into it anyway because his dad actually has time off tonight and he's going to make the most of it. He doesn't think he imagines the way Peter's eyes follow him out.
The sheriff's cruiser is already in the driveway when Stiles gets home, his dad already with Home Alone queued up in the living room. Stiles grins, grabs his favorite throw, and curls up on the couch for their annual tradition of watching Home Alone 1 and 2 and theorizing on how to make the traps even more lethal. The good citizens of Beacon Hills would be shocked at what dear Sheriff Stilinski can come up with.
It's close to one a.m. when Stiles trudges upstairs, his dad snoring in his recliner in the living room. He's yawning as he walks through his bedroom door and almost screams when he flips on the light. Peter Hale is sitting on his bed, flipping through one of his college entrance essays.
"What the fuck, Peter?"
"You spelled this wrong," Peter says, eyes on the paper.
"No, I didn't," Stiles says.
Peter glances up, raising an eyebrow. "You don't even know what I'm talking about," he says.
"No, but I know that essay front to back and sideways and it's perfect," Stiles says. Peter shrugs and sets it back down on the bedspread, the bastard. "I'll reiterate. What the fuck?"
Peter stands in one fluid motion, all traces of humor gone from his face. He moves forward, ever graceful, and Stiles doesn't realize he's backing up until he's bumping against the wall. Peter doesn't look angry, but the intense look in his eyes is still hard to face. He holds the flash drive up, gaze still locked on Stiles.
"You found the senior care facility that's housing Gerard Argent," Peter says.
Stiles swallows and nods. "It was dumb for Scott to hope he crawled into a ditch and died somewhere," he says.
"Agreed," Peter says, stepping even closer. "Location. Staff schedule. Local events. Police response times. Is the sheriff's son setting up a murder?"
"I'm giving you the information," Stiles says. Peter is only inches away now, heat radiating from his body. "You can do whatever you want with it."
"What a lovely Christmas gift," Peter says, leaning in. Stiles holds his breath as Peter carefully, deliberately, rubs his cheek against his, surely leaving behind plenty of his scent. Stiles exhales harshly when Peter pulls away, heart pounding wildly in his chest. Peter's smiling slightly. A genuine smile, no smirking or smarmy grin. "Thank you, Stiles."
"You're welcome," Stiles says, not thrilled with how high it comes out. "You know, always hard to shop for the man who has everything."
Peter's looking at him thoughtfully. "Not everything," he says eventually, eyes focused on Stiles'. "Not yet."
Stiles knows Peter can hear his heart racing, knows he can smell the want rolling off him. Peter glances down at Stiles' mouth before turning with a wink and climbing out the window (how does he manage to do that gracefully? Stiles always, always trips.).
Stiles' breath whooshes out of him when Peter disappears. He closes his eyes and lets his head thunk back against the wall behind him. Well, that answers a few questions for him.
He needs to step up his game for his courting gift for Peter.