Work Text:
Stiles looks around before sliding into the passenger seat of the nondescript sedan parked in the lot of the trashiest motel in Beacon Hills. It’s not that he’s paranoid, he’s just cautious.
As he shuts the door behind him, the driver doesn’t even look up at him. “You should see the size of this guy’s...” He doesn’t finish the sentence because he’s suddenly snapping a million photos a second. “Oooh, money shot.” Literally, a money shot.
“Can we go now, then?” Stiles asks. If this were any other case in any other town, Stiles wouldn’t bother.
Peter finally looks up at Stiles’s unusually needy tone. “Big case?”
Stiles doesn’t answer, just gives Peter a Significant Look. Peter lovingly places his giant camera in its case without further question and puts the car into drive. He starts to drive to one of the usual spots, but sees Stiles’s leg bouncing up and down and apparently rethinks his route. He steers them instead towards the Beacon Hills Wildlife Preserve--they’ve seen a lot of action there, but if you know just where to go, no one will ever find you.
Also, it’s not like Peter can’t hear people coming a million miles away. Okay, not a million, but a lot. Werewolves.
“So,” Peter turns his body towards Stiles as he shifts into park, placing his hand on Stiles’s headrest. “Heard you had a copycat with a thing for old Hollywood.”
Stiles scrubs his hands across his face. “Oh my god, this town, I swear. Which one of my deputies is being a blabbermouth? Is it Greenberg? I bet it’s Greenberg.” It was always Greenberg.
“Ah, ah. You know I can’t betray my sources. Or how it only took half a dozen donuts and a cup of coffee for him--or her--to start talking.”
“It’s so sweet that you care enough to check in on me.” Stiles bats his eyelashes.
“Don’t flatter yourself, kid. You’re a means to an end.”
“What an awful thing to say to the sheriff ‘round these parts.”
“Are we going to sit here and flirt all day, or do you actually need some information?” At this point, another car pulls onto the little gravel road and parks about 12 feet away. The teenagers in the car look over and apparently get spooked. They wave to Sheriff Stilinski the Second as if to say ‘Hey, Sheriff, how’s it going, we’re good kids’ and hightail it out of there. It is a school day, after all.
“Wait a second. Oh my god. Oh MY God. You actually brought me to Make-Out Point. One of my deputies is going to be here any minute for her rounds. Are you trying to get me impeached?”
“If the issue is them thinking you’re getting help from a PI, we could always just make out.” Stiles has been best friends with a werewolf since high school. He’s supposed to be able to mask his shit by now. But he can’t help the flush that comes to his face, the way his heart beats faster as he imagines them actually making out like teenagers in the woods in the middle of the day.
Peter, who until now has had his regular smarmy look on his face, pulls back a little in surprise, blinking rapidly, nostrils flaring as he scents the air.
“Shit. Shit, shit, shit.” Stiles can fully freak out now because there’s no point in trying to play it cool. “Fucking werewolves. Yes, I’m into it. You. Whatever. Let’s move on. I’ve got a dead girl on my hands, no leads, and her parents are flying in from Connecticut tomorrow morning.”
“I don’t want to move on.” Peter’s hand moves from Stiles’s headrest to rake his nails through his (prematurely greying) hair, then down to his neck. “I always knew you’d like that,” he says as he watches Stiles shiver and close his eyes.
“Oh. Oh, yeah? You thought about this?” He would feel guilty about the potential horrible killer creature roaming around Beacon Hills, but fuck. It’s been a while and their sexual tension while working on cases together has been commented on by multiple deputies and assistants when they think Stiles isn’t within hearing range. Stiles thinks there’s some sort of betting pool.
“Do you think I’ve helped you out all of these years out of the kindness of my heart?” Stiles lets out a little breath of a laugh--no one would ever accuse Peter Hale of being kind. “What do I get out of helping you on this particular case?”
“Quid pro quo, Clarice.” Stiles’s Anthony Hopkins impression leaves a lot to be desired and he probably just butchered a line from Peter’s favorite movie because he’s Peter, who probably thinks that The Silence of the Lambs is terribly romantic. Clarice and Dr. Lecter are his Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy.
Peter’s hand has slipped down to rest at the base of his neck, thumb slowly moving back and forth at the dip under his Adam’s apple. “Let me see the photos.”
Stiles opens the file on his lap. Hands over one photo, then the other. He doesn’t trust his body not to need the file there in case he goes from stirrings in his pants to full, raging hard-on.
“I know what it is.”
“What? How? What? I spent hours going through my sources.”
“Let’s chalk it up to instinct.”
“Dude, you don’t even need the file, do you?” Peter probably already smelled whatever it is running around town and knows how to kill it and everything. Peter just shrugs and smirks, makes a my-lips-are sealed motion, mimics throwing away a key. Stiles sighs. “Okay, what do you want?”
Peter puts a finger to his mouth like he’s thinking really hard, like he doesn’t already have a list. “I will tell you what it is if you give me your undershirt.”
“You want my shirt? For what nefarious purpose?”
“Wolf’s gotta smell, doesn’t he?”
“But why do you need to smell me?”
“I’m going to hold it up to my face while I jerk off later. Haven’t been able to get my hands on your clothes the old-fashioned way--your security system is pretty comprehensive.” See? It’s a good thing he still has the file in his lap because now he’s thinking about Peter masturbating. Stiles runs his hand over his eyes then down his face in a way he knows reminds the older members of the police force of the former Sheriff Stilinski.
“You are so, just.”
“Charming?”
“Creepy.”
“Good thing creepy does it for you.”
“I need therapy.”
“I can-”
“Peter, I swear to god, if you say something like ‘dick therapy,’ I will punch you.”
“Save the sexy talk for the second date.”
“That implies that there will be a first date.” Stiles is painfully aware that while he’s pretending to be disgusted by Peter, he’s letting his hand rub all over him. Marking him. He’s been around too many werewolves for too long--he knows Peter is leaving his scent all over his face. Now he’s thinking of what else Peter could do all over his face. He’s in his late thirties now, shouldn’t his dick be a little slower on the uptake?
“It’s almost as if during that first date, I will reveal how to track down this thing you’re looking for.”
“Are you that hard-up for a date?”
“Molly told me that you are well on your way to being a spinster. Maybe this is a pity date before you adopt another cat.”
“Rupert is all the cat I need, thank you very much.” But he has been thinking that Rupert might need a friend during his long shifts. Wait, now he’s distracted thinking about his cat (who is awesome, by the way, probably the coolest cat ever).
“Before you break out your wallet to coo over his kitten pictures, we should probably get this show on the road.”
“Are you in a hurry to get to your next cheating husband case?”
“I just want the goods.”
“Fine.” Stiles pulls away from Peter to start unbuttoning his neatly pressed sheriff’s shirt. Peter makes a show of watching the show. Roughly jerking his shirt back and over his arms, he gets caught in the sleeves he forgot to unbutton. His face was red and now he’s pretty sure it’s a new, alarming shade of red that doesn’t occur in human beings. Once he wins his battle with his cuffs, he removes his plain, white undershirt as fast as humanly possible and throws it at Peter’s face.
Peter lets the shirt fall to his lap as he takes in the now shirtless Stiles, who defensively crosses his arms over his chest. He moves his eyebrows in a way that makes him look stupid, but also conveys Well, out with it. “It’s an incubus. Actually, based on the way it hunts and kills, I think it’s a half-breed. Lived it’s life as human before it hit maturity. That’s why it’s instincts are all wrong and it smells so anxious.”
“Oh, fuck, an incubus. That makes so much sense.” Stiles’s hands start flailing as he tries to grab his phone from his pants. He brings up the app for the supernatural that he installed and immediately starts brainstorming. “Wait, what do I tell the family?”
“We can discuss that tonight at Giuseppe’s.”
“You know I can figure this shit out for myself, right?”
“But whose nose will take you there?”
“Scott’s.”
“I have it on good authority that Scott is in Santa Barbara for an equine medicine convention.”
“Derek.”
“Okay, good luck with that.” Peter’s right, but Stiles just likes to rile him up by reminding him he’s not the only werewolf in his life.
“Well, I could track him down on my own.”
“If there’s one thing you should have learned over the years, it’s that you are a monster magnet. How many supernatural creatures have tried to steal you to be their bride over the years?”
“Like, twelve. I’m a catch. The whole supernatural world wants this bod.” At this point, Peter growls. Mission accomplished.
“They can’t have it. It’s mine.”
“Why don’t we go on our first date before we skip ahead to the unhealthy and possessive part of the relationship.”
Stiles is about to lean in to steal an unexpected kiss, but he hears tires behind them and he knows in his heart that it’s Deputy Sterling on her rounds like a dutiful deputy. Most of the other deputies skip it, but not her. Goddamn competent employee.
She pulls up right next to him and her face goes paler than usual as she takes in Stiles’s shirtlessness and Peter’s mere presence. Then, because she’s a traitor, her face twitches and she starts laughing. Rolling down her window, she motions to Stiles to roll his down. He does it and she yells “Thanks for holding out, Boss, I just won the pool! Hey, Peter, how’s it going?”
“Swimmingly.” Peter is not a people person and has made it a point to ignore Stiles’s deputies.
“Well, I gotta go. These backroads won’t patrol themselves.” She salutes Stiles in such a jaunty way and pulls back out, laughing the whole time as she radios in. He thinks he can read her lips say “Suck it, Meredith,” to the dispatcher.
Stiles’s hands cradle his head. “Oh, my god. I’m going to be even more of a joke than usual. My dad is never going to let me live this down.”
Peter smirks, pats him on his still naked shoulder and lets his hand linger. “Forget it, Stiles. It’s Beacon Hills.”