Work Text:
Stiles likes working at Tractor Supply. But he hates working at the register. Anyone who has ever worked the register hates the register. Especially when you have to work the register alone. On a weekend.
It's either ridiculously busy and he has five people in line and everyone is getting impatient and rude, or it's incredibly slow and he's standing there for thirty minutes twiddling his fingers just waiting for someone to walk up.
He just got through the half-hour rush, and now there's not a soul near the front. He's pretty sure there's five people in the store, but they are no where to be seen. So he has only himself as company since he's all alone.
Usually, he just taps away on his phone and quickly puts it away if someone shows up. This time, though, he decided he would doodle. He has pens, a flat surface, and no shortage of printer paper.
And so he doodled. He doodled up a little mountain and trees, inspired by Bob Ross (if he can do it with paint, Stiles can damn well (try) to do it in pen!). His tongue found its way to sticking out from between his lips and he soon forgot to keep an eye out for people.
With his head down and mind completely distracted with the intricate little dots he has to make to build up the tiny happy little trees, he didn't notice someone had walked up until he reached for the blue pen (he thought adding some blue to the black would add "depth" or something) and saw a figure from the corner of his eyes.
A yelping cry of surprise left his mouth and he jumped and slapped his hand down on the piece of printer paper he was doodling on, flung it behind him onto the floor, swept the pens off the counter to join it and scrambled for the scanner thing all in the same flailing move. Once the scanner was in his hand instead of skidding across the counter, he finally looked up at the man in front of him with huge eyes, already out of breath.
Then his breath was completely taken away.
Standing there, head lifting like he'd been leaned down a little to look at the doodle he'd been making, with ice-cold, arctic blue eyes rising to meet his own, was single-handedly the most beautiful man ever to exist. The barely-there amused raise of his brows and tick of his lips was more beautifully expressive than the brightest smile on the prettiest set of lips.
"Oh my god." It took a minute for him to realize that he himself had just said that outloud. It was already mortifying but the growth of a smirk on the man's lips make it that much worse. "Oh-..." Really, was there any fixing this train wreck? "my- I am so sorry!" The man began setting his things on the counter and Stiles lunged for the opportunity to get this back on track. He began scanning at an alarming speed as his mouth rambled, "I'm so- I was- How long were you standing there?!"
"Oh..." Stiles expected the usual 'oh, not long', the kind of polite thing to say, but instead, the man said, "quite a while."
Stiles froze and stared at him, panic rising, but the man still looked amused. "I-I- I'm sorry. I didn't-" a horrified laugh bubbled its way from his chest, "didn't see you there."
"That much was obvious," the man said easily and Stiles shook his head.
"I know, I just- I'm so sorry." He laughed awkwardly and then cursed under his breath when he realized he hadn't even signed in. He set down the scanner and took a breath, sighing and imagining crawling under the counter and dying.
"No need," the beautiful specimen said, "You were... really busy." Stiles glanced over at him with a grimace and muttered another apology under his breath. He hit enter on his password and grabbed the scanner again, glancing back at the screen just to make sure he was doing it right, but then groaned when the prompt for an incorrect password popped up on the screen, bright and glaring like an insult.
"Honestly," the man said as Stiles typed out his password much slower, concentrating hard. "I'm not used to not being seen." Stiles didn't catch the humor in his tone.
"I know, dude, I'm sorry. I just- You're, like, really quiet."
Stiles finally got the password correct and dove for the scanner again. While he was looking for the scan code on a box that held a small, portable generator (seriously, he just scanned this thing!), the man moved over to the dip in the counter where the bags hung. He was suddenly hyper aware of his bubble when the man leaned over and reached behind the counter, grabbing the little piece of printer paper that had fallen next to his shoe.
Stiles froze and watched him stand back up, holding the paper between his fingers and staring down at it appreciatively. His cheeks were already redder than the reddest thing on earth, but the heat was now double.
It became triple when he allowed his eyes to rake down the man's body. That beautiful face, thick neck, broad shoulders, strong arms, a waist that tapered so perfectly, jeans that just barely hung on his hips (they were so low he's sure he's going to have a heart attack if he imagines his shirt lifting). And that ass. Oh god.
Stiles swallowed and went back to scanning with nervously shaking hands and a growing discomfort in his pants.
"So... Um... What are you doing?" Stiles grabbed the bag of screws and stuff and brought it to the scale to weigh it, then looked up at the man, who was staring at him blankly. Only then did he replay what exactly he just said. "I-I mean, like- what are you... What's the stuff... for..." He groaned and covered his face with his hands when he saw the man's lips begin to spread into that terribly amused smirk again. "It's a thing I do, you know, ask questions to engage conversation-- But it's probably-..." he sighed and grabbed the bag, setting it back on the counter and typing in the number. "Probably best to not... um... conversate any more than necessary..."
There was the sound of a soft, quick exhale, almost like a chuckle. Maybe. And the man said, "I'm rebuilding a house."
"Oh, god, you're a construction worker." The horror he had for this conversation was building by the second. "I mean-! Uh, I just mean-..."
Stiles looked over at him, and the man's brow lifted and he tilted his head. "What do you mean," his eyes darted to his name tag, "Stiles?"
"Uh..." Stiles literally had no idea how to say, 'if building things in tight, sweaty clothes and jeans you really have no right to wear in the presence of the homosexual orientation is your daily occupation, I think I might just have to go stalk every construction site in the town to find you and if I do that I think I'll have to move to a different country and change my name if you catch me and don't believe me when I tell you I was just in the neighborhood.'
"I'm not a construction worker," the man said after the silence stretched on too long. "It's my house."
"Right." Stiles nodded enthusiastically. "Right. Cool. That's good."
"Good?" That brow was back up and Stiles' mouth moved without making words, horror clearly written on his face, no doubt. The man ducked his head to look back at the note but Stiles still noticed his smirk turn into a near grin. When he looked back up, it was gone again, back into that 'too good for you' tiny uptick. "Well, I do have somewhere to be-"
"Oh my god." Stiles hit the (right!) buttons at lightning speed and then flailed a hand at the card swipey thing he never did bother to learn the name of. "Forty-five, thirty-six," he said. A pause. "That's the total, I mean."
The man blinked at him, looked at the prompt on the card swipey thing for him to pay, then his smirk returned. "I'm paying with cash... If that's alright with you, of course."
The small noise that Stiles let out while he hit a whole bunch of 'Back' buttons was probably the sound of some kind of alien dying. Finally, after an effort he should really get a raise for, he made it to the cash prompt and he let out a breath.
"What was the total again?" the man asked, pulling out his wallet.
"Forty-one, eighty-two."
Without even pausing as he pulled out bills, he said, "I thought it was forty-five thirty-six."
Stiles glanced at the screen and saw that the number he had read out was the total without tax. "Yes! Forty-six-- Forty-thirt-..." Stiles stopped and put his face in his hands, blowing out a huge breath. "Literally just kill me."
"Mmh, well that would be a terrible misfortune." A pause and Stiles heard change jingling. He didn't care. He kept his face in his hands.
Once he heard him set the cash on the counter and begin moving things into bags (fucking hell, that's Stiles' job!) he took his hands away from his face and grabbed the cash. He thought it was probably better if their hands didn't accidentally touch in the passing-over of bills and whatnot. Despite the horrible embarrassment, the situation in his pants was still holding strong! Seems his appreciation for attractiveness still outweighs all else. He just hoped the counter hid everything.
"Don't you want my phone number?" the man asked, and Stiles froze just before he hit the button to open the register.
"Oh for the love of..." he said under his breath, and totally saw the guy grin again at that! He hit a bunch more 'Back's and finally got to the prompt for a phone number to pull up the profile for a member with the store. He was supposed to ask everyone if they're a member, but he was also supposed to put things in bags for them. "Okay," he said, "What's your phone number?"
Usually they just say it out loud and he types it in, but instead, the man said nothing. Stiles looked over when he realized the man had snatched one of his pens at some point and was writing onto the back of the half-crumpled piece of printer paper he'd been doodling on. He looked up and handed the paper to Stiles, and he blinked down at the numbers above the impeccably written name, Peter Hale.
He swallowed again and typed them in, hyper aware of the man tapping his fingers on the counter, head tilted to the side, just staring at him.
"Uh, it says you're not a member," Stiles said.
"Oh, I know." The man's tone suggested Stiles was missing something obvious.
Stiles looked over in confusion, but only got another brow-raise. "Do you... want to sign up?"
"No, definitely not. I would never voluntarily give my information to a corporation that's only going to sell it off to a million others." Stiles blinked.
"Then why-"
The man tilted his head the other way, smirk still just shy of a grin. "I really do have to get somewhere."
"I-" Stiles sighed heavily and once again backed the fuck up to the right screen. Finally, he opened the register and double counted the correct change, and handed it over.
Their fingers brushed while they were staring into each other's eyes and a shiver ran down his spine.
Fucking damn it.
"It was a true pleasure to torment you, dear," the man, Peter, said, still holding eye contact while he unceremoniously shoved the cash and change into his pocket and gathered up his things. The heat currently burning his cheeks hotter than the sun crept further down his neck, all the way to his chest. "I hope you use that number."
Then, he winked.
He fucking winked.
And it was the sexiest thing ever.
Stiles blinked at him, and stared as he left (not a single inch of that man went uncharted by his eyes. Holy fuck). Distractedly, he wondered what number he was talking about. He hadn't come up in the system.
He looked down at the piece of paper in his hand, his doodle, and on the back a number and a name...
He'd left it with him. He'd left his name and his number with him, for him to use.
Oh...
Oh.
Fuck, he's oblivious.
Stiles looked back out at the closed doors, and watched through the glass as Peter put his things into the back of a sleek black Camero. He looked back through the glass at Stiles' shocked expression with a smirk before he got in the car and drove off.
Stiles stared at the piece of paper in his hand, then grabbed the tape gun.
Three years later, that same piece of paper, carefully laminated by the clear tape he had under the counter, still occupied his wallet. On their wedding day, he had it framed in a special, double-glass-paned, spinning frame so that they could see both sides and, standing pressed against Peter, arms wrapped around each other, he set it on the mantle above their never-used fireplace, surrounded by dozens of other sentimental trinkets they shared.
"Okay, but you have to admit, I was a model employee."
Peter looked over at him and rolled his eyes, pulling him in and kissing him. "They fired you for picking a fight with a customer."
Stiles gasped and jerked back. "He ran a dog fighting club! And barely anything happened, anyway. It was just a lot of yelling."
"You hit him with the chain leash he was buying and nearly put him in the hospital."
Stiles shook his head. "Shhh. We really don't have to talk about this right now."
Peter chuckled and leaned back in. Stiles hiked his leg up until Peter grabbed the underside of his knee, then he climbed up onto him. Peter easily supported him in his arms. "For the record," Peter said against his lips. "I was only standing there for five minutes."
"Five minutes?! Oh my god!"
Peter bounced Stiles on his hips playfully. "I was enjoying the way you were leaning over very much."
"I was the worst cashier."
"Mm-hmm. You gave me incorrect change, too."
"I did not--!"
"The first time you called me was a butt-dial."
"I-I-... I was just- I got- I was--"
Peter shut him up with his mouth. Stiles hummed against his lover's lips, his previous efforts to defend himself completely forgotten.
"I love you," Stiles said, leaning back just enough to look at his pretty face. Peter, with a sweet smirk, looked at Stiles with those arctic eyes and winked.