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The next few times Stiles visits the Cubby Hole he remembers his wallet, but Peter refuses to let him pay. He insists that he needs more opinions on these new recipes, but Stiles is pretty sure it’s just an excuse to spoil him like a teacup puppy.
He’s not about to look the gift horse in the mouth. Peter’s cooking is actually magnificent, and Stiles doesn’t hold back on the pleased noises, because he’s in a committed relationship with the stuff.
Sometimes the guys try to improve his pool game, but without Peter guiding his jelly limbs into some semblance of order, he really is mostly hopeless. He’s hoping that, with enough evenings spent under Peter’s pervy tutelage, he’ll osmose talent through the denim of the other man’s jeans.
Sometimes he stays parked at the bar, chatting with Peter when there’s a lull in business and interacting with other patrons when the man is busy.
Once, and only once, he attempts a game of darts. Peter called it ‘charming,’ but a lawyer would probably have called it ‘reckless endangerment.’ Stiles is forced to acknowledge that hand-eye coordination is most likely not his thing, because the alternative is protective eyewear and cups for everybody, and he’s not that delusional.
He is, however, crazy good at cards — and here, unlike back in good old Beacon Hills, nobody gets pissed at him when he decides to cheat like a bandit. Nate pats him on the back and wipes a pretend tear from his eye, crowing, “Baby boy’s all grown up!”
Stiles starts to feel like he’s actually fitting in, and it doesn’t hurt that he’s getting free food and pocket money out of the deal. After a while he starts collecting phone numbers like he’s at some kind of warped networking party. He beams uncontrollably the first time several patrons offer their numbers at once, insisting that he drop them a line next time he feels like getting his ass handed to him at pool, or discussing the finer nuances of Harry Potter, or what the hell ever.
He’s branching out and socializing, and it’s all kinds of crazy and wonderful and he’s not sure how to tell his dad that all of his shiny new college friends smell like gasoline and leather. After a while, he realizes, the smell becomes comforting.
He stops acting like a self-conscious freshman and starts throwing playful elbows. He learns how not to flinch under the impact of a hearty slap on the back. He texts bizarre smiley faces to Brick, and Snapchats Ray every time he sees a dog dyed pink, or another person taking a selfie — he goes looking for the most ridiculous photo-ops he can find.
In a matter of months, the Cubby Hole is like his home away from home, and Stiles is okay with that. He likes the atmosphere, the fare, the friendly company. He likes that a stupid freshman mistake has somehow turned into a sanctuary in the middle of all of this social and academic bullshit.
He spends at least five nights a week getting booted for a booty call, but he’s okay with it.
… Okay, so maybe he gets even a little bit, but Peter is too brilliant and too experienced not to put his suggestions to good use. Peter himself is one gigantic reason to keep coming around. He likes talking to the man; likes watching him move and gesture. He likes being the reason for the satisfied smile on his face every time Stiles compliments his cooking.
He likes Peter.
But he still doesn’t have his number.
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Okay, this is officially bullshit.
He thought it had been bullshit before, but this is officially Bullshit City, the bullshit capital of the bullshit world. It is two o’clock in the morning on a Saturday, and Stiles is standing outside of his Freshman dorm building with all of the other coeds, freezing his ass off to the tune of the ungodly fire alarm ANNK ANNK ANNNNK.
He amuses himself for a second or two, watching his douchebag roommate and the evening’s hookup huddling together in the crappy quilt he got from Walmart, and decides he’s not nice enough to resist snapping a picture and sending it to Ray, captioned: Frozen pigs in a blanket.
It’s not classy, but it distracts him for a half second from the hellish, icy misery that is his early morning rush from the crappy dorm heating and into the frozen wastes. He taps his thumb against the screen, debating whether or not he should dive back into Words With Friends, where Little Steve is currently handing him his ass with absolutely no mercy.
He doubts it will help. The cold feels almost like a breezy burning against his skin. He is outside in the snow in nothing but his red hoodie, his Batman pjs, and a pair of flip-flops he’d toed on in his groggy rush to escape the potentially burning building.
Really, who the hell was he kidding?
The only thing setting off the fire alarm in this godforsaken old building was a hot shower. Everyone knew it. Everyone was on the lookout for the one asshat with damp hair. They’d been warned at every single floor meeting since Orientation Week.
He shoots a text to Nate, because Nate, at least, takes pity on him when he whines.
[2:18 AM] Stiles: Dude it is too fucking cold for people to be judging me right now.
And they arejudging him, in his Batman pjs and thick-rimmed glasses. They are judging him so hard, which is rich, when he thinks about it. Girls in faux velvet booty shorts with 'Juicy' printed on the ass are labeling his choice in sleepwear with their mascara-smudged raccoon eyes.
He snorts, and sends another text.
[2:20 AM] Stiles: Why do they even let girls with flat asses wear Juicy shorts? Who made that call?
[2:25 AM] Nate: no basis for comparison kid
[2:25 AM] Stiles: But objectively
[2:26 AM] Nate: where are you and why are you staring at juicy asses
[2:26 AM] Stiles: They’re not juicy. That’s the point.
[2:27 AM] Stiles: Outside the dorm. Somebody took a hot shower. Or lit up by the detector again. IDEFK
[2:28 AM] Nate: you’re OUTSIDE right now
[2:30 AM] Stiles: Judging by the rate at which my testicles have retreated back inside my body?
[2:30 AM] Nate: fuck that which dorm
[2:30 AM] Nate: we’re coming to get you
[2:31 AM] Nate: peter says he’ll keep you warm ;)
[2:32 AM] Stiles: Wait what? You guys aren’t actually coming here right?
[2:33 AM] Stiles: North Tower
[2:56 AM] Stiles: Are you serious
Stiles hears the roar of the engines before the faintest hint of headlights speed down the road to the dorm. Everyone lifts their heads to look, hoping for the overdue fire engine and the irate emergency staff who will inevitably snap at the RA for about five or six minutes before letting them back into the building.
There are obvious sounds of disappointment as two bikes pull up at the curb, and even more sounds of utter disbelief. Stiles jogs over to the two on the first bike, waiting for Nate to dismount from behind Little Steve before throwing his arms around him. “What the hell, man?”
“Shit, it’s not like we were doing anything. Don’t look so surprised.”
“Shut up. You’re my fucking hero.”
Nate laughs, wrapping him in a creaky leather hug and pounding him on the back. Steve offers up a gloved fist for him to pound. “It was Peter’s idea, kid.”
Stiles leans back, looking over at where Peter is idling, straddling his bike with an air of amused impatience, helmet dangling from his fingers. “Are you getting on, or not?”
He jogs over, shifting awkwardly as Peter looks him up and down, quirking an eyebrow. “Flip flops. You’re wearing flip flops.”
“It’s two ‘o'clock in the morning and you’re playing Rescue Rangers at a college dorm. Which of us is the crazy one?”
The other eyebrow pops up to join the first. He doesn’t even need to say, Really?
“Shut up.”
Peter shakes his head and laughs, removing his jacket with a practiced ease and passing it and the helmet to Stiles. “Layer up and get on.”
“Wait, no. I have a sweatshirt, and you’ve got-”
“Thick skin. The faster you get on, the faster we’ll get where we’re going. Do you want me to catch cold, Stiles?”
“Ugh. Fine.” Stiles shoves his arms through the holes, looking disturbingly like the Michelin man with all of these layers going on, and mounts up behind Peter, pressing as close behind him as he possibly can. “Where are we going, anyway?”
Peter just revs the engine and takes off, Nate and Steve right on his tail.
It may or may not turn into a race. Stiles may or may not be ridiculously glad for North Tower’s hair-trigger fire alarm. He’s glad for a lot of things, lately, and all of them may or may not center around Peter and his tight pants and his stupid smug smile.
He may or may not be in love.
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The answer to Stiles’ question is, apparently, a two dollar theatre showing a mix of recent and not-so-recent films that Stiles finds honestly impressive. The lobby smells like butter and spun sugar, and he can’t quite remember the last time he was so excited to be at the movies.
After a few minutes spent gawking at the lit-up vintage signs and arcade games, he has the presence of mind to strip off Peter’s jacket and return it to him with a soft, “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
Nate and Steve shove each other playfully as they enter the building, laughing and hooting for a moment or two before Steve draws Nate in by the waist. “Hey, so what are we seeing?”
Peter turns back to look at Stiles, like he’s waiting for him to answer. They’re letting him pick the movie. It is 2 AM and these people went out into the cold to pick him up and take him to a movie which they intend to let him choose.
This is… this is definitely new. He actually starts to tear up before shaking himself. “I, uh… could definitely go for The Amazing Spiderman again.”
“Spiderman it is.”
Peter wraps his free arm around Stiles’ shoulders and pulls him a little bit closer, not looking at him, not smiling, just holding on. Stiles closes the remaining distance, and presses their hips close. That’s when Peter’s lips quirk up. It’s a nice, intimate moment...until Stiles notices the concession stand. Peter must notice the look in his eyes, because he teases, “Are you always hungry?”
“Okay, first of all, growing boy. Second...Icees.”
“Are you serious? You just walked out of one giant Icee.”
“The pavement didn’t have blue syrup.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“Your lack of respect for tradition is disgusting. You can’t just go to the movies and not get an Icee.”
“I have done for over twenty years now.”
Stiles makes a horrified face, and Peter snorts, “I take it this means you want one?”
“I…” Stiles stops, realizing that he is once again relying on Peter to take care of him like some helpless kid. “Nah. It was just a joke. Let’s go, we’ll miss the previews.” He tries to move them forward, but Peter won’t budge.
More softly this time, Peter asks, “Stiles, do you want an Icee?”
“No, Peter. Really. It’s okay.”
“You said it was tradition.”
“It’s kid stuff, Peter. I didn’t bring my wallet. I’m not going to die without a slushie. Let’s go.” Still no sign of forward movement. Instead, Peter bumps their shoulders lightly before steering him towards the concessions stand.
He calls, “Hey, Steve. We’re going to grab some snacks. Save us some seats?” Stiles wasn’t worried before, because this early in the morning, there aren’t too many other customers, but Steve grins and gives them a thumbs up before heading into the theater.
“Peter, you don’t have to.”
“I want to. You’ve intrigued me. I can’t possibly go into the movie without honoring sacred tradition.”
“Oh my g-d, you’re never going to let it go.”
“Never.” He grins, asking the concessions worker for a medium buttered popcorn and two Icees, one blue and one red. Once he’s paid, he hands the popcorn off to Stiles and they go on their way. Peter takes his first sip of Red Cherry and makes a face.
“That’s a lot of sugar.”
“Shit loads.”
“I might like it.”
“Sort of like me.” Stiles laughs, and Peter levels him with a serious look.
“I definitely like you.”
Stiles is definitely blushing. He adjusts his grip on the chilly cup, careful not to drop the popcorn and watches his feet as they walk. “Thanks, Peter…for the Icee, and picking me up, and not treating me like some dumb kid, and…”
“Hey.” Peter stops short of the door, squeezing his shoulder so he looks up. “You don’t need to thank me. I haven’t done anything I didn’t want to. You don’t owe me anything, Stiles, but I’d appreciate it if you could do me a favor.”
“Yeah?”
“Shut up and enjoy the movie.”
Stiles realizes halfway through the film, with Peter’s arm still warm and tight around his shoulders, tongue red-and-blue from sampling both sugar-loaded drinks, that this is their first date. The nerves settle in his stomach, and he lets his head rest against Peter’s shoulder.
His eyes close, his mind drifts, and he falls sound asleep.