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Stiles Stilinski is not a fan of locks and rules.
Well, that’s not quite true. He’s happy to exploit them when he needs to. But the rest of the time, they’re petty annoyances to be circumvented when he so desires. Sometimes one will graduate to being an interesting challenge, but that’s rare these days.
Peter knows this about him.
In fact, he frequently appreciates it when it’s helpful to him or the pack. The rest of the time, Peter finds this quirk of Stiles to be refreshingly relatable and actually quite charming. Because really, it’s as much a part of Stiles as his quick wit or his exasperating tendency to call everyone he meets “dude.”
Which is why Peter should not be surprised to find Stiles sitting in the (previously locked) Shelby Cobra, waiting for him.
“Really?” he asks with a raised eyebrow. “You couldn’t wait for five minutes?”
Stiles shrugs, unrepentant as always. “It’s sunny, you know how easily I burn.”
Peter sighs, but he’s not truly annoyed and Stiles knows it. After getting settled he pulls out of the parking lot and heads towards the highway. It’s a pretty easy trip today; they’ve been asked by a pack in Oregon to figure out what’s harming the wood nymphs in their territory and deal with it. They have a few likely theories and all of them can be dispatched with Peter’s muscle, Stiles’ magic, or some combination of the two.
As they drive, though, Peter starts to get a sense of foreboding. Stiles’ silence is ominous. Usually he would be constantly harassing Peter about turning on the radio (Peter will only listen to NPR with Stiles in the car, and flat out refuses to tell Stiles whether he usually listens to something else and what kind of music he likes) or chattering away about whatever topic recently caught his attention. Instead, he’s quiet, and keeps giving Peter sly, mischievous sidelong looks.
Finally Peter’s had enough. “What?” he snaps.
Stiles puts on his best innocent face. “What’s up?”
“You’re making the face you make when you’re about to start some shit. Do you know something? Are you planning something ridiculous again?”
“Whaaaat? Of course not!” Stiles protests. That little shit. He knows Peter can hear lies, and he in fact has the ability to lie and keep most werewolves from catching on, but he’s not even bothering to try this time.
“And really,” Stiles tacks on, “If I did know something, or I was planning something, why would I tell you now? You know perfectly well that I’d wait for the most opportune moment, just like you would yourself.” Well that was true at least.
—
Stiles somehow makes it the entire ride without breathing a word about what's going on to Peter. Peter’s still hanging on to that sense of dread, but pushes it aside when they get out of the car. He needs to deal with the Oregon pack and their problem first, then later he can worry about whatever beehive Stiles is going to kick over.
Stiles, of course, doesn’t cooperate.
He’s bounding forward to greet the Alpha the second his feet hit the ground.
“Welcome! You must be Stiles,” she says with an inquisitive smile. “The magic user?”
Stiles just grins, not responding to the other questions her tone implies. “Yep, that’s me!”
Peter sighs and smooths down the sports coat he grabbed from the car. His whole outfit is carefully curated to convey power and confidence while of course not getting wrinkles on the drive, since he didn't get this far by neglecting the little details. Speaking of attention to detail, he probably needs to take over the interaction now. Stiles likes surprising people who underestimate him because he thinks it’s funny, but this will go much more smoothly if this pack just listens to Peter and Stiles from the start. “Stiles Stilinski is the Hale Pack Emissary. He’s a trained, experienced Spark who has worked with packs across the United States and in over a dozen other countries.”
Stiles smiles at him and nods, drawing himself up and putting on a more serious face. It doesn’t fool Peter, but it works well enough on strangers.
“Thank you for reaching out to us, Alpha. Please allow me to formally introduce Peter Hale. He’s a direct descendant of the Hale lineage, was one of the most successful Left Hands in the country, currently leads the Hale Pack of Beacon Hills, and loves listening to Lizzo.”
There’s immediate silence. After a moment someone in the back gives a little snort, clearly trying desperately to not laugh.
“You little shit,” Peter hisses at Stiles, who is still for all the world looking like he’s given a perfectly standard introduction, although the mischievous glint in his eye gives him away to Peter.
Stiles doesn’t seem concerned in the slightest, although the other Alpha looks alarmed at the venom in Peter’s voice. “Ah, thank you both for coming! Shall I show you where you’ll be staying? Please follow me.”
“Actually,” Peter interjects smoothly, trying to take back control of the situation. “If you wouldn’t mind, we’d appreciate taking a look at the problem right away. We may not be able to deal with it immediately, but we might be able to get an idea of the scope of the problem and whether we’ll need to make any preparations.”
“Oh, of course,” the Alpha looks relieved, clearly happy to have some direction and something resembling a normal request. She gestures at them to follow her. Hopefully, they’ll find that it’s a quick and easy thing to deal with, and they’ll be back home this evening.
If he doesn’t strangle Stiles first.
—
Peter snarls as he starts the car and heads out that evening. The whole situation had turned out to be mostly a misunderstanding between the nymphs, some of the local sprites, and a few of the more hardheaded pack members. Having both Peter and Stiles there was ideal, since the situation called for both of their skill sets; everything had gone remarkably smoothly. There was just one problem.
Stiles had hummed Lizzo the entire fucking time.
“What the fuck, Stiles?” he seethes. He’s in that uncomfortable place that Stiles frequently pushes him into, where he genuinely can’t tell whether he’s irritated with Stiles or amused by his antics.
Stiles just shrugs. “That wasn’t what I thought would be my greatest accomplishment this week, but come on, I turned your car on to start the air conditioning and your music just started playing! If you really wanted to hide your taste in music you should be a little more thorough, dude.”
Peter gapes at him. “Stiles, there should be no need for me to be more thorough, because most people do not break into cars, start them, discover the car’s owner’s music, and then make fun of it in front of another werewolf pack.”
“Peter,” he says solemnly. “It is my life’s greatest duty and pleasure to find out everything about you that you try to hide, no matter what the cost,” He grins. “And in this case, it was pretty ridiculous. We could have been listening to your music the whole time! We could be having sing-a-longs during our road trips!” And Stiles was off, lecturing Peter about woodwind instruments and the influence of rap on modern culture and body ambivalence and sexism in the music industry and ten other tangentially related topics.
In the face of Stiles’ obviously genuine enthusiasm, Peter’s feelings tip towards “amused” and he caves immediately when Stiles asks if he can turn on music now.
After watching Stiles belt out one song and dance to another, flailing as enthusiastically as possible while inside a car, Peter can’t hold it back any longer.
“How on earth do you manage to give other people the impression that you’re a powerful, competent magic-wielder, let alone someone a bunch of apex predators should listen to during a crisis?” Peter sounds a little more fondly incredulous and less snarky than he had intended to be.
Stiles just smirks at him, and Peter braces himself for the response.
“Gotta blame it on my juice, baby.”