Work Text:
Setting: Hollywood Boulevard, midday sun beating down, tourists everywhere
Isabelle walked a few steps ahead of Peter, her bare feet padding across the Walk of Fame like she belonged there. Her jeans were cuffed just above her ankles, and the soft plaid flannel hanging open over her black tank top fluttered in the breeze that drifted up the boulevard. Sunglasses perched on her head, she was scanning the names on the stars with childlike delight, pausing every few steps to crouch and squeal over someone she recognized.
Peter followed, hands in the pockets of his dark jeans, wearing a fitted black V-neck that clung too perfectly to his frame and a pair of black aviators that made him look like he belonged in a luxury car commercial. He looked effortlessly smug. LA smug.
He had to admit, he liked how people looked at them. How heads turned when they passed. Though, truth be told, most of them were looking at him.
“Oh my God, is that—” a woman whispered behind them, phone already up.
“No way, that’s Ryan from Yellowstone. He looks just like him—”
“It’s Ian Bohen, I swear! From Teen Wolf!”
Peter smirked, not slowing his pace. Isabelle, of course, hadn’t noticed yet—she was too busy losing her mind over the fact that Julie Andrews' star was missing a chunk of its 'R'.
“Seriously?” she muttered. “They chipped Mary Poppins. That’s a frickin' felony.”
The sound of clicking heels approached rapidly from behind, and then—
“Excuse me!” a tourist, maybe mid-thirties and already flushed from the heat, breathlessly sidled up to Peter. “Are you…? Oh my God, sorry, I just—I love your work. Especially on Mad Men You were so amazing as Roy Hazelitt —seriously, chills!”
Peter blinked behind his sunglasses. Isabelle turned around just in time to see the woman thrust a pen and notepad toward him.
He tilted his head. “You’re sure I’m who you think I am?”
The woman giggled nervously. “Uh, yeah? Ian Bohen, right? I’ve seen every episode of Yellowstone. You’re so good at playing Ryan.”
Isabelle’s jaw dropped. Wait… what?
The woman glanced at Isabelle, then lowered her voice. “Oh! I didn’t mean to interrupt your day with your—” her eyes did a full once-over on Isabelle’s flannel, blonde hair, and bare feet, “—uh, friend. I’m just such a fan.”
Peter turned his head ever so slightly toward Isabelle, one brow cocked, grin forming slowly.
“Oh, no,” Isabelle said, realizing what was happening.
“Yes,” Peter said smoothly, removing his sunglasses and giving the woman that signature Bohen smirk.
She squealed.
“Nope!” Isabelle spun around and walked five steps away, hands in the air. “No no no no no—absolutely not.”
Peter chuckled and signed the notepad, scribbling something unintelligible just to be a menace. “There you go. Thanks for watching.”
The woman fluttered off, texting madly and clutching the autograph like it was sacred.
Isabelle turned back around, mouth open in horror. “You let her think you were Ian Bohen!”
“I didn’t let her, I simply didn’t correct her. Huge difference.” He shrugged and slid his sunglasses back on. “Besides, you've mentioned I have a certain… resemblance.”
“That’s because you do look like him,” she muttered under her breath.
Peter smirked. “What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“Did you just call me your favorite actor?”
“No.”
“Pretty sure you did.”
She walked ahead again, cheeks flushed, refusing to look at him.
Peter kept grinning like a wolf that just stole someone else’s steak.
“Wait,” he said, striding to catch up. “Don’t you have a whole folder on your laptop labeled ‘Ian Bohen Appreciation’?”
Isabelle groaned. “Pe-ter.”
“You have a subfolder titled ‘Arms and Smirk Collection.’”
“I was hormonal and innocent!”
Peter just chuckled.
She glared up at him. “You signed her notepad. She took pictures. She’s going to put that on Instagram. He's going to be tagged.”
“Good,” he said smoothly. “Let the world think Ian Bohen has a girlfriend.”
“Oh my—” she stopped herself, throwing up her hands. “You are insufferable.”
“And yet, here you are. Walking beside me barefoot, blushing over your celebrity crush.”
Isabelle looked down at her toes. “This is a fever dream. I’m going to wake up, overseas, and be sixteen with posters on my wall.”
He leaned close, his voice suddenly low and warm in her ear. “You know, if you really wanted a signed headshot, all you had to do was ask.”
She groaned again. “Thor strike me down…”
He grinned, tugging playfully on her flannel sleeve. “C’mon, little beta. Let’s go find my star. Maybe you’ll get lucky and it’ll say Peter Hale.”
“Oh, bite me.”
“You’d like that.”
Isabelle whirled around and jabbed a finger at him. “You are not allowed to roleplay Ian Bohen, Peter. That is not a kink we are entertaining today.”
Peter merely smirked, voice dropping to a gravel that was definitely too accurate. “You sure, darlin’? ‘Cause you look like a woman who could use some midwest justice.”
Isabelle rolled her eyes as she continued walking.
“RYAN!” someone else shouted from across the boulevard. “We love you!”
Peter gave a lazy wave.
Isabelle turned bright red, then covered her face with both hands and screamed.
Peter kept glancing sideways at her as they walked, the corners of his mouth twitching every time she muttered under her breath.
Isabelle folded her arms tightly across her chest like it might contain the internal screaming. “I cannot believe you. I cannot believe you.”
“You can. You married me.”
“You impersonated my celebrity crush.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t impersonate. I am your celebrity crush.”
“No!” she protested, throwing her arms out wide. “No, you are Peter Hale. You are the man who steals the blankets, threatens heels and leaves hickeys just far enough up that I can’t hide them in tank tops.”
Peter’s grin grew smug. “Still sounds like your crush.”
She glared at him, then paused as her eyes caught something a few feet away—a souvenir shop with a stand full of T-shirts and novelty mugs. Her gaze narrowed.
Peter followed it, already suspicious. “No.”
“Oh yes,” she said, stalking toward the shop.
“Belleza.”
She grabbed a black shirt off the rack and held it up. Bold white letters read: ‘I MET IAN BOHEN IN HOLLYWOOD AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS SHIRT.’
She turned and held it to Peter’s chest. “Put it on.”
“I will set this entire city on fire.”
“Oh, now you’re method acting.”
He snatched the shirt from her, turned, and tossed it casually back onto the rack. “Let’s get lunch before you get more ideas.”
“Too late,” she sing-songed.
Peter shook his head, biting back laughter. “You’re going to torment me with this forever, aren’t you?”
Isabelle beamed, looping her arm through his. “Obviously. I’m married to Ian Bohen.”
He muttered, “I should’ve let that woman think you were a crazed barefoot fan who wandered off a bus tour.”
“Too late. You’re famous now.”
“Gods help me, how did you turn this around on me?"
Isabelle smirked as she flounced down the sidewalk, "I learned from the best, Alpha."