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Stiles twisted his fingers together and pulled his arms up over his head and back, stretching as hard as he could, enjoying the sensation of his muscles extending and pulling. He tilted his torso right and then left, looking out over the small audience that was gathering and the camera woman who was flirting with a guy in the front row. He gazed down the long narrow table at the six spots to his left, taking in the competition that was starting to arrive. Stiles snorted internally at the typical eating competition fare.
Two werewolves about his age were sliding into the second and third seats. They obviously knew each other and didn’t look happy about it. Good, Stiles thought, maybe one or both of them will lose focus because of it—not that Stiles was worried about them. The local taco spot hosting this competition was only offering a $1000 prize—it wasn’t anywhere near enough to get the attention of serious competitive eaters. But it would be enough to pay for a semester of Stiles’ books, maybe even let him get one or two of the books new instead of being stuck with copies used ten times over and full of highlighting and drool (or worse) stains.
Next to Thing 1 and Thing 2, a rotund red-faced and red-bearded man was sitting picking his nose as he played with his phone. He looked human. Clearly the type of guy who just assumed he can eat more than most people and something like this would be an easy thousand bucks. Stiles would be shocked if he came in higher than last. A young brunette woman, definitely a wolf, was stepping up to the first seat down at the other end of the table and Stiles narrowed his eyes, taking her in. She was putting on a show of disinterested boredom, but Stiles could see her eyes casually flitting over the contestants, taking each of them in. He didn’t recognize her, so she hadn’t been to the other local competitions before, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t a threat. Being a werewolf put her at a natural advantage, which Stiles had worked hard to be competitive with (and he maybe also had a bit of a natural skill for eating copious amounts of food much too fast), but he knew that he was going to meet his match one of these days when some werewolf showed up who cared enough to train and put in the work Stiles put in.
The two last competitors slid in to the spots between Stiles and the Viking. The one next to Stiles looked like he hadn’t had a bath or a good meal in weeks. Not exactly tough competition, though the scent of decay floating around him left Stiles wondering if he’d make it through the event without barfing. And next to him, now seated, was a short-haired middle-aged woman talking loudly to the werewolf on her other side, saying something about how she was filling in for her son who had apparently gotten sick at the last minute and since this was a charity event she didn’t want to leave them high and dry. Stiles snorted to himself, thinking of letting her know that they had already paid their admission fee, so it didn’t matter if her son was a no-show. But it made no difference to him—she didn’t have much chance of beating, well, anyone. Except maybe the Viking and Pig Pen.
A woman in a neat, fuschia suit wearing an odd little hat as if this was a church social on Easter Sunday was now fussing around the podium and Stiles pulled out his phone to check the time and make sure the ringer was off. Yep, two minutes til. Hopefully he would be leaving here in half an hour with a nice check in his pocket. When he stuffed his phone back in his pocket and looked up, Dolores Umbridge was tapping on the front of the podium trying to get the attention of the camera woman who was clearly still trying to win over the guy parked in the front row. Stiles snorted as he took in the scene a little more closely. The guy was frankly hot as hellfire, thick broad arms and shoulders leading to an equally thick neck all stuffed into a tight v-neck tee that somehow looked expensive despite its simplicity. His impressive jawline was covered in the perfect amount of stubble and led up to—oh fucking God yes please—steel blue eyes. His denim-clad legs were crossed and he had one elbow propped up on the back of the chair next to him, which was vacant except for someone’s jacket thrown across it. Stiles estimated him to be about 30 and there was no doubt he was a werewolf. Stiles would bet his grimoire that he was an alpha. The camera woman was talking to him animatedly as his cool gaze looked basically through her in the most bored manner Stiles had ever seen, until he spoke a few words to her and nodded behind her at the podium and apparently his little admirer got the hint, as she turned around with startled eyes, and moved toward the stage to talk in hushed tones with good old Dolores.
Stiles couldn’t take his gaze off McDreamy. The man had smirked as the camera woman walked away and reached into his pocket to pull out a phone that was suddenly loudly blaring white rap that did not sound like it could possibly be this guy’s style. He picked up the phone and then stood and turned to face the side, searching and then waving to someone. As he slid his phone into the back pocket of his jeans and Stiles thought how very much he would like to be pressed up against that perfect ass like that phone was, an almost equally hot man with silver at his temples and in his beard approached the alpha and the two embraced warmly. It figured. Of course Big Bad was taken. And by someone actually hot, not a ridiculous college kid who had exactly two skills—sarcasm and eating fast. Not exactly what the typical mature alpha werewolf was looking for.
Just as Stiles was thinking that, he saw that his friend Allison had come in with the Silver Fox and sat down next to him animatedly talking about something. He was waiting to catch her eye to wave at her when Dolores Umbridge tapped on the microphone and feedback screeched over the small crowd. The Silver Fox must be Allison’s dad. Although Stiles remembered Allison saying her mom and dad were still together, so he didn’t think Allison’s dad could be dating the hot alpha. Hmmm….
“Hello? Hel-lo. Can everyone hear me?”
With mumbled assent from the crowd, she launched into her speech welcoming them to the Annual Green Grove Cinco De Mayo Taco Eating Contest Sponsored By Casa de Tacos and Frank’s Gym. As she praised the sponsors and the prior year’s winner, Stiles glanced over the first row and saw Allison waving animated at someone on stage. He bent forward and looked and it was the brunette werewolf at the other end of the table. The two older men with Allison both smiled at the girl, too, but before Stiles could wonder about it, Dolores Umbridge started introducing the contestants, naming him first, requiring him to smile and lift a hand to the crowd in acceptance of the polite smattering of applause. Allison had turned his way and hearing his name, met eyes with him and whistled loudly, then bumped Silver Fox and pointed to Stiles, saying a few words in his ear. The man turned his eyes on Stiles and smiled politely, just as Allison leaned behind him to pull Big Bad closer and whisper in his ear, too. When the alpha’s gaze turned to him, Stiles shivered and felt heat slide down his spine to his groin. Big Bad nodded his head slightly and then turned his gaze onto the other contestants as they each were introduced.
Holy fuck. That stare was something. Something Stiles planned to jerk off to later.
When good old Dolores got to the other end of the table, she named the brunette werewolf as Cora Hale, eliciting another loud whistle from Allison and actual enthusiastic applause from the two men she was with. Then she directed the contestants to put on their cloth bibs and launched into the rules (which were basically non-existent—just don’t interfere with your fellow contestants and no outside substances at the table) as the contestants poured themselves water from the waiting pitchers and a group of teenagers trooped up onto the stage with trays of tacos that they set in front of each contestant.
The contest itself was pretty anti-climactic. They had an eight minute time limit to eat as many tacos as they could and Stiles was too busy inhaling tacos to pay attention to what else was happening. But when the 8 minutes were up, Dolores Umbridge was calling his name and the other competitors were staring at him in surprise, as the crowd worked up a smattering of applause.
By the time he had cleaned up his face and hands and accepted his check, much of the crowd had moved on and Stiles made his way down to say hello to Allison, who was standing around with possibly-her-father, Big Bad and Cora Hale. She smiled brightly as he approached and shouted “Stilinski! That was awesome! My girlfriend can’t believe that one of us lowly little humans beat her!” Her arm was around Cora, who was smiling and seemed entirely unoffended at the tease. They shook hands as Allison introduced her and then turned to introduce the man who was indeed her father and then said, “And this is Cora’s uncle, Peter Hale.”
Stiles turned to the wolf and that penetrating gaze hit him again.
“Stiles, is it?” Peter Hale shook his hand with a grip that exceeded what was polite, but didn’t upset Stiles one little bit. Instead his inconvenient werewolf fetish kicked in as his mind imagined all sorts of scenarios involving him and Peter and alpha strength and he realized he had only heard half of what Peter had said.
“—impressive performance. I wonder how you would fare against an experienced competitor.”
What? What the fuck did that mean?
“Uncle Peter!” Cora punched her uncle in the chest, shoving him back a step. “What are you saying? I don’t count as real competition?”
Peter’s eyes flared as he continued to stare down Stiles. “That’s exactly my point, my dear. You came in easily a close second to Stiles here without any preparation. So it seems clear that if you—or another competitor with similar, shall we say, natural abilities—had trained and prepared, there is little chance that Stiles here could compete.”
Stiles rolled his eyes. “Calm yourself down, PrideWolf. You’re right—I have more than a little practice at this kind of thing, and quite a bit of my own so-called ‘natural ability’ to ravenously devour my prey.” He winked at Peter and felt satisfied when the wolf seemed visibly irritated with his attitude. “Maybe it’s my youthful metabolism. Regardless, I’m pretty sure I’ve got any of these little regional events in the bag.”
Peter’s eyes flared again and Stiles smirked with joy at how easily he’d gotten to the egotistical bastard. Peter’s gaze traced up and down Stiles’ form. “That’s quite a statement for a young human who looks to be all of 147 pounds of pale skin and fragile bones.” He let his teeth extend toward the end of the sentence, meaning every bit of the implied threat.
Stiles was about to blast Peter with some sort of sarcastic and hilarious comeback, but Allison’s dad bumped Peter’s shoulder with a light “Aww, looks like that Hale pride took a tiny hit there, eh?”, clearly trying to defuse the tension, just as Cora laughed and reached for Stiles’ arm, saying he was coming to Allison’s place with them for a celebratory drink. Stiles allowed himself to be tugged away, and tried not to wonder how such a smoking hot wolf could be such a dick. Fuck, now he was thinking about Peter Hale’s dick…
* * *
Peter slid into his designated seat next to a man who seemed to have been lifted straight out of the pie-eating competition story in Stephen King’s “The Body,” and wondered for at least the fifth time exactly what he had been thinking signing up for this ridiculous little burger eating contest. But just then Stiles Stilinski loped up to the table in his ridiculous Marvel t-shirt and red skinny jeans that hugged his lanky legs much too tightly for Peter’s comfort and Peter remembered exactly why he was there. To humiliate that little punk into submission and remind him just what species was king of this jungle.
Stiles was seated on the other side of Lardass Hogan and hadn’t seemed to notice Peter, as he was already talking animatedly to the middle-aged man seated to his right. Not that Peter cared if Stiles noticed him. Thankfully, before he could question the life choices that got him to this point, a ridiculous man in a patchwork jacket stepped in front of the table with a microphone and started attempting to hype up the crowd to just how exciting watching ten people eat as many burgers as they could in ten minutes was going to be.
The competitors all settled in, including Stiles, who straightened up and glanced down the table, eyes widening slightly when he saw Peter. Peter grinned wickedly at the boy, letting his fangs drop just a bit and releasing a bit of eye flare for good measure. He reveled in the way Stiles’ mouth dropped open at the sight and turned to his place setting as a large tray of plain, unfortunately tasteless looking burgers was set in front of him.
What was he doing here? He was a grown man. More than 30 years old. With good looks, a vast fortune and a variety of actually satisfying interests he could be partaking in.
Something tapped his shoulder and he found Stiles tipped back in his chair almost falling over to slip him a scrap of paper like a high school girl in history class.
You don’t have a chance, SnideWolf.
Peter stared unblinking at the note and felt his shoulders tensing up and his gut heating with ire. This kid was unbelievable. And Peter was going to take him down.
Then an annoying fire alarm style bell rang and Peter attacked the burgers, happily aware in his peripheral vision that neither of the competitors on either side of him were moving through their trays as quickly. He smirked internally even as he shoved an entire burger in his mouth and took two swift token bites before swallowing it down and reaching to his mouth with another. When the ending bell rang, Peter sat back in satisfaction. He stared steadily forward, refusing to turn his head Stiles’ direction and give the young man even the slightest sense that Peter might be concerned the human could have beaten him. He simply kept his eyes on the host’s quilted monstrosity of a coat as he narrated for the crowd the judges moving down the table to take count of how many burgers each contestant had remaining.
“Well, ladies and gentlemen, it appears it was a very close contest, but we do have a clear winner. While Mr. Peter Hale, seated in spot #2 here,” he gestured to Peter and Peter nodded in acknowledgment, “came in a very close second, with only one and a half fewer burgers eaten—”
Peter felt his skin flushing with heat and closed his eyes to keep them from flaring red.
“—he could not match contestant #4, Stiles Stilinski!” the host crowed and Peter opened his eyes to see the man reaching over the table to his right to shake Stiles’ hand and deliver an envelope that Stiles took with a grin and an awkward half-seated bow to the audience, which, while small, was hooting and hollering with an entirely unjustified amount of enthusiasm.
Peter seethed in his seat until the host finally finished up his exhortation that the crowd should not forget to stop by the Beacon Hills Diner to pick up some of the same burgers eaten in the contest and support them for sponsoring the event and he could finally rise and attempt to slip out and forget this humiliation had ever happened, when his niece suddenly appeared and slapped him on the back.
“Oh my god, Uncle Peter! I can’t believe you decided to try to challenge Stiles’ bottomless stomach!” She gave him a tight half hug and then drew her girlfriend in next to her with a quiet, “You remember Allison, right?”
Peter nodded to Allison, who was smiling pleasantly, and he tried to get a grip on his temper. He really didn’t want Christopher calling him later to ask why Peter had flashed his alpha eyes at his daughter. But then Stiles bounced into the group with two young wolves, who Cora introduced as Erica and Boyd, and they were all congratulating him on his win and asking him about his methods.
“I will never divulge my secrets,” Stiles said smugly. “You wolves,” he preened, with a challenging look over to Peter, “simply have to stop underestimating humans. Our pale skin and fragile bones are often concealing hidden talents.”
Peter met Stiles’ smirk with a slight nod, acknowledging the dig and reference to their first meeting. “So it appears, Mr. Stilinksi. So it appears.” He could afford to be the bigger man. This time. He was finding it hard not to begin to respect Stiles’ pluck. And that soft, pale neck of his…
Peter shook himself. No. That was enough of that. He was the alpha. And he was not going to let this punk outwolf a Hale.
* * *
He knew it. He knew Peter Hale would be here. What an asshole.
Stiles walked right up the wolf in his ridiculous fancy slacks and sweater—what even was that fabric that kind of shimmered in the late afternoon sun and hung off the guy’s ass cheeks like they were mini hot air balloons? “Well, if it isn’t Satan in a v-neck. What happened? Did you get sued for stomping on some other kid’s dreams and now you’re desperate for money? I think you better start looking somewhere else—the $500 prize from this probably wouldn’t even pay for a single one of the tires on that ridiculous fancy sports car of yours.” He grinned widely, trying to seem cocky, even while he wondered what the fuck he had mentioned Peter’s car for—he didn’t need Peter to know he had noticed his car at the burger competition. His unbelievably rare Shelby Cobra. That Stiles couldn’t even afford to touch.
Peter had turned to Stiles and was giving him an odd look. As if something Stiles said had startled him, but it was quickly replaced by a lazy smirk. “Well, Stiles,” he said with a soft drawl that Stiles tried desperately hard not to find sexy. “Fancy meeting you here. Are you following me?”
Stiles’ face heated up and he looked around, noticing the typical small crowd gathering and the handful of other eaters idling about the long table to either side of he and Peter. No one seemed to notice them, but Stiles felt the blush of embarrassment that was pinking his cheeks and struggled to tamp it down. “As if. We both know you’re the one coming to every one of these I’m at. I don’t know what your deal is—taking some kind of weird wolfy vendetta against humans out on me or something.”
To Stiles’ chagrin, Peter just chuckled. “I’m a werewolf, Stiles. Not a Bond villain.”
Stiles smiled at the reference in spite of himself. “Hmm. Well, it’s true that you have not yet pontificated about your nefarious plot to bring about the fall of my empire via hidden real estate acquisitions.” He couldn’t help but preen as Peter’s smirk shifted into a bit more natural smile as Stiles joked. “But you do drive a ridiculously expensive sports car.” He put his hand to his chin as if contemplating Peter more seriously. “Where do you live?”
Peter narrowed his eyes a bit and leaned toward Stiles, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “In an underground network of caves deep in the woods.”
Stiles barked a laugh, feeling his body relax, as he let himself slide into the seat next to Peter. “Isn’t that a bit more Batman than Blofeld?”
“Perhaps.” Peter shrugged. “I am a wealthy orphan after all.”
Something about that made Stiles sad and he was saved from figuring out if he should say something sympathetic or breeze past it by the emcee rapping his knuckles into the microphone.
A waitress in the sponsor restaurant’s standard short shorts and bust-hugging crop top moved behind them, setting trays of wings in front of each competitor and Stiles tried to forget about Peter’s brawny presence next to him and focus on the win. The prize for this one was small, but Stiles really needed it. His jeep had sprung a radiator leak earlier that week and it would take about 8 shifts at his bookstore job before he could afford to repair it and get back to work delivering pizza. So he closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and focused on his technique. Stiles was a major league eater, but had never done wings in competition before, so he had studied up and prepped his plan—typewriter style for the drummies and wishboning for the paddles. He figured he could finish the wings off in about 4 seconds per, so this one would go fast—the winner was whoever finished 50 wings first.
He was ready.
The host shouted “Go!” and Stiles grabbed a wing.
It was an absolute blur and half of his face and both hands were slathered in sauce when he was reaching for the last wing and a loud buzzer went off making his heart jump. He looked rather wildly about until he realized the emcee was shouting, “We have a winner!” and standing directly in front of Stiles gesturing at Peter.
Stiles stared blankly at the alpha, who was leaning back in his chair, casually wiping his fingers off on the wet towel that had been provided for each contestant. He was definitely not looking at Stiles. But Stiles could not stop staring at him. Peter’s tray was indeed empty, the other filled with bones incredibly clean of meat.
Stiles thought he should have admired it. No matter what a dick Peter was, he almost certainly had not prepared at all for this. And while Peter was a wolf, Stiles was fucking amazing at speed eating. Not just for a human. For anyone. But all Stiles could think about was his jeep. His stomach sank. How in the world he was going to continue begging rides from everyone he knew for who knew how much longer now? Not to mention just not being able to do his delivery job and all the money he would lose from that. And meanwhile keeping up on his classes and not being so fucking tired and cranky that he strangled Scott’s selfish little face when he would next get around to calling Stiles just to harangue him with the Kira-related-problem-of-the-week.
The host was still talking—something about the restaurant’s specials for the next month—and Peter had turned and was looking at Stiles with a cocky, self-satisfied smirk, and Stiles wanted to say something sarcastic and clever, but he felt bile in the back of his throat and 47 wings’ worth of chicken meat threatened to make a reappearance. And he absolutely could not handle vomiting in front of Peter. So Stiles ran.
* * *
Peter wasn’t very well acquainted with shame. Or guilt. But he was fairly certain they explained the nauseated sensation he had been feeling the last two weeks and the itchy chill that periodically ran down his spine leaving him so restless he had spent the last several nights pacing back and forth instead of sleeping in his insanely comfortable Kluft mattress.
Admittedly, he had been a bit confounded by Stiles’ abrupt exit at the wing contest. The younger man hadn’t appeared angry. In fact, he’d looked rather green about the gills and Peter blamed the rude departure on the more than obvious fact that humans were not meant to eat nearly five pounds of meat in less than five minutes. That’s what Peter thought while he collected the check for his winnings. That’s what he thought while he drove home and cooked his risotto dinner. That’s what he thought while he ruminated over how disappointing it had been not to really get to enjoy having made his point to Stiles—to needle him about how easily a werewolf had beaten him at his own game. That’s what he thought while he wondered when he would get to see Stiles again, and idly googled upcoming food competitions.
That’s what he thought right up until the next morning when Cora woke him up by banging ruthlessly on his door until it seemed she might rip it off its hinges.
“What the fuck, Uncle Peter!” she railed at him when he threw open the door. “Why would you do that? Stiles didn’t do a fucking thing to you! Unless you count sarcasm as a slight, which would be more than a little hypocritical coming from you. And frankly, that’s something I never thought you were, even if you are an egotistical dickwad.”
It turned out Cora had just been warming up. After she shoved her way inside, she had really let him have it. She ranted about how hard Stiles worked at his two jobs, on top of a full load at college and taking care of his single, possibly depressed or borderline alcoholic father. She had a thousand stories from Allison apparently about how Stiles was the most incredible person and deserving of a much easier life than the one he had. She told him about how Stiles had let his own family life and grades suffer in high school to help take care of his best friend who had suddenly been turned. Stiles had apparently filled the role of an alpha for Scott, researching day and night in order to teach him everything someone could imagine needing to know about being a werewolf. According to Allison, Stiles singlehandedly kept Scott safe and sane through his first full moons and helped not only him but their other friends, including Allison, survive multiple supernatural threats they were utterly unprepared to deal with. And after Cora had apparently lectured Peter enough about how smart and loyal Stiles was—how he deserved so much better than the difficult circumstances he was managing to deal with—she wrapped up with explaining to Peter how much Stiles had needed that money. To pay for tuition. And books. And for his old broken-down jeep. A jeep that Stiles apparently treasured because it had belonged to his mother, who had been driven mad and killed by a devastating disease when Stiles was a child.
Peter had been thinking of nothing but Stiles ever since.
Well, Stiles and what an ass Peter had been.
And why? Because something about a human defeating his werewolf niece at an absolutely insignificant eating competition had—what? Wounded Peter’s weak, overly sensitive, delicate little alpha pride? Cora hadn’t cared about losing. Peter had just been a bigoted ass.
After days of ruminating, he still wasn’t sure what he wanted to do. He wanted to strip and run in the woods and howl in frustration. He wanted to pick up the phone and call Stiles to apologize or forward his winnings on to the younger man, but he knew that would not be welcome. So instead he just kept wishing that he could go back in time and never have gone to any of these ridiculous food competitions.
* * *
“$25,000, Cora!” Stiles said excitedly into the phone. “Come on! Half of that would pay my rent and books for a whole year!”
“Stiles, I want to help, but Allison’s dissertation presentation is that week. I have to go out to Chicago. And besides, this one isn’t like Cinco de Mayo. There are gonna be real professional eaters there—I’m not good enough to back you up on this. You need to ask someone with experience. Or at least a lot more natural skill than just me. I just did that taco thing on a lark figuring being a wolf would be enough.”
“I know,” Stiles sighed. “But all the regionals who are really good at this kind of thing are wolves and they will never pair up with me.”
“Well,” Cora said, pausing with a sort of odd, considering tone, “I might know someone.”
“Fuck, yeah!” Stiles shouted excitedly. “Tell me—I’ll call them right away. I will totally split the winnings right down the middle with them if we win and I’ll do your dishes for two weeks!”
Cora laughed. “Well, don’t make any promises before you’ve heard who it is.”
“It could be the devil himself if he can eat a fuck ton of donuts at warp speed.”
“You should ask Peter,” Cora said.
Stiles thought he could hear a record screech into dead silence. Peter? Peter?! The asshole who has been following Stiles around from event to event just to beat the little human who presumed to compete with his niece?
“What the fuck, Cora!”
He heard Cora sigh. “Hear me out, Stiles. He can help you win. He’s an alpha. He’s strong. He’s a born competitor—there’s pretty much nothing he loves more than challenging someone and winning. And he’s good. He beat you with no training at all. If you give him a few tips and he has time to research and train, do you really think anyone else you can find will be better than him?”
Stiles’ shoulders were tight and he was half tempted to hang up on her. But it wasn’t her fault her uncle was a bloated bag of dicks. In a superhot package. With kind of an awesome sense of humor. “Well, it might be a great idea if I thought I could keep from throwing up while sitting next to the skeevy nimrod.”
There was silence for a minute and Stiles was about to apologize, thinking he had insulted Peter to Cora one too many times, when she started chuckling. “He really is skeevy sometimes.”
Stiles sniggered in relief and said, “It doesn’t matter anyway. You know how he feels about us weak little humans. There’s no way he’d do it even if I asked.”
“I think you’d be surprised,” Cora said. “He feels really bad about how he’s been acting.”
Stiles snorted in disbelief. “Yeah, right. I’m sure it’s tearing him up while he sits back in his jacuzzi in the evening drinking the blood of his enemies.”
“We’re werewolves, Stiles. Not vampires.”
“It’s—a metaphor. Or a figure of speech. Whatever. The point is, I don’t think he’s losing sleep over me.”
“Still,” Cora said, “he does owe you one, whether he knows it or not. So you should give him a chance to repay you.”
Cora had him there. And really she’d had him from the beginning of the conversation. He didn’t have any other ideas. Cora was pretty much the only wolf he was friends with who was in town. Scott lived halfway across the state and even if he agreed to come, Stiles knew he couldn’t count on him. Plus he wasn’t exactly at the same level as other alphas. Competitiveness wasn’t exactly his thing. Everyone else lived even farther away and Stiles couldn’t really expect them to drop everything to train and come all the way out to California for the Winchell’s 75th anniversary donut eating competition.
“Fine. Give me his number.”
“Great! And just—just give him a chance, okay? I know he’s been kind of a hosebeast to you, but honestly you just have to get to know him. If he hadn’t been so weird that day at the taco festival when we met, I totally would have thought we should all go hang out after because you guys would have hit it off. I mean, he has the same sarcastic humor as you. And he’s the only other person who knows pretty much a little bit about everything. Which isn’t counting the things you each know a heck of a lot more than a little bit about.”
Stiles made a sound he hoped didn’t sound as dismissive to Cora as it did to him.
“I’m just saying—Uncle Peter—he’s actually really solid. I mean, he’s the one person I know would literally walk into fire to save someone he cared about.” Her voice lowered a bit. “Because he has.”
“What?” Stiles blurted, sitting upright now.
“Just…when I was ten, there was a fire at the house. It’s how Derek and my parents died. Uncle Peter was out and he got home before the fire trucks arrived and he saved me. And Derek. And he went back in after our parents, but it was too late. He barely got out alive, and he was burned all over—it was so bad it took him ages to heal.”
“Holy shit,” Stiles whispered.
“Yeah.”
They just breathed together on the phone for a minute and Stiles tried to imagine what it would be like to run into a burning building—to feel his own skin blister and peel and burn.
Eventually Cora said, “He wasn’t right for a long time after. All he could think about for years was how he failed to save them.”
Like I couldn’t help my mom, Stiles thought. “I’m glad he saved you and Derek.”
“Yeah,” Cora said, her voice a little stronger and more natural again. “And my whole life I’ve known that even after everything he went through, he’d do that again if he had to. To save me. Or Derek. Or someone else he loves.” She paused and Stiles tried to stop thinking about Peter’s flesh burning and about his own mom losing herself in front of his eyes and being so helpless and unable to help her. “He doesn’t ever talk about it, though, so don’t say anything.”
“No, yeah, of course. I wouldn’t,” Stiles said firmly.
“Just—appeal to his guilt. Or his ego. Either one should work.”
* * *
In the end Stiles hadn’t needed to appeal to Peter’s anything. Peter had obviously been surprised when he called, but the rest of the call was rather perfunctory and strangely polite. And Peter had agreed immediately, only asking Stiles for the details of the event. He even offered to meet up with Stiles to talk strategy and told Stiles he would set up a training schedule for himself in the meantime. Stiles had nearly given the phone a double-take when he hung up.
Then Peter had indeed met Stiles at the diner at the shitty-ass time of 5:30 a.m. that was the only time Stiles could figure out how to make work. Before coffee was even ordered Peter had apologized to Stiles for treating him so rudely and for his prejudice. Then the guy had picked up the tab from the preposterously large breakfast of pancakes and french toast that Stiles had inhaled after missing dinner the night before. Stiles had felt a little bit like they were on a date with how respectful and courteous Peter had been, although it would have been a pretty weird date given that they spent the whole thing talking about what they had each researched about donut-cramming techniques.
By the time Peter was driving them to Temple City two weeks later for the competition, Stiles had nearly forgotten what an asshole Peter had been previously. Or, if not forgotten, definitely forgiven.
Now they were sitting across from each other, a comically huge platter of glazed donuts between them, at one end of a long table with 7 other teams. Until now, Stiles had only competed in minor local or regional competitions with small prizes. This thing was a whole different ballgame. Their table was only one of five tables. So there were 40 pairs competing. 39 teams they would have to beat. As soon as they had walked in and seen the setup, Stiles had felt his stomach sink and knew there was no way he was going to get that prize money. He felt a bit like a fool for having thought he could really have a shot, but he was tired and the thought of dropping one of his jobs had run away with him a little bit.
“Stiles.” Peter’s voice came low over the table and Stiles looked up. “We’re here. And we’re ready. Some of them are good, but don’t forget that we’re naturals. And I hate to lose.” He winked, and Stiles snorted. “So get your head in the game ‘cuz I want my half of that twenty-five grand.”
“Whatcha gonna do with your half?” Stiles sassed. “Pay for a special massage and waxing for your precious Cobra?”
“You’re awfully interested in my car, Stiles,” Peter practically purred. “I tell you what. If we win this, I’ll take you out—chauffeur you anywhere you want to go in my baby. And I’ll even let you drive her if you want.”
The loudspeaker music suddenly turned down and a man stepped up to a podium on a small stage at the head of the lined up tables, while Stiles wondered if Peter had just asked him out. But there was no time to wonder—the announcer wasted no time in reciting the rules for the event and then they were off and Stiles couldn’t think about Peter or his broad shoulders and tight v-neck or even if Peter was eating donuts fast enough. All he could do was grab donuts, dunk, cram, swallow and repeat. He barely chewed and barely looked at anything but his own hands grabbing from the pile of donuts and then their first tray was empty and the second tray came and he knew they were halfway through but had no idea how any other teams were doing. It was so fucking fast and he just wanted to win and to win something that really mattered and could really make difference for a change and then suddenly he reached out and there were no donuts there and a loud alarm bell rang out and he slumped back in his chair and closed his eyes.
Fuck. They had been so close. They had nearly won. Their tray was empty.
“Stiles.”
Their tray was empty. Their tray was empty right before the bell rang.
“Stiles.”
Not after the bell.
“Stiles.”
Before the bell. He opened his eyes and Peter was leaning across the table with a huge grin on his face.
“We won,” Stiles whispered, and Peter nodded.
* * *
When they were finally released—after publicity photos and comments and way too much standing around in between for Stiles’ taste—Peter drove him home.
Stiles sat in the passenger seat of Peter’s Cobra thinking about how they had actually won. How he really would be able to quit his job. And how pretty fucking fantastic Peter had been. He wished he could think of some reason to have to stay in touch. What a ridiculous change—from being irritated at the sight of the man to wishing for more.
About halfway home, when Peter innocently asked Stiles about his plans for the money, the adrenaline must have kicked in or his nerves released or some shit because Stiles started rambling about how he was going to quit one of his jobs and would have maybe a couple of evenings a week all to himself, not to mention getting more sleep, and that he had huge plans to catch up on all the shows he had been missing out on starting with immediately binge-watching Ted Lasso and then Succession and how maybe he would even hire a cleaning crew for his dad’s house, not all the time, but just maybe once every couple of months, and how he would really have time to start thinking about a dissertation topic for next year and then suddenly they were pulling up next to his jeep in front of his apartment.
Stiles closed his mouth and looked at Peter.
“Hey CreeperWolf.”
Peter raised one eyebrow. But he didn’t look displeased.
“Thanks.”
“You are more than welcome, Stiles.”
Then Peter was out of the car and Stiles fumbled with his seatbelt, getting it off just in time for Peter to open his door and offer Stiles his hand.
The alpha actually walked him to his door and Stiles thought he could feel the ghost of Peter’s hand at the small of his back.
At the door he turned and said archly to Peter, “Is this a date?”
Peter chuckled and stepped into Stiles’ space until there was barely an inch between them and Stiles could feel the heat of Peter’s body and the warmth of his breath. “If it were, would you let me kiss you goodnight?”
Stiles couldn’t take his eyes off of Peter’s. He absolutely refused to look at Peter’s lips. He felt his head bobble, not sure if he nodded or shook his head to Peter’s question. Stiles’ body was flushed and he wanted that kiss desperately. But he was too nervous—it was too soon—the day had been too much and—
Peter was stepping back. Not far. But enough that Stiles blinked and felt his head clear a little.
“No. This was not a date. But I do like you, Stiles. Perfect combinations are rare in an imperfect world. And I’d like to find out if we might come close. So when you do have one of those newly freed evenings, I hope you will allow me to take you out.”
Wait, what? Really? Stiles almost spluttered. But instead he swallowed and took a breath and, more carefully this time, nodded his head. “Um yeah—yes. I would—that would be great.” It was almost like a composed adult response.
“Excellent.” Peter smiled and reached for Stiles’ hand, taking it in his and pulling it up to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles while never dropping eye contact. It was the sexiest fucking thing that had ever happened to Stiles and he hoped to fucking god that Peter couldn’t smell how aroused he had gotten from that one small gesture. Holy shit. This was going to be good.