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It’s a simple job for Peter Hale, really. Kidnap the halfling twit who is sleeping with Christopher Argent, a member of the hunter clan foolishly scheming to take territory claimed by his pack. If the Argents understood anything about blood ties and ley lines, they wouldn’t dare upset the sacred balance. 

At the very least, the Argents shouldn’t have taken such a human approach, such as the cuntress baiting his barely legal nephew after the Argent elder viciously mutilated an Alpha leader like Deucalion. Deucalion was well regarded by old families and new money for his assertive role in stopping bloody all-out feuds. Averting World War Woof, aptly (and adorably) spoken by his dear niece.

Peter carries an ingrained mistrust and watchful disdain towards humanity which makes him perfect for the task of abduction. Talia would take the boy home, quite overcome by her strong sense of hospitality; Peter would simply take him. 

The halfling twit, in fae fashion, has an unintelligible name. He bumbles through the mortal realm with hollow bones and shabby clothes. Peter, knowing what to look for, doesn’t miss the revelry in the halfling’s movements. It’s a play act for the plaid clad buffoon, with untied shoe laces, who catches himself before the fracture by fair fortune; tilts his delicate face before the head injury like happenstance. 

Peter, as a full-blooded wolf in a business suit tailored for human greed, is nearly sympathetic to the halfling. The boy is restless among people but he would not survive one dance in the twilight amongst his own fair kindred.

It’s the heart in his eyes. Intelligence and sharp wit, yet irredeemably tainted by mortal blood. The fear of death to the flesh. The lowest common marker for prey. 

Peter is very matter of business when he waylays the halfling twit, leaving out of the gay club. Bartending is the boy’s profession. Not a bad job when humanity’s a shitshow to behold. 

The ease with which he frightens the boy causes Peter’s internal regard for Christopher Argent to lower in esteem. Chris’ choice of lover is at odds with Peter’s expectations toward a so-called honorable hunter. Peter does not respect a man who satisfies himself on weak prey while lacking the foresight to protect his interests. 

Peter stalks closer, outside the bounds of surveillance, once the halfling’s work friends singsong their chorus of farewells: “G’night Stiles!! Bye bitch!”

Stiles’ narrow slutty hips are on beat, but his peppy voice is, alas, off key as he sings along to the pop bop drag show dance number signaling the end of shift for him. “... Daisy Dukes, bikinis on top!” He’s dressed in tight jeans, a bubblegum pink shirt, and a tiny black waistcoat. 

Peter almost regrets cutting in. 

“Get in the car! Get back in the car, now!!” Peter says in his strategically scripted bad guy voice, with a casual shove that sends Stiles into panicky flailing upon the passenger seat of his clunky blue Jeep. A real push would break Stiles, most definitely. From time to time, Peter occasionally hired an acting coach to portray emotions that are realistic and normal to have. 

Pity that a ski mask was necessary for the job. Peter’s face card surpassed all levels of clearance. 

“Oh my God! Here, just take my wallet. That's all I got!” yelps Stiles. His soft, trembling hands are upraised in a demure fashion. Then he screams and it is neither demure nor modest. “Halp! Somebody halp! Call 911!”

Peter leaps into action; he aggressively takes the wheel. “Shut the fuck up and–” Crinkle. Smoosh. Crunch?

“What the hell.” Peter’s tone lightens when the soles of his Italian loafers sink into a plush layer of sandwich wrappers, chip bags, and wads of grease-stained napkins. A depressing cloud of old grease assails his keenly supreme senses when he kicks a soda can off of the gas pedal. The chemical sweetener from the sticky liquid spilling out of the carelessly discarded can makes Peter swallow back disgust. 

Stiles’ frightened expression turns somewhat abashed. 

“Jesus. What the fucking hell, is this shit?” growls Peter. “I don’t like whatever’s wrong with you. Do you have kids?” Peter knows that Stiles does not have children, but the question is very much called for.

Stiles flutters his lashes with doe eyes. He jerkily shakes his head. “N-no.”

“See that you don’t,” advises Peter menacingly. “This feels illegal. You drive like this?” He crushes the soda can underfoot, quite unintentionally. It’s sticking to his beautiful sole. 

Stiles’ brow raises. He sticks his hands beneath the undersides of his slim thighs. With a helpless shrug and a little pout, he says, “I’m just a fairy.”

“Stay here,” commands Peter. Quick as lightning, his brows gathered like thunder cloud, he zip ties Stiles’ wrists together with St. John’s wort and bundled sticks of ash thorn and oak. Talia’s druid minion prepared these charms for Peter. 

“Hey, so this is overkill,” mutters Stiles. His elbows and knuckles circle about, but he cannot escape the binding. Stiles’ feigned helplessness becomes less so. “Who are you? How do you know about me?!!”

“Shut up, Stiles. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.” Peter pulls off his ski mask and begins shoving trash and recycling into the bulging fabric. A heavily gnawed red straw pokes out of a warped cut-out hole. 

“Oh wow, hi?” says Stiles when he gets his first look at Peter’s comely visage, undeservedly so. 

“As if. You are a dirty little boy. For shame,” says Peter, incensed. He would sooner accept admiration from three possums in a trench coat. 

Peter turns his back on Stiles’ bright wide-eyed blank stare. 

Peter, unable to avail himself of a trash bag, gloves up for different reasons than he expected tonight, and he drags the nearest commercial dumpster to the Jeep. The little rusty wheels screech but Peter is nettled by every offended sensibility that was trained into him as a result of his proper upbringing. Godliness was certainly cleanliness. 

He pitches an astonishing quantity of refuse and rubbish into the dumpster. His nose itches and he sneezes when the clean-up stirs up a dusty cloud of powdered sugar. (“Fuck me!”) He tosses the trash with as much physical distance as was possible between himself and the flies buzzing around the trash bags. In his wrath, Peter snaps the Jeep’s AUX cable entangled with straws, napkins, and empty condiments packets. 

He would be damned if he rolled up to their ancestral manor with Stiles in the Trash Jeep. 

Peter huffs in annoyance, which briefly lifts the silken light brown strands of his tragically unkempt coiffure. Normally, Peter enjoys how his perfectly salted & peppered hair conforms to the style which flatters his extremely agreeable features. 

Instead, he must conform to Stiles’ mess. 

Peter disposes of the gloves and returns to the driver’s seat. Though the front floor mat is graphically stained in a grim, trodden down testament to Stiles’ dysfunction, Peter’s loafer rests with retired dignity upon direct contact with the pedal, only a little stickiness. 

He will need to patronize a professional cobbler in the near (cleaner, brighter) future. 

Stiles gazes around the Jeep as though it were his first time viewing the interior.

“Yaaaay, it’s so clean~!” Stiles manages a petite little clap and an excited body shimmy despite the charmed zip ties.

Peter glares daggers at the halfling twit. Iron daggers. 

Stiles wordlessly shrinks back and schools his face to contrition. 

Peter turns the key in the ignition. The engine fails to turn over after much ado with obscene clicking, sputtering, and grinding. His teeth begin to elongate into fangs but he pulls them back like a gentleman. 

“What is up with your engine, buddy?” Peter’s handsome countenance remains firmly handsome, no wolfy shifting, although he adopts an expression of mounting horror. “Don’t tell me you throw your trash under the hood, too!”

“No, ew. That would be littering,” says Stiles. He has zero grounds to look as miffed as Peter feels. 

The absent stench of burning garbage supports Stiles’ denials of trashing his engine, in a literal sense.

In the proverbial sense, however…

“When was the last time you changed your oil?” demands Peter. 

“You don’t usually hear it this bad. I’m usually playing my jams,” says Stiles. 

“Shut up and answer the question. Did you skip your last oil change?” Peter opens the glove compartment. His forearm rests on Stiles’ jittery knee. He’s momentarily distracted by their touching. “Stop that.” 

“Well, uhhh, I guess the last time it was in the shop was when my mom had it last,” answers Stiles, blinking fast. 

Peter locates a mini notebook wedged into the car manual. He shoves aside a pink screwdriver and a nearly used up roll of glow-in-the-dark duct tape. The previous service date written in feminine handwritten script was either ‘99 or worse yet, going further back into ‘94. 

“Your mother took this godforsaken vehicle in from back in the 90s? How the hell did it run this long without dying?!”

“Pfffft, well, I’m fae through my mom’s side. Probably magic, I’d say,” says Stiles. 

The slow measure of Stiles’ tone, as well as the heavy scent wafting off of him, informs Peter that his mom is not on earth anymore. Maybe in a realm even more unreachable than Faerie. 

“What are we going to do?” asks Stiles in smol voice. “Are you still taking me or not?”

“You act like this is your first kidnapping. Like it or not, you’re coming with me,” declares Peter.

“Oh, well, that tracks. At least I kinda get what to expect,” says Stiles. “Believe it or not, no one’s tried to steal me before.” 

Peter, discomfited by how assured his kidnapping victim sounds, flicks Stiles’ pert nose. “No one anticipates a hostage situation.” 

“Eep! Is this not your first kidnapping?” asks Stiles. 

“No.”

“Oh. Hn.” Stiles’ face is crestfallen.

“It’s the most botched job I’ve ever had the misfortune of arranging,” says Peter quickly, oddly compelled by Stiles’ hurt feelings. 

“That’s on you, innit?” chirps Stiles, brightening considerably.  

Peter has no choice but to call in a favor. A tow truck brings them to a criminally efficient chop shop. Their only other option would’ve been to wait until morning for a respectable auto repair garage to open. 

“Big fuggin’ job. I’ve seen some shit run on sawdust but I ain’t ever seent a dry engine make it this far, no smoke…” After much head scratching and wrench swinging, Vinny is able to force the starter, but only when Stiles awkwardly jabs a pink screwdriver into the ignition. It’s almost cute how Stiles attempts to twerk an actual tool.  

The tell-tale Spark of power and a nearly imperceptible sweet scent makes itself known to Peter’s exquisite perception when an enchanted item activates the underwhelming magical Jeep. 

“What? It’s running, isn’t it?” says Stiles, nonplussed when he clocks Peter’s deep but manly frown. 

“I don’t like magic,” says Peter. 

“That’ll be two grand, Jefe.” Vinny is actually cutting Peter a deal and doing a huge solid by getting them done before sun up.

“I don’t have that kind of money,” says Stiles. 

“We could work something out. How old are you?” says Vinny, eyeing him up and down. 

“Go sit in the car, you.” Peter recovers from a slight hitch when he speaks. He doesn’t want Vinny to have any information on Stiles, not even a pseudo. Nor does he want Vinny dead by his own claws. 

And it’s to cover his sister’s ass. Family protocol of discretion around human kind. Not out of any undue concern for the captive motherless fool. 

Peter lunges into the driver’s seat and turns the pink screwdriver with more torque than necessary. 

“Finally, Christ,” sighs Peter, in relief. Giant problem taken care of, at least until Peter casts a weary eye over Stiles’ displeased pout when he steers them out of a junkyard located at an undisclosed address. Stiles’ lip juts out when he makes eye contact. 

“What is it, now?” asks Peter. He checks the speedometer, pleasantly surprised that their rate of speed accurately displays the speed at which he is driving Stiles’ accursed Trash Jeep. Stiles suffers from many ongoing issues, but Peter’s exceptional navigation is not one of them. 

“Nothing,” says Stiles, crossing his arms. 

“What is it?”

“Nothing, really. You wouldn’t care,” drawls Stiles. 

“Just tell me what it is,” says Peter. “I detailed your Jeep. I solved the issue of no engine. This only works if you communicate. With me, Stiles.”

Stiles modestly ducks his head. Stiles has a very shapely profile, made apparent by the extremely short cut of his dark hair. His lashes are penciled and striking against his pale cheek. 

“I’m hungry. Getting to hangry, even.”

“What do you mean that you’re hungry?” says Peter. 

“I said what I said. I’m very hungry,” Stiles informs Peter sternly. 

“You have a granola bar in your glove box. You could eat that,” says Peter. 

“That’s emergency granola for when the Jeep breaks down. And hello? We’re still on the road. I want In N Out Burger,” says Stiles. “They make their fries from fresh taters.”

Peter finds himself unwilling to make yet another unplanned stop for Stiles’ sake. His entire day and night have been all about Stiles. And while Stiles doesn’t have kids, he does have a boyfriend, albeit a boyfriend who Peter no longer respects. 

What kind of man didn’t take care of his boy toy’s car troubles? What sort of scoundrel who sees the mess in Stiles’ car wouldn’t stage a gentle intervention? What kind of inattentive partner wouldn’t fill his lover’s tank when it was running on empty…?

“Fuck me, you’re almost out of gas,” says Peter when he notices the needlepoint dipping past the E. He almost bends the steering wheel from the annoyance surging throughout his body. 

“I know a good rest stop. And there’s a burger place directly across,” Stiles suggests coyly.

“No.”  What about what Peter wants, hm?

“Pwease?” begs Stiles. “I’m just not very good at this kidnapper role and I’m not going to improve if I’m starvinggg.”

“Firstly, I’m the kidnapper. I’m tired of you undermining my position of power. We’re stopping for gas,” Peter maintains. “Nobody should be eating in this Jeep. For my health, your health. It’s a biohazard.”

“Pwease, pwetty pwease?” Stiles’ eyes get all misty. “Don’t you want to buy a burger fresh off the grill?”

“Pardon me, I’m seriously buying again?” says Peter. 

Peter parks the Jeep before he gives Stiles cash to run in and give the cashier their pump number. He’s not so ignorantly pampered as to run a highly traceable credit card. Not to mention, the problem of card skimmers planted by thieves in a bid for highway robbery. 

Good thing for Christopher that the Argents own massive reserves of silver bullion. Stiles is not a cheap date. 

One can pay to fill up Stiles, but one cannot pay enough for Stiles to pump his own gas. 

“My dad does it for me,” insists Stiles. “Who knows what a little fairy Spark around potentially explosive fumes might do?”

Peter’s teeth grind, a muscular tic briefly compromising his charismatic, winsome jawline.

After getting gas, Peter takes them to the drive-thru only burger joint. He longs for his personal luxury vehicle and a gourmet reservation (for one, with bottle service) when the Jeep coughs and shakily careens over a speed bump. 

“Hi. I would like to order a hot coffee, grilled chicken sandwich, and vegetable medley on the side,” requests Peter in a mannerly fashion. Peter can feel Stiles' feral hungry gaze burning a hole through his magnificently formed skull. 

“May I please also have a medium done cheeseburger with all toppings, a large order of fries with extra seasoning, and ketchup on the side?”

Stiles noisily clears his throat and then expels a melodramatic wheezing noise.

“.... And a large blue raspberry slushie?” concludes Peter, reluctantly, to slake Stiles’ unnatural thirst for highly processed beverages. 

“Sure thing, hon.” The food service worker repeats their order. 

“Make it a large drink. Blue,” repeats Stiles. He drums on the dash emphatically. 

“Yes, I said large. You heard me clearly,” says Peter in a deceptively civil intonation. He does not wish to cause a scene at a drive-thru, of all places. 

“May we also have an extra bag, please?” adds Peter. 

The food service worker gives them a new total, asking Peter if he’s fine with 25 more cents added after tax. 

Peter balks because he remembers when it used to be 10 cents per bag.

“Is that paper or plastic?” asks Peter, weighing his options. 

"We don't need more bags," says Stiles, wrongly in Peter's grand opinion. 

"Au contraire. The better to throw out your shit, my dear," says Peter. He pays up for two extras. 

[An eternity of driving later] 

For Peter, it was worth sitting through an extended drive out of the rest stop plaza despite Stiles’ whining. Peter would not allow Stiles to eat in his Jeep and create another landfill. 

“No, hell no. You are banned from eating in the Jeep that I cleaned before getting preventable repairs done,” says Peter. He drives them to a scenic cliff where the picnic benches are located, overlooking the waves sluggishly churning into the rocky shoreline. Peter couldn’t time their meal more perfectly with the golden light casting the glimmers of dawn over the ocean. 

Peter loosens a couple shirt buttons and rolls up his sleeves. After carefully folding the wrapper around his grilled chicken sandwich to avoid directly touching his food, Peter digs into a breezy meal with Stiles. The coffee’s still pretty warm. 

Peter should probably check his phone but right now it’s handy for anchoring down the napkins, screen down. He can enjoy the beauty of nature and a peripheral view of Stiles’ happy houseplant food dance, without the unpalatable image of closely watching Stiles tear into his food. 

Peter looks over and sees the biggest smile on Stiles’ face. It must be some kind of fae mesmer because the halfling appears incandescent.

“What?” 

“You’re not doing all this for the money,” says Stiles knowingly. “You’re stealing me because you want to.” 

Then Stiles audaciously sits on Peter’s lap, licks his lips with a sassy blue tongue. 

“This totally counts as a first date. Right?” Stiles’ light dims, watching Peter's face. Peter gives away nothing; he simply processes the implications of Stiles making a move on him, as Stiles blathers on... “Or am I reading this all wrong? This is like werewolf dating? Did I assess the correct level of danger?”

It’s on the tip of Peter’s tongue to pop Stiles’ fruity bubble and ultimately break down Talia’s circumspect ruse of spying on the Argent clan. 

“I have been kissing your ass all night, haven’t I?” acknowledges Peter, omitting the ill-advised mention of his original motives. If Stiles isn't bringing up his soon to be ex-lover, neither will Peter. 

He resents doing favors for people, but finds it less hateful to acquiesce to Stiles’ whims. 

Instead of ruining this welcome prospect that falls into his lap, Peter reaches for the phone. He’s planning to text Talia with news about Stiles being officially broken up. Wouldn’t his big sis be interested to know that Stiles was already on the rebound?

The line between gossip and intrigue blurred a lot when it came to Hale pack affairs. Talia would have to figure out another method of spying; paws off! 

Stiles snatches Peter’s phone away with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes and extends his slender arm as though he could keep anything out of Peter’s reach. 

Peter’s money clip also materializes between his long, slender fingers. 

“You know what’s funny? You don’t look like a Peter,” teases Stiles. 

“Clever. What else can you do?” Peter could make very, very good use of a skilled halfling. 

The white napkins flutter around them like white doves taking wing, with nothing keeping them down. Stiles’ delight and his cuffed hands reflexively clasped around Peter seals his fate. The wolf moves faster than any forethought of learned inhibitions. Peter swoops in for a kiss, one that was freely offered and somewhat earned, after a whole escapade of chasing Stiles’ gorgeous ass. 

Peter idly palms the soft, shorn hair on the back of Stiles’ head. He’s interested in kissing his way to the natural taste of Stiles’ lips. His mouth finds the pulse point between Stiles’  neck and shoulder. Peter is rewarded with a stimulating round of Stiles’  wiggly ass, and damn if he’s not even more invested after Stiles checks another box for him.

“Ohhhh no, I littered,” says Stiles. He catches sight of the napkins dropping into deep waters like deflowered petals.

Peter takes the opportunity to nip Stiles’ ear, pleased when Stiles’ hips thrust in response. Filthy and sensitive, wolf likey. 

“You are a dirty boy,” Peter sinuously whispers. “But I will take care of you.” 

FIN