Work Text:
11:47.
Thirteen minutes until Peter’s supposed to be at the house for Talia’s birthday lunch, and nearly half an hour since he’s stepped into Beacon Blossoms. Not that Peter minds, usually, if he’s late to whatever pack bonding nonsense his dear sister has decided on that week—rather the opposite, in fact, her pinched expressions and exasperated sighs amuse him endlessly—but his wolf has been restless all day at the prospect of having to spend the afternoon with a bunch of people he barely tolerates on his best days.
And the woman throwing a fit at the front of the line, voice pitched high and shrill enough to make his teeth ache, definitely isn’t conducive to his peace of mind.
Sighing, Peter pulls out his phone and opens his messages. He ignores the half dozen unread ones from Talia, undoubtedly demanding to know where he is and what’s keeping him from helping with the preparations, and opens the ongoing conversation with Derek instead.
11:49, Me:
What’s the purpose of the pre-order option if you have to wait in line for half an eternity for pick-up, anyway?
11:50, Derek:
Cora had the right idea staying at college.
11:50, Me:
Are we at the yelling stage of the day yet?
11:51, Derek:
One of the caterers is about to either cry or rage quit her job.
11:51, Me:
You know, I think I might be coming down with a cold. I’ve got this itch in the back of my throat.
11:52, Derek:
If you leave me here to deal with Mom by myself, I will rip your throat out with my teeth.
Peter huffs out a quiet laugh and locks his phone again, not bothering with a reply. He glances up when the man in front of him sighs, mutters, “I don’t have time for this,” and grabs his briefcase from the floor, shaking his head as he makes his way to the door.
Which means Peter is second in line, although it doesn’t seem like that makes much of a difference. The woman at the counter is still complaining loudly, one hand on her hip, while she gestures wildly with the other one.
“Ma’am, as I’ve tried to explain—” the employee with much more patience than Peter’s ever cared to cultivate begins to say, only to immediately be interrupted by a hissed, “No, I am not done talking, young man!”
“Stars of Bethlehem are a winter flower, ma’am,” the employee continues bravely, despite the nervousness practically rolling off him in waves, “we only carry them during the holiday season. And usually only the red ones, not the blue ones—”
“Then why did your colleague promise me a blue Star of Bethlehem?” the woman demands, brows raised challengingly. “If they’re not available right now, huh?”
The employee taps the receipt on the counter. “Ma’am, according to this, what you ordered was actually—”
“This,” the woman screeches, pointing at the bouquet standing between them, “is not what I wanted! It’s hideous! Are you implying I don’t know my flowers?”
“Well,” comes a voice from behind Peter, a little disbelieving but mostly annoyed, “I may not know my flowers, but I know a bitch when I see one.”
The woman whirls around, outrage written across her face, and Peter turns as well, valiantly trying to school his expression into neutrality. “Excuse me?”
It’s obvious from the young man’s wince that he hadn’t meant to be overheard.
“How dare you talk to me like that?” the woman says, puffing furiously. She stabs a finger at the man, eyes blazing. “This will have consequences. I won’t be treated with such disrespect,” she glances at the employee, then looks back at the man, “by either of you!”
Peter clears his throat and grins sharply when everyone’s attention snaps to him. “Peter Hale,” he introduces himself, producing a business card from the clip in his jacket pocket, and offering it to the man, “attorney-at-law. My email and phone number are on the back, should you require legal representation in the near future.”
For a moment, the man just blinks, clearly taken aback. But then a slow, mischievous smile makes his lips twitch as he takes the card, eyes lingering on Peter. “That’s very generous of you, thank you,” he says sweetly, before turning back to the woman. “Would you like to contact the police yourself, or should I use my connections and get us through to the sheriff directly?”
“I—what—” the woman sputters, frowning at them.
“Well, I’m sure my father, the sheriff, would take time out of his busy day to listen to your complaint. And while he’s at it,” the man continues, fake-sweet, “he’ll definitely also be interested in hearing about you harassing a minor over a twelve dollar bouquet, for which you received and signed a receipt, if I overheard that correctly?”
“Uh,” the employee stutters, then nods, eyes wide. “That’s right, yeah.”
Clearly not knowing when to quit, the woman opens her mouth again, but Peter cuts in smoothly, coldly, “I suggest you take your leave. Ma’am.”
If looks could kill, everyone in the shop would be dropping dead right about then. They can’t, however, no matter how withering, and so the woman just continues to glare, but goes to pick up her flowers, then spins on her heel and stalks outside without another look back.
“Thanks,” the employee breathes, sagging against the counter for a moment. “That was—uh, yeah, that wasn’t great.” He rubs a hand over his face before straightening up again, smiling shyly. “I’ll just go and get your orders ready, Mr Hale and Mr—?”
“Stilinksi,” the man says, “Stiles Stilinski. Thank you.”
Once the employee has left, the man, Stiles, turns to Peter, eyes crinkled in amusement. “So,” he says, twirling Peter’s card between his fingers, “looks like I won’t be needing your services after all.” He isn’t subtle about looking Peter up and down, chewing his bottom lip as he does, before he sighs, “What a shame.”
Peter tilts his head, brow quirked. “I’m sure you’ll find another use for my number. My private number, I might add.”
Stiles beams. “I can probably come up with something.”
Peter’s already paid for his purchase, so he leaves first, carelessly dumping Talia’s daffodils in the back of the car before slipping into the driver’s seat. He checks his watch once he’s put on his seatbelt, not surprised that it’s well after noon by now.
Bracing himself for the lecture his sister will most definitely bestow upon him, he starts the engine and checks the mirror, only to see Stiles on the curb, watching him back.
Their gazes hold for a long, loaded moment.
And then Stiles winks.