“Fuck. Fuckity fuck, fuck, fuck!”
Stiles slams his hands against the steering wheel in frustration. He’d come to this godforsaken part of town because someone he worked with had recommended a mechanic who worked down here. But there’s a sign on the door of the shop saying Closed due to unforeseen circumstances. Of course there is. That’s just the kind of day Stiles is having. The kind of week, really.
He gets out of the jeep and pops the hood, and as he does so it starts to rain. Not a light drizzle, no, not for Stiles. It’s a fucking downpour. Within thirty seconds he’s soaked to the bone. He taps at the spark plugs half-heartedly, but he knows it won’t do any good. If the jeep was a dog, he’d have had it put to sleep by now, but he just can’t bear to do it.
He gets back in and turns the key, and as he expected, gets nothing but a clicking sound. After taking a moment to just sit there and wallow in his misery, he pulls out his phone to call a cab. Or rather, he tries to. But his phone’s not cooperating. As he goes to dial, he sees the 1% bar just before the screen goes black.
He slumps against the wheel, defeated. That’s it. The universe hates him. His boss hates him, his roommate’s an asshole, his car’s dead, possibly for good, and now his phone’s dead and he’s stranded in a strange part of town. He doubts anything’s even open. He’ll probably have to sleep here. In his wet clothes.
Fuck his life.
He sighs, and goes to climb in the back seat to try and get comfortable, but as he does so he sees a neon sign flashing.
OPEN it declares, in green letters, flashing on and off. OPEN OPEN OPEN
Stiles can’t see what kind of business it is through the downpour, and frankly he doesn’t care. If they’re open, they’ll have a phone, and he can call for help. He gets out of the jeep, feet squishing in his wet shoes, and crosses the road. As he approaches, he can see that it’s some kind of bar. Hales, proclaims a sign. He shoulders his way through the door, and heads for the interior. He doesn’t even bother to take in his surroundings. He’s out of the rain, and that’s all he cares about. He looks around for the barman, and finds him easily. Really, he’s hard to miss. He’s easily 6’5”, and built like a tank. Stiles takes a second look and notices the man’s full sleeve tattoos, his shaved head, and his black leather vest. There’s a scorpion tattooed down one side of his face.
“You need something, or are you just dripping all over my floor for nothing?” the man asks, arms folded. Stiles suddenly feels like a very small mouse when confronted by a determined cat. He tries not to think about that episode of Criminal Minds where a guy just like him got chained up in the back of a bar just like this, wearing a ball gag and a dog collar with a tag saying Princess.
“Um...my car broke down and my phone’s not working. I was hoping I could use yours?” he squeaks. And because he won’t be driving anywhere anytime soon, and he wants to get on this guy's good side, he adds “Can I get a beer?”
Mountain fetches him a beer, and he actually gives Stiles a slightly less murderous glance. “Um, so, do you have a phone I can use?” Stiles asks.
Mountain ducks down for a moment and comes back up holding a mobile. “Here, kid. Borrow mine,” he offers, holding the phone out.
Stiles breathes a tiny sigh of relief. At least now he can call a cab and get the hell out of here. He dials the number and orders the cab, after finding out the address of the bar. As he hangs up and hands the phone back, he sees the guy’s background is a photo of a heavily tattooed blonde woman and a small girl, maybe two years old, both smiling happily for the camera. “That’s an adorable kid,” he comments, and something happens to Mountain, then. His expression softens and his whole face lights up as he smiles.
“That’s my Angelique and her Momma. Sweetest little girl in creation,” he says, and the smile widens. “Wanna see more pictures?”
Stiles shrugs, and says “Sure.” After all, what else is he gonna do while he waits for his cab? Mountain leans over the bar and starts showing Stiles more photos of his baby girl, beaming proudly the whole time. And he has to admit, the kid is pretty cute. He’s about twenty (thirty?) photos in, when Mountain says “Tiny.”
“Yeah, she is,” Stiles agrees.
The man laughs, then. “No. That’s my name. Tiny.”
It takes Stiles a moment. “Oh! I’m Stiles. It’s a nickname.”
Tiny face splits into a grin. “Mine too. Same with Target and Rowdy over there, and the guy in the corner is Cowboy.” He looks at Stiles a moment longer, and then disappears out the back. Stiles is left sitting holding the man’s phone, acutely aware of being watched by everyone in the bar. He doesn’t know where Mountain’s gone, so he just sits there and waits to see what life’s going to throw at him next.
What it throws at him is a blue fluffy towel. He catches it awkwardly, before looking up. He sees that Tiny’s returned, and he has a smaller man in tow. Smaller, and infinitely hotter. The man’s thickly muscled through his neck and chest, and his sleeves are pushed up to show two full sleeve tattoos. He has another tattoo spiralling up his neck, and there are hints of more ink peeking out of his shirt. His eyes are startlingly blue, his hair’s perfectly groomed, and Stiles kinda wants to lick him.
But he restrains himself, because licking strangers in a biker bar is a bad survival strategy. Instead Stiles takes the towel and dries his hair, saying “Thanks man,” as he dabs the fabric over his shirt and pants in a futile effort to get some of the moisture out of them. When he’s as dry as he’s going to get, he hands the towel back.
The new man takes it from him, and nods at Tiny’s retreating back. “You looked at his baby pictures. You’ve made a friend for life.”
Stiles shrugs. “She’s a cute baby. It was no big deal. I mean, he lent me his phone.”
“Still. You want another beer?” the man asks, and Stiles dimly notices that his bottle’s empty. He nods, and the man slides another bottle across the counter. “On the house. You look like you could use it.”
“You could say that,” Stiles agrees. He lets himself look at the guy a little more closely, and thinks to himself that if nothing else good comes of this shitshow of a day, at least he’ll be able to jerk off to images of this guy’s thick thighs and bulging forearms, and the ink on them. Stiles has always had a thing for tattoos.
Too late, he realizes Hot Guy is talking to him, and judging from the way he’s standing with his head tilted to one side and looking at Stiles expectantly, he must have asked a question. “How does that sound?” the man’s saying.
“I’m sorry, can you repeat that?” he says, and he makes sure to listen this time, no matter how distracting the guy’s smirk is, and his stubbled jawline, and that wicked mouth….
“I said, seems like you’re having a rough night. Come upstairs with me and I’ll see if we can improve it any.”
“God, yes,” Stiles blurts out, before he can stop himself.
The man raises an eyebrow. “I meant find you some dry clothes.”
Oh. Of course that’s what he meant. “Thanks,” Stiles mumbles, face turning pink with embarrassment. What the hell’s wrong with him? One glimpse of an attractive tattooed man in tight jeans, and he loses his mind. Hot Guy indicates that he should follow him, and leads Stiles out the back and up a set of stairs to an apartment. Stiles follows hm, enjoying the view of the mans’ ass immensely When they get inside, the man hands Stiles a robe. “Put that on.”
Stiles strips out of his shirt and puts the robe on before peeling out of his pants. The man takes his clothes and disappears, coming back with a pair of black jeans and a v necked shirt and offering them. “No underwear?” Stiles asks, before he can stop himself.
“I thought lending you my underwear might be a step too far, since you don’t even know my name,” the man points out. “I’m Peter.”
Stiles extends a hand. “Stiles.”
Peter makes a point of turning his back while Stiles changes into the dry clothing. The clothes fit him better than he thought – a little loose around the shoulders, but the pants fit nicely. Stiles notices that they’re the same black denim as Peter’s currently wearing, and tries not to think about the fact that Peter’s dick has been inside these pants.
Once he’s dressed, Peter leads him back downstairs, and says “Right. Now, more beer?”
Stiles sighs, feeling slightly better in dry, comfy clothes, but still not over the events of the day. “Definitely more beer. I’ve had a hell of a day.”
“Settle in, and tell me and Tiny all about it,” Peter encourages, sliding a bottle in front of him. And Stiles does. He drinks his beer as he tells them about how his room mate spent their rent money on a weekend away, leaving them behind in their payments, about how his boss told him off for not being ‘professional’ enough, about his dead jeep and dead phone, on and on he rambles, and Peter just keeps handing him more beer, and Stiles just keeps drinking it, until he realizes there are half a dozen empties in front of him and he’s got a decent buzz going on. He glances at his watch, sees he’s been here for two hours, and belatedly wonders where the hell his taxi is. “I don’t think my cab’s coming,” he sighs.
Peter gives him an assessing look, and says “I could drive you home. Or you could stay here. I have room.”
“Why are you being so nice?” Stiles asks. “You don’t know me.”
“Maybe I think you could do with a break,” Peter tells him. Then he winks and adds “Or maybe I think you’re adorable.”
Stiles flushes a deep red, and Peter laughs. Tiny comes up behind him. “Are you teasing the kid?”
“He can take it,” Peter dismisses. “Now, are you staying, or do you want a ride home?”
It’s nearly midnight, and Stiles has work tomorrow, and his taxi’s apparently gotten lost in the Bermuda triangle, so he nods. “Ride, please.” He belatedly thinks to ask, “Are we taking a bike?”
Peter gives him a look that’s clearly asking if he’s an idiot. “Not in this weather. Come with me.” Stiles follows him outside to where a weather-beaten pickup’s parked. “Get in,” Peter instructs him, and Stiles does as he’s told. Peter starts the engine with a roar, and Stiles startles at how loud it is. He can feel the power thrumming under the hood, and Peter tips him another wink. “I made a few modifications.”
Stiles gives him his address, and Peter drives him there. They don’t talk, the loud rock music blasting from the stereo making it nearly impossible. As they pull up to Stiles’s building, Peter tells him “Just bring the clothes back when you collect your jeep.”
Stiles hesitates as he gets out, finally saying “Thanks, man. You didn’t have to do this.”
Peter raises a brow at him. “Of course I did. Now you have to come back and see me again. Like I said, I think you’re adorable, and I’d like to see more of you.”
And he drives off, leaving Stiles standing on the side of the road, mouth open.
It’s two nights later when Stiles finally gets to go back. He’s carrying Peter’s washed clothing, and a gift wrapped parcel. When he walks in the door, Tiny waves a hand at him. “Hey, kid. Here to see Big Bad?”
Stiles gives him a questioning look. “Peter,” the man clarifies. He’s out back, I’ll go get him.”
“Actually, this is for you. For your baby girl,” Stiles hands the parcel over. When Scott, his friend from high school had become a father, his tiny daughter had become the centre of his world. Stiles is assuming that Tiny’s the same, and he wants to thank the man properly for his help the other night.
Tiny opens the parcel to find a toddler size Princess Leia costume. “I thought, y’know, Halloween’s next month. If you don’t like it…” he trails off. It was a stupid idea. Not everyone’s a nerd like he is.
But Tiny’s face lights up, and he says, “Like it, I do. Pleased, I am,” in a passable Yoda impersonation.
He holds up the costume for the others to see, and they come over and crowd around, making pleased noises and slapping Stiles on the back. “You did good, kid,” one of them, Rowdy, Stiles thinks, tells him in a near whisper.
“Uh, thanks. It’s nothing, really.” Stiles is surrounded by bulky men in leather, and they’re smiling at him, so obviously he’s done something right. He holds up the bag with Peter’s clothing in it and asks “So, who do I give these to?”
“I’ll take those,” comes Peter’s voice. Stiles looks up to see him standing nearby, hand out. He hands over the bag, and their fingers brush. Peter smiles at him. “Beer?”
Stiles had intended to just drop the stuff off and then see if his jeep has decided to behave, but a beer sounds good right now. Peter hands over a bottle, but refuses to take his money. “Owner’s prerogative,” he shrugs, when Stiles goes to protest.
Stiles spends the evening looking at more baby photos, finding out how Target got his nickname (“It was an accident, I didn’t mean to shoot him.” “We know, Rowdy. We know.”), that Rowdy barely actually speaks, and then never above a whisper, and that Cowboy is from Texas, and has a deep seated fear of horses.
“So why are you Big Bad?” he asks Peter. The other man’s been sitting close to him all evening, and Stiles isn’t sure if he’s flirting or winding him up. Tiny opens his mouth to speak, but Peter raises his hand in a gesture that has him closing it again.
“Whatever you're thinking, that's not it,” he deflects.
Stiles looks at the other bikers, but none of them seems game enough to say anything. In the end, Rowdy whispers “Hang around long enough, and you’ll figure it out, kid.”
Peter ends up feeding him, presenting him with a giant plate of nachos. Stiles pulls out his wallet then, intent on paying, but Peter waves him away. “I get to look at your pretty eyes, Stiles. That’s payment enough.” Stiles still isn’t sure whether he’s joking or not, but decides to go with it.
“You’re plenty pretty yourself. All muscles and ink, it’s everything I like,” Stiles says with a wink. Peter’s grin turns hungry at that, but he doesn’t say anything, so Stiles still doesn’t know if Peter’s just teasing. He must be, he decides, if the chuckles of the other guys are anything to go by.
He finally heads over to his jeep, and miracle of miracles, not only does it start, but the mechanic is open. He pulls it into the workshop, and waits as the man pokes around under the hood, hearing odd mutterings of “Christ, how is this still running?” and “Is that duct tape?” that cause him to fidget guiltily.
Finally the man emerges, shaking his head. “I dunno, kid. It needs a rebuild, Gonna be a couple of thousand.”
Stiles’ heart sinks into his shoes at that. He knew it was bad, but a total rebuild? He looks down at his feet, trying to figure out a way to say he can’t afford it, when there’s a hand on his shoulder, and a voice says “Are you sure about that, Richie?”
Stiles looks up to see Peter standing next to him, giving the mechanic a pointed look. The mechanic’s eyes go to where Peter’s whole arm has draped itself around Stiles’ shoulder possessively. “Stiles is a friend of mine. Maybe look again, and see if you can get it running without breaking the bank.”
Richie bites his lip, and disappears under the bonnet again. He emerges a few minutes later, saying “There are things I can do to keep it running, kid. Can you live with a couple of hundred? It won’t be perfect, mind you.”
Stiles grabs the offer like a lifeline. “Yeah, that sounds good, thanks,” he breathes out.
“And he can pay it off, right Rich?” Peter chimes in, his tone mild.
The mechanic swallows, and nods. “Sure thing, Big Bad.”
“Excellent. Can you have it done by tomorrow evening? Stiles, does that work for you?” Stiles nods rapidly. Apparently not only is Peter as hot as hell, he’s also some sort of wizard, because Stiles has never in all his times of getting the jeep repaired heard of a mechanic taking part payment.
Peter withdraws his arms from round Stiles shoulder, and Stiles is a little disappointed in that, to be honest. It felt nice. Peter turns to him and says “So, I guess you need a ride home?”
Stiles grins, and says “Yeah, that’d be great.”
They take the bike this time. Stiles puts on the helmet Peter hands him, climbs gingerly on the back of the great shining beast, and hangs on for dear life as Peter kickstarts the machine and it roars into life. He presses his body against Peter’s firm back, clasps his hands round his waist, and tries not to scream the first time they take a corner and the bike dips dangerously low to the ground. Stiles stares at the pitted surface of the road that’s mere feet from his face, and reminds himself to breathe, and lean into the corners like Peter told him. The ride home’s not a long one, and Stiles breathes a sigh of relief when they pull over and Peter cuts the engine. It takes a minute before he’s able to bring himself to let go of Peter’s waist and climb off the bike. Peter asks him “Was that your first time on a bike, Stiles?”
“Uh, yeah, what gave it away?”
Peter pulls off his helmet, and Stiles sees that he’s grinning with a kind of savage joy as he says “Oh, just the fact that I think I have your fingerprints imprinted on my skin.” He lifts his t shirt and once Stiles manages to stop staring at Peter’s chest tattoo, he can see that there are, in fact faint red marks where he’d gripped on too hard.
“Oh shit, I’m sorry,” he breathes out. “I didn’t realize.”
“It’s fine, Stiles. I love it when a young man marks me up. Maybe next time, we can do it without the bike.” Peter laughs when he sees Stiles blushing, throwing his head back as he does so, and Stiles finds himself staring at his exposed neck, wondering what it would be like to bite it.
Stop it, he tells himself firmly. Peter’s just teasing. Peter’s stopped laughing, and now he’s looking at Stiles with a considering look. “Come to the bar tomorrow, when you collect your jeep. Friday night is wings night.”
Stile thinks about it. He doesn’t have anything else to do. ”Sure thing. And thanks, you know, for the garage. I don’t know what you did, but I’m grateful.”
Peter shrugs. “Richie knows better than to try and fleece my friends.”
Stiles starts at that. They met twice, but apparently, they’re friends. He’s only been in LA three months, and friends are something he’s sorely lacking. Even his roommate barely scrapes by as an acquaintance. He decides that fuck it, if this hot man and his biker buddies want to befriend him, he’ll take it.
Wing Night is awesome. Stiles eats and drinks and is so merry that after he slides sideways off his barstool for the third time, Peter hefts him over his shoulder with a sigh and carries him up to his spare bedroom. Stiles is wasted enough that he grabs at Peter’s ass as they walk up the stairs. “I’m flattered, Stiles, but you’re drunk, so no,” Peter tells him drily, as he dumps him on the bed. Stiles would protest, but he’s too busy nuzzling into the blankets and falling asleep.
He wakes to a pounding headache, and a cup of coffee on his bedside table. When he wanders out to the apartment, Peter’s not there. He makes his way downstairs, but there’s no sign of him there either. He’s quietly relieved, because he’s more than a little embarrassed about the half remembered ass grab and Peter’s refusal. He leaves a note on the bar saying thanks for last night, and slips out.
He stays away from the bar for a week after that, but then Friday rolls around, and the wings were really good, and he’s lonely, which is how he finds himself back there. When he walks in, Tiny looks up and beams widely, gesturing him over and waving his phone. Stiles goes, and is treated to a flurry of new photos of Angelique in her costume. “She loved it,” Tiny tells him. Then he calls out “Big Bad! Your boy’s here!” at the top of his lungs, and Stiles hears the clatter of feet as Peter comes down the stairs.
“Hello, Stiles. I wondered where you’d got to. How’s the jeep?”
“Uh, yeah. Good,” Stiles replies, as he tries not to swallow his tongue. Despite the cooler weather, Peter’s wearing a wife beater, and all his muscles are on display, as well as a lot more of his ink. His jeans are worn, and fit him like a second skin. He’s wearing a pair of boots that look like they’ve been round the world, they're so weathered and scuffed, and damn, Stiles wants that. “You look good,” he blurts out without meaning to.
Peter smirks, and says “I could say the same,” looking Stiles up and down shamelessly. Stiles fidgets under his gaze. OK, so maybe he made a little effort, and is wearing his good jeans and a halfway decent shirt, but he tells himself that’s only to make up for looking like a drowned rat the first time he showed up here. He hopes Peter’s not thinking about the way Stiles drunkenly groped his ass. He wants to apologize, but he also wants to never mention it again. He’s a coward at heart, so he goes with option b.
Peter’s still looking at him intently, but then Tiny nudges him and says “Behave, Peter. You’re making the kid blush.” Peter’s gaze loses his intensity, and he just smirks.
“So, you here to see me, or are you here just for the wings?” he asks.
“Well, it’s mainly the wings, but I guess you could hang out. You’re decent company,” Stiles say with a put upon sigh, like he hasn’t been looking forwards to this all day. Peter just rolls his eyes and gets them both a beer, before commandeering a table in the corner.
They spend a couple of hours talking and pretending to flirt, and Stiles makes the most of the opportunity to ogle Peter’s tattoos. Peter notices, and comments “Someone has an ink kink.” Stiles can’t help blushing as he nods. Dammit, he’d hoped he was being subtle. Peter just laughs, and says “If you play your cards right, you’ll get to see the rest of them one day.” Stiles flips him the bird, and steals the last wing.
It becomes a regular thing, somehow. Two or three nights a week, Stiles will come home from his dull as ditchwater job as a systems analyst, change out of his work clothes into something comfier, and head over to the bar. Tiny will show him baby pictures, Rowdy will whisper a few words at him if he’s lucky, and Cowboy will try, once again, to teach him poker. Stiles is godawful at it, because, as Cowboy observes, “Every thought you have comes flying across your face, Kid.”
Stiles is Kid now, apparently. He’d tried protesting that he’s twenty three, but Peter had just smirked at him and said “Tiny’s decided you’re Kid, Kid. No escaping it.” Stiles has to admit, it makes him feel like he belongs.
Some evenings, Peter will throw a helmet and a jacket at him and say, “Up for a ride?” Stiles will heave a sigh as he pulls on the jacket, as if he’s doing Peter a great favor, but they both know it isn’t true. Now that he’s over his initial terror, Stiles loves the thrill of racing through the streets plastered to Peter’s back. The feel of strong muscles under his hands doesn’t hurt, either. He has a sneaking suspicion that Peter bought the jacket just for him after their third ride when Stiles complained about the cold, because it’s new, and it fits hm perfectly. He doesn’t ask though, just puts it on with a quiet ‘thank you’ when Peter first hands it to him. Peter looks inordinately pleased for some reason, and their ride that night is far longer than normal.
Peter and him have fallen into an easy rhythm of teasing and pretending to flirt, but Stiles knows it for what it is, nothing more than empty words and a way to pass the time. He’s fully aware that Peter’s not really interested in him, otherwise surely, he would have made a move by now. Stiles has been coming to the bar for months, and he’s had plenty of opportunity. No, Peter’s turned him down once, and Stiles can take a hint. He’ll just be content with having Peter as a friend, and someone he jerks off to thoughts of occasionally, even thought he feels vaguely guilty over it afterwards.
Stiles stops short when he steps inside the bar. There are Christmas decorations as far as the eye can see. Tiny sees him looking and waves him over. “Big Bad loves Christmas,” he says. Stiles gives him a quizzical look and Tiny elaborates. “Goes all out every year. I think he’s out getting more tinsel, he found a bare spot somewhere.”
Stiles never would have pegged Peter for the Christmas type, but the place does look good. Tiny hands Stiles a beer without asking, and turns away to serve the next customer. There are a few strange faces in tonight, and Stiles chalks it up to the festive season. He goes to sit with Target, who’s telling them about the time he nearly cleaned up twelve bikers who were riding behind him because a kettle he had tied to his bedroll came untied and bounced all over the road, making them all dodge and weave madly. If you had to choose one word to describe Target, it would be accident-prone. OK, that’s two words, but still. The guy’s had a truck fall on him, fallen through a ceiling, been shot accidentally, and literally driven over a cliff. It’s a wonder he’s still alive. Still, Stiles likes the guy, and he enjoys his stories, so he perches on the end of the bench seat and settles in.
He's laughing and joking with the guys when he feels a hand on his shoulder, and at first he assumes it’s Peter, but when he turns, the greeting dies on his lips because there’s a total stranger standing there. “Yes?” Stiles asks.
“Sorry, I know you don’t know me, but I felt drawn to you. Can I buy you a drink? I’m Matt,” the man offers.
Stiles looks the man up and down, and immediately decides he’s not his type. Too much cologne, not enough leather. “Yeah, no thanks,” he replies, and turns back around, expecting that to be the end of it. But Matt apparently can’t take a hint, because two minutes later, there he is again, tapping Stiles on the shoulder. Stiles turns and gives him a frankly unimpressed stare. “I said no,” he snaps.
Matt either doesn’t notice or ignores his annoyance. “That was to a drink. How about a dance instead?” he asks, and pulls Stiles to his feet. Stiles finds himself unwillingly standing, even as he says again, “I told you no, man.” The whole table goes deathly quiet then, and Stiles turns to see his friends staring, every last one of them with murder in their eyes.
It’s Cowboy who speaks. “Y’all need to be takin’ your hands off of our Kid there, unless you want me to break your fingers,” he drawls out.
Matt hastily removes his hands and jams them into his pockets. “Hey, I didn’t mean anything, I just thought he might be interested. I mean, he hardly looks like he’d be dating any of you.”
“Kid’s one of us. And he’s spoke for,” Target says firmly. “He’s Big Bad’s boy.”
Rowdy chimes in then. “Boss has been working up to asking him out for months, but he’s too damn chickenshit.” Stiles blinks at that, because really?
Matt looks at them, confusion written across his face. “Who’s Big Bad?”
“That would be me,” Comes Peter’s voice from behind him, and Matt whirls quickly, to be met by the sight of Peter in his leather jacket, helmet under his arm as he strips off his leather gloves. He shoulders Matt aside without a second glance, and steps in close to Stiles. “Hello, Stiles,” murmurs, voice warm and velvety. “Shall we go somewhere and talk, since it seems my secret’s out?”
“Um, yeah, sure.” Stiles takes the hand Peter offers him and follows him upstairs, still trying to take in what’s happening. Peter likes him? Since when?
When they enter Peter’s apartment, he blurts out, “Why are the guys saying I’m yours and threatening people for me?”
Peter just looks at him, a hopeful expression on his face. “I like you, Stiles. I’ve always liked you. Please tell me the feeling’s mutual?”
Stiles takes a moment to digest this new information, and when he doesn’t answer right away he can see the confidence draining from Peter’s face, to be replaced with a crestfallen look. Well, shit. He takes a deep breath. “Of course I like you, idiot. You’re exactly my type. And in case you hadn’t noticed, I keep driving half way across town to hang out with you. But I thought you weren’t interested.”
Peter’s brow furrows. “Why on earth would you think that? I think I’ve been fairly obvious with my intentions.”
“You turned me down. That first Friday, when I grabbed your ass, you said no. So I figured you weren’t interested in me that way,” Stiles reminds him.
Peter folds his arms over his chest and rolls his eyes. “You mean that time you were so drunk you couldn’t stand? Of course I turned you down,” he huffs, with an edge of frustration in his voice.” You were in no fit state to agree to anything. That doesn’t mean I don’t want to date you.”
And shit, now that he thinks about it, that was exactly what Peter had said -“I’m flattered, Stiles, but you’re drunk, so no.”
They stare at each other for a moment. It’s Peter who finally speaks. “So, what do you say, Stiles? Shall we make it official?”
Stiles grins widely, and takes a step forwards, wrapping his arms around Peter’s neck and dragging him close. “Yeah,” he says quietly, before leaning in for a soft kiss.
When they finally make it downstairs after an hour of making out and laughing over what a pair of idiots they are, they’re met with a round of applause from the regulars. Tiny calls out “Good job, I won the betting pool! Three hundred bucks!”
Peter turns to him, eyebrows raised. ‘You had a betting pool?” he asks, incredulous.
Tiny nods happily. “Rowdy started it. We could see that you were hot for Kid, but we knew you’d take your own sweet time over it, Big Bad.”
“Okay, somebody needs to tell me why you’re called that if I’m gonna date you,” Stiles declares.
The guys all exchange glances, grinning. Peter shoots them a threatening look, but it does no good. Cowboy sighs, and says “So, y’all can figure out why Tiny’s Tiny, right? And Rowdy don’t barely say a word. And I’m Cowboy on account of the horse thing. “
Cowboy grins widely. “Peter’s Big Bad cause he don’t have a mean bone in his body. Big tough biker, my ass. He volunteers three days a week at the animal shelter.”
“It’s true. Soft as they come, that’s our boss,” Tiny confirms. “I mean, he took you in when were just a poor sad little stray, didn’t he?”
Stiles grins widely, and drapes an arm around Peter’s neck. Peter really did save him, he realizes, from more than the rain. “I’m glad you rescued me,” he says quietly, pulling him close.
Peter mutters something under his breath about traitorous employees, but there’s no heat to it, and he leans into Stiles’ touch. Stiles' grin just gets wider, and he runs a hand absently over the love bites on his neck.
Later, Peter’s finally promised to show him his tattoos. All of them.
Stiles can’t wait.