#first ‘chapter’ and Peter has already seen Stiles naked
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Bakery!AU, werewolf Stiles Stilinski, no Hale fire. Working Title: No Shoes, No Shirts, No Fucks Given
Stiles wakes up in the middle of the woods, the bark of a large tree stump digging into his bare back.
Looks down.
Notes that he’s butt naked, though the sensation of twigs and leaves in uncomfortable places could’ve clued him in well enough without the visual input.
Groans.
“Fucking seriously? I knew I should’ve stuck to city life.”
He’s been a werewolf for nine weeks, and it’s the first time he’s left Berkeley since he was bitten. His dad had heavily hinted that he wanted him home for winter break months ago, and back then Stiles had been eager to agree.
That was Before. After, he just felt a crawling anxiety.
It was his dad. There was no way Noah wouldn’t notice something different about Stiles. He was a cop, trained to be observant, and in the past Stiles might have been fine but Noah had really stepped up his parenting game in Stiles’ junior year. He was hardly an absent father these days, which seemed like a bad thing for the first (okay, fifth) time.
Point being that Stiles took his finals, packed his shit, and decided to drive the two and a half hours back to Beacon Hills on about zero hours of sleep. Because he was an adult and could do what he wanted, and he wanted to be home two days sooner than promised, before his dad could throw out whatever incriminating shit was in the fridge.
After nearly falling asleep twice in about eighty minutes, Stiles ceded, pulled into a rest stop, and decided on a nap before continuing on. He had been taught to drive by three separate police officers, and besides that wasn’t dumb enough to keep himself in a situation that would have him crashing into a pole.
Key word being keep himself in, because he sure as heck would put himself in it during some manic burst of energy.
So he wasn’t super sure about the moral of this story. Don’t pass out at a rest stop, you’ll be kidnapped, stripped, and dumped in a forest?
More like: being a werewolf sucked ass.
The only footprints that he could see were his own, and his feet were bare but undamaged, coated in several layers of dirt.
Stiles groaned, standing and relishing the pop of his spine. Then he picked a direction.
Started walking.
It takes Stiles about half an hour to find his way out of the woods, and by that time he’s recognized it as the Beacon Hills preserve. Maybe it was a Stiles thing, or more likely it was a werewolf thing (because Stiles liked a brand new excuse to blame everything on as much as the next guy), but this was no half-assed form of sleepwalking. He had gone at least sixty miles.
It took another twenty minutes of jogging to make his way into town. His dad’s house would be another forty or so, and increased body temperature or not, he’s freezing.
He sees a light on and goes for it, because whatever happens can’t be worse than being caught half-naked and covered in dirt by the old lady next door who babysat him when he was little.
It’s a bakery, less than six months old since Stiles hasn’t been home in that long and it wasn’t here last time. His dad had probably mentioned it in passing, but Stiles can’t remember for the life of him.
Most importantly, when he pushes the door (completely bypassing the ‘Closed’ sign) it budges open, bell chiming over the entryway. A sharp-eyed man looks up from the counter, mouth already open to snap something, and his words fall away in the face of Stiles pathetic state.
“Look man, I know the sign says ‘No Shoes, No Shirt, No Service.’ but I just had the weirdest night and your shop is the only building with lights on this early and I’m really, really hoping you have some spare clothes behind the counter.”
Stiles stares the dark-haired baker down hopelessly, giving his best doe eyes, and says, “Help?”
It’s not something he’s used to asking for, but put in this situation there’s not much else to do.
For the longest moment the man just stares into Stiles’ eyes, but then he takes a deep breath and the crease between his brows eases.
“Come with me,” he sighs, raising the counter so Stiles can follow him into the back of the shop. “Wouldn’t want the Sheriff’s son to be arrested for public indecency, would we?”
Stiles tries not to bristle, because there are several officers on duty (two of which he had dodged on his way) and the guy seems like he’s about to help him out. Besides, something about the man’s presence is settling, and his frazzled mind finally seems to be focusing for the first time in days.
Of course, it gets a little sketchy when that focus extends to him memorizing the scent of the guy’s shampoo and hearing his heartbeat like a loud, steady drum directly in his ear. Stiles is trying to wrangle in his super senses when a pair of sweatpants and a white tee are shoved into his arms. He turns to blink up at the man, who’s tugging his button up back on sans undershirt, and shifts awkwardly.
“Uh, thanks,” Stiles rasps, and swallows when he realizes how hoarse his voice sounds for the first time.
“Change in here,” the man says curtly, showing Stiles to the employee restroom. “We’ll talk when you’re done.”
Stiles nods, entering the bathroom with a heavy sense of trepidation. He’s going to have a hard time explaining this away, and he knows it. Still, he’s earned a reputation as ‘silvertongue’ at college, and not just because Loki was his favorite Marvel character and Stiles was good with his mouth.
He dresses slowly, bits of a plan coming together as he wipes the dirt from his feet with a damp paper towel and washes his hands. By the time he exits he looks somewhat presentable, mostly in that he’s no longer naked and doesn’t have dirt streaking his face, legs, and feet.
He hears movement towards the front of the shop, and spares a longing glance towards what he assumes in the back door, but before he can make a move the baker pops his head around the corner, eyes narrowed.
“I made tea,” he announces, and it sounds bizarrely threatening. “Come join me.”
Stiles flashes him a sheepish (and one-hundred-percent false) smile and follows him out to one of the tables. They sit.
“So, uh, thanks for the clothes—I’ll wash them and bring them back here tomorrow, if that’s cool?”
The man shrugs ambivalently, but his eyes are sharp and heavy as he regards Stiles. “That’s acceptable. Care to explain your nude jaunt through the night?”
“It’s morning,” Stiles quips back, mouth quicker than his brain, and winces preemptively, waving his hand through the air as though to dismiss his automatic snark. “No, ignore that, I’m rude and yeah, you kinda deserve an explanation here.”
Stiles sighs heavily, looking to the ceiling as if asking for some otherworldly assistance, before crossing his hands and looking back to Peter with faux seriousness. “No one in the history of ever should agree to a drunken carpool with frat boys.”
The guy’s eyebrows raise.
“Not, like, drunk driving carpool. This was more of a everyone-but-the-driver-is-wasted-after-finals-and-the-driver-can’t-turn-down-a-good-bet-to-save-his-life kind of situation. And, if you aren’t following, I was the driver.”
It's a simple enough part for Stiles to play. Stupid college student gets in over his head. Sheriff’s Kid - Bad Again? Cliches exist for a reason.
Stiles falls into his role flawlessly, blushing and wincing and laughing awkwardly at all the right points. He pulls experiences from his life to make the emotions more genuine, though some part of him still feels distant and amused by the whole situation. It’s probably the same part of Stiles that cackles at the misfortune of others and thinks morbid things at the least appropriate times.
So yes, Stiles is caught up in the lie, but he’s also monitoring the guy for a reaction. Nothing about his countenance seems to indicate disbelief so it’s a good bet this is working. Stiles was seven when he taught himself to be a good liar.
Becoming a werewolf just made him a great one. The ability to smell whether somebody was buying his shit or not was invaluable.
And really, who would admit to such a preposterous and embarrassing tale if it wasn’t true?
“—and now that you’ve got enough material to blackmail me for life, what even is your name?”
The guy, who had stared at him steadily through his rant, scent fluctuating between incredulity, amusement, and irritation, tapped neat nails on the table between them. “I’m ever-so hurt you don’t already know it, but very well. It’s Peter.”
Stiles cocked a brow.
“Hale.”
Stiles blinked, because Hale was not only a name he knew from childhood, but one that had popped up in his extensive research into his sudden lycanthropy.
And this guy couldn’t be serious.
“Oh? Any relation to Talia Hale?”
The man smirks. Stiles wonders if he can smell his building irritation at the thought that—
“Oh yes, Alpha Hale is my older sister.”
Good god.
“Did you seriously just sit there listening to my ode on the tribulations of being a dumb college kid for shits and giggles?”
Peter shrugs loosely. “I wanted to see if you could lie convincingly, and it seems you can.”
Stiles’ exhaustion and grumpiness began to peek through the need to protect his secret. He had to find his car, figure out what led to the sleepwalking and how to prevent it in the future, and determine whether or not he was going to be attacked for entering another pack's territory despite having grown up there.
He also had one million questions about the whole ‘how to werewolf’ issue, but he’d been doing fine on his own so far and Stiles hated asking for help. Especially from someone that practically reeked of smugness.
Stiles wrinkled his nose, huffed, and stood. “Thanks for the outfit, I’ll bring it back tomorrow morning.”
He turned to the door, and for a moment Peter let him live in the delusion that he could walk out without a word.
“You know, sweetheart, your life is going to be difficult if you can’t even tell a born were from your average human.”
Stiles stalled, glancing back. It was a good point. Stiles had been in the same high school as Cora Hale for four years and never even suspected. Clearly he wasn’t as observant as he liked to think.
“My life is already pretty difficult, darling. Are you just pointing out what’s evident, or offering a solution?”
Peter made a thoughtful humming sound, watching him expectantly, and Stiles scoffed. “Yeah, I thought not.”
Whatever this man wanted from him, Stiles wasn’t interested.
He was halfway out the door when Peter asked, “Would you like a ride?”
Stiles grit his teeth and tried to think logically. He couldn’t show up at his dads sans jeep, and he really didn’t fancy walking the sixty plus miles to find it.
Still, “Don’t you have a shop to open?”
#steter drabble#steter#peter/stiles#STILES/PETER#alpha stiles#naked vision quests#(No not actually)#Pre-Slash#first ‘chapter’ and Peter has already seen Stiles naked#wolf whistles
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