Derek straightens out his tie with his free hand, his other on the steering-wheel as he cruises leisurely in his smooth, black Camaro through the town of Beacon Hills. It's his childhood home, but he hasn't been back since the Kate and the fire and the deaths of almost all of his family.
All, but one.
That one is Peter, who sits in the passengers side right beside his nephew.
"I don't know why he makes us wear these cheap-ass suits."
Peter smirks as he replies, "Well, do you wanna wash blood out of your own clothes?" His smirk widens when the Alpha huffs.
They ride along in comfortable silence for a little while, until Peter grows bored again. "So, tell me about the hash bars." He grins, a mischievous twinkle in his bright blue eyes. "You left that part out."
"What'd you wanna know?" Derek asks easily, open to discussion.
"Well, hash is legal in the 'Dam, right?" Peter arches a brow, though, he thinks he already knows the answer. He hasn't been to Amsterdam like his lucky nephew, but he reads a lot.
"Yeah," Derek shrugs. "It's legal, but it's not totally legal, if you understand what I'm saying?"
"Well, I mean, you can't just walk into a restaurant or a department store or whatever, light your shit up and just start puffing away." Derek explains, eyes never leaving the road ahead. "Really, you're only supposed to smoke in your home or at certain designated places."
"And those are the hash bars?" Peter asks.
"Right." Derek nods. "It basically breaks down like this; it's legal to buy, it's legal to own it, and if you're the proprietor of a hash bar, it's legal to sell it. It's also legal to carry it - which doesn't even really matter, because - and this is the best part -" He smirks over at his uncle, who looks all too intrigued. "If the cops stop you, it's illegal for them to search you. Searching you is a right that cops don't have in Amsterdam."
"Well, that's it, man," Peter grins. "I'm fucking going. First chance I get. And that's all there is to it."
"You'll love it, I'm telling you."
"Oh, you don't need to tell me another thing."
Derek chuckles. "But y'know what the funniest thing about Europe is?"
"It's all of the little differences." Derek says, wears a light scowl. "I mean, a lot of the shit we get here, you can still get over there, sure, but their's is just a little different."
"Well, in Amsterdam, you can buy a God damn beer in a movie theatre. And I don't mean in a paper cup, neither. They give you a fricking glass, like they do in a bar. And in Paris, you can buy a beer in fucking McDonald's."
"Shut your ass."
"I'm not kidding." Derek grins, bright green eyes twinkling with amusement. "And y'know what they call a Quarter Pounder with Cheese in France?"
"They don't call it a Quarter Pounder with Cheese?" Peter arches a brow, looks rather bewildered.
"No." Derek scoffs. "They got the metric system over there, they wouldn't know what the fuck a Quarter Pounder is."
Peter snorts. "So, what'd they call it?"
"A Royale with Cheese." Derek says smugly.
Peter snorts again. "A Royale with Cheese?"
"And what'd they call a Big Mac?" Peter asks, still looks intrigued.
"A Big Mac's a Big Mac." Derek shrugs. "But they call it Le Big Mac."
"Le Big Mac." Peter chuckles, shakes his head. "What'd they call a Whopper?"
"I dunno." Derek shrugs casually. "I didn't go into a Burger King. But y'know what they put on French fries in Holland instead of ketchup?"
"Ugh." Peter wrinkles his face in disgust. "God damn."
Derek chuckles at his uncle's reaction. "I've seen them do it, man, I swear. And I don't mean like, a little bit on the side, neither, they fucking drown them in that shit."
"That's just fucking nasty."
Peter waits patiently beside his partner in crime, as always. Derek's his only family left, now.
Derek opens the trunk of his Camaro and pulls out a two .45 automatics. He loads and cocks both weapons before passing one to his uncle.
"We should have shotguns for this kind of deal." Peter complains, even pouts.
Derek rolls his eyes. "How many are up there?"
"Three or four, maybe."
"Counting our guy?" Derek asks.
Derek shoots the older wolf a withering look. "So, there might be five guys up there."
"It's possible." Peter nods.
Derek glares at him. He then, growls out, "We should have fucking shotguns." before closing the trunk.
Derek follows loosely behind Peter as they make their way into the apartment building.
"What's her name?" Derek finally asks.
"Genim. But she likes to go by 'Stiles'."
Derek briefly thinks that's an odd name. But he's more interested in finding out about her.
As a client, of course. This has absolutely nothing to do with the photo he saw in her father's office...
"What does she do?" Derek asks, starts out small.
"I don't know. I think she's an actress or something." Peter says, clearly uninterested by this conversation. He's got other things on his mind though.
Derek hums thoughtfully, then curiously asks, "She ever done anything I would've seen?" And his mind absolutely doesn't think of the filthiest porn...
"Eh," Peter shrugs lazily. "I think her biggest deal was some pilot she starred in one time."
"What's a pilot?" Derek looks confused.
Peter shoots him an "are you serious?" look.
Derek merely stares back at him, still confused.
"Well," Peter huffs, shakes his head in dismay as he presses the button for the elevator. "Y'know the shows on T.V?"
"No. I don't watch T.V." Derek says, standing beside his uncle as they wait.
"Jesus." Peter mutters. "Yes, but you are aware that there's an invention called the television, and that on that invention, they show T.V. shows, right?"
Peter purses his lips - his nephew is exhausting! And infuriating! "Well, the way they pick shows," He carries on calmly, controlling the urge to punch the Alpha in the face. "They make one episode of a show, and they call that a pilot. And then, they show this pilot to the people who pick the shows. And on the strength of that one episode, they decide if they wanna make more episodes. Some get accepted, and they become T.V. programs, and some don't, and become nothing. She starred in one of the ones that became nothing."
Derek nods in acknowledgement and the two of them walk into the elevator.
Peter presses the button for the thirteenth floor as he casually asks, "Do you remember Vernon Boyd? Half African, half Samoan. They used to call him Vernon Rocky Horror."
"Yeah, maybe. Fat guy, right? The one that turned down McCall when he offered the bite?"
"Well, yeah." Peter scowls. "But I wouldn't go as far as to call him fat. He may have a little bit of a weight problem, but he's Samoan, so what's he gonna do?"
Derek scoffs, smirks, clearly amused. "I think I know who you mean anyway. So, what about him?"
"Well," Peter pauses dramatically. "Stilinski fucked his ass up real good. And word around the campfire is; it was on the account of his daughter."
Derek gulps silently, but he's still intrigued, nonetheless. It's a wolf's nature, after all. "What'd he do? Fuck her?" He doesn't know why he feels a twinge of jealously by that idea - he hasn't even met her yet - but he does and it annoys the hell out of him.
"No, no, no." Peter wrinkles his nose in disgust. "Nothing that bad."
Derek nods, feels relief, annoyingly. "Well, then, what?"
Peter grins gleefully as he answers, "He gave her a foot massage."
"A foot massage?" Derek looks confused.
Peter nods, grin widening. "Yep."
"That's all?" Derek's now feeling a little terrified.
"Yep." Peter nods, still grinning.
"And what did Boss do?" Derek's both intrigued as he is horrified to find out.
"He sent a couple of guys over to Boyd's place. They took him out on the patio of his apartment, and threw his ass right over the balcony."
Derek's eyes widen slightly. He is so dead if he fucks his next job up. Or fucks his job, literally...
"He fell from four stories." Peter shakes his head. "And they had this garden at the bottom, encased in one of those glass greenhouses - poor bastard fell right through it. Since then, he's kinda developed a speech impediment."
"That's a damn shame." Derek says, calm and collected. 'Holy shit!' He thinks on the inside, panics, almost.
Finally, the elevator stops and the doors slide open. Peter files out first, Derek lopping closely behind and then beside him as they walk loosely down the dimly lit corridor.
"Still," Derek airs lightly. "I have to say; play with fire, and you're gonna get burned."
"What'd you mean?"
Derek shoots him "are you serious?" look before replying, "You don't give John Stilinski's only daughter a foot massage. Not unless you're stupid anyway."
Peter arches a brow. "You don't think he overreacted? Not even a little bit?"
"Well, Boyd probably didn't expect Boss to react the way he did, but he had to expect a reaction." Derek shoots him a pointed look.
"It was a fucking foot massage." Peter shoots him a pointed look right back. "A foot massage is nothing. I used to give my mother a foot massage."
Derek scoffs. "It's laying hands on John Stilinski's daughter in a familiar way. Is it as bad as, say, eating her pussy out? No. But you're still in the same fucking ball park."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Stop right there!" Peter stops walking, grabs his nephew's shoulder and makes him stop, too. "Eating her pussy out, and giving the smartass bitch a foot massage is nowhere near the same thing."
"Not the same thing, but the same ball park." Derek reminds him, as if it's that simple.
Peter looks at him as if he's insane. "It's not the same fucking ball park, neither!" He snaps, growing more frustrated by the minute. "Look," He takes a deep breathe to calm himself down. "Maybe your methods of a massage differ to mine, but touching his daughter's feet, and then, sticking your tongue into the Holiest of Holys is not the same fucking ball park, is not the same league, is not even the same fucking sport. Foot massages don't mean shit."
Derek stares blankly back at him for a few moments before calmly asking, "Have you ever given a foot massage, Peter?"
Peter blinks, then, laughs, sarcastically. "Please don't try to tell me about foot massages. I'm the foot fucking master."
Derek arches a brow, bites back a smirk. "You given a lot of them, then?"
"Shit, yeah." Peter scoffs snootily. "I've got down my own unique technique and everything, man." He states proudly. "I don't tickle or nothing."
Derek nods, then, still holding back a smirk, he asks, "Have you ever given a guy a foot massage?"
Peter blinks, realises he's been set-up, and then glares at his so-called darling nephew. "Fuck you." He huffs, then, walks off.
Derek chuckles, follows after his sulking uncle. "How many?" He ask, teases, no longer holding back his smug shit smirk.
"Fuck you." Peter growls out, not even bothering to look at the younger wolf as he storms down the long-ass corridor. Seriously, does this thing go on for-fucking-ever?
"Would you give me a foot massage? I'm kinda tired. Haven't slept for five days." Derek holds back a laugh, though, he's still smirking.
"Man, you best back the fuck off, 'cause I'm getting real pissed, now." Peter grunts, glaring at the Alpha.
Derek chuckles, but decides to finally show mercy as they finally stop.
"This the right door?"
"Yep." Derek nods. "Seventy-four."
"What time is it?"
"It's not quite time, yet. Let's hang back for a little bit."
Derek nods, follows after his uncle, their weapons still hanging loosely in their hands.
"Look," Peter huffs as they walk aimlessly down the long corridor. "Just because I would never give a man a foot massage, doesn't mean that it makes what John did to Boyd right. He threw him off a fucking roof and into a motherfucking glass greenhouse, fucking up the way the poor kid talks." He growls out angrily. "If the evil asshole ever does anything like that to me, he better hope he fucking paralyses or kills me, 'cause I will kill the motherfucker."
Derek rolls his eyes. "I'm not saying he was right, but you're saying a foot massage don't mean nothing, and I'm saying it does. I've given loads of ladies loads of foot massages, and they all meant something. We act like they don't," He shrugs casually. "But we all know they do. That's what's so fucking cool about them. This sensual thing's going on that nobody's talking about, but you know it, and she knows it. Fuck, even Boss knows it. And Boyd should've fucking known it, too. I mean, that's the man's fucking daughter. He's not gonna have a sense of humour about that shit."
"Hmm." Peter pauses thoughtfully. "That's an interesting point." He huffs, shakes his shoulders and arms loosely. "But c'mon, let's get into character."
Derek nods. "Stiles, huh?" He makes a face. "Weird name."
Peter arches a brow. Now, he's interested, because - "Why're you suddenly so interested in the boss' daughter?"
Derek shoots him a withering look when he grins suggestively. "He's going on some business trip in Tokyo, in two days time, and while he's away, he wants to take care of her."
"Take care of her?" Peter arches a brow, looks rather surprised. "Y'mean, like -" He gestures with a invisible knife, pretending to slit his own throat.
"No, no. Not that." Derek scowls, shakes his head. "Just, like, take her out and stuff. Show her a good time, buy her loads of crap, make her happy and all of that other shit."
Peter smirks. "You're gonna be taking Stiles Stilinski out on a date?" He laughs, highly amused, obviously.
"It's not a date." Derek scowls at him, almost glaring.
"It's not a date." Derek now full-on glares at his uncle. "It's more like when you take your buddy's wife out to see a crappy movie or something. It's just..." He shrugs. "Y'know... Good company..."
Peter blinks, merely stares at him.
However, Derek insists, "It's not a date."