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Dumb Ways to Get Fired

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Stiles was going to get fired.

He was going to get fired, and it wasn’t even his fault!

No, seriously, it wasn’t. He swore it wasn’t.

Okay, it totally was.

But still, he was so going to get fired!

Alright, so last Friday night – definitely not like in the song – he had gone to the club with his friends because he hadn’t gotten laid in a while, and they had decided that being perpetually single had been hazardous to his health and to others’ too because he never shut up about it. Erica had even had a shirt printed, just for him, that told everyone that “The Owner of This Shirt Needs to Get Laid”. The text on the back was in the most obnoxious neon green Stiles had ever seen that glowed in the dark. He was seriously impressed at the quality and the extent his shitty friends had gone for him. True friendship and wingmanship and shipping all around. He still hadn’t worn the shirt because fuck that and fuck Erica.

He did get the name of the place from her though since fuck yes glow-in-the-dark prints.

Truthfully, he hadn’t been exactly honest with his friends. Sure, he hadn’t really gotten laid since him and Lydia decided that they were better of as friends, a few one night stands notwithstanding – which he didn’t really advertise because he had always been more of a relationship kind of guy than sleeping-with-random-people kind of person. Not that it was necessarily a bad thing! Just, you know, not for him. Which is probably part of the reason it took so long for both Lydia and him to recognise the fact that they weren’t actually good for each other; they were so used to the status quo and were reluctant to change it. She was married to math and physics and whatnot with a taste for sex but not for romance and he was, well, kind of realising that what men had to offer interested him a little more than women in general. Oh, he was certainly playing for both teams but what they, as in Lydia and him, had just wasn’t working for them anymore. So, yeah, to Erica, Isaac and the rest of his lovably nosy friends he wasn’t really getting any and hadn’t for far too long.

But that wasn’t the actual reason either why he was getting fired.

The real reason had a name, and that name was Peter Hale.

His boss.

Around the time he and Lydia broke up, he also changed his job because, hey, he had to move anyway, so he might as well take up that promotion he had earned through his hard work. Changing from the branch office to the main, he was now working as one of the editors at the Hale Publishing. It paid rather well, even if he had to downgrade his new apartment a bit since he was now handling all the bills by himself. The job still paid better than the one he left behind at the branch office. He was also getting rather chummy with Laura Hale, so he fantasised being promoted again to an actual editor-in-chief even if Derek was a surly, surly man and would probably hate to be working with Stiles daily face-to-face. He already disliked Stiles for his loud manner, and they didn’t even see each other that often because Derek and e-mails had probably met and fallen in love at first sight when they were invented or he was born or something. Whatever the case was, they were meant to be. Stiles had dibs on being the best man, naturally for the e-mails. Laura was handling Derek. He was not going to go between a man so in love with avoiding human contact and his way of doing so. That love was something epic.

Just like Stiles’ had been – and still was – when he had first laid his eyes on the wonder that was Laura and Derek’s uncle, Peter Hale.

Well, it had probably been pure lust at first sight more than love but he was pretty sure that at some point his infatuation had grown into Lydia-ten-year-plan proportions. He just, ugh. Peter was just so unfairly pretty. All the Hales were but whereas Laura was a traditional kind of beauty mixed with that annoying older sister vibe and Derek was all eyebrows and features that put models in shame, Peter was something else. It might have been those muscled arms that probably could hold Stiles up against a wall, the chest that was teased by those dress shirts that usually had a casual button or two open at the top, the ass that was just phenomenal, the smirk that never seemed to leave his face, the curve of his lips that told everyone he knew something they didn’t…

You get the drift.

Stiles had been lost. He had always had a weakness for the bold and the beautiful and Peter ticked all the boxes that made a person Stiles’ type so confidently and hard that Stiles couldn’t help but swoon when no one was looking. He still had his pride after all; not so much that he wasn’t above forgoing it for his own gain but he drew the line at public humiliation and rejection. He had had plans, though, about subtle wooing until…


Until Peter had to turn out to be Stiles’ boss and all his hopes and dreams had died with a braying wheeze that probably had sounded more like a fart, yes, sounded, because it had been audible and he had been so glad that no one had actually noticed it because that would have been embarrassing. Or if they had, no one had mentioned it and Stiles could continue to live in denial. Sometimes he wondered if he had been born in the wrong country.

But indirectly or not, Peter had been the cause of Stiles’ long, long dry spell because the pining on his side had been ugly and awful and how could he bed other people when he would inevitably call them by the wrong name? And before anyone asks, yes, it had happened. Twice. And one of those times had been with a woman.

So, yeah.

But that doesn’t really answer why he was going to get fired, now did it? No. The reason was that all of his annoyingly paired-off friends had dragged him to the club, filled him to the brim with alcohol, stuck man after man at his side where he had been dancing with the occasional woman thrown in to mix things up a little, but none of them had had that perfectly-styled goatee nor the blue eyes that seemed to see into Stiles’ pine-scented soul. And no, it was not a Christmassy scent because the Christmas trees were not pines, they were spruces, the best trees were spruces, thank you very much. But anyway, he had drunk, he had danced, he had fooled around but had taken no one home because, for fuck’s sake, none of the guys thrown his way had been Peter.

It was maddening and it was sad and he had been so mad and sad that he had just left when his friends weren’t looking and flagged down a cab. Home alone, he had made the perfect decision to wank because despite him not sharing his bed with anyone, it made no sense not to enjoy the simplest pleasures of life. It had been a little lonely, though, so he had snapped a picture of his dick, just as sad and lonely as Stiles felt, standing – hah – just as alone in the room, and texted Scott about his misery because they were platonic life partners for life and nothing could weird them out about each other anymore – their teenage years were a proof of that and no, he was not elaborating, bro code declared that – and then promptly wanked the hell out of his dick.

And then he spent the whole of Saturday nursing the hangover of the lifetime and on Sunday realised he hadn’t texted Scott – because when his bro messaged him, there had been no pics on the chat log despite Stiles remembering sending it as he was one of those unfortunate drunks who remember every fucking detail of his drunken shenanigans – and saw that he had accidentally sent the dick pic to his boss with caption, “I wish this one had company.”

His boss. You know. Peter Hale.

The same Peter Hale who Stiles had to see almost every day because he was his boss. The same Peter Hale whose eyes seemed to follow and scrutinise his every move with this inscrutable look because he doubted Stiles was doing a good job on his, you know, job. The Peter Hale who found it necessary to guide him by touch because, apparently, Stiles didn’t look like he knew how things worked. The Peter Hale who probably didn’t even know Stiles’ name because he just smirked that smirk of his and called him ‘dear’ and ‘love’ like he did everyone else because that was just how Stiles’ life rolled and how did he know that, well, he had heard him call someone who had messed up badly ‘dear girl’ with so much derision that the assistant editor had quit immediately after she had been chewed and spat out like yesterday’s leftovers.

Which he was about to do now too.

To Stiles.

He had gotten to work on Monday after panicking the whole of Sunday and managed to avoid seeing any of the Hales and laid low. He had actually managed, somehow, miraculously, to lay low thorough the entire week to the eternal gratitude of Derek and growing perplexity of Laura. Peter, he had learnt, had been overseas for the week so Stiles had hoped he had forgotten the text had ever happened. He had almost managed to convince himself it had never even happened, that it all had been a bad dream, until, on next Friday, he got a text from Peter telling him to come to his office.

So, all in all, he was so getting fired. What was he supposed to do then when he no longer could admire that butt? Wait, no. Bad Stiles. Financial stability over hot guys, no matter how Hale they were.

His priorities clearly needed sorting.

Feeling meeker than ever before which was an achievement on its own, he took the elevator up to the right floor and knocked on Peter’s door even if it was left open, slipped in and closed it, wincing as it locked behind him. Well, at least there would be no one to witness the humiliation he wasn’t going to forget, ever. He hoped, at least, that there would be no extra people or hidden cameras. He scanned around the room quickly and, yes, there were only him and Peter there. Oh joy. At any other time his imagination might’ve had a field day since there were just the two of them – office sex was any office worker’s dirty dream, no exceptions – but now? Now he just wanted this embarrassment drowning him to end.

There Peter stood, his back to Stiles, watching out of his window from which Stiles knew he had the most gorgeous view to the city. He looked well, too. Despite the trip to Europe and the time difference between the continents, he had this fresh look on him that belied everything. His clothes, however, were a bit more casual than usual and, oh boy, Stiles couldn’t help his eyes raking over him before he could control the impulse. His shirt was a V-neck instead of his usual dress shirt – which, though, made him look sinfully good even if the deepness of its neckline had to be illegal – and he had designer jeans on rather than tailored trousers that brought out his assets. He still had his dress shoes on but, fuck, those sort of enhanced the classy casual look he was rocking if that made sense.

Stiles reluctantly met Peter’s eyes. They immediately captured his and Stiles mechanically followed the gesture that asked him to take the chair before the desk. He almost slumped down before he remembered why he was there and tensed again, sitting with his back straight.

Oh gosh, he was going to get fired, kicked out, meeting the curb, he would bring dishonour on himself, dishonour on his family, dishonour on his cow-

What, he might’ve anxiety binged a few – or all – Disney movies this week, sue him. No, don’t, he won’t have any money left after he’s fired in a few minutes and he didn’t want to go to jail, do you know what happens to guys like Stiles in jail? Sure, he might’ve built some muscle after high school and his teenage years kicked his ass but not nearly enough to survive jail!

Peter took out a bottle of something out of his cabinet and two glasses and oh gosh, he was going for the gentle rejection and then the last meal kind of thing but only with last drink before sending him to jail.

The bottle was opened with a quiet little pop and it became clear to Stiles that Peter knew exactly how to treat a wine bottle so it would do as he wished and he probably knew how to bend the laws of physics while he was at it because Stiles sure still needed that trick with the shoe and the wall. Why did this man have to be so perfect?

“Do you know why I called you here?” Peter asked and, yeah, that voice would sound perfectly in place in the bedroom and Stiles cursed that it would never be his. Not that his had enough class for Peter anyway but that was beside the point.

Stiles wanted to die.

“Because I accidentally sent you a dick pic,” Stiles blurted and flushed bright red in humiliation. There. He had said it. He just hoped the promised gentle rejection came quickly so he could let the ground swallow him up afterwards.

There was a strange jerk in Peter’s movement and a few drops of the wine fell on the table. Stiles automatically reached over and wiped it off with the tissue he always kept in his pocket.

“Accidentally?” Peter asked, deceptively calm, and finished pouring the drink. Stiles nodded, refusing to meet his eyes.

“I promise, I didn’t mean to!” he rushed out. “I was drunk and sad and there was this club, you see, and my friends took me there because I hadn’t gotten laid in so long and they were tired of me complaining about it but I was drunk and it was awful because noneofthemwasyouand then I left and it seemed like a good idea for some reason it was meantforafriendanddidIsay I was drunk so I had a little accident although my dick is not little oh my gosh I didn’t mean to say thatpleaseignorethat-”

Peter raised his hand in an effort to stop the flow of Stiles’ words which, admittedly, had started to slur a little with the speed they were coming out.

“Please don’t fire me!” he squeaked out before he bit his tongue to stay quiet.

“Does this mean that you don’t know how to handle your alcohol?” Peter asked and, wow, was that a reference if he should even be offering him wine?

“I have a pretty good tolerance,” he said because, hey, he hadn’t been that long out of college that the tolerance he had built would’ve disappeared. Peter arched his brows in that specific way that told Stiles to continue. He did. “But that night was just miserable.”

“So I understood,” came the dry answer and Stiles averted his eyes. The wine glass closest to him was nudged a little so he picked it up as cued. “So, you’re single then?”

“Well, yeah,” he admitted. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have sent that.”

“Because, how did you say it again, ‘that one would’ve had company’?”

Now that was just unnecessarily cruel. Why would Peter extend this humiliation? It wasn’t like Stiles had done anything but pined from afar and that’s it. Sure, he had looked a little but so had everyone else but his family probably – could you imagine Derek’s face if Stiles asked him that? – because, as mentioned before, they were all hot as hell. Supernaturally hot. Fuck, they were probably werewolves or something like that because they were hot without all that glitter and sparkle the vampires nowadays were made of.

Stiles bit his lip, and then licked it to sooth the hurt. He stayed quiet. He heard a short intake of breath but focused on his glass of wine. He wondered how quickly he could down it. It was Friday again, after all, what was another weekend spent drunk? But that was what had driven him to this situation. Clearly the city air didn’t work for him, he should’ve never left Beacon Hills and just stayed there despite the fact that he hated the stifling small town everyone-knows-everything vibe and look-it’s-the-Sheriff’s-son reputation he never could shook off. Probably because he was the current and most-popular-since-ever Sheriff’s son, so, yeah.

Maybe he now would have time to visit Scott and his father since his calendar suddenly looked oh so free.

“Stiles, I’d like to apologise to you for-”

Stiles’ head snapped up. “Why?” he blurted. “Are you taking back the wine? You can’t, it’s my gentle rejection wine, please don’t take it away even if you want to send me to jail. You can’t have it!” he announced and downed the glass in one go.

Shame. The aftertaste told him it was of great vintage.

Peter blinked a few times before giving a helpless chuckle. “No, Stiles. I wasn’t taking back the wine. Do you want another?”

“Why, so you can see for yourself how stupid I am when drunk?”

“No! Christ, where do you get these ideas?” Peter shook his head. “Forget it, I wanted to ask you if you’d be open for a date but I guess I’ll just have to accept a rejection, then.”

Stiles’ mind blanked. “What?” he croaked.

Peter took a sip of his own glass and grimaced slightly. Was his wine off? Stiles’ hadn’t been. Probably. It had been a little difficult to judge since he had downed it so quickly. “I have been trying to make my intent clear for you but it didn’t seem like you were interested. I was about to give up when you sent that picture while I was on my way to the airport. I thought you might’ve finally gotten my hints but I guess it was not meant to be.”

“What?” he repeated before his brain rebooted. “What?! You – you – are interested? In me? What? What?! How? When?”

Peter sighed. He drank the rest of his wine and poured himself another. “This is a nightmare.”

“No, it’s a dream come true!” Stiles said before he could think and Peter lifted his gaze to his in surprise. Stiles soldiered on. “I mean, if you were serious?”

“I was, am, serious.”

“Great! Then so was I! I mean, what the fuck, I didn’t think this was actually ever going to happen but if you’re not kidding me then hell yes oh my gosh this is happeningisthisreallyhappening-”


Stiles shut his mouth with a click and took a sip from his refilled glass. Yeah, this wine was some very fine vintage. Classy for classy people, wasted on someone like Stiles. He noticed slight movement and looked over to see Peter flex his arms before leaning closer. Stiles felt his breath quicken at the sight and he saw Peter’s mouth quirk.

“You would be open for a date then?”

He opened his mouth to answer before shutting it, nodding instead.

“And the reason you didn’t answer to my, ah, advances before was…?”

Stiles nodded before realising that he couldn’t answer nonverbally. He cleared his throat. “I didn’t think you were interested since it was, you know, me. I’m a bit, uh, yeah, I just thought you thought I was poor at my job.”

“Heavens no! You’re currently one of our best editors according to Laura, and I know for a fact that she is playing around with the idea of promoting you to editor-in-chief someday. Even Derek thinks grudgingly, I admit, that you’re good at what you do.”

“What, really? So I wasn’t imagining that? And I knew he had a heart under all that eyebrow!” Stiles exclaimed and quickly set his glass down before he sloshed it everywhere. Peter looked at him, the blue of his eyes warm and welcoming, and Stiles didn’t think he had seen anything better in a long while.

A thought flashed through his mind, and he couldn’t help but frown.

“But wouldn’t that go against the code of ethics? With you being, you know, my boss?”

Peter snorted. “What makes you think I’m your boss?”

Stiles’ brain short-circuited. “But, you’re always on our floor!”

“Because I’m looking after my sister’s children, not because I work there. Did you ever wonder why my office was on the same floor as the marketing?” Peter’s lips twitched. Stiles felt like someone had hit him with a club or a baseball bat. “I confess maybe spending a bit too much time on their floor though because one of their editors had caught my eye.”

Stiles felt a smile make its way on his face.

“So, you aren’t my boss?”


“And you’re interested? In me?”

Peter nodded, smirk spread over his lips. Stiles didn’t care. He could smirk all he wanted, Stiles knew he liked him too.

“And you’re still willing to take me out?”

“Do you want it written down?” Peter asked, rolling his eyes. “Perhaps sent a gold-embroidered invitation?”

Stiles thought about it for a moment.

“I could settle for a kiss,” he said and, suddenly feeling bold, added, “and knowing what’s on the table. You’ve already seen what I have on offer. In picture form. With proper measurements and all.”

The expression of Peter’s face could only be described as hungry and Stiles had a brief moment of clarity that he was so glad that door behind them was locked and, oh, he now knew what that look from before had been.

“That could be arranged,” the silkiest answer to ever silk caressed Stiles’ ears the same time Peter’s hands reached him.

They never did manage to make their way to the reservation Peter had – just in case – made in advance. They did, however, go out on Saturday after, you know, making sure both of them knew what was on the table. And under it. And against it. Also in written form, just to be clear.

And the best part?

That one never lacked company afterwards. Ever.

And neither did Stiles.