Scott looks wide-eyed at Stiles from his seat in response to his partner’s aborted question.
“I'm sorry dispatch, did you just say there is a guy skiing down Minnesota Avenue?” Stiles repeats with a baffled voice.
The sound of static fills the air before the dispatcher's voice confirms their earlier statement.
“Good grief,” Stiles mutters under his breath as he shifts their cruiser into gear and starts to drive.
“That...is definitely a guy skiing down Minnesota Avenue,” Stiles acknowledges with a confused squint.
“In July,” Scott adds, his voice sounding impressed as he leans forward to get a better look out of the windshield.
Stiles side-eyes his partner, and Scott shrugs back.
“Think he's drunk?”
“Dunno. If he is, he's got some great balance,” Stiles says. “I can't even stay upright when I'm on the snow,” he grumbles under his breath.
Scott turns his head to the side so Stiles can't see his grin.
“Well, let's go talk to the guy. If he's sober we can at least inform him to wear a headlight so people can see him,” Stiles says with a sigh.
“I'm sorry, let me get this straight,” Stiles says while rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You're fighting over Jesus?” At this question, everyone turns to look at the man in question. Or more accurately the velvet painting of the man in question hanging on the living room wall above the sofa.
“Well, just because he found religion doesn't mean I need to have it shoved down my throat,” huffs the old lady as she glares at her husband.
“Hey, what did Jesus ever do to you?” declares the old man indignantly. “Other than die for your sins you old hag.”
The old lady's mouth drops open, and she starts to raise her tiny fist again.
“Whoa whoa whoa,” cries out Scott as he catches the woman's wrist gently. “Let's not get violent,” he says, “again.”
Stiles just snorts behind his back.
“That's disgusting,” Stiles states with a wrinkled nose as Scott gingerly reaches out to take the ice cream sandwich with a dead goldfish in it from Mrs. Hubert.
Scott looks ill and flinches when the woman plops it into the palm of his hand.
“Do you have any idea who may have any malicious feelings towards you, Mrs. Hubert?” Scott asks politely as he studiously avoids looking at his hand.
“No, I just opened my mailbox to grab my mail and there it was just lying there,” the woman says in offense.
Stiles rolls his lips to stop from laughing out loud. Instead he ducks his head and hastily writes in his notebook.
As the two walk away Stiles starts to snicker. Scott hits him in his arm before wiping his hand down Stiles’ sleeve. “At least wait until we get back in the car,” he hisses, and Stiles snorts in reply, hand clamped tight over his mouth as he makes his way to the driver’s side.
Stiles has always wanted to follow in his father, the sheriff’s, footsteps ever since he could remember his first ride in his dad’s cruiser as a kid. Baby Stilinski had big dreams of fighting crime and saving the damsel in distress, hero of Beacon Hills. As Stiles grew older he realized the dream of being the big hero probably wasn't going to happen. At least not in good old sleepy Beacon Hills he thinks with a sigh of resignation as he drops his head against his desk with a groan when Tara calls out that old lady Cline’s two cats are stuck in her front tree again.
“Come on man,” Scott says in amusement as he claps his hand on Stiles’ shoulder, “I'll buy you some curly fries from the diner after we save Tootsie and Mr. Pickles.”
“Again,” Stiles grumbles under his breath. “After we save them again.”
Stiles rolls his neck as he approaches the fancy black sports car. He had clocked it hitting the town line doing 75 mph in a 55. As he strolls up to the driver's side, he idly thinks about what he's going to have for dinner.
“License and registration,” he requests automatically after the window rolls down.
An older man with piercing blue eyes calmly hands over the requested documents, and Stiles takes them back to his cruiser to run them.
When he returns to the car he rips off the ticket and hands back the man’s license and registration.
“What? No hello how nice to see you, Peter?” the man asks mockingly.
Stiles rolls his eyes. “Hale, stop speeding. Actually keep speeding. It helps me meet my quota,” he says blithely.
He waggles the ticket under Peter's nose until the man snorts and takes it from him.
“As usual, Mr. Hale,” Stiles begins drily, “Beacon Hills thanks your bi-annual contribution to our coffers.”
Stiles tips an imaginary hat at the man before spinning around and trudging back to his cruiser. Peter grins back wolfishly as he watches the young deputy’s ass in his side view mirror.
“So I saw that Peter Hale is back in town,” the sheriff says casually as he stabs at his power veggie salad with a vengeance.
Stiles raises his eyebrow at his dad’s actions. “What did the salad ever do to you?” he asks mildly.
“Exists,” the older man says wryly. “It exists, Stiles, and that is enough in my book,” he says with grimness as he attempts to stab a tomato, and it shoots off his plate to go bouncing across the diner’s tiled floor.
Both watch as it rolls until stopping at a pair of dark expensive heels.
The sheriff sighs in resignation in the hand now covering his face when he spots the owner of said shoes. When he looks up, Stiles is sipping from his water glass with a look of judgement.
“Mayor Hale,” the sheriff begins and Stiles snorts. The sheriff kicks his son in the ankle.
Peter steps out of the local grocery store to see Deputy Stilinski and his side-kick the McCall kid leaning against their cruiser in identical poses watching as old man Murphy drives drunken circles on his John Deere riding mower in the parking lot.
“Shouldn't you stop him?” Peter asks as he steps up next to the duo.
“Nah,” Stiles says nonchalantly, “Mrs. Murphy will handle him after she finishes getting her cigarettes from the Dairy Mart.”
“Huh,” Peter grunts and opens a bag of pretzels. He takes a handful before offering some to the other two men and settles in to watch the unfolding mess.
Stiles frowns at his beer. It's some weird shit Boyd had found at a local tasting and Stiles can't decide how much he hates it. A body sliding onto the stool next to him draws his attention away.
“Peter,” he says with a sigh of resignation, and the older man quirks an eyebrow in response.
After Boyd places a shot glass of some high end shit only Hale would order in front of the man, Stiles takes another swallow of his beer only to decide that nope, he's through and shoves it away with a look of distaste. He turns and stares at the older man in silence. Peter raises his shot in a mock toast before tossing it back. After settling both their tabs he gets up and Stiles follows him out of the bar soundlessly.
They're in the preserve and Stiles stands there with his hands on his hips staring at the cute tumbling puppies.
Peter stands next to him with crossed arms and looks from Stiles to the puppies and back again.
“You know we have animal control for this?” Stiles says dryly as the smaller of the two pups attacks his shoe and starts pulling on his laces. He gives the puppy a gentle nudge with the toe of his shoe, but it only seems to encourage it to attack harder.
When Stiles wakes up it's to tiny wet licks and dog breath. He wrinkles his nose and pushes his face harder into the pillow. The body behind him shifts, and Stiles reaches behind to grope for the covers. He burrows himself under the covers and falls back asleep.
The next time he wakes up it's to the smell of breakfast as he cries out his orgasm. A smug Peter gives him a filthy kiss as he whimpers in confusion and falls back against his pillow gasping for air.
“What do you mean you know?” Stiles asks in bafflement.
Scott wrinkles his brow. “Wait what are we talking about again?”
“Me and Peter!” Stiles cries out indignantly. “What are you talking about?”
“You and Peter,” Scott responds in confusion.
The two stare at each other and Stiles rubs between his eyes where he feels an oncoming migraine developing.
“How did you know about me and Peter? I know this is a small town, but even the speed of this gossip is a little unbelieveable.”
“Uh…” Scott scratches his head. “Everybody knows about you and Peter,” he says matter-of-factly. “We figured you didn't care and weren't trying to hide it.”
Stiles looks at him in bewilderment. “Of course I wouldn't care, but I just left his place like twenty minutes ago! For everyone to know so fast is a bit much,” he declares.
Scott squints at him. “But don't you always sleep with him when he's in town?”
Stiles’ mouth drops open in shock. “Do I? Every time? Wait! What?” he sputters back.
“Well yeah. Everyone knows the only reason Peter returns is for you. We figured since you didn't make a big deal about it, we wouldn't either,” Scott says with a shrug.
Stiles can only gape at his partner like a fish.
“Did you know everyone thinks we've been bumping uglies for years?” Stiles demands later that night as he walks into Peter's room.
Peter raises a brow at this question and purses his lips as he reaches for Stiles’ belt buckle.
“Well, did you?” Stiles gasps as the older man manipulates him towards the bed.
“Does it matter?” Peter asks back. “We’re fucking now,” he says as he pushes the younger man onto the bed and follows him.
An expensive black car flies past doing 75 in a 55, and Stiles flips on his lights and pulls out onto the road.
When he gets out of his cruiser he shakes his head. The window rolls down and a man's hand is already holding out his license and registration. The light catches on the gold band on his hand, and Stiles rolls his eyes.
“Seriously,” he deadpans as he crouches down, and Peter grins back at him while holding up a brown paper sack.
Stiles reaches forward, and Peter pulls it back. Stiles gives a sigh and leans into the car to give his husband a peck. “Still getting a ticket,” he mumbles against Peter's lips.