Peter's halfway down the hall to the conference room when his suit jacket begins buzzing, and he can't quite smother a grin as he juggles paperwork and his briefcase to get a hand in his pocket and pull out his phone. "Peter Hale," he answers brightly.
"Where the hell are my clothes?"
He has to bite his lip so he won't laugh outright. "I'm sorry, who is this?"
"Very funny, asshole," Stiles snaps. "I have class in fifteen minutes, where the fuck did you hide them?"
"Hmm," Peter muses as he walks. "Did you check the hamper?"
"The Jacuzzi? I think I remember you—"
"Oh my God, yes! I checked the whole damn penthouse!"
Peter reaches the conference room and sees Derek's already there, doodling idly on his legal pad. His nephew looks up and starts to speak, but Peter puts up a finger and crosses to the windows, where the sun is just coming up over the highrises and skyscrapers in the east.
"Stay over, you said," Stiles is saying in his ear. "Your classes are just around the corner, you'll save so much time, you said. Well, I'm not exactly saving much time if it takes me more than an hour to get dressed, am I?"
"I don't know what to tell you."
"Tell me where you hid my clothes, you freak!"
"Now, why would I do something like that?" Peter says softly, leaning up against the glass.
"Because you're a sadistic, possessive dickhead?"
"You wound me."
"If I could, I really would be wounding you right now. In the literal sense. With one of your fancy steak knives."
"You know, you could always wear something of mine," Peter offers lightly, as though the thought just occurred to him. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Derek turn to gawk at him.
Stiles makes an incredulous noise. "Are you fucking kidding me?"
"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean."
"Hell no, I'm not wearing your clothes, I'll look like a kid wearing his dad's— oh God."
Peter does laugh, then. He can't help it. Laura is just walking in, but at the sound she stops in the doorway and stares at him with suspicious, narrowed eyes. He gives her a little wave and pointedly turns back to the window.
"I fucking hate you."
Peter smiles, watching the sky slip from gold to blue. "You love me."
Stiles gives a disgruntled sigh. "An extremely poor life choice that I regret every day, by the way."
"Who the hell are you talking to?" Derek asks, spooked.
"Derek says hello," Peter relays, and Stiles swears at him.
"— and tell Derek his uncle is a depraved, clothes-stealing bastard!"
"Derek, Stiles says—"
"I didn't mean actually tell him!" Stiles yelps, as Derek's eyes go wide.
"Stiles? Stiles Stilinski?"
His voice must make it through the phone, because Stiles yells, "Goddamnit, Peter!"
"What?" Peter says protestingly, to him and the conference room at large. "What did I say?"
Laura, now sitting across from her poleaxed brother, sighs and shakes her head. "You are a sick, sick man, Uncle Peter."
He tips an imaginary hat to her. "Thank you, sweetie."
"I hope you like being single and horny," Stiles threatens.
"Marios for dinner?"
"You can't buy me off with food!"
"Maybe I want to apologize."
"Maybe you're full of shit."
"Darling, please," Peter simpers, and Derek gags.
"Shut up, oh my God, how many people are in that room? No, you know what, I don't want to know. Ignorance is freaking bliss."
"Is that a yes?"
"No! It's a no, it will continue to be a no. I'm taking this sweater, by the way. The light blue one with the fancy knit on the front."
Peter had bought it yesterday, hid it under the bed until he could lay it out for Stiles to find in the morning. "Oh, that old thing."
"It's the only thing in this entire closet that doesn't scream Ruthless Billionaire CEO."
Derek's head is in his hands. "Please, no."
"Pants, pants, pants…" Stiles says under his breath.
"Try the bottom right hangers," Peter can't help suggesting, and there's a suspicious silence on the other end of the line.
"… and if I look under this row of neatly pressed slacks that just happen to be exactly my size?"
"There may be shoes," Peter confesses, and Stiles groans.
"Fuck it, I'm late and naked is not a good fashion statement," he says, and Peter puts another checkmark in his mental list of victories. It's a very long list.
"See you tonight, then?" he asks.
"Don't press your luck."
"I'd just hate to see that reservation go to waste—"
Stiles hangs up on him, and Peter gives the screen a little peck before he pockets his phone.
"Just, anyone but Stiles," Derek is saying. Whining, really. "Anyone."
"You're saying you'd prefer it if he was dating Allison Argent? Or Scott?" Laura asks archly, and Derek moans, "Why would you even—?"
"Alright, ladies and gentlemen," Peter says, setting his things on the table. "Shall we get this meeting started?"
"Cradle-robber," Laura says.
"Pedophile," Derek accuses.
"Boss," Peter reminds them, and opens his current accounts binder. "Now, if you'll both turn to page 13…"