Chapter Text
Stiles was pretty sure this whole situation was illegal.
Very ironically illegal. Not the Alanis Morissette version of irony either. Because despite all the annoyances the nineties pop star sang about, there wasn’t a single irony in the list. A death row pardon two minutes too late was just bad goddamn timing. An entire generation of pop fans were walking around misusing valuable figures of speech.
And don’t even get him started on using literally to describe things that aren’t true. No one was "literally going to die" if they didn’t get a cup of coffee. They were “literally” going to be just fine, though potentially tired and short-tempered without their caffeine fix, and Stiles couldn’t care less—literally. The next person who told him they “could care less” was going to get an ear-full of just what that phrase was supposed to mean.
God, he needed more Adderall. And a nap. And a good fuck. Possibly not in that order.
But anyway. Ironically illegal, and definitely unethical. He should know, he'd worked his ass off for six years at NYU to earn his Juris Doctor after all. Now that he was a law clerk and studying for the bar exam, he could safely say there were rules about twelve-hour workdays, with no break, and only a granola bar and a cinnamon latte for lunch. A firm the size of Whittemore-Finstock had to know this.
He wouldn’t have even had the granola bar-latte combo if it wasn’t for his work bestie Kira, one of the baby-lawyers—technically they were called associates—dropping them off on her way back from a meeting downtown. He wasn’t sure how long ago that was.
He hadn't made it to his desk that morning before he was swept up in a hurricane of demands from co-workers.
He spent the first few hours of the day in the associate bullpen, uninstalling and reinstalling the latest Outlook update on a dozen panicked lawyer’s cell phones. Immediately after that, he unjammed the fax machine—he would like to know why the hell anyone still faxed these days—helped a clueless delivery kid stack a metric ton of legal paper in the storage room, and replaced the color toner in all three printers during “lunch.” Apparently, the low toner notifications were “annoying” the biggest jackass of the junior partners. The cartridges weren’t even empty, and he was tempted to sell them on eBay because even used those things cost a fortune. After lunch, he got roped into spending the afternoon three floors down in records storage, pulling hard copies of files from 1997 for the newest senior partner.
He’d like it to be noted that only one of those tasks was even tangentially his job, and it wasn’t the software updating.
Stiles discovered his passion for research during high school. If there was one thing his ADHD-addled brain was good at, it was hyper-focusing on a task that interested him—diving into a never-ending web of knowledge was like Christmas morning. Even when his mind was going a mile a minute, and bouncing from topic to topic like a caffeinated pinball, he could make jackpot connections when it counted. It had gotten easier as he got older, but there was still the occasional kickout hole, or in a worst-case scenario, that devastating line up with the middle drain that could send him from hyper-focused to hyperactive and useless. Most of the time he had enough pegs and bumpers set up to keep the ball in motion until he won the game with a kickass high score.
The Adderall was also a big help, and a noticeable absence when his mental metaphors dragged on as long as this pinball one had. He didn’t even play pinball, but the Wiki was at the end of a research thread on Murakami that ended several hours too late.
Despite his exhaustion—and lack of medication—wading through file boxes labeled with the meticulous penmanship of Name-Partner Robert “call me Coach” Finstock’s former secretary was currently part of his job. Up until her retirement six months ago, the iron-willed woman had refused to upload her carefully organized records to any type of off-site server. For the most part, it was only an issue with the long-time clients, or when a new employee needed to be brought up to speed, so the senior partners let her do things her way.
Now she was off enjoying her retirement, and someone had to drag the firm—swearing the whole way—into the modern world of cloud servers and indexed, searchable databases.
Stiles had been a clerk for less than a year, so he was incidentally lowest on the totem pole for shit assignments. That meant when he had been hand-delivered the short straw by a smirking Jackass Whittemore, Esq.—Mr. Toner-Cartridge himself—the son of the other company’s other name partner, David Whittemore, he dove into the paperwork headfirst.
Despite Jackson's glee, individually scanning and indexing file rooms full of confidential documents was more interesting than it sounded. Stiles thrived on knowing things, and sorting through old papers to find pertinent information gave him a giddy kind of high. Six more months and he would be the resident expert on all of this information, which would hopefully make him invaluable.
As soon as he passed the Bar, he was going to climb the hell out of the company ladder. Jackass could suck it.
So, while tedious, it wasn’t the worst assignment. Stiles’ real problem was Finstock’s newest senior partner. The lawyer didn’t seem to care that Stiles’ uploading was a finely-balanced, meticulously-designed system, built around a method of sorting information that only one other person had ever understood. Pulling files randomly without dismantling the system was time-consuming, not to mention annoying.
It didn’t help that the man never told Stiles what he was looking for, just sent him scurrying to the file room multiple times a day in search of an obscure spreadsheet or expired contract that he always needed on his desk ten minutes ago. It was infuriating.
This time it was a series of briefs, thousands of pages of precedent on hostile takeovers from 1984 to 1996. For some reason, the over-payed bastard needed the files as soon as fucking possible, at four-thirty on a Friday afternoon. First of all, did the asshole never go home? And second, why did he have to inflict his slave-driver tendencies on Stiles? How was any of this legal?
Stiles barely restrained his scream of frustration. Instead, he paused by the elevators on his way to the file room to bang his head against the wall.
It had been a long goddamn week. He was running on fumes, not enough food, and even less sleep. And he was horny, dammit. He was so close to finishing his very last set of scans for the week before leaving, was even daydreaming about his alone time, when his inbox notification flashed. The maddening little icon had quickly crushed his visions of a long, stress-relieving night with an empty apartment and the carefully hidden toy box under his bed.
Stiles had a sweet set-up roommate wise, but the man was almost always home and awake in the evenings, and the walls were painfully thin. For weeks he had been confined to quick morning jerk-offs in the shower, muffling his groans and whimpers with a hand clamped over his mouth.
Unfortunately for his dick, Stiles was one-hundred percent incapable of being quiet while getting off. A fact made painfully obvious one mortifying night when he was sixteen and his father burst into his room, gun drawn, thinking he was being attacked, or kidnapped, or something.
He and his dad quickly made a pact that the incident would never, ever be spoken of again.
The only positive to the situation, was that Stiles didn't have to tell his dad he was gay. The vibrator shoved up his ass and very explicit porn streaming on his laptop had made that pretty damn obvious.
Tonight though, the apartment was his. His roommate had an event that was scheduled late, and Stiles was guaranteed to be alone until sometime after midnight. He had plans—detailed ones involving the box under his bed—that he had been looking forward to all week. Potentially being stuck at work until who knows when was throwing a lawyer-sized wrench into everything.
He banged his head against the wall one more time with a groan. “Fucking Lawyers...”
“Keep it in your pants, Bilinski. No one wants to hear your fantasies.”
Stiles choked on another curse as he flinched backward. “Shi—sorry, Coach!”
Finstock was dressed in his typical disheveled style—tie a little bit crooked and jacket creased from lack of care. He was about a month past due for a haircut and sporting an intense grin that made him look just slightly deranged. He was also one of the best mergers and acquisitions lawyers in New York City.
Stiles figured that once your name was on the building, you didn’t need to prove yourself to anyone anymore. Not that he could imagine Finstock ever trying to prove himself.
His boss' grin didn’t waver at Stiles’ stammered apology. “It might be Friday, but you’ve got a few hours until quitting time. We aren’t paying you to make deposits to your spank bank.”
Heat flooded Stiles' face and he gaped helplessly for several valuable seconds. “But that’s not—” The elevator doors slid shut behind Finstock with a thump, and Stiles groaned, resuming his face-plant against the wall.
Terrific. Something else to add to the never-ending list of things his brain could torment him with at three in the morning. It would fit nicely in between the time he burst in on his roommate getting out of the shower and stared for way too long, literally drooling, and the time Jackson pulled his shorts down in front of Lydia in fourth grade, showing the entire class his penis since he forgot to put on underwear that day. Despite his hard-earned adult perspective, that one was currently his anxiety’s favorite.
Who knew that fifteen years later he would be living on the other side of the country and working for Jackson’s father. He was just waiting for Jackson—already a junior partner, much to Stiles’ annoyance—to bring up the incident at the next office happy hour.
Not that Stiles made it to many office happy hours, or out in general. Between the crazy hours at work, and studying for the bar exam, a night off wasn’t in his vocabulary anymore. Stiles’ social life consisted of Skype calls with his dad and his Beacon Hills crew, and the occasional late dinner with his roommate at the kitchen island.
He knew clerking for Whittemore-Finstock wasn’t an eight to five job when he signed on, but he hadn’t been expecting quite so many eight to eight, or later, days. This would make four this week, and Tuesday he had been in at six to prepare for an early meeting. He hadn’t fallen into bed until almost midnight.
He was only twenty-four, and he was already getting too old for this shit.
His back ached, his legs ached, and if he was being honest his dick ached. He was pretty sure one more email request from the entitled bastard down the hall was going to make his head explode. His ping-pong brain kept ricocheting back to the toy box under his bed, the brand-new bottle of pricey lube in his nightstand drawer, and his blissfully empty apartment. An empty apartment that he was now doubting he would see on this side of midnight.
Without lifting his head, Stiles flailed out with one hand, hitting the down button on the elevator. The sooner he found those files, the sooner he could go the hell home.
Hours later, jacket over his arm, tie loose, and sleeves rolled up to his elbows, Stiles made his way back toward his desk. His vision was blurry, eyes gritty from dust and exhaustion. Rounding the corner to the row of cubicles, he suddenly discovered that yes, his night could still get worse.
The toe of his shoe caught on nothing. As he stumbled, he clipped his shoulder hard on a cubicle wall. He couldn’t do anything but watch with a sinking heart as all 1500 pages of case precedent hit the bullpen floor, and exploded into a flurry of white disaster.
Off balance and flailing, staying on his feet suddenly seemed like way too much effort for ten o’clock on a Friday night. Stiles gave up and landed on his knees in the middle of the scattered papers, hands limp at his sides. “Oh, fuck me sideways.”
“Kinky.”
Stiles’ startled hard as a smooth voice purred from over his shoulder before polished shoes stepped into his line of sight. His head jerked up, and his eyes skimmed over the immaculate dress pants and perfectly tailored jacket, then slowed to drink in broad shoulders and perfect Windsor-knotted tie centered at the base of the muscular neck.
Finishing his unintentional and probably blatant appraisal, his eyes locked onto the smirking blue of Peter Hale, the firm’s newest senior partner. The man who was responsible for him being at work hours after everyone else had gone home. The man he had been cursing under his breath, and fantasizing about in equal measure for the last six months.
Stiles knew he had been in the office all day, but Mr. Hale’s tailored three-piece suit looked like he just took it off the hanger, buttons done and edges crisp. It hugged the lines of his body in ways that made Stiles feel like a disheveled mess, and did terrible things to his libido at the same time.
All at once Stiles realized he was frozen on the floor, his heart thumping, too off balance to scramble to his feet, and unable to look away.
The corner of Mr. Hale's lips twitched up and he stepped forward, pristine dress shoes stopping half a stride too close for personal space.
“A bit forward though, don’t you think Mr. Stilinski?”
Stiles tipped his head back to maintain eye contact, lips parting automatically at the tense stretch of his neck. As he often did in Peter Hale’s presence, he struggled to keep track of the conversation. Did the man think Stiles was hitting on him? From the floor?
Mr. Hale’s eyes narrowed and Stiles sucked in a shaky breath, heat flooding his face and down his chest, his fingers and toes tingling in what was probably a full-body blush. If he hadn’t already been fighting low key arousal, he might have been able to ignore it. As it was, being on his knees with Mr. Hale standing over him and forcing him to look up was doing things to his brain that were very much not-safe-for-work.
Stiles’ hands scrambled across the floor as he searched for something to hold onto. As if that would give him back control of the situation. His fingers closed on a file folder and he pulled it across his lap, hopefully hiding the problem happening in his pants.
He wanted the new senior partner. Desperately. The lawyer was smart, ruthless, and undeniably sexy with his perfect looks, room-dominating presence, and devastatingly sarcastic commentary. Stiles found himself helplessly swinging from thinking about setting the bastard on fire just to shut him up, to restraining himself from crawling into his lap and rubbing against him like a cat.
Looking up at him now it was definitely the second one. He wanted Mr. Hale to grab him by the tie, pull him up, and devour his mouth. Wanted to cross his wrists behind his back, and lean forward to get his mouth on the no-doubt impressive cock hidden in those well-cut trousers. Wanted Mr. Hale to sink hands into his hair, and press that cock down his throat until it cut off his breathing, and made his eyes tear as he tried to take it all in.
Mr. Hale’s smirk widened.
Stiles was so screwed.
He forced himself to take a steady breath and hunched forward to gather more papers. He was embarrassingly hard now, breath trying to come too fast, skin flushed with heat and sweat beading on the back of his neck, along his collar. His voice, when he finally found it, was strangled.
“Sorry, Mr. Hale, I didn’t know anyone was here.” He could already hear Lydia in his head, berating him for hitting on his boss and getting himself fired. It sent his heart racing faster. “I uh, promise I don’t. I mean, I try not to swear. Shit. That’s not— Um, professionalism is, like, super important. I would never suggest—I mean, say to a client that—I wasn’t implying that I want you to fuck me— Goddammit... I didn’t mean to say that.”
He felt dizzy with the heat flooding his face and Stiles prayed the floor would swallow him, or that his burning skin would spontaneously light the papers on fire and cause a distraction so he could escape. He risked a glance up and saw Mr. Hale with one eyebrow raised, lips twisted in an expression Stiles couldn’t identify.
“Spontaneous combustion would be an impressive feat—if you’re asking my opinion. I'd be sufficiently distracted.” His lips twitched.
Stiles, resident expert at making situations worse, gaped at him for a minute, mouth opening and closing several times before any words made it free. “I need some Adderall.” As soon as he heard himself he groaned, covering his face, papers still clutched in one hand. “I mean, I have a prescription—I’m not abusing it or anything—it’s just, it wore off hours ago, and I've got no filter on the good days. I can’t believe I said all of that out loud, and right now I’m really trying to stop myself—”
“Mr. Stilinski.”
“—from explaining the history of spontaneous human combustion—”
“Mr. Stilinski.”
“—and how it was probably just overlooked ignition sources that—”
“Stiles!”
Stiles froze, his mouth hanging opened, eyes wide and locked on Mr. Hale’s blue ones.
“Pick up the papers and put them in my office. Go home. You can organize them Monday.”
Stiles continued to stare, blanking. “You know my name?”
Mr. Hale let out a put-upon sigh and—in a move that was both impressive, and really required more warning than he gave—leaned down and took Stiles by the elbows, lifting him to unsteady feet.
Stiles squeaked alarmingly and tried not to flail or drop his protective shield of papers. Luckily, Mr. Hale maintained his hold for the long seconds it took for Stiles to get his legs under him, or he would have ended up right back on the floor.
“Yes, Stiles. I know your name. Now, I want you to listen to me.” He moved one hand and gripped Stiles by the jaw, tilting his face up. His palm was hot, and Stiles couldn’t suppress a shiver at the sensation, fighting to focus on his words through a haze of heated arousal that wasn’t fading anytime soon. “What did I tell you to do?” Mr. Hale’s eyes were so close, and so, so blue.
Stiles licked his lips and tried not to squirm. “Pick up the papers?”
“And?”
“Put them in your office, then go home.”
Mr. Hale’s lips twitched up. “Good boy.”
Stiles couldn’t suppress his full-body shudder or the soft whimper that slipped free. It was enough to pull him out of the moment.
“Oh! Ah… shit.” Stiles took a hasty step backward. “Sorry, sir...ah. Mr. Hale—”
“Peter.”
Stiles had a feeling his blush was permanent at this point. He ducked his head, trying futilely to hide it. “Peter,” he repeated dutifully. This entire conversation was definitely getting added to the three a.m. anxiety checklist.
Mr. Hale—Peter—reached out again and closed a hand around Stiles’ bare wrist, giving it a squeeze. Stiles’ eyes slid shut, and his brain went offline. Everything was still and quiet at the sensation of hot skin and firm pressure against his hammering pulse.
“Have a good night, Stiles.”
A moment later he was gone, and Stiles was left reeling, cock hard and aching, papers still scattered at his feet, and the imprint of Peter’s fingers burning around his wrist.
So, so screwed.