Archive of Our Own ^beta

Peter entered his bathroom and laid his robe to rest on the counter- folded twice and neatly over his arm. He moved to set his phone against the charging station he had for it, by the mirror, but stalled when the black screen awoke and flashed the name “Mischief” across his lockscreen.

Stiles.

The phone vibrated gently in his hand, and Peter crossed his brow at it. It had been a long time since Stiles- or anyone from that social grouping- had reached out to him. He thought it’s probably an emergency , but continued to let it ring away. When the phone fell into silence, falling back into its natural state of high-gloss black, Peter placed the device in its intended spot and continued to ready himself for his shower.

He'll leave a voicemail. He thought. They can wait.

However, at the last minute- from an annoying scrap of good conscience that fluttered around in the back of his head like a panicked moth- Peter returned to his phone and texted Stiles: “What?”

He waited.

“Can I call you later?” Stiles replied- casually but quickly.

Not an emergency, then . Peter thought, delighted by the way his anxieties left him alone.

“Yeah.” Peter texted back, sans punctuation. “I’m showering.”

“Oh, nice.” Stiles responded.

Peter sighed to himself. Still a weird kid. He thought. He placed the phone back down in its designated spot and walked the few feet between his bathroom counter and his shower. He pulled the glass door open, turned the water on, and got inside.

It wasn’t long after he applied shampoo to his hair that his phone went off again.

Peter glared at it, through the fogging glass around him, and wondered: Maybe it was an emergency. The wings of guilt and worry were back to beating his spinal cord. With a disgruntled groan- annoyed with his own inability to ignore what could possibl y be so important that Stiles would need to contact him - Peter shut off the water, with soap still clinging to his body, and made the tile-laid-journey back to his phone.

All the text said was, “Send me a picture of your hair up in a spike.”

Peter blinked at it. Squinted at it.

Is he serious?

He took a moment to look up from his phone and catch himself in the mirror. Between the whites of the walls and the natural lighting that spilled in from the skylight, he didn’t look bad. His eyes looked great . The bits of his chest that would show in a self-taken picture also looked great, with the way the water from the shower framed his collar with condensation.

Again, he looked back to his phone and thought is he serious?

Peter figured it had to be in reference to something, but couldn’t match it to a single thing in his head. He tried to scan it for hints of some kind- some kind of hidden message within the ridiculousness- but still came up empty. Could this be what he was calling me about? He considered. It seemed unlikely, but the thought to ask Stiles specifically why he wanted a picture of this never crossed his mind; he only thought why not?

So, with a shrug, Peter took his free hand and he pulled the access hair on the top of his into a point. He swirled the newly created tip into a curl, for stability, and turned to admire his angles with this new adornment.

-

Stiles’ phone went off in his pocket, causing him to coyly slump down in his seat and sneak a glance at it. The dimly lit screen implied that the reply Peter had just sent him was attached to an image. Stiles couldn’t help but laugh.

“Oh, holy shit.” He stammered with joy. “He really did it.”

Scott sat across from him at the table they were seated at. He perked up at the sound of Stiles’ laughter and leaned in with curiosity. “What?” He asked, with a smile crawling on his face that met at a half-way point between honest happiness and slight worry.

Stiles pulled his phone out and rested it just below the lip of the table. The attachment was a well-posed, well-lit, and artfully censored mirror pic of Peter Hale- with a unicorn horn, crafted from only his hair. Something about his expression screamed that thought he looked hotter than shit, and that made Stiles want to scream with hilarity.

“Oh, nothing.” Stile dismissed, waving Scott off and slipping his phone back into his pocket. A wide smile possessed his face, and he shook his head. “Peter’s ego just sunk the titanic.”

Scott chuffed. He threw his head back, slightly, before nodded with understanding. “And still, you want to meet up with him while you’re here?” He teased.

“Yeah.” Stiles said, nodding back in response. “Don’t know why ,” He said. “But, I figure, why not ?”