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A ring of water gathered around Kira’s third Shirley Temple. Lights from the casino’s main floor fragmented, splintered, and bounced off the ice as Kira’s back hunched, every burst of laughter, swell of cheers, and sharp percussive swearing made her hands shake. Her firm was eager to send their top accountants to Vegas for a retreat and training, but Kira would have rather stayed in Beacon Hills.
She saved her latest spreadsheet and sighed, her teeth worrying her lower lip as her phone pinged.
How are you holding up, sweetheart?
It wasn’t fair, how a simple text could make the anxiety shudder out of her shoulders and her lips curl into a warm smile. She leaned back in her chair, dragging her phone to her. There was a small part of her that felt guilty that she couldn’t share the rest of her peers’ enthusiasm for the loud city, gambling, and constantly shouting “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas,” so many times that Kira thought she was going to puke.
She was thrown back to memories of kindergarten, of her mother’s firm grip on her arm as though the tighter Kira was held, the less she’d tremble. You can’t be afraid of new experiences, was the command that was repeated to Kira over the years. It wasn’t that she was afraid but she would prefer to not be alone. Even if she was in a group, sometimes there was that pervasive feeling of being… well…
I’m fine. Getting work done and drinking Shirley Temples.
She sent Bobby a picture of her untouched glass. It had only been two days since she kissed him goodbye, early in the morning so that he was half-mumbling her name against her I love you, gotta run. Two days was nothing, but she still missed him. She swirled her straw, the clinks of ice twinkling in time with the casino lights, with how her heart squeezed at the thought of going back home in a few days.
Back to listening to Bobby scream on the lacrosse field, back to double-dates with Peter and Stiles, back to the feeling of five o’clock shadow on her shoulder first thing Sunday morning—
Fingers gently tapped her shoulder. Kira blinked, her fingers tightening around her phone. She turned, expecting a coworker or maybe an exasperated waitress ready to plead with her to just try one of their many, many cocktails—
“Excuse me.” A familiar grin flashed at her, the lines in his face deepening as his smile widened. He was wearing a neon blue, pink, and yellow Hawaiian shirt, khaki shorts, all topped off with hideous socks and sandals. For two days, Kira had whined about tourists, and the embarrassing agony that came with being a tourist… and here he was, dressed like a nightmarish caricature. “I’ll be darned,” Bobby leaned his elbow on the table and lapsed into one of the worst attempts at a Midwestern accent that Kira had ever heard, “if I can find the elevators around here. Can you help me out—?”
He was cut off, because Kira twisted around, her chair falling to the side because she was too busy leaping into his arms. Bobby stumbled back, his arms moving quickly to catch her, to hook around the back of her thighs and pull her close.
“Oh my God.” Kira pulled back for air and Bobby followed for more, biting her lower lip because he knew how much she loved it. “Oh my fucking God, what are you wearing?”
Her toes finally touched the ground again as Bobby let her slide from his grip.
“You like it?”
“No.” Kira giggled, her face ached she was smiling so much. She pulled at the shirt, her fingers shaking because it was hideous and hilarious. “I love you.” His smile still softened at that, a barely noticeable shift from crude mania to soft, syrupy warmth. Kira leaned up on her toes to taste it. “I love you so much.”
His fingers tightened around her arms. His ears were red and there were no jokes, no hokey accents when he kissed the corner of her mouth.
“I love you too.”
The rest of the casino blared around them, colorful bursts of wins and losses diverting the attention away from Kira and Bobby, from her scrambling to get her laptop into her bag before she took Bobby’s hand with renewed energy.
::::
Stiles shifted on Peter’s bed, the feel of cool sheets against his bare skin hypnotic. In the back of his very tired, barely conscious mind, he felt the lingering ache from Peter. Bites on his thighs, scratches down his back, and the memory of lips on his skin lulled him to sleep. Stiles turned on the bed, sheets slipping down his chest as he rolled onto his stomach. He heard Peter’s phone ring.
The bed shifted and Peter, who could wake up on a dime, rolled over. Stiles thought that Peter would ignore the call and slide his fingers down Stiles’s back, pressing his lips to his shoulder before going back to sleep. Instead, he listened to his boyfriend hiss at the harsh light from his phone and accept the call.
Peter Hale only accepted calls, regardless of time and occasion, from very few people. Stiles didn’t need all the fingers on one hand to count them. And since one of those people was half-conscious next to him, it narrowed the pool considerably. Stiles drifted, his body light and he knew it would be easy to slip back unconscious, like pulling a heavy blanket over himself during a snowstorm.
“— four in the morning, what is—” the bed lurched as Peter got up suddenly. “You what?”
If it was earlier or later in the day, maybe Stiles would have woken up, but it was four in the morning. Sleep was more important. He turned over and went back to sleep as Peter got up. Stiles wasn’t sure how much time had passed when Peter started shaking him.
“Guh,” Stiles batted Peter’s hands away. “No. I want to sleep.”
“Stiles,” Peter pinched Stiles’s arm. “Stiles, get dressed.”
He cracked an eye open to see that it was still dark outside. Stiles threw himself back onto the pillows.
“No.”
Whatever weird shit was going on, Peter could handle it—
Peter yanked on Stiles’s legs, dragging him down the bed.
Stiles didn’t get dressed so much as Peter dressed him. It was how Stiles swallowed a yawn, dressed in sweatpants, one of Peter’s college shirts, and flip flops as Peter peeled down rural roads until they crossed the border into Beacon Hills. When they stopped Stiles glanced around at the lawn, narrowing his eyes.
“Is this… is this Finstock’s place?” Peter didn’t answer and Stiles was tempted to go back to sleep in the car until he saw Peter pull out his keys. With a long sigh, Stiles got out of the car, shivering in the chilly witching hour air. He walked up the crooked stone path to the steps that led to Finstock’s front door, where Peter slid in a key easily and unlocked it. “Peter… does he know that you have a key?”
“No, he does not.”
Peter closed the door behind them. Stiles had been over Finstock’s place a handful of times, usually when they went out together, they’d go their separate ways once dinner was over. All the times he’d been at Finstock’s place was with Peter, yet Peter moved confidently through the space.
Stiles kicked off his flip flops by the door and shivering as his toes hit hard, cold wood. He followed Peter at a much slower pace to the master bedroom.
“Peter.” His boyfriend had opened up Finstock’s closet and he was shoving hangers to the side until he came across hangers with protective plastic around them. He made a noise of victory and laid out… a dark suit and tie on the bed before he grabbed matching formal shoes. He switched to the other side until he got three different dresses, each one pretty and bright. “Peter. You and I have done some weird shit, but this might be the weirdest. What are we doing? What happened?”
It wasn’t that Stiles was worried. Peter could take down empires if he put his mind to it, just like Stiles. Kira called them the supervillain couple. They wore that name with pride. Peter called her and Bobby the dizzy-puppy couple because, like dizzy puppies, the way Bobby and Kira fell over each other with affection was… cute.
Supervillains didn’t go after dizzy puppies. If anything, they protected dizzy puppies. Stiles sat on the bed as Peter dug through Finstock’s desk with precision that was… actually pretty sexy. Stiles watched with fascination as Peter extracted Finstock’s playbooks with speed, bending over to reach deeper into his desk. He growled.
“Kira and Finstock got married.”
Stiles blinked.
“... to each other, right?”
Peter found whatever it was he was looking for and pocketed it. He twisted around so Stiles had the honor of witnessing Peter Hale roll his eyes.
“Of course they got married to each other.” Stiles let out a small breath of relief. Peter was still agitated, grabbing the suit and dresses, draping them over his arm before he pulled Stiles to his feet. “Come on. We’re going to Vegas.”
Stiles stumbled after him, jamming his feet back into his shitty flip flops. He buckled his seatbelt as Peter carefully hung up the clothes in the back so they wouldn’t get wrinkled. Stiles passed out with the window down, the sun still not out as Peter headed for the highway.
Desert heat blew back Peter’s hair as he stopped the car at the valet. Stiles jerked awake, wiping drool from the corner of his mouth.
“Holy shit, you really drove all the way to Vegas.”
He fumbled with the glove compartment, shoving on sunglasses as Peter got the clothes from the back. Peter tossed his keys to the valet and kissed Stiles, nipping his lips and tongue because that bastard knew it was a surefire way to really wake Stiles up.
“My best friend got married and the ceremony was officiated by a Dolly Parton impersonator.”
Stiles checked Kira’s Instagram and sure enough, there were pictures of the entire night, a blurry selfie of her and Finstock, shots of casinos, lights, tourists, with the big finale being a neon pink chapel. The caption was: Because everyone does Elvis. Stiles laughed, even as ice-cold air conditioning and a wave of noise blew his hair back.
“Look, Peter, I know it didn’t all go according to whatever plan you had,” Stiles wove his fingers with his boyfriend’s. His darling psycho supervillain who, without a doubt, had spreadsheets about Kira’s wedding. Probably several spreadsheets. Stiles pulled, forcing Peter to slow down on the way to the pool deck. “What are you going to do, make them annul their wedding just so they can get married again?”
“No.” Peter’s voice wavered, and he shook himself, squaring his shoulders. “No. Of course not. But… a little formality is always appreciated. It’s a memory that they’ll have for the rest of their lives.”
Stiles loosened his grip with a smile. In for a penny, he thought as he spotted Kira and Finstock.
:::::
When Peter met Kira, he met a woman who had the perfect smile and posture. She was quiet, listening to everything before she contributed to a conversation. She was smart and careful. Peter didn’t ask a lot of questions, because he liked her. They worked for the same firm, a big building with a bigger budget that cast a shadow on the surrounding businesses around them.
Kira was a breath of fresh air.
She was the one who convinced him to suck it up and just go after that detective you flirted with at the bar. She was the one who slowly started to let her smile get crooked, to laugh with Peter when he’d complain about mediocrity and lack of efficiency in their day to day. After work, when they’d stay too late at the bar and Kira would sleep at his place, she’d sometimes get quiet.
She told him why she could smile perfectly, why it was easy for her to pretend and make all the key parts of her face adapt to the image. She’d been twisting the pajamas Peter let her borrow in her hands, her smile slanted and watery when she thanked him. He’d hugged her tight enough that a few places in her back popped.
When she started dating a lunatic high school lacrosse coach, Peter had his doubts.
Everything about Robert Finstock was abrasive. His voice, his body, his posture, it was all… rough, unrefined, and strange. Kira had been secretive, for the first few months of her dating her mystery man. Months of getting texts and calls that would make her grin, months of giggling around stories of him, until finally they all agreed it was serious enough to start introducing each other to their friends.
When Peter shook Finstock’s hand, Finstock brought their hands together with a clap, and when he said, “Nice to meet you, Peter,” his voice was like broken glass in a dark alley. Nothing about him struck Peter as right. Peter had imaged all sorts of partners for Kira until they were a misshapen chimaera of a perfect significant other in his mind. Vague images of twinkling smiles, polite laughter, and elegant dance partners were dashed against the rocks when it was clear that… apparently Kira’s tastes were very particular.
Particular tastes or no, Kira deserved the best.
“What on God’s given Earth are you fucking wearing?”
Finstock and Kira were under a large umbrella, Kira’s legs in Finstock’s lap as they sipped coffee. Kira twisted around, as though her feet weren’t resting on pink board shorts paired with a color-clashing tank top. Heart-shaped sunglasses caught Peter’s revolved expression and the slow grin that accompanied it made Peter’s stomach twist.
“Peter,” Finstock waved, a plastic ring on his pinky finger, obviously from a prize meant for a child. “Good morning. Or is it afternoon?”
“Afternoon, dude.” Stiles held out his fist for Kira and Finstock to bump. “It’s like, almost four. Congrats on getting married.”
“Thanks!” Kira laughed, high and carefree that helped steady Peter’s hands as he dragged over chairs to drape the clothes over. She stuck out her left thumb where Finstock’s first lacrosse championship ring glittered. It wasn’t close to fitting her finger. “Marriage is awesome.”
Peter watched Kira closely, how her smile was blinding, how when she looked at Finstock— her husband— her eyes softened. She reached for him and he caught her hand, his fingers playing with her ring and his answering smile pressed against her knuckles.
Kira excitedly told them everything. Finstock surprising her dressed as the world’s most obnoxious tourist, her having renewed energy to actually explore the city, play a few games, which somehow led to them getting sentimental with improvised vows in a Dolly Parton chapel. The more she elaborated, the more Peter relaxed.
Was it the wedding Peter imaged and had planned several different scenarios for?
Absolutely not.
Yet, as Peter took a few steadying breaths under the hot Las Vegas sun, he couldn’t imagine Kira smiling the same way she was now, relaxed and giggly. She took a deep breath and her eyes returned to Peter.
“So, did you drive all the way down here to yell at me?”
She was joking, of course, but Peter knew there was that thin, quivering line of worry that Kira always had wrapped around her ribcage. Stiles, thankfully, held his tongue while Peter gently let the memory of his spreadsheets fade.
“No.” Peter took a deep breath. “Maybe at first. But now, I’m here to congratulate you. And,” Peter brought her in for a hug, delighting in how she squeezed him tight around the middle. “To help with a small, more formal night.”
“God,” Finstock shook his head, “you’re such a control freak.”
“He is,” Stiles hummed dreamily, “it’s one of his many qualities. Just go with it.”
Peter snapped his fingers.
“Finstock, you’re with me.” He bent down to kiss Kira’s forehead. “We’ll be right back.”
The moment Finstock stood up, Stiles took his seat. Kira laughed, her shoulders just a bit more relaxed than they had been a few minutes ago. Finstock kissed her, for three-and-a-half -heartbeats before he slung his arm around Peter’s shoulders.
“Lead the way.”
::::
Really, it was one of the easiest decisions in Finstock’s fucking life to surprise Kira in Las Vegas.
Ten hours in a car and a ridiculous outfit was nothing, not when Kira’s mouth dropped the way it did, how she hugged him tight and kissed him like they were on a hillside in Europe and not an obnoxious casino.
Finstock was dressed as a tourist, so he was going to act like one. They went to cheesey magic shows, watched acrobats twist into incredible shapes, and even stopped by the Spearmint Rhino where Kira got a lapdance and the whole event ended with four dancers laughing it up at Kira’s stories.
It was obnoxious, expensive, and constantly running into one eyesore after another… but Finstock couldn’t have stopped smiling even if he tried.
Kira sat outside of yet another casino, tilting her head back.
“My feet are killing me.”
She leaned against Finstock’s shoulder. Even though it was well past two in the morning, it was still hot as hell out. Finstock took off his sunhat and started fanning them both with it.
“Ditto.” He pushed his sunglasses up onto his forehead and pulled her in closer, his hand on her hip. “I’m going to sleep like the dead tonight.”
Kira hummed against his chest. The world turned around them. Girls woo-ed their ways into limousines, boys slapping each other on the back, and so many lights that Finstock wondered if eventually there would be enough light pollution to block out the moon. Kira’s fingers reached across his stomach to his free hand.
“It doesn’t matter where we are.” She hugged him tighter before she pulled back. A bit of her hair had fallen out of her ponytail, and he tucked it behind her ear. Kira smiled, her cheeks flushed. Still get surprised by that stuff, huh, Finstock ran his thumb over the swell of her cheek. Kira’s breath hitched, but she continued. “It doesn’t matter what we do. If I’m with you,” she laughed quietly as, across the street, a bachelorette vomited on the sidewalk, “I know that at the end of the day… everything is good.”
Leaning forward for a kiss was like breathing, instinctual and natural.
Sweet nothings wasn’t something Finstock particularly enjoyed before, because in his experience, it wasn’t genuine. With Kira… her sincerity was so brutal and relentless that it made him ache. She kissed his brow. She always did that when she could tell that he had a hard time breathing. He could blame it on the hour, the long drive, or the dry heat… but it would all be bullshit.
Kira could take him out at the knees with a glance. When she spoke, quietly but with precision… God, she was deadly.
“I love you,” and it was nuts… those three words still sent skittering flashes of wonder, lust, and so much affection that he was drowning. “Bobby—”
Her voice wavered and cracked. Her fingers were cold against his, and he had to clear his throat a few times before he could speak.
“I know, Kira, I love—”
“Bobby.” Kira’s lips were pressed into a thin line… and then suddenly she went slack. Down the street, a bachelor party fell out of a strip club as an off-duty dealer smoked their last cigarette. Her hands shook in his, but her smile was wry, crooked. Perfect. “I want to marry you.” His hands spasmed in hers, his heart thundering in his chest, his body numb but his lips pulling back into a bewildered smile as Kira smacked her hand hard against her forehead. “Wait, shit, shit, I did it wrong. What I mean is,” Kira took a deep breath, “Bobby, will you marry me?”
He had a ring.
He had a ring, because Christ he never thought he’d get married but then he met Kira and… it was like all the things he thought were impossible were suddenly possible. He’d been stashing it in his desk drawer, under his oldest playbook. When Kira would work late he’d roll the velvet box between his fingers, his heart beating faster and faster.
Kira made a soft noise when Bobby stood, adrenalin moving him in jerky movements as he pulled her to her feet. She took in a breath, he saw her expression flicker with doubt, like he’d say no.
He kissed her.
“Yes,” he moaned against her tongue, he swept her up, off her feet and spun her, just so he could taste her laugh. “Yes, Kira, I’d be honored— it would be my— I was g-gonna ask you—” She kissed him like she loved him, like they were already married, which was probably why the next thing out of Finstock’s love-drunk mouth was, “Want to do it now?”
It was impulsive and silly, but it was also those kind of moments that made Kira smile the most, laugh the hardest.
Hours later, Peter and Finstock got off the elevator on a floor that was not where Kira was staying. He followed Peter, because ignoring Peter was like ignoring oncoming traffic: it was an all all around bad idea. Peter slipped a card key and opened a door, waiting for Finstock to go in before he followed. Finstock took off his shades and rubbed his eyes, readying himself for… some kind of warning.
When he took his hands away from his eyes, he saw one of his suits spread out on the bed.
“Uh,” Finstock’s were numb, sluggish as he watched Peter set out a nice pair of cufflinks. “Where did you get that?”
“Your house,” Peter rolled his eyes. “I made reservations at Libertine Social. My card is on file.” Finstock stared and Peter paused, lifting his eyes to meet his gaze as though he somehow didn’t have a key to Finstock’s house and didn’t carefully pack away his best suit. “What? Take off those eyesores.”
Shaking his head, Finstock follows the instructions, kicking off the shorts and pulling off his shirt. Peter gets the pressed white button-up ready and Finstock caught how the man’s eyes slid over the various imprints of teeth on his skin and the scratches down his back.
“Married sex is great.” Finstock winked. “You should try it.”
Finstock felt victorious when Peter blushed as Finstock pulled on the rest of his suit.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Finstock looked at himself in the mirror, fiddling with his cufflinks. When he bought the ring, he’d agonized over how he would ask, over what would be the best way to do it… and Kira stole the words from his lips. Peter came up behind him. “One last thing,” he slipped something into Finstock’s pocket. “Have a nice dinner.”
Peter pulled back just as Finstock stuck his hand into his pocket, his fingers brushing against a black velvet box. His heart stammered in his chest and he caught Peter’s shoulder before he could slip out of the door.
“Peter,” it was difficult, because Finstock wasn’t an idiot. He knew that wasn’t the guy a man like Peter Hale hoped their best friend would marry. Peter Hale really was a supervillain, smart, sly, and focused. And now… he had that supervillain caring about him. “Thank you.”
His gratitude was met with a warm smile.
“You’re welcome. Congratulations on your marriage.”
He was alone for a few moments. Finstock’s hands didn’t shake and he toyed with the small box in his pocket, his grin widening before he walked to the elevator. The more the machine whirred, the calmer Finstock became until the doors opened to the lobby, to where Stiles was waiting, and Kira was there… in a dress that Peter must have grabbed from their closet.
The sun was blistering, the slot machines were shrill, and the smell of hard booze was thick in the air.
Finstock held out his arm. Kira took it, and everything was beautiful.