Chapter Text
With a bright orange flash, smoke and flames explode behind them, right into the face of the blue monster advancing towards the blood-covered tree. Thankfully, the power of the explosion is directed away from them, but the force of it still pushes Stiles and the two wolves a few steps forward until they are pressed against Peter’s dented car. White spots dance in front of his eyes from the brightness of the flashes.
After it is over, he breathes in heavy smoke and blinks rapidly until he can see something again. Free to move once more, neither of them waste any precious seconds. Stiles rips open the back door and shoves Scott inside before throwing himself into the passenger’s seat. Peter is already behind the wheel and turning the key in the ignition as Scott shouts: “Go go go!”
Through the trees to their right hand side, Stiles recognizes a figure swaying out of the billowing smoke, but Peter is flooring the gas pedal before the monster can gather its bearings again.
After their spectacular escape, they all take a moment to breathe heavily. Then, Stiles turns around in his seat to face Peter. “ ‘Let’s party’? Really?”
“Why don’t I take a few more minutes next time to think up something cooler while you and lover boy get gutted?”
And – well, that’s completely fair. It was a moot point anyway.
“Does anyone know what the hell that thing was?”, Scott asks from the backseat.
“Except a freaking big problem? No idea.” Stiles peers at Peter and the Hale shakes his head in negation as well.
Scott sighs. “Guess the dryad problem just got bumped up on our priority list.” Then he meets Stiles’ gaze and starts grinning. “Dude, you totally used magic back there!”
“Not bad for the first time, right?”, Stiles laughs back. Scott gives him a high-five and Stiles has to weirdly lean backwards over the backrest of his seat to meet him. When he turns back around, his gaze catches on Peter’s face.
The skin around his eyes is tense and his brow furrowed ever so slightly. If it were anybody else, Stiles would interpret that expression as them being in pain. But Peter would never show vulnerability like that. Right?
While looking at the guy, he is a bit relieved his fire rune didn’t work like intended. He is pretty sure it was because blood is not the best substance to draw with and the smeared lines caused the explosion. Next time he has to work with blood, it might be better to draw it on the floor so it can’t slide down. He grimaces at the thought of having to push a shard of glass into his skin again. Hopefully, he will have a sharpie on him next time so he won’t have to fall back on blood ever again.
Nonetheless, it would have been pretty uncomfortable sitting in a car next to Peter Hale after invoking the element that killed his entire family and seriously burned him. Maybe the explosion was the better option. At least there is no raging forest fire endangering everyone right now. It is a small blessing, but Stiles has learned to take what he can get.
They drive for roundabout 15 minutes before turning into the first street of the wealthiest neighborhood of Beacon Hills.
“Of course you live here”, Stiles says exasperatedly.
“Of course I have taste, you mean”, Peter gives back smugly.
“Are we even safe here? You’re not really maintaining a low profile living here.”
“My penthouse is perfectly safe, darling, and also very comfortable.” Somehow, Peter makes that sound like a dirty innuendo. “Unless you’d rather go to that shabby loft my nephew somehow acquired?”
“And pass up the chance to possibly get murdered in an unknown apartment?”, Stiles bites back.
“At least at my place, there will be refreshments. I’m a much better host than my dear nephew”, Peter ignores his jibe.
“Just get us to safety”, Scott interrupts their argument from the backseat, and whoops. Stiles had kind of forgotten about him. Damn his ADHD.
Admittedly, a strong drink sounds pretty good right about now. While they drive into an underground parking garage, Stiles can feel the adrenaline slowly loosing its effect, making way for exhaustion and tiredness. And pain. His muscles burn from the involuntary half marathon through the forest and the cuts in his arm start to seriously sting. He makes a face when he realizes he is going to have to dig the shards out of his flesh later on.
A highly unwelcome voice pulls him out of his thoughts and he realizes that they have come to a permanent stop.
“Come now children, my place is at the top.”
Of fucking course it is. Stiles rolls his eyes but moves to follow Peter’s striding gait. Needless to say, there is no elevator – because werewolves, duh – and Stiles has to drag himself up five staircases with burning legs. His only satisfaction is the fact that Scott and Peter breathe heavily as well when they reach the top. While neither of them are actively bleeding out, their werewolf stamina seems to not have returned as of yet. That is concerning. And dangerous. That monster is going to be a huge problem for them.
Peter goes to unlock several different locks with distinct keys – paranoid much? – and pushes open a heavy door made of yew. And what if Stiles did some research after Peter mocked his lack of botanical knowledge? Sue him, it is going to come in handy training his spark with a druid.
The door swings open and Stiles has to admit that this penthouse is much better than Derek’s sparse loft. Peter waves them inside, shucking off his ripped jacket. “Welcome to my humble abode. Try to not get blood on my furniture.”
Humble his ass. One front of the penthouse has sky high windows, overseeing miles of Beacon County. Stiles zeroes in on the raised platform space in front of the windows and the swing chair next to a few potted plants. His fingers itch with the sudden desire to grab a book and curl up in the most perfect reading nook he has ever seen.
In the opposite direction, a winding staircase leads to the upper story, much more elegant and decorated than the one at Derek’s. Whilst surveying the space, Stiles notices there is no fireplace. He is seriously glad the fire rune didn’t work as intended.
Taking everything in, it is not the large windows, the expensive and warm lamps or the tidy bar that pull Stiles into their ban. It is the living area that appeals to him. A mustard yellow couch and multiple armchairs of the same color are placed on an incredibly fluffy looking beige carpet. The dark red and green cushions look soft and comfortable. It is nothing like what Stiles would have expected of Peter’s interior design and the sofa corner looks more inviting than it has any right to.
The color palette is not the only thing that makes him reluctantly feel at ease, however. It’s the little imperfections, the personal touches. An empty tea cup and accompanying pot as well as a folded newspaper decorate a low couch table. A yellowed book lies on the couch, bookmark sticking out. Behind the sofa is a cat tree tower. A short haired black cat lolls around the middle platform.
For a fancy rich space, it is incredibly cozy.
Stiles spins around. “You have a cat?”
“Penelope doesn’t like loud noise”, Peter reprimands him.
Penelope?, Stiles thinks confused.
“I love cats”, Scott says cheerfully. He steps up to the cat and starts scratching under her chin, provoking immediate purring. Peter shoots the cat a disappointed glare as if she betrayed him before he steps behind the bar.
Stiles feels like he is trapped in an alternate dimension. Standing in Peter Hale’s apartment while Scott pets the man’s cat is too bizarre to be real.
“I have to reach Kira and give the pack the all-clear after alerting them with my howl”, Scott says after a short petting session with Penelope. Peter hands him his own phone without comment. The man is being surprisingly cooperative. Then again, Scott could easily make him obey with an Alpha command and Peter wants to be able to at least pretend he does things out of his own will and not because he is forced to.
Scott steps to the side as he dials his girlfriend and Stiles walks over towards the bar, sliding onto a soft orange bar chair. Peter is in the process of expertly mixing a drink and distributing the clear liquid into three glasses decorated with lemon slices.
“Your refreshments aren’t gonna kill us, right?”, Stiles asks, even though he suspects Peter likes his kills to be bloodier.
“They might hurt your relationship with your father, but otherwise they won’t harm you”, Peter gives back, light grin playing on his lips, while taking a long sip. His mouth is still smeared in blood and his dark hair tousled, making him look like a vampire from a Hollywood movie. Dangerous, but attractive. Maybe even dangerously attractive.
Stiles snorts amused. “I think my Dad would actually be happy to know that for once, the trouble I’m getting into is something as mundane as underage drinking.” He puts the glass to his lips and slams the drink back with one large gulp. The alcohol burns down his throat in an uncomfortable and unfamiliar way.
He is pretty sure that he looks anything but dangerous and attractive. More like a plucked chicken, hair dishevelled by the explosion and flannel covered in little leaves and other dirt. The old familiar insecurity about his looks is climbing up his throat once again, even though he has worked hard on his self-esteem issues. Why does he have to be constantly surrounded by people way more attractive than himself? Damn werewolf physique. And Lydia of course, but she’s a goddess.
Peter merely raises an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a heavy drinker.”
“I’m not”, Stiles gives back, glad that for once, the wolves can’t smell his emotions, “but I’m in pain and it’s only gonna get worse when I dig these out.” He holds his arm up so Peter can see the blood-crusted shards still embedded in his flesh. Mottled bruises are already beginning to form there, too.
“Ah”, Peter states, holding out one hand towards Stiles’ arm. “May I?”
Stiles hesitates. What would Peter know about human injuries? Something is weird about the Hale since they got back here. His eyebrows are furrowed and even though his sharp eyes are directed at Stiles, he gets the feeling that the other isn’t entirely in the here and now.
It bothers him, knowing that not the entirety of Peter’s attention rests on him. Where is the Hale in his thoughts? Is Peter thinking about how he could team up with that creature in the hopes of putting one over on them? Is he contemplating how he could abuse this new crisis to seize Beacon Hills for himself and wield power over Scott?
God knows they have done enough to incur Peter’s wrath, even if those things lie in the past. Stiles knows that Peter hasn’t forgotten that they stopped him as an alpha. That they burned him, of all things, after everything that Kate made him suffer.
He shudders like he does every time he thinks back to that night, and it has nothing to do with the monstrous nightmare of Peter’s alpha form and everything with the fact that he willingly lit a person on fire suffering from such extreme emotional trauma.
Stiles refuses to feel guilty about putting an end to everything. Peter was insane and he had to do it, or they would all be dead right now. Still, he has no choice but to think how painful it must have been, spending six long years in a coma without your family by your side. To be trapped in your own head and go insane because there is no way out. And all the while the mass murderer that has the death of your entire family on their conscience and is responsible for the state you are in remains at large.
Stiles knows from his own experience how dark your thoughts can turn if there is no way out and you are fighting for your sheer survival. When you are at war with your own mind.
His body inevitably tenses and cold sweat collects in his nape. It is an uncontrollable reflex every time he thinks back to the Nogitsune. The memories weigh him down like a stone tied to his feet, drowning him.
Stiles will never be able to forget that time and he knows that at least in this regard, him and Peter are alike. Speaking of, Peter is still holding his hand out towards Stiles, waiting for an answer. His brow is furrowed even deeper than before and his dark gaze rests on Stiles as if he is trying to zoom through his front directly into his brain.
He forces his body to loosen the stiffness of his joints and relax as he nods at Peter in acquiescence. The look on Peter’s face turns pensive for a moment before he carefully picks up Stiles’ wrist. Stiles shudders again as muscle memory takes him back to that parking lot and Alpha Peter Hale. His grip had been surprisingly gentle then, too.
“Not deep enough to need stitches”, Peter decides after tilting his arm this way and that. “But you should take the shards out as soon as possible and clean the wounds.”
He drops his wrist and pushes the third glass over towards him. Something about his movements seems less fluid than normally, slower and more chopped. Stiles’ skin tingles where Peter touched him.
He lifts an eyebrow in question. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”
“I don’t know what you mean. This is against the pain”, Peter retorts innocently.
“Uh-huh”, Stiles hums, unconvinced.
It confuses him how mellow Peter is. It is like he never knows how Peter is going to behave. The Hale alternates between apparently egotistical and downright mean, changes from silky-soft voice if he wants something to inappropriate behaviour or startling sincerity.
It makes Stiles mistrustful and insecure. Every time they meet, Stiles has to ask himself the question: what is his angle today?
Scott comes back over and furrows his brow at the sight of the alcohol. Stiles notices with relief that the two deep gouges in his cheek have begun healing themselves during the short phone call. Slower than normally, but they are healing.
“You think that’s a good idea Stiles?”, Scott asks critically, nodding towards the second glass of alcohol Stiles is cradling in his hand. Silently, Stiles shows him his arm. In contrast to Scott, the cuts on his skin are just as angry and red as half an hour ago. Scott grimaces in sympathy, like every time he is confronted with Stiles’ humanity. It makes something in Stiles’ chest clench up, and he clenches his jaw in response to the unwelcome feeling.
“Okay, but don’t overdo it”, Scott warns him. Then he straightens up and changes into his role as their fearless leader.
“Kira is going to pick me up here in a few minutes and we are going to see if either Chris or Deaton know anything about that thing, now that we know what it looks like.” He turns towards Peter. “Can you let Derek know? I don’t want him to go on patrol tonight. Nobody should be in the forest alone right now.”
Peter looks at Scott and for a moment, his eyes stay glued to the healing scratches on his cheek. His eyebrows draw together slightly, but his voice is low and even when he snarks back: “Sure, I can call my dear nephew.”
Scott nods, satisfied with the answer, and pushes Peter’s phone back towards the man. He doesn’t seem to notice how Peter’s gaze rests on the right side of his face for an unusually long time before he steps away from the bar to call his nephew.
Stiles narrows his eyes. Is everything all right with Scott’s healing abilities? Did Peter notice something abnormal and is keeping it to himself so he can take advantage of some weakness of Scott’s?
“How far along are you with the translation of the Bestiary?”, Scott asks Stiles.
He shakes off his previous thoughts. “About halfway done, I’d say.”
Scott nods. “I want you to invest all the time you have to finish the translation and look for any clue about the creature from the woods. It would be best if you could start this evening.”
Stiles looks at Scott and his best friend’s face does something Stiles interprets as ‘I’m sorry’. What is Scott sorry for?
Oh no. He can’t mean…
“You want me to spend my whole night researching with Peter Hale?”, he groans.
Scott presses his lips together in a sheepish look. “It’s not safe out there anyway and you are our best researchers. We want to make sure that thing doesn’t go into the city center again, lest something worse happens in Beacon Hills. The best way to do that is figuring out as fast as possible what exactly it is.”
“Scott, I swear to you, if you have me research with Peter Hale for the duration of my summer break – “, Stiles threatens.
“It’s only temporary until the danger is over”, Scott is quick to assuage him.
“Sure.” Stiles is not very convinced. Nobody can say how long that is going to take. Or when the next crisis enters their lives during which him and Peter have to research together again.
“Good”, Scott says, as if Stiles had agreed enthusiastically. “And you should probably inform your Dad so he can look out for the deputies as long as that thing is running around the forest.”
“And explain the broken window in our kitchen before he has an aneurysm”, Stiles adds. Guilt churns in his stomach like every time the supernatural causes his Dad concern.
“Once we have checked your house out and made sure it’s safe, Peter can drive you home. I don’t want you driving around on your own”, Scott says with a pointed look towards Peter, who has just finished filling Derek in.
“I’m sorry, I must have missed the part where I turned into a professional chauffeur”, Peter’s eyes narrow as he puts the phone down. “I’m not a teenager with time to spare. I actually have a life and appointments I can’t miss.”
“If you’re so responsible, then how are you never there when the pack is in crisis?”, Scott shoots back, temper rising faster than normal. Stiles gets it, he is exhausted as well and they have all gotten a bit tired of constantly having to face new emergencies.
Peter snorts. “Never there? And where have you been oh so many times when one of you was in danger? Hasn’t hooking up with a hunter or kitsune been more important to you many a time?”
There is a tick in Scott’s jaw that can’t mean anything good. He rolls to his full height, taking a menacing step towards Peter.
“You know what, I’m not having this. You constantly ignore our issues and dodge pack meetings, all the while using our kindness to your advantage. This time, you are going to join in on the fun. You are going to spend the next hours of your time translating the Bestiary.” Scott’s eyes flash red. “That is an order.”
Peter bares his teeth in answer and Stiles sits up a bit straighter in alarm. But he needn’t worry. The canines stop growing before they have reached their typical length, making Stiles tilt his head to the side. Only now is he remembering that Peter got hit fairly strongly. Shreds of his shirt hang over his stomach, so it is difficult to see, but the skin that flashes through is red and unhealthy looking, the wound still not healing. Are Scott’s powers quicker to return because he is an Alpha?
Peter growls disgruntled but all of them know he can’t disobey an order like that if he doesn’t want the relationship to their Alpha to rip apart completely.
“Yeah sure, because I need a chauffeur”, Stiles pulls a face to show his displeasure. “It’s not like I saved all our asses out there.” But it is a token protest. He knows that Scott already made the decision and he is not very prone to changing his mind again.
“Yes, you did save our asses”, Scott admits, “and I don’t want you to underestimate the danger because of that.” His big eyes turn pleading and Stiles feels his resolve starting to crumble. “Promise me you won’t go home alone, Stiles.”
He sighs. “Okay Scott. I promise.”
And because Scott is going to leave him here after Stiles thought, for a moment in the woods, that his friend was not going to get back up again, he steps up to him and pulls him into a strong embrace. Scott goes along willingly and doesn’t say anything when Stiles clings to him a bit longer than normal for them.
His body heat sinks into Stiles and he can feel the tension leave him at knowing Scott’s pulse is steadily beating against his skin. Later on, once he is back in his own bed, he is probably going to have a freak-out about the possibility of losing his brother.
Finally, Scott takes a step back, keeping his hands on Stiles shoulders. “I gotta go. Kira and I will stop by your house to make sure it’s secure and text Peter once the coast is clear.” He looks at his face searchingly. “Will you be okay?”
Stiles knows he refers to more than Stiles’ emotional vulnerability. He is mostly talking about Peter. If Stiles is okay to stay here, alone, and spend time with the Hale.
Stiles meets his gaze head on. “I’m alright Scott. I’m with pack.” It is meant as reassurance for Scott and a warning for Peter. Should something happen to Stiles under Peter’s care, it would immediately put his place in the pack at risk.
It pacifies Scott, but when Stiles steps away from the bar to call his Dad with Peter’s phone, he can see the Alpha talking to Peter with a stilted expression. At least during their goodbye, Peter has finally rinsed his face off the blood, so their conversation looks mostly civil. From far away.
The call connects after three rings. “Sheriff Stilinski.”
“Hey Dad, it’s me. Don’t freak out okay?”
“Stiles”, his Dad says, voice exasperated. “What’s happened now?”
“There was a small incident.”
“How ‘small’ are we talking?” He winces at his Dad’s tone. The man knows exactly when Stiles is beating around the bush.
“So potentially, a creature attacked me and Scott at our house and chased us into the woods before we were able to escape it. But it’s okay! I’m with pack now, and will stay there for the rest of the night. Oh, and just so you know, it broke the window in the kitchen so don’t freak out when you get home.” He rushes through everything in the hopes of softening the blows.
A slow, measured breath escapes his Dad. “I swear to God, worrying about you will make me grey son.”
A weight settles heavily in Stiles’ stomach. “It wasn’t my fault!”, he protests.
There is silence on the other end of the line for a moment. His Dad’s voice is steady and serious when he speaks again. “Son, that is not what I was saying at all. Do we need to have another conversation about your guilt complex?”
Because they have had multiple ones, mostly on the insistence of his therapist.
Stiles actually takes a moment to breathe before he answers that. Also something his therapist instilled in him. Goddamn that woman. And how everything she taught him has been undeniably helpful.
“No Dad, we’re good”, he says seriously. “I’d bring it up with Dr. Elaine if it became an issue again.”
“Okay, that’s good Stiles. I’m proud of you son.”
“Thanks Dad.” Stiles can’t really be proud of himself for reaching the lowest point in his life and needing professional help, but he can accept his Dad expressing his love to him with that sentiment.
“And you are certain you’ll be alright?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Have a good night shift, okay?”
“I will. Oh hey, Carrie says thank you for the muffins you made me bring to the station.”
Stiles smiles. “She knows the deal, she’s covering your ass as payment.”
“Stiles Stilinski! I didn’t raise you to talk about my behind like that!”
“I gotta go!”, Stiles says and presses the red button, but not before quickly shouting “I love you” into the phone. The smile stays on his face because somehow, Dad and Melissa always make everything seem okay just by talking to them.
Across the hallway, Peter is just bidding goodbye to Scott and locking the multiple locks on the door. Stiles is honestly considering just closing his eyes and curling up on the barstool. Adrenaline is treacherous. One moment you feel at the height of your energy level, the next you crash. Hard. He’s pretty sure Peter wouldn’t take kindly to him falling asleep anywhere in his home though.
“Well then, get this cleaned up so you won’t bleed all over my cushions”, Peter says mildly on the way to the living room, where he regally seats himself on his couch, completely ignoring Stiles’ condition. The rigid nature of his royal highness is starkly contrasted by Penelope the cat jumping down onto the sofa and curling up in his lap immediately.
“There’s a first aid kit somewhere in my bathroom.” Peter waves his hand around into the direction of the bathroom, not an ounce of compassion in his attitude. Or maybe he is just preoccupied with giving Penelope all of the pets she demands.
The scene is not going to get any less weird the longer Stiles stares at Peter Hale cuddling up to a cat, so he only shakes his head to himself slightly and trudges towards the bathroom. Why a werewolf would possess a first aid kit is beyond him.
The bathroom is at least twice the size of Stiles’ bedroom and the most luxurious thing he has ever seen. A round bathtub with enough space for two adult men occupies one corner of the room, a rain shower with glass panels the other. The two sinks are made of marble, a chandelier hangs in the middle of the room and fancy little soaps with some brand logo decorate the vitreous holders. A giant quadratic gold-framed mirror hangs over the sinks and for the first time this evening, Stiles catches sight of his own face.
He looks horrible. One cheek is soot-stained, little blood splatters adorn his face all over and his hair looks worse than he would have expected after the explosion. His flannel has been ripped by small branches and his left sleeve is tattered at the places the shards have embedded themselves into his skin.
He discovers a very generous first aid kit under the sink where he finds everything he could need, from stark white bandages to tweezers and disinfectant. He sprays the tweezers with disinfectant and peels the flannel off his arm, wincing whenever it tugs on the shards. He eyes the cuts nervously since he has never completely gotten over his fear of blood. But he’ll be damned if he pleads for Peter’s help, so he clenches his jaw and gets to work.
It doesn’t take too long to dig around in his flesh, it is just the small pieces of glass that give him some trouble, but eventually he gets those out too. Unfortunately, jostling the wounds causes them to start bleeding again, although sluggishly. He resorts to dabbing them with his ripped flannel, sure that Peter wouldn’t appreciate him soiling the pristine white towels.
He washes the wounds out in the sink, then dresses them in bandages until his arm looks like a mummy’s. Uneasiness pools in his stomach at the thought and he has to fight himself to not rip them straight off again.
That’s in the past, it can’t get to him now.
Then he puts everything back where he found it. He eyes his flannel critically. It is completely shot. No chance he will ever be able to wear that again. He sighs and stuffs it into the small trash can next to the sink. His wardrobe has greatly suffered since he started running away from something weekly. It would surprise him if he even had two whole shirts left without blood stains or claw marks.
He splashes some water into his face in an attempt to get somewhat clean and tries to push his hair in an acceptable shape. It only works to a certain degree. When he is done, he joins Peter in the living room space.
The man is stretched out on the couch, Bestiary in his lap and a cup of tea in his hand. The cat is back on her pedestal behind the sofa, overseeing everything with big vigilant eyes. As Stiles observes how Peter’s dark hair falls across his forehead, he notices that he has never seen it this unkempt, completely without any styling gel or something of the like.
Even his attire is less flashy than usual, just a soft form-fitted black shirt and some comfortable looking linen pants. What was Peter up to before he picked them up, to have gone there so casually? Normally, he is very conscious of his style.
The soft clothes and fluffy hair make Peter appear gentler and approachable. Out of a sudden, he gets the urge to test his hair’s softness. Which he doesn’t, because he wants to keep his fingers.
Stiles more or less plops down into the corner of the couch, earning a contemptuous look from Peter. There are two cups of steaming tea on the couch table and a package of medicine. As he leans forward, he can see they are ibuprofen. And strong ones at that. Peter might actually be a far better host than Derek, even thoughtful enough to provide him with pain medication. Stiles swallows a pill with some tea and sinks down into the couch cushions, closing his eyes. He is so exhausted, his arm throbs and he just wants to sleep.
Which is why of course he is violently jostled a minute later. His eyes fly open as he’s being pushed to the back of the couch, a werewolf hovering intimidatingly over his smaller form. “What the hell are you doing?”, Peter hisses, eyebrows taut together in poorly concealed anger.
Is he out of his mind? Peter is the one acting completely unreasonable.
“What am I doing? What are you doing!” Stiles slaps Peter’s hands where they are twisted in his so far unmarred shirt. In vain. Even without full strength, Peter’s bigger and more muscular than him.
Peter growls and as close as they are to each other, Stiles can feel the vibration of his chest at the sound. “Let me make one thing abundantly clear: I am not going to work through the Bestiary alone.”
Peter’s body is unbelievably warm where it is pressed against his and Stiles’ heart is racing, but he still bites back: “What do you want to do, huh? Scott gave you an Alpha command.”
“And I intend to follow it to a T. I will spend the next hours of my time translating. But I’m not going to work alone and I will not be missing my very important appointment tomorrow because you were too tired to page through dusty books tonight.”
“The whole night?”, Stiles exclaims. “I can hardly stay awake right now!”
Peter bows over him. A clawed hand grips his chin and forces him to tilt his head back, so that he rests over the arm of the couch in a really weird position. He has to bare his throat and look upwards in order to see into Peter’s face.
“I don’t care if you are tired or exhausted, Stiles. You are going to work through the night. Because you’re a good little boy who obeys his Alpha, aren’t you?”
He shudders, pulse racing against his throat, and Peter’s fingers move just so to press threateningly against his carotid artery. Stiles digs his fingers into the sofa, fear blocking his throat.
He swallows. “You’re not gonna hurt me.” If he did, Scott would push him out of the pack faster than Peter could say I’m the Alpha and no matter what they all think of each other, Peter needs a pack right now.
He taps one claw against Stiles’ throat, nicking the supple skin below his chin ever so slightly. Something warm and slick slides down his neck and Stiles has to hold back a whimper, because the fucker actually drew blood.
“No, I guess I won’t. At least not overly so. But there are other methods I could use.” Peter bends down further until he is talking directly into Stiles' ear, hot breath fanning over his skin. “Believe me, I can provide you with enough incentive to work if you’re not willing by yourself.”
Stiles doesn’t doubt it for a second.
The grip around his throat tightens for a moment. “I need verbal confirmation, Stiles.” His fingers are so tight around Stiles vulnerable skin he wouldn’t be surprised if a hand-shaped bruise decorated his neck tomorrow.
He grinds his teeth together, but presses out a “Fine”. In the next moment, the body holding Stiles down is gone as suddenly as it came.
Stiles lies there for another couple of seconds, trying to calm himself down, chest heaving and softly massaging his throat with one hand. When he finally finds the strength in his body to straighten up, he glares daggers at Peter. “You’re a real asshole.”
Peter smiles back, more teeth than anything else. “Why thank you, I’ve been practicing my whole life.”
Anger pools in Stiles’ stomach and he wants to retort with an ingenious jibe – he would have thought of something cool, he’s sure – when he sees something dark on Peter’s skin that makes him pause. Faintly, in the soft light of the living room lamps, and for just a moment, it looks like faded red lines span across the right side of Peter’s face.
Subtly, he leans forward, picking up a notebook and letting his gaze wander as if by chance over Peter’s body. His ripped shirt puts the bloody claw wounds on display, completely unhealed.
Stiles’ eyes narrow. “Is there something wrong with you?”
Peter, not catching the way Stiles’ gaze is stuck to his body, actually laughs a short, dark sound. “There’s a lot wrong with me, darling.”
Yeah, not self-deprecating at all.
“I meant your wound.”
“What about it?”, Peter says disinterested. But he can’t fool Stiles.
“Come on, do you think I’m stupid? You know I have eyes in my head, right? I can see that your flesh is ripped open and hasn’t mended despite the fact that you’re a freaking werewolf.”
“Your astute observation skills never seize to amaze me.”
Peter’s voice sounds bored, but his eyes glint in anger. Now that Stiles is paying attention, he can see that the Hale is holding his body in a strange way. Every muscle looks strained and his chin is held tensely. He looks close to losing control, so close in fact that a person with strong self-preservation would stop pushing before something bad happens.
Stiles has never been one to back down, though. “Why aren’t you healing?”, he demands to know.
“In case you forgot, that creature sucked some of my abilities right out of me, like being able to self-heal.”
“Sure, but they come back. Scott already started healing when he left.”
“Well, thanks to you and your friends, I’m not an Alpha anymore.” Peter’s voice sounds bitter like every time he talks about his time as an Alpha. “I don’t enjoy the same benefits as our fearless leader.”
Stiles narrows his eyes, not missing that it’s been another hour since Scott left and even a Beta would have started healing by now. Peter isn’t actually denying that he is healing slower than normal for a Beta. Stiles’ nose is not as good as a werewolf’s, but he knows the scent of deflection from anywhere, metaphorically speaking.
And this, this stinks to high heaven.
“I call bullshit”, he says triumphantly, knowing he has managed to grab a loose thread and willing to pull on it until everything unravels.
“Leave it, Stiles”, Peter says, and there’s a subvocal growl swinging in his words, an edge of warning. He’s not even trying to hide that something’s off.
Oh, he so has him by the balls. And Peter knows it, too.
“You and I both know I won’t, so why don’t you tell me the problem so we can continue with your one true wish and research the rest of tonight?”
Peter stares at him pensively, undoubtably pondering if this is worth arguing over all night or to just get it over with. Or maybe he’s considering slamming Stiles’ head against a hard surface. Either way, he seems to reach a conclusion because he heaves a long put-upon sigh.
“I told you once why wolves hunt in packs.”
What is it with today and being reminded of that godforsaken garage with Alpha Peter? He nods absentmindedly, memory resurfacing.
“Yeah, you said it’s because their favored prey are too large to be brought down by an individual wolf alone. They have to work together to achieve that.” Stiles impatiently taps his fingers on his knees.
“That’s right. In order for that mentality to work, though, packs need to be able to rely on each other. So when one pack member is injured, instead of abandoning it, the others care for and protect it, even if it might seem disadvantageous in the situation. Huddling together brings the biggest chance of survival.”
“Great, wolves are rays of social sunshine. What’s that got to do with your wounds?”
Peter clucks his tongue in disapproval of Stiles’ impatience. “A werewolf’s ability to heal is greatly tied to their pack bonds. The stronger those are, the faster they can heal. Just like in the wild, a bigger pack with stronger relationships has a greater chance of survival.”
“So you’re saying you’re not healing because – because we all hate you?”, Stiles frowns confused.
“Tell me what you really think”, Peter says dryly. Stiles doesn’t feel sorry at all. “But yes, that is at least partially accurate. For one, my healing has been inhibited by that creature’s abilities. But it also stands that werewolves are bound tighter to their emotions than regular wolves because of their human half, which also means their abilities correspond to their emotions.”
“That’s why Scott’s control got better when he was in love and Derek was so quick to shift during the time he was always angry”, Stiles concludes. It does make sense for the supernatural abilities to react to emotions, a base instinct for survival.
“Yes. And because emotional intelligence tells us we are safest in a pack, it is when the pack bonds are strong that our healing is the most powerful.” A shadow crosses Peter’s face at these words, the corners of his mouth pulling down darkly. “I do not benefit from particularly strong pack bonds at the moment.”
Stiles hums pensively. “Is there a way to imitate that to make you heal?”
“Pack bonds cannot be faked.” Peter’s gaze turns, if possible, even darker. “And here I always thought you were supposed to be the smart one.”
Stiles’ cheeks burn in humiliation of being called out on his lack of knowledge. “Oh shut up. There’s no werewolf manual for humans, all I have is Google and occasionally Derek or you if you deign it useful to share information every once in a while. Cut a guy some slack.”
Peter’s expression makes it clear that he is not, in fact, inclined to cut Stiles some slack. “Seriously, you still use Google? Ecosia is much better”, he reprimands him, completely ignoring his point.
Stiles splutters. “What? Google is way more accurate than Ecosia!”
“Google is a giant corporation that is cutting corners where they can, while Ecosia puts the environment above personal revenue.” And Peter has the nerve to direct a judgmental eyebrow at him. Peter! At him!
Stiles’ eyes nearly bug out of his skull. “Are you saying you use Ecosia to be a better person?!”
“They plant trees, Stiles”, Peter defends his position. “Everybody needs trees. From binding carbon dioxide and producing oxygen to providing natural habitats and having a positive psychological and physiological impact on humans, trees benefit us all.”
Stiles’ head is spinning. He can’t believe he is having this conversation right now. Ecosia! They work with Bing!
He groans. “Oh my god, you sound like you really do live underground in the woods.”
Peter lifts one shoulder in a ‘what can you do’ sort of way. “I like forests more than the average person, yes. After all, they are a wolf’s natural habitat.”
Stiles is aware his mouth is hanging open slightly, but he can’t even with him right now, putting the option of a secret werewolf lair back out there again.
“Back to the point”, Peter reels him in before he gets too off topic, apparently deciding to indulge him by uncharacteristically sharing information. “Pack bonding.”
“Pack bonding”, Stiles repeats dumfounded. He has to shake his head to sort his thoughts and pick up where they left off. “Pack bonding as in a verb, like an activity?”
Peter nods and Stiles scratches his chin. “What would that even entail?”
“It can entail many things”, Peter states vaguely. “Closeness, providing for someone, emotional or physical contact – “
“I mean, cuddling is cool I guess – ”
“ – or scent marking.”
His eyes widen. “I’m not getting peed on!”, he cries indignantly.
Peter looks amused. “Nobody proposed anything of the sorts, sweetheart. That’s all your own thoughts.”
His cheeks burn hot as blood rushes to his face. How does Peter always seem to manage to make him blush so furiously? Whatever, it’s not like he thinks about this stuff. It’s just when you research wolves, there is a lot of weird furry-things online. The internet will be the internet.
Peter chuckles. He seems to greatly enjoy flustering Stiles, the little shit. “Relax, Stiles. Scent marking has nothing to do with that. It’s more related to exchanging clothes or sharing soft touches, like wearing a boyfriend’s hoodie or running a hand through somebody’s hair for example.”
“Oh.” Hearing it related to things done in a romantic relationship does nothing to diminish the redness coloring Stiles’ cheeks. Sometimes, his lack of experience feels so embarrassing he can hardly breathe.
Wait, did he hear that right? Did Peter purposefully say boyfriend instead of girlfriend? Like in a ‘I am gay’ or ‘I am bi’ sort of way? He never really thought about Peter’s sexuality before and Peter has never even mentioned a short or long-term partner. The possibility of Peter liking guys is making him feel a sort of way he can’t quite explain. But he ignores the feeling as best as he can by concentrating on the facts.
“So scent marking, among other things, strengthens the bond between pack members and stronger relationships mean faster healing.”
Peter tips his head in agreement. “In a nutshell, yes.”
He has to pause for a moment to comprehend the thoughts that are chasing around his head. There is so much there, so much to make of all this information.
What if – ? He almost doesn’t dare think it.
Stiles wants a strong pack. He wants them to depend on each other. To trust each other. For them to become a stable pack, one so strongly united that no other Alpha Pack or crazy hunter or demon dares to enter their territory. Dares to lay even a finger on one of their own. It’s a dream, an unattainable wish he has carried close to his heart for the past months, guarding it in its impossibility.
Maybe not that impossible any longer.
Peter’s words flit through his head.
Packs need to be able to rely on each other.
Bonds cannot be faked.
Their abilities correspond to their emotions.
His heart flutters in hope. He thinks Peter has just, unknowingly, given him the possibility of a forbidden dream coming true. He tilts his head slightly, tongue wetting his suddenly dry lips. “So what’s the course of action?”
Peter raises an eyebrow in question.
He shrugs. “I mean, we are technically pack members.”
Peter’s face does something complicated before it lands on a crooked grin. “Why Stiles”, Peter leers, leaning back and crossing his arms behind his head, “are you proposing we bond?”
He is definitely flexing his arm muscles and any other day, Stiles maybe would have found it a tiny bit admirable. But today, all Stiles can see is the split skin of his stomach, exposed through the change in position, gaping red and the wound nauseatingly deep.
He swallows. Instead of a direct answer, he lays down his reasoning. “I’m not doing it out of the goodness of my heart”, he snarks. ”We need everybody at the top of their game to defeat that thing. If it senses weakness, it might come for people individually, pick us off one by one. Healing you is in the best interest of everyone. You said it yourself, with pack, there’s strength in numbers.” None of this is a lie.
Peter does hold valuable information that nobody else has. Losing his support would, at least and maybe only in the regard of that knowledge, be a great loss for the pack. And if Stiles reads correctly between the lines, the stronger the pack ties, the lesser Peter’s instincts to betray them and the more solidarity. Win-win in his books, even if he doesn’t share that last thought with the older man.
“That I did”, Peter agrees. “But that doesn’t mean it’s the both of us that have to do this.”
Stiles raises both eyebrows and looks around. “I’m sorry, do you see someone else here that could?”
“Why should I choose to engage in something like this with you, Stiles?” There’s something dangerous in the way Peter’s voice goes soft and sweet. “May I remind you that in the past, you have hurt me like nobody else in the pack has?”
Ouch. Stiles winces. That’s completely deserved. Now he’s even more glad the rune went sideways in the forest. Even ten years from now would be too early to bring up fire between the two of them again. Still, if Peter wants to hold that against him, Stiles too has a lot of cards to play in that particular game.
“You want to play the blame game, hm? Should I start counting the people in my life that lost their lives as a direct result of your actions?”
“My actions? It was the Argents that –“, Peter’s eyes flash blue for a second, but he reigns himself in almost immediately, control impeccable as always. He holds his palms up in a gesture that says ‘there you have it’. “There’s no reason here for us to trust each other, and trust is pretty vital for pack bonding.”
Stiles grows cold at the mention of the A-name. He swallows. Logically, Peter is right. And he isn’t even sure why he really doesn’t want him to be. Why is he suddenly so interested in bridging this chasm spanning between the two of them? It’s not like Peter isn’t going to push him into it once he crosses.
But there’s the fact that Peter admitted, kind of, to being hurt. And the marks across his face he thought he saw for a moment there… Stiles remembers them. How the angry red and white scars spanned across the left side of Peter’s face. He’s not sure if that’s what he really saw, because if he did, that would mean –
Well, he doesn’t know, exactly, what it would mean. All he knows is that it would change things.
But even if not: Stiles knows how his brain works. Once he has been presented with a problem, it keeps on bugging him and dancing around him until he has to solve it. Especially if he knows the solution.
“We don’t have to trust each other right away”, he reasons. “Trust is earned. For a start, we can tentatively stop being so suspicious of each other and at least trust that both of us have good reasons not to mess this up right now.”
Peter’s gaze is heavy as it tracks over Stiles’ features, taking his time to read his body language. Stiles starts twitching, uncomfortable under such close scrutiny. His heart beats nervously when Peter finally comes to a decision.
“I suppose it could work, even with a tentative base of trust. Are you sure about this?”
Peter Hale giving him an out? Hell truly has frozen over. Stiles nods before he gets a chance to rethink this. He is doing this for the good of the pack.
“Alright. Then it is good enough. For now.” The look Peter shoots him speaks volumes about how, as soon as their interests don’t line up anymore, that trust is gone out the window.
His grin is unnerving when he moves forward, muscled forearm extending towards Stiles. “I believe we should seal the deal properly.”
Stiles’ heart races, body nearly vibrating in place from the charged atmosphere. This might turn out to be one of the best or worst ideas he’s ever had. Swallowing heavily, mouth dry but eyes made of steel, he reaches across the space between the two of them, ignoring the trembling of his fingers.
They look at each other, liquid amber piercing blue ice, and shake hands.