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Peter likes to watch him shooting.
In the middle of a fight, Stiles catches only glimpses of his eyes on him; but when he’s training on the range Derek built in the backyard, Peter’s heavy glaze never leaves his back.
At the beginning is just this – looking. But then, sometimes during the time they spend together, the werewolf starts to come nearer and nearer, without Stiles really thinking about it.
One day he shoulders his shotgun and Peter’s there, his breath tickling his nape, so near the recoil makes the boy’s back impact against his chest.
They don’t talk about it. They don’t even acknowledge it.
Derek looks at him with a frown and Lydia stops looking at him at all, but he doesn’t acknowledge them either.
(“You should stay away from him, he’s like poison,” Derek tells him, and he nods and doesn’t say ‘I’m poison, too’, but he’d like to.)
The first time Peter slips his hand in Stiles’ jeans, he’s not surprised, but he still glares and walk away.
The second time, he hits him in the stomach with the butt of the shotgun.
The third time, he shoots him in the foot.
The fourth time, he just shoulders the shotgun better and let Peter do whatever he wants to do.
The sex they have there, standing up, Stiles still shouldering the weapon even though it’s pointed downward, it’s the best sex Stiles ever had; he’s not sure about the werewolf, but he’s quite vocal, so it’s probably good for him, too.
(Scott tells him: “What if it’s just a part of his plan?” and Stiles replies: “Do you really think there’s a chance it’s not?”)
They still don’t talk about it. They still don’t acknowledge it.
Peter keeps jerking him off while he’s still shooting and then fucking him with the shotgun still hot and the smell of gunpowder still in the air. He blows him when he’s handling guns, barrel kept tight against his temple.
Stiles doesn’t touch him, but he doesn’t have to, to make Peter feel good.
(“It was a mistake,” he says with bloodied hands, and they pretend they don’t all know it’s a lie.)
(“It would be so easy to kill you,” he’s said and Peter’s moaned against his cock.)
They’re fighting against Banshees the next time.
The Pack got divided and Scott’s hurt and bloody and paralyzed and the Banshee’s ready to go for a kill. Stiles has a broken wrist and an eye almost shut, and he’s too far to be useful with his shotgun. Peter is near enough to be maybe useful, but it’s not a sure thing and no one, not even Stiles who’s there to witness it, could blame him if he didn’t save Scott.
It would be so easy to let the Alpha die, that Stiles gasps in surprise when the werewolf really saves him, killing the Banshee. Peter looks like he surprised himself, looking between Scott and the Banshee and his own hands like he can’t quite understand what happened.
When the rest of the Pack arrives, Stiles pretends like he’s just arriving, too. They assume it’s been Scott himself to kill the Banshee, before passing out, and neither Peter nor Stiles correct them.
(“I don’t even know if this should be a punishment or a reward,” Peter laughs, the shot wound on his shoulder already healing. Stiles doesn’t answer, but he kisses the again unmarked skin and the other stills and then exhales. But they don’t talk about it.)
(“I have a boyfriend,” he says to the nice guy who wanted to offer him something to drink. ‘You do not,’ his mind reminds him, but he doesn’t listen.)
(“What are you doing?” Scott asks with a frown. “I don’t know,” he admits.)
Lydia starts talking with him again just to let him know he’s an idiot.
She tells him about an old and powerful Ritual, so old and so powerful it was almost lost in time, so old and so powerful Deaton wasn’t even his usually mysterious self, to prevent any danger. She tells him about the Ritual that needs a True Alpha, and a Banshee, and a willing Spark, knotted together by love and respect and loyalty.
Stiles thinks about Peter and the hungry glaze he had when he was reading the books found in the Banshees’ cove.
Deaton confirms everything. He’s not even his usually mysterious self, just like Lydia said.
That night, Stiles changes his bullets for wolfsbane ones; he presses the barrel against Peter’s soft throat while riding him. He doesn’t shoot. He doesn’t even come. Peter frowns, but he doesn’t say anything.
They don’t talk about it.
(“There’s no reason for me to be disappointed, I already knew it was just a part of a plan,” he says. Scott still hugs him and he lets him.)
Peter still comes to the range, he still occupies Stiles’ space, and he still slips his hand in the boy’s boxer; but this time he shows him away. And he does it again, and again, and again.
After some times, Peter stops trying to touch him, but he still looks at him. He looks at him when he shoots, he looks at him when he doesn’t. It looks like Peter doesn’t look at anything but Stiles. Stiles doesn’t know how to feel about it, so he does what he always does: he lets his mouth running.
(“I guess it was perfect, wasn’t it? A Banshee, a True Alpha, a Spark, all together in a Pack. In your Pack,” he says, aiming without shooting, because he can’t really concentrate. Peter doesn’t replies.)
(No, it’s not true. Peter replies: “This has never been my Pack.” but Stiles’s not sure what to make of it, so he ignores it.)
Peter disappears. Derek is obviously uncomfortable with not knowing where his crazy uncle is, but it’s not like they can do something about it. With his death and the resurrection, with his double Alpha-hood and triple Beta-hood, with his not-attachment to the Pack, it’s impossible to feel him through the Bond.
(“I haven’t felt him for so long I can’t even remember what should he feels like,” Derek admits.)
(Stiles doesn’t think about Peter’s last words, except that he does.)
Stiles comes back home something like one month after just to find his father sitting at the dining table, a glass of whiskey in his hand and a rolled parchment in front of him on the table.
Stiles’s quite sure it’s magic.
Stile’s not an expert, but he’s quite sure is human skin.
He touches it gingerly under the Sheriff’s heavy and tired glaze, and when nothing happens, he opens it carefully. He’s not surprised when he discovers it’s a language he cannot really understand, but he is surprised when he discovers that it’s not archaic Latin, but some sort of Gaelic, probably as old as the other languages they’ve found in the other books. He recognizes the term ‘Banshee’ right away and, after that, it’s not hard to find the Gaelic symbol for Alpha. He’s not sure what does the word connected to it really mean, but he can guess.
His father looks at him, waiting for an explanation, but Stiles isn’t sure what to tell him.
(“It means it wouldn’t work,” Deaton says. “It means you three aren’t good enough.”)
(“Maybe he really didn’t have a plan,” Scott suggests.)
(“Maybe this was only a distraction for his true plan,” Lydia speculates.)
(“Maybe,” Stiles confirms.)
Peter still doesn’t reappear so it’s not like they can do something.
Except that he does, a little under one month after the appearing of the parchment.
One day, they’re by Derek’s for breakfast and pretending they’re trying to find a way to find Peter, when the werewolf strolls through the door like he never leaved, with clothes Stiles has never seen and the usual smirk on his face.
Even pressed, he doesn’t say where he went, he doesn’t even acknowledge that it was really in another place. He twists his words around questions so that he doesn’t ever really answer, he smiles against Derek’s scowls and shows his teeth against Scott’s red eyes.
And even through the accuses and the questions, his eyes never leave Stiles for long.
Stiles always looks at him the same way.
(“I’ve heard that Ireland is really beautiful, this time of the year,” he says to no one in particular. Peter smirks but keeps on reading.)
The next time he’s on the range, Peter’s just outside his field of view. He doesn’t come near and Stiles’ aim is worse then when he started practicing. The time after that, the werewolf is once again pressed against his back, his breath against his nape and his hands painting bruises on his hips.
He doesn’t jerk him off, neither this time nor the others.
He touches him like he never did, exploring his sides and his chest with his hand, pressing his fingers against his ribs, counting them one after one, just keeping his hand on his stomach while he shoots. He kisses and bites his ear and his neck and everything he can find. He grips his shirt when the recoil presses them together.
But he doesn’t jerk him off, nor he tries to fuck him, nor he sinks on his knees, even though Stiles starts to handle guns more often.
Stiles’ not sure if it’s a sort of punishment or a twisted sense of chivalry, but, knowing Peter, it’s probably the former. It’s not like Stiles doesn’t deserve it a little bit.
The next time Peter’s breathing against his ear, hands on his hips, Stiles twists his arm to press the gun under the werewolf’s chin and takes one of his hand, moving it on his already half-hard cock. Peter chuckles but complies.
It’s not like this sex is different from the one they had before. It’s not like they open up in ways they didn’t want to or didn’t think could.
Except that it is and they do.
Peter kisses him in the post-orgasm haze, while Stiles’ still feeling a little wobbly and a little dazed. He puts one hand on the one the boy’s keeping on the gun and move it so that the barrel is pressed against his own heart. Sometimes Stiles can be quite oblivious to social clue of the romantic kind, but it would be impossible to mistake this one.
They don’t talk about it. They don’t have to.
(“I trust you,” he says against his skin, below the ringing sound of the shot.)