Work Text:
Despite receiving an urgent text message from Scott, Peter takes his time in arriving at the loft. It hadn't come from Stiles, so he's not particularly worried about whatever is plaguing Beacon Hills this month. First he stops to pick up his dry-cleaning, then he lingers in deciding whether he wants a second breakfast. He ends up settling on only coffee.
Carrying a cup holder with three cups inside, Peter heads up to unsightly loft.
He may or may not drag his heels about it, but he can't be blamed for that. The least Derek could do is put up some decorations if he insists on staying there. Peter had offered his services several times and Derek had quite definitively refused each time. It's almost as if he doesn't trust him, which is ludicrous. Peter hasn't killed anyone that Derek knows of in over a year. With a few necessary exceptions, his murder slate has been wiped clean.
The door is open and Stiles' wards have always accepted him easily. Peter lets himself inside. The sounds of panicked argument immediately reach his ears.
Peter sighs. He's surrounded by teenage idiots.
However, the argument does become mildly more interesting when Peter hears Stiles' name a few times. There's also the fact that it's being held in hushed whispers and furtive glances toward Derek's lumpy armchair.
Peter sighs again.
Often, pack really is more effort than it's worth. He drops off one of the coffees with Lydia and ignores the rest of the pack in favor of walking toward the armchair. Or rather, the little figure crouching behind it, wedged between the chair and the chilly wall. Peter would have been here faster had he realized the situation involved some kind of strange magic, Stiles, and the type of insanity that can only be found in Beacon Hills.
Peter crouches down by the armchair and finds himself nearly at eye level with a version of Stiles that he's never before seen. They'd met when Stiles was sixteen and Peter was a power-drunk alpha. A year later, Stiles was seventeen and brimming with a spark's power, and Peter was a beta again, which he prefers to being dead. A year after that, Stiles is eighteen and on the cusp of leaving for college, his exit from the hellmouth that is Beacon Hills only a month away, and Peter is still a beta, still alive, and strangely at loose ends. And now Stiles is younger than Peter has ever known him, perhaps five years old, although Peter's never been particularly successful at gauging kids' ages. His clothes had shrunk with him. He'd be adorable dressed in tiny jeans and plaid if not for the miserable expression on his face and the tears in his eyes.
"Well," Peter murmurs, placing the cup holder onto the table and taking a long sip from his own cup. Only in Beacon Hills. He hopes that this isn't permanent; he rather likes Stiles the way he is, even a little too much. "You are, of course, not getting any of this coffee." Peter might drink it himself. He needs the caffeine. It will be a sacrifice, as Stiles' preferred drink is unbearably sweet, but Peter will suffer through it. "Would you like something else?"
No answer. Stiles sniffles wetly.
Peter reaches out, not quite touching Stiles, but hoping that this young version of the man he knows might trust him enough to take his hand. It's been a very long time since Peter has interacted with children. He does not intend to think about the last time he had. It's too early in the morning for grief.
"Come on, Stiles," Peter says, doing his best impression of a trustworthy expression. It usually gets a laugh out of Stiles.
Today, he gets his hand bitten for his trouble. Peter doesn't flinch, not even when Stiles chomps down harder out of spite.
"Would you like some ice cream?"
The look of murder lessens.
Peter takes it as a yes. "It's in the kitchen. If you tiptoe, the rest of them won't even notice." That's a lie, as even Derek's betas aren't quite that stupid, but with the advance warning, the pack will pretend not to notice. If Stiles doesn't want to be the center of attention—and despite his antics and his arguments, the Stiles he knows favors watching and being underestimated—then Peter won't force him.
Stiles loosens his jaw and lets him go. He demands, "Chocolate ice cream?"
Peter resists the urge to pat his head. He might do it later, when whatever is happening is fixed and Stiles is less likely to bite his hand off for it. He's a terrible little kid. Peter adores him already. Peter stands and after a moment Stiles does the same. He guides Stiles to the kitchen, hiding his smile as he sees just how short Stiles is next to him. He'll tease Stiles about it later just to get back at Stiles' glee at growing taller than Peter. Peter can't believe the audacity of Stiles' new height; he similarly can't believe how compelling it is to watch Stiles grow into a confident, devious man. Frankly, he does deserve some ice cream for having to deal with that amount of temptation.
Peter opens the freezer. It's not empty, which is good for Peter's fingers continuing to be attached to his hand. For a human child, Stiles has sharp teeth.
"I knew Derek wasn't a complete miser," Peter says, satisfied to see some chocolate cookie dough ice cream wedged behind three bags of broccoli.
He hoists Stiles onto a chair, enduring his squirming, and digs out two spoons from the mess that is the silverware drawer. He passes one to Stiles and keeps the ice cream for himself for a moment.
"Give me," Stiles says, reaching for it.
"I have to taste it first," Peter tells him. "To make sure it's not poisoned."
Stiles gives him an adorably disbelieving look.
Peter takes another spoonful before passing the carton to Stiles. "I think you'll live. Eat cleanly. If I see any spit mixed in with the ice cream, this is going back in the fridge."
Stiles blows a raspberry at him, but seems to follow his instructions. They continue like that for a while, passing the carton between themselves and idly watching Derek's pack grow more frantic. Stiles reluctantly parts with the box each time.
Peter listens to the pack with one ear; apparently, Deaton is in the middle of a procedure and the receptionist is refusing to pass on their message until it's finished. Being that Deaton is their best bet for getting Stiles back to normal, this is suboptimal. Peter agrees. Still, Stiles doesn't seem to be in any pain and his tears have dried up. He may be eating too much ice cream, but no one dies from that.
Although Peter does wonder how much ice cream is actually advisable for a human child Stiles' age. "Are you full yet?"
"No."
"Alright then." With nothing else to do, Peter snoops. "How old are you, Stiles?"
"How old are you?"
"Ancient."
"More than one hundred?"
"Yes."
"You're old."
"So old," Peter agrees with a huff. Old enough to know better, when it comes to Stiles' usual self, and yet not old enough to be an uninterested old geezer yet. "What do you want to be when you grow up?"
"Batman."
"I should have guessed."
Peter continues idly asking questions. Stiles, once comfortable and happily bribed with ice cream, talks without needed to be prompted. It's less blackmail material and more pure, amused curiosity. This is the kind of thing he could never learn the regular way; the past can be hard to talk about, Stiles knows as well as Peter, and their present is hectic enough without drudging up old memories. They're precious, these bits and pieces of a life that Peter knows so little about. He's familiar with Stiles' present—not as familiar as he'd like to be, admittedly—and he's never been a man content with what he has.
He's always wanted more.
More of Stiles' attention, more of his interest, his time. They're more friends than enemies now, but Peter's only glimpsed the occasional sign of interest from Stiles, never enough to act on.
By the time Deaton finally arrives, most of the ice cream is gone and Peter is playing tic-tac-toe with a five year old. If pressed, he might say he enjoyed this time with the young version of Stiles, even if he'll be happy to get the proper Stiles back. Thankfully, no one presses. Deaton sets Stiles to rights quickly enough, giving an off-hand comment about magical growth spurts and that Stiles would have aged back in a week even without his intervention. Stiles reassures the rest of the pack of his good health, but instead of staying to chat, he returns to the kitchen where he leans against the island, now tall enough to reach anything he needs.
For all intents and purposes, Stiles is back to his normal self. Except for one thing.
"I have a stomachache," Stiles grumbles, reaching for the ice cream carton. "This expired months ago, dammit Derek." With a shrug, he takes another scoop and tries it. "Still tastes good."
"You were a terror of a child," Peter congratulates him. He's staring a little, but Stiles will have to forgive him that one. After all that time with Stiles' young self, Stiles is a sight for sore eyes, all irritatingly tall and messy-haired and a splotch of dried ice cream on his shirt. His eyes are older, their cleverness and brightness only increasing with time.
"I know," Stiles says, looking smug. "You should hear my dad's stories. I don't remember much about the time before I started kindergarten, but to hear him tell it, I was the devil himself." He points his spoon at Peter. "You were nice to me."
Peter raises an eyebrow. "I'm nice to everyone."
"Liar," Stiles says. He doesn’t sound angry about it at all.
"I'm very nice to you."
"Yeah, you are.” He chucks the empty ice cream carton into the recycling and pushes himself off the kitchen island. Turning to Peter, he says, “C'mon, I want coffee. Hot coffee.”
"You're so demanding," Peter chides, but it's not a no. It never is when it comes to Stiles.
Stiles doesn't immediately head for the door. He's thinking, thinking too hard by the looks of it, and eventually he says, "And a doughnut."
"Sure."
“And maybe a croissant.”
“It’s yours,” Peter says. While he’s seen Stiles in blood and victory, he’s never been so charmed as now, because Stiles has a particular look in his eyes. One he's been waiting for.
"And a date,” Stiles tacks on, like it’s just one more item on the list. He’s smiling, too, like he knows that Peter will indulge him in this as he will in all else.
Peter resists the urge to laugh, to kiss him, to never ever let him go. "I can do that."
Victory in his gaze, Stiles adds, "And a kiss."
"Very demanding," Peter tells him, but he's grinning. He pulls Stiles toward him and gives him everything they both want.