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Talia offers the ring to him within hours of Stiles’ arrival in the past. The man in question is downstairs, meeting the many members of the Hale pack, most for the first time, while Talia and Peter have found themselves in Talia’s study once again. The ring is heavier than expected when Talia places it into Peter’s hand.
“Do what you must,” she says, her lips set.
Peter flicks his hand up, and watches the ring rise and fall through the air until it lands in his palm once again. “Your caring nature astounds me sometimes.”
“If he isn’t a Hale in blood, we can make him one in name. He’s made you the offer. For once in your life, just listen to me, Peter. Our hold on the territory has transferred to a man we know nothing about. It’s in our best interest to bind him to our pack as swiftly as possible. I’m already married, and besides, it’s not me he wants.” She takes his palm in hers, covering the ring with her hands. “I can’t order you around anymore.”
Peter smiles. A tinge of nostalgia, a tinge of terror at the vast unknown that stretches out before them. The future has never been set in stone, but with Stiles’ addition, it has become malleable, shaken, a thing not ever to be trusted again. “You never could order me around. I’ll see you later.”
He slips the ring into the pocket of his jeans, which are tight enough that the outline is faintly visible. If Stiles notices, he says nothing when Peter collects him from the family meeting and brings him home with him. His reasons are twofold: even as a beta, Talia can lead the Hales into finding some acceptance in the tradeover of the pack, as long as she assures them that Stiles will marry in sooner rather than later. And secondly, he refuses to wait to get his answers, and he refuses to share those answers with the rest of his pack.
Answers turn into a hit list before the night is out, but Peter’s always been flexible that way. He carries the ring through each item on the list as he and Stiles ensure that the future Stiles comes from can never again be. Through flirting and arguments, blood spatter and moonlight walks, pack meetings and dinner dates, the ring rests in his pocket. Talia grows impatient; Peter grows intrigued, enthralled, emboldened.
The first time Stiles helps him out of his jeans, his fingers catch on the outline of the ring, and there’s a stutter in his breath, but he says nothing. As the days pass, Stiles will touch the ring through the fabric of Peter’s clothes, idle fingers seeking it out. He never removes it, nor speaks about it, despite watching Peter with a knowing gaze.
It’s months after Talia first hands him the ring that Peter looks at Stiles and thinks, “I am disgustingly in love with you.” He says it, too, just so that Stiles can know how deep his insanity runs.
Instead of poking fun at Peter’s words, Stiles smiles, and it’s blinding and warm. “Does that mean the ring is finally mine?”
“Not yet,” Peter warns him, trying to corral Stiles’ enthusiasm and knowing it’s useless. He’s falling, fallen, and he can’t quite seem to find his way back out again. He isn’t even trying.
Neither is Stiles, not when he kisses Peter in response, gentle and slow. When they part, Stiles says, “I’ll wait as long as you need me to. Besides, this gives me time to choose our wedding dish set designs.”
“No wolf patterns.”
Stiles sighs, deeply, but his eyes are bright. “I love you, too.”