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When Stiles answered his door at the ungodly hour of ten a.m., Peter said, “I think my house is haunted.”
Stiles stared blearily for a moment before turning and shuffling away, leaving his apartment door open in tacit invitation for Peter to enter. Popping a pod into the machine and getting a mug from the cabinet, Stiles held up a second mug questioningly, and Peter nodded. Once both cups were ready, they sat in silence at the tiny, 70’s-style Formica and vinyl dining set in Stiles’ nook of a kitchen. Peter winced a bit at the sweetness of the caramel macchiato flavor of the pod coffee, but kept quiet until Stiles finished his first cup and got up to make his second.
“Okay, tell me,” Stiles said.
“Just your typical, horror movie ghost stuff,” Peter said, shrugging. “A glimpse of something behind me in the mirror, books falling off shelves, cold spots, a general feeling of being watched. My concern is that these are the parts from the beginning of the movie. I’d like to do something about it before it escalates into my gruesome demise.”
“But you’ve been in that house, what, two years now? And this just started?” Stiles asked, cuddling his second cup of too-sweet coffee close to his chest and beginning to feel more human.
“In the past week or two, yes,” Peter confirmed.
“Huh. Weird.” Stiles finished off his second cup of sweet, caffeine-y deliciousness, the gears in his head finally getting up to speed.
Hauntings didn’t usually just crop up out of nowhere. The spirit of a person could sometimes linger in the place they were killed or follow around someone they were attached to, either a particularly important loved one or sometimes the person who was responsible for their death. Poltergeists could be created in a space where a lot of evil or anguish was concentrated over a period of time, and wraiths could sometimes seek the attention of the living to drive them mad and draw them into the spirit world, but they tended to target the very young, as children had more life force to steal once on the other side.
None of these really seemed to fit Peter’s situation. No matter Peter’s . . . colorful past, Stiles knew he hadn’t killed anyone recently. And the seven years or so since his vengeance-fueled murder spree was too long for the ghosts of his victims to have been hanging around undetected.
“Okay, then,” Stiles said, “research time, I guess. I still have my notes and files from that thing in Oregon a couple of years ago, so I guess I’ll have to do a refresher. Do you think it would show itself to me? If we went to your place, I mean?”
“I have no idea. No one but me has been in my house since the last time you were over. We can certainly go see if it’s willing to put in an appearance.”
“Huh,” Stiles said again. The last time he’d been to Peter’s house had been months ago. No one else had been there in all that time?
But of course they hadn’t. Well, there wasn’t anything Stiles could do about the way everyone else felt about Peter, but he vowed to spend more time with the werewolf himself from now on. Couldn’t have the man going feral, after all.
Stiles took his third cup of coffee in a to-go mug, and let Peter drive them across town.
Stiles loved Peter’s house. He’d loved it since that first time he’d shown up, house-warming philodendron in hand, right after Peter bought it. He hadn’t realized he had strong opinions on real estate one way or the other, but Peter’s house was exactly what Stiles’ would’ve picked for himself if he didn’t have to survive on the pittance he made as an admin at the police station.
Stiles lived in a shitty apartment in a shitty part of town, but, as much as he loved his dad, he couldn’t work for the man and live with him. Plus, a place of his own was necessary if he wanted any kind of sex life. Not that he’d been too active in that area lately, either. Even for a bi guy on the prowl, there were only so many options in a medium-small town like Beacon Hills.
Peter’s house was an older-but-updated, sprawling, ranch style home, all on one level, with a large yard and lots of mature trees. Red brick with bright-white trim on the outside, warm hardwood, plush rugs, and cozy sofas inside, it was not at all the sleek, modern kind of place Stiles would’ve expected Peter to choose when he moved out of his downtown apartment. Today it was even decked out with a wreath on the door and a tastefully decorated holiday tree in the corner, Christmas being only a week away.
Stiles liked Peter’s house so much, he realized he was a bit offended that some random ghost had decided to haunt it. He felt determined to fix it.
So they dove into research. Stiles had pages and pages of electronic notes from the time they’d thought a malicious spirit was harassing Cora’s college roommate at Oregon State, although that had turned out to be a demon-possessed ex-boyfriend, not a ghost. Stiles still had the research he’d started though, as well as a couple of books that seemed to have pertinent spirit info. Peter had a couple of volumes he’d found recently that Stiles hadn’t seen before that were proving to be interesting and potentially useful.
“Huh, look at that. Looks like the Hawaiian mujina is just another name for the Japanese noppera-bō, the faceless dog ghost. There’s a banishing spell for those in here, but that’s not helpful, since it’s only good for that one kind of spirit. Why do these banishments all only work for one thing? Where’s the one-size-fits-all spell? Huh, and here’s a spell for summoning a ghost. Who the hell would want to get haunted on purpose? We need the opposite of that. Wait, this part looks interesting. An area cleansing for stafie, which is just a poltergeist. If I cross-reference that with . . .” Stiles pulled his laptop closer, and opened another book, looking for the other poltergeist info he’d seen recently.
Only once while Peter and Stiles researched did one of Peter’s knickknacks, a small stone wolf figurine, leap from the shelf by the door and clatter to the floor, but Stiles could feel what Peter meant about that feeling of being watched. There was definitely something in Peter’s house.
A few hours later, Peter lured Stiles away from the books with pasta and crusty bread and Japanese beer, which shouldn’t have worked, but did. Stiles, waving his hands emphatically, shared with Peter all he’d found out so far.
“So some of these banishing rituals use the same elements, or close enough that the elements are relatives, like first cousins, maybe. I’ve made a spreadsheet to track the bits that are the same or close enough and compiled a list of the top eight most-recurring items.”
“Eight?” Peter asked. “Why eight?”
“Well, mostly because I have the top eight. Well, either have or can get my hands on immediately, like today. Numbers nine and ten are trickier and would take some work to find. I can probably get number nine, tanzanite, online, and I wouldn’t need much, but I wouldn’t have it today. Number ten is a set of witch’s knucklebones, which would be hard to find, and even harder to get someone to part with. They probably couldn’t be purchased outright for any amount of money. I’d have to work out some kind of trade. Who knows.” Stiles waved a dismissive hand. “Even at number ten, they’re only used in three of the forty or so rituals I’m looking at, and if we have to go that far afield, then my plan isn’t going to work anyway.
“I’m designing a ritual from the ground up, with a piece from here and a piece from there, combining different elements and fitting them into an amalgamation. I really want a broad-spectrum purification, something that’ll work for whatever ails ya, y’know? Because it shouldn’t need to be so specific. Even the different kind of ghosts and specters, they’re all really similar, right? I mean, not all of them, but a lot of them, they’re similar enough that there ought to be a catch-all solution. Flies and bees and spiders are all pretty different, but there’s enough the same about them that a rolled-up newspaper works pretty well against all three. That’s what I want to make. A rolled-up newspaper to swat at the ghosts, no matter what type of pest it might be.”
Taking a huge bite of the delicious baked ziti and talking with his mouth full, mostly because he knew it made Peter crazy, he continued, “It might not work. It might fizzle out like, pffft. Maybe nothing will happen at all.” Grinning at Peter’s glare, he finished swallowing before he went on. “If it doesn’t work, then we’ll start trying all forty of these other rituals, see what works and what doesn’t. Or maybe try to pin down the specific type of Casper you have here. Or maybe we’ll call the Ghostbusters, I dunno. I just think this is a good place to start.”
Peter put up his hands in mock defeat. “No need to put on the hard sell with me. I’m on board. When do you want to start?”
Stiles looked down at his still half-full plate. “Not until I finish this. You never cook for me anymore.” Stiles gave Peter a fake pout.
“You haven’t been around as much lately,” Peter countered.
Stiles thought back. It was true that he hadn’t hung out with Peter in a couple of months, not since the harpy thing in September. It was December now, so more like three months. Huh.
“Things have been pretty quiet lately, monster-wise,” Stiles agreed. “But we could just hang out, even when there isn’t a monster-of-the-week. As long as you cooked.”
Peter looked surprised, but then pleased. “Well, we both know you can’t be allowed to cook. All those years harping on your father about his heart health gave you such an aversion to salt and fat, cardboard has more flavor than anything you create in the kitchen.”
Stiles gasped in offense. “Hey! I’ll have you know I got the old man’s cholesterol down forty-five points in six months and kept it down ever since. And don’t even get me started on his blood pressure.”
Peter rolled his eyes, but had a small, pleased smile all the same. Stiles was surprised at the warm feeling of affection in his chest.
Affection.
For Peter.
Huh.
Stiles had gotten better, over the years, at rolling with the changes that so often came along, so when Peter came around the table and leaned over to grab Stiles’ now-empty plate, Stiles slid his hand around the back of Peter’s neck to pull him just a bare inch closer and leaned forward himself to close the rest of the gap, pressing his lips slowly, experimentally, against Peter’s. It was nice. Warm and comfortable. Not in any way terrible.
Stiles saw Peter’s eyes widen in surprise an instant before Peter’s empty plate dropped from his hand to clatter onto the table, and, suddenly, they were devouring each other. Peter’s hands were on the sides of Stiles’ face, and Stiles’ hands were in Peter’s hair and their mouths were open and slotted tightly together, tongues sliding together forcefully. This wasn’t nice, or warm, it was fucking hot. Tingling heat and arousal from where their mouths were straining, rubbing, battling, spread through Stiles’ veins, warming his entire being. Peter tasted so fucking good and felt so amazing and Stiles couldn’t fucking breathe.
They broke apart at the same time and panted, brown eyes staring into blue with shock and wonder. Stiles wondered if maybe the sky was about to fall, but the world appeared to keep on turning.
“So,” Stiles said after a moment. “That was. A thing.”
Peter nodded, and his eyes dropped back down to Stiles’ lips.
And they were kissing again, frantic and all consuming, quiet whimpers coming from Stiles and low growls from Peter. Breathing was overrated, anyway.
The next time they broke apart, Stiles put a hand on Peter’s chest to hold him back, but then fisted his hand in Peter’s shirt to keep him from getting away.
When he felt he could speak without squeaking, or something equally embarrassing, Stiles said, “This seems like it could be very . . . complicated.” But when Peter nodded and started backing away, Stiles tightened his grip on Peter’s shirt, keeping him close. “I’m okay with complicated. But let’s maybe take care of your unwanted guest first, okay?”
When Stiles saw something that might have been hope on Peter’s face, it felt like a reward. Complicated indeed, but most good things were. Stiles thought this might be a very good thing.
Grabbing what he needed for his planned cleansing ritual should have taken about an hour, but that hour was stretched to almost two because Peter and Stiles kept distracting each other with kisses. Stiles started to let his imagination go wild with what was going to come after the kissing, which only slowed their progress more.
Stiles thought maybe he should be more freaked out—this was Peter, after all—but the more he thought about it, the more sense it made. Dating people who weren’t “in the know” about the supernatural never worked long term, and there was no denying that Peter Hale was hot like wasabi. More than that, though, Stiles enjoyed Peter’s company. Peter was the only one who could keep up with Stiles in the snark department. Peter was the only one who always agreed with Stiles’ crazy monster-fighting plans. Peter was the only one who put up with, and kept up with, Stiles when he was in his balls-to-the-wall-research-frenzy mode.
Frankly, once he thought about it, Stiles was surprised this hadn’t happened sooner.
But first they had this pesky ghost to deal with.
Working carefully from his notes, Stiles drew the symbols, lit the candles, burned the herbs, chanted the words, and cut his arm to bleed into the spell bowl. It felt cheesy, but the classics were classics because they worked.
And then a feeling like wind, but which didn’t actually involve any movement of the air, blew through Peter’s house and they could immediately feel that the spirit, whatever it had been, was gone. The air felt lighter, clearer, and the creeping sensation of being watched had disappeared.
Stiles let out a loud whoop of victory. Grinning hugely, he crossed to Peter and planted a hard, fast kiss on the werewolf.
“Did you see that? I’m the man. Fuck yeah.”
“Yes darling. Now go get yourself a bandage before you get any more blood on my floors,” Peter said, indicating the cut on Stiles’ arm.
Stiles stuck his tongue out at Peter but headed toward the bathroom in search of a Band-Aid, still riding high. Peter began tidying up the detritus from the ritual.
“I don’t think you’ve properly considered the implications here, zombiewolf. How many other spells or rituals can we combine to get broader coverage? I mean, I may have to try this one a few more times, try to see what could possibly be left out and still have it be effective, which might give me a better baseline for combining some other types of . . .”
Stiles trailed off. In hunting under Peter’s bathroom sink for a first-aid kit, he found a shoebox with . . . candles? And was that bergamot? Sage and dahlia petals, a small gold coin so old the markings were illegible, some salt and ritual chalk . . . where had Stiles seen these items listed? Recently. He’d seen these components listed somewhere recently. Where, where, where? Oh yeah, now Stiles remembered. It was in one of Peter’s new books. The one with the . . .
With the instructions on how to summon a ghost.
Who the hell would want to get haunted on purpose Stiles had wondered only hours ago. Apparently, the answer to that was Peter fucking Hale.
Stiles stormed back out to the living room, brandishing the incriminating box of evidence.
“Peter, what the fuck?”
Peter, seeing the shoebox in Stiles’ hands immediately looked guilty, and didn’t say anything in his own defense.
Stiles walked closer. “Peter, did you get yourself haunted on purpose, so you’d have an excuse to hang out with me?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Peter said, trying to look haughty and superior, but not quite pulling it off due to the obvious worry that was seeping through the edges of his demeanor.
Stiles let his own stern expression melt into a smile.
“Idiot,” he said. “You couldn’t just invite me out to a movie or something? It’s always gotta be the Machiavellian scheming with you.” Stiles shook his head fondly as he wound his fingers through the hair at the nape of Peter’s neck.
Peter, looking relieved, said, “Stiles, would you like to go to a movie?”
“Not tonight,” Stiles said. “I already have other plans for us tonight.” And he hauled Peter in for a kiss.