Work Text:
Quiet Nights
Stiles let out a heavy sigh as he stepped into the apartment, the warmth within a welcome balm to his cheeks that were numb from the cold outside. He toed off his shoes and kicked them beneath the sideboard before stumbling forward.
Using the last remnants of his energy, he set his laptop bag down on the L-shaped sofa that dominated the generous kitchen/living area and then made his way toward the kitchen island, slumping face down on the polished granite worktop. His eyes fell shut, aching and sore like the rest of him. He wasn’t sure how it was possible for the human body to be both limp from exhaustion and tense but he was inclined to blame it on a missed step in evolution somehow.
He felt more than heard movement from the side but in that moment didn’t have the energy to move, even if he wanted to. He didn’t so much as twitch until a warm hand settled onto the back of his neck.
“What sort of day have we had then?” Peter asked, letting his fingers sift up through Stiles’s hair.
That was the question Peter always asked when Stiles had had a rough day. It had become a thing of theirs from when they’d first started seeing each other, back when Stiles had first become a fully accredited FBI agent.
They discovered fairly quickly that when it came to their relationship, Peter was a fairly straightforward person with simple needs. Stiles, however, was complicated. He was independent but also attention-hungry, overconfident but also uncertain. Sometimes when he was angry or upset he needed space to deal and push through and sometimes he just wanted human contact and vast amounts of unhealthy comfort food.
Some days if Peter tried to help fix a problem he had, he was just as likely to get his head bitten off but some days, like today, he just wanted to leave everything else at the door and let Peter make his busy head quiet.
Like tonight.
“Tonight’s a quiet night,” he murmured into the space created from his forehead resting on his folded arms atop the counter.
“Mmm,” Peter mumbled softly, as if thoughtful. His fingers in Stiles’s hair splayed a little, pressing more firmly, massaging the back of his head and neck.
Stiles groaned, feeling the pain there shift enough to give him relief, the tense muscles and nerves releasing their tight clasp just a little. Peter never just took the pain, he targeted the cause of it as well, simultaneously siphoning the discomfort and kneading away the tension that caused it. At least enough that Stiles thought just maybe he could think enough to form words.
Slowly he straightened, turning on his seat to press his forehead into Peter’s shoulder. “I’m sorry I’m so late,” he mumbled into the soft cashmere of one of Peter’s ridiculous v-necks that he kind of loved.
“You sent me a text, Stiles, that’s all I need,” Peter said easily. “Although I think we’re now leaving late behind and heading into early.”
There was that teasing edge to his voice that relaxed Stiles just a little bit more. Even so, Stiles grimaced. “It was just…the job was awful and the paperwork…I just kept reliving it, you know? And then I couldn’t concentrate enough to get the damn paperwork done and that dick-weed Price, he’s always been convinced I only got my job because of Dad and Mr McCall and that smarmy dick just started asking how my lingering ADD might affect my job in front of the guy from National Security and I honestly fantasised for a moment about braining him with my desk chair.”
Peter smoothed his hair back from his forehead fondly. “Do you want me to kill him?”
Stiles glared but Peter’s deadpan expression only stretched into a lazy smile.
“Come on,” Peter said, tugging him toward the sofa. The behemoth of soft furnishings that was Peter’s pride and joy and a total pretentious, overpriced beast but so damn comfy Stiles’s lingering protests that it was an oversized beast were one-hundred percent for show by this point. It was made of clouds and stuff he was sure, possibly even magic because if he sat in the corner section he always fell asleep no matter what show was on.
Tonight the TV was off, the lights were low and when Peter guided him into his favourite corner he leaned in close, expression warm.
“Welcome home, sweetheart,” Peter murmured, an apex predator soft and gentle in the lamplight, only for him, only where he could see.
Stiles leaned up and brushed their mouths together, exhausted in the absence of tension and pain, even if his mind was still racing. Peter’s stubble was long enough to be a soft brush against his skin and Stiles fidgeted appreciatively before falling prey to the soft cushions behind his head.
“You should come with a warning label – mind altering substance, do not consume.”
Peter grinned, shark like, like that was the most wondrous compliment. “There is nothing wrong with that mind of yours apart from the fact that it’s overworked,” he replied smoothly, stealing another firmer kiss from Stiles before pushing up to his feet. “I saved some take-out for you, I’ll heat it up, don’t fall asleep.”
Stiles made a valiant effort. In the end he did just about manage, sitting himself up higher in the corner of the couch. He toed off his socks and pulled the grey throw blanket over himself. The gem that e was, Peter didn’t even mention the haphazardly discarded socks on the floor when he brought over the bowl of steaming chow mein and fried rice.
Stiles had no doubt he’d hear about his slovenliness come morning though. But he wouldn’t have it any other way, he thought fondly as Peter set the bowl down in Stiles’s lap, while placing another bowl of prawn crackers between them.
It’d been hard to reconcile the sarcastic, potentially dangerous werewolf with a man that liked the free accompaniments with the takeaway but Stiles was a good boyfriend, he kept his weird little secrets to preserve his mysterious reputation. He was quite reserved about the things Stiles said in his sleep and even that one unfortunate New Year’s vomiting incident, so all was fair in love and secrets. Or something.
He was really tired.
He tucked his toes under Peter’s legs like he usually did, but instead of talking about Stiles’s work at the FBI or Peter’s latest architecture client, they watched some late night radio station on one of the TV channels with songs from the 70s and the volume down low.
One of Peter’s hands rested on Stiles’s leg over the blanket, rubbing absently. The relaxing bliss of what they called one of their ‘quiet nights’ let the tension drain from him, as if Peter were draining it out of him from where they touched. His racing mind calmed a little.
It was how they’d gotten together actually, he supposed. Peter had an innate ability to understand the whirlwind of chaos that drove Stiles’s mind like a frantic storm. He could relate to it and yet also intercept it, soothe its fire and direct its strength into something workable, something productive, like a lighthouse of old turning fire into a guiding light to lost ships at sea.
It sounded insane that Peter Hale could be that for him, but well, something had changed after they’d encountered the Ghost Riders together. A connection and understanding that only two people who’d experienced the same trauma could share. And from that, a sort of tentative friendship had grown, albeit one edged with biting sarcasm and banter, but then one night it’d changed into something more altogether.
*
There had been an incident with a nomadic omega trying to join the pack. He hadn’t been everything he’d seeme, and it’d caused friction between Scott and some of the others. More specifically, between Scott and Stiles. It just so happened to coincide with him making the transition from intern to a full placement at the FBI and also his dad running for sheriff for another term, which had him irrationally worried, and it all converged into one huge angsty mess in his head. It had ended with him shouting at his dad, then Scott, and sitting alone at a diner downtown nursing the largest strawberry milkshake going.
That had been where Peter had found him. Or followed him to, more like.
“Our esteemed Alpha may have a hard-head and a weakness in the shape of obliviousness a mile wide but he does listen to you,” Peter said, sliding into the booth opposite Stiles with confident ease. “He’s going to ask Liam and Cora to keep an eye on our potential new beta. Check he is what he says he is before we bring him into the fold.”
Stiles shook his head. “The guy is bad news. I’m not the only one that sees it. I don’t know why Scott has to give everyone a chance. Bottom line is, some people are already on their third chance, or their fifth. But he’s so…so good and noble and it scares the crap out of me sometimes that he’s gonna walk himself into a trap one day and lead all of us in there with him.”
Peter canted his head as Stiles sucked mulishly at his straw, cheeks hollowing as he struggled to get the thick, icy concoction up through the metal tube. Stiles swore he saw something flicker behind Peter’s eyes as they dropped to his mouth, but it was gone again as soon as he blinked.
“Well, that’s why we discuss things as a pack. Why Scott has people like us to remind him there are people out there who will take advantage of his character,” Peter said lightly, waving pleasantly and flashing that charming smile at the waiter nearby.
He nodded politely and moved to grab some menus from the front counter.
“What has the world come to, where you and me are the voice of reason?” Stiles wondered as the waiter made his way over.
Peter grinned. He ordered two house speciality prime steak burgers with cheese and fries and ice tea for himself and when the waiter whisked the menus away Stiles stared at Peter narrowly.
“Hungry?” he challenged.
That grin was still there, almost attempting innocence. “Oh, famished. It’s exhausting work, keeping a true alpha safe from himself. And I hate to eat alone.” He looked at Stiles’s milkshake. “And you really should put some solid food in your stomach if you’re going to pour what is essentially a gallon of strawberry ice-cream down it.”
“It’s hardly a gallon,” Stiles snorted. He sucked another mouthful of shake and then stirred it with the straw thoughtfully. “You know Liam has the hots for Cora like big time, right?”
Peter clucked his tongue. “He has no idea what he’s dealing with. She will eat that boy alive.”
With a laugh, Stiles found himself relaxing into the seat a little, watching the dark clouds outside finally give under their weight and heavy rain streak across the glass. It was sort of soothing, Stiles thought, though maybe Peter’s easy, slightly biting monologue about some of his first clients getting back into architecture had something to do with it.
He seemed to know that Stiles liked listening, if he wasn’t talking himself. He just liked conversation, really. Liked noise. It soothed his frenetic nerves; maybe it was a throwback from being in a quiet house on his own for so long, an extrovert starved for companionship out of some cruel twist of fate, he didn’t even know. Didn’t really matter, he supposed, because he wasn’t alone now.
“Your father seems set to be sheriff for another term,” Peter said eventually just as their food arrived and Stiles nodded, thanking the waiter before picking up a fry with his fingers, even as Peter speared his own with a fork.
“I know he’ll be elected again. I just worry about him, that’s all. Beacon Hills isn’t exactly the peak of action these days, supernatural or otherwise, but when I’m all the way up in D.C. I just worry about him a lot. He’s not getting any younger and I said maybe I shouldn’t take the job, even if the FBI offer it, you know? Because if something happened to him and I was too far away, I’d never forgive myself. And there’s a field office in Sacramento that’s so much closer that might have a space for me. Or San Francisco if not. But then my dad said I was second-guessing the career I’d been working my ass off for over him and it totally freaked out and it’s just…” He stared down at his plate. “I don’t even know really…”
Sometimes Stiles needed quiet contemplation, needed to just forget the world for a little bit and slaughter someone on the Xbox or whatever. But sometimes he needed to just talk himself hoarse.
His needs were interchangeable but intense.
He talked between mouthfuls, mostly after swallowing, and Peter listened to his frantic rambling. Even offered his thoughts, some genuine and some more for dry comedic effect – at least Stiles hoped they were. But somewhere along the line, he felt the weight that’d been building in his chest lift and by the time their plates were clear, he felt almost relieved.
They’d moved on to a good-hearted ribbing of the mayoral election nominees for the coming year by the time the bill came and if Stiles had ever doubted over the last couple of years that he and Peter shared the same acerbic humour he was of a clear mind now. He was actually laughing harder than he had in months by the end of it.
“If you think I’m letting you pay for my dinner you’ve got another thing coming, buddy,” Stiles protested, sipping at his water when the waiter brought the bill over and Peter drew out his wallet. But then Peter lifted his gaze to Stiles and gave him one of those disarming, not quite smiles that was all for him, a sincere, soft expression no one else got to see.
“I’ll let you get this one then, and I’ll pay for the next date.”
Stiles blinked. Huh. He felt dazed all of a sudden and blinked in confusion, wondering if the sheer relief of letting go of the stress that’d built up over the last few weeks had left him a bit light-headed and giddy. He had heard that correctly, right? Because he’d always thought Peter was attractive, even when he was kind of bad and he knew objectively he was easy on the eyes, but he’d never really thought he was Peter’s type. Their tentative bond over realism and wicked humour had never really ventured toward sexual preferences or anything deeper.
He suddenly found himself feeling quite flustered, as he hadn’t felt since he was a high school kid chasing after Lydia Martin. Really, he should’ve known they’d always be better friends than lovers. They could’ve saved so much time if they’d figured that out from the start but that was neither here nor there.
He blinked again at Peter, processing his words even as he paid the bill. All the while, Peter just watched him with that partly amused, partly pleased expression, like the cat that got the cream.
Smug, Stiles guessed. Damn if it wasn’t attractive on him.
“Just so there’s no confusion here, I’m a pretty literal kind of guy, but this was a…date?”
Peter canted his head again, in that way. It was a thing of his really, exposing his neck like he was welcoming Stiles in close to examine his most vulnerable places, the way he had never invited anyone else.
“Well, I wouldn’t be as arrogant as to presume, but I had hoped.”
Stiles raised his brows. “You, not arrogant?” That earned him another grin, one that made something between his ribs lift and flutter like a being all of its own. He drew in a breath to steady it and by the way Peter’s gaze drifted down to watch it pass his lips, he knew he’d betrayed himself to werewolf senses. He didn’t quite mind as much as he’d thought either.
“I didn’t realise you were interested in more than women.”
Peter looked positively sinful. “I’m interested in anyone with a quick mind and a handsome face to match.”
Stiles bit the inside of his mouth, before letting his lips rub together thoughtfully. He rubbed his knuckles across his chin and considered Peter for a moment, as open as Stiles had ever seen him. “Sounds like you’re pretty gone on me, Peter Hale.”
He swore Peter’s eyes sparkled like something that shouldn’t have been possible. They were still sparkling even as they separated on their way out the diner to their respective vehicles. But as Stiles reached his Jeep, he turned and approached Peter just as he was climbing into the Shelby.
“Peter?” he called out, though Peter had stopped long before he’d raised his voice, had turned toward him. Stiles stopped in front of him, uncertain and yet more sure of anything than he’d been in a while. “So…this was a date, right?”
“I think we both agreed it was,” Peter said, searching Stiles’s face as if for some clue as to his intent.
Stiles took delight in surprising him. He took the last quick step forward, catching Peter’s neck and face and bringing their mouths together. It was a swift thing, a firm and fleeting caress followed by a softer, more lingering press of lips.
When he drew back, he held Peter’s gaze, feeling as if he were glowing, vibrating from the inside.
“Just had to check,” he said. It was barely a whisper but it was the beginning of everything.
*
Stiles found himself jerking awake as his empty bowl was pried from his hands, Peter’s face much closer than he remembered. He gave a lazy stretch, feeling his bones creak and watching as Peter drew his free hand back from his arm. The faint black lines fading there were his only clue that he might’ve had some lingering pain from his tension headache.
“I am too comfy,” he complained sleepily.
Peter’s lips twitched. “You have a noodle on your chin.”
Stiles grunted in annoyance and swiped the offending article off his face. “How long were you staring at me asleep with that on my face?”
“At least ten minutes,” Peter mused, heading into the kitchen area to load the bowls and cutlery into the dishwasher.
After an internal struggle, Stiles forced himself to his feet. He looked mournfully at the laptop bag Peter had moved safely to the coffee table. Things all got a bit much sometimes but he loved his job really, even if sometimes his path crossed with a few assholes. He loved their slightly pretentious apartment and how close it was to his work and Beacon Hills and their routine of meeting up with his dad or the pack or both on their days off. He loved how flexible Peter’s work schedule was and how Peter just knew when to push back, when to hold his ground and when to just let them melt together in the safe space they’d created in these walls.
He started unbuttoning his shirt as he headed toward the wall of windows and stared out into the quiet night below, so much calmer and more beautiful from where he stood then. He pulled the blinds and as his hand dropped from the cord, he felt Peter press lightly against his back, arms enveloping him and his nose resting against his nape.
“Feeling better?”
The words were a husky murmur against his skin, as fuzzy with tiredness as Stiles felt. He covered Peter’s arms with his own.
“Much. You make my head quiet,” he said gratefully, closing his eyes for a moment and just enjoying the contact and security it provided. Indulging himself and Peter, he thought, who didn’t often get the chance to play the hero with him these days.
“A feat indeed, it’s usually pretty loud.”
Stiles rolled his eyes but tilted his head to let Peter kiss the space between his ear and jaw.
“I am so tempted to let you carry me to bed right now, I am that tired.”
He felt the answering chuckle against his skin.
“I won’t tell anyone if you won’t.”
“Oh my god, don’t tempt me,” Stiles laughed, turning in his arms to kiss him briefly before heading into the bedroom. He managed the journey, but it was a hardship. He also managed to toss his shirt and pants into the hamper for once, Peter had earned it, he thought, but he didn’t have the energy to find his sweats that he usually slept in and so just climbed into bed in his underwear, flopping in the middle on his stomach and feeling his eyes close the second his head hit the pillow.
“How can I resist such a sight?” Peter mused, gently nudging him over to his side, same as he did every night.
“Must bear with me, seductive mode recharging, full throttle any minute now,” Stiles mumbled into the pillow, smiling sleepily as he felt Peter curl half over, half around him, pulling the sheets over them both.
“No need to rush, I find this Stiles just as charming.”
Stiles fidgeted back against Peter’s warmth. “Mmm, like...with drool and crazy hair and a five o’clock shadow. It’s my beta shift,” he muttered, words slightly slurred from rapidly approaching slumber.
The answering, affectionate chuckle rumbled in Peter’s chest and against his back, dusting over the shell of his ear as it passed Peter’s lips. The soothing sound chased after him as he drifted.