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Stiles disappears with frustrating ease.
There is no scent to follow, no money trail to track, nothing. Stiles covers his steps so well it’s like they aren’t even there. Peter likes to think he might’ve had some kind of influence on the ingenious way in which Stiles disappears off of the face of the planet.
He knows that it isn’t quite true, though. Stiles is smart. He only took what he needed. Uses only cash. His Jeep is found in Santa Clara in the hands of some punk ass little wannabe thug who is as white as the belly of a fish and calls himself Jerome— the little shit has a pink slip for Roscoe, but Peter ignores his protests and takes the vehicle off his hands with a simple little flash of his fangs.
The thing is, though, even while Stiles seems to leave not even a trace of himself behind, the Fae are somehow tracking him— after that ever elusive Spark nestled in the boy’s chest. Peter knows that they’re following him, and so he is following them. It’s the only way to track him down, even if it does mean nearly running into a great deal of Hunters on the way.
Scott calls him everyday, asks him if he’s found anything, and Peter always manages to belittle Scott’s worries enough to make the Alpha calm down enough to not come hunting the boy down himself. The rest of the Pack is back in Beacon Hills, holding down the fort just in case the Unseelie decide that they want to take vengeance upon the place that kept such a valuable power source from them. When the Sheriff calls to ask, however, Peter is a bit more tactful, even gentle, in his assurances. The older man takes each word with a grain of salt and always ends the conversation with a terse order to bring his son home.
The only problem is that two weeks have gone by and Peter has seen neither hide nor hair of Stiles’ pretty little head. He starts to get worried when he loses track of the Fae too— a spot somewhere in the thick forest along the eastern border between Canada and Maine. For a day and half, he goes a bit crazy because there is nothing but the smell of ozone where their tracks stop.
For a day after that he ignores all calls from the Pack and the Sheriff because what if he lost track of the Fae, and what if he lost track of Stiles. The idea doesn’t sit well with him.
But then he goes back to the spot again, inhales deep, and there it is. Under the leafs and the dirt, there’s a small stone with a rune carved over it. It smells like Stiles and leaves a tangy magic taste on his tongue. He’s not quite sure what it is specifically, but he can read the mark and knows that Stiles managed to trick the Fae there— and then managed to banish them from the realm in this very spot.
Peter couldn’t be more grateful for the stone, and he rubs it like a talisman because he knows by the feel of it— still thrumming with energy— that Stiles is very much alive. It doesn’t take long for him to work out that the energy it gives off like a song grows stronger the closer he gets to the boy.
A day later, Peter finds himself in a coastal town called Blue Hill. It’s a quaint little place, but it has a smell of “other.” Peter doesn’t really mind, especially not when he spots a familiarly buzzed head meandering around Main Street and smiling at an older woman as he admires one of the hand-loomed blankets out on display.
“Might need it when winter comes,” the woman says with a smile. "Skinny thing like you will need to bundle up.“
Stiles laughs softly, shaking his head as his fingers run over soft fibers. ”I couldn’t afford it.”
The rock in Peter’s pocket is practically buzzing, and he ends up right behind Stiles— the boy tenses up before Peter settles a hand on his shoulder— and he gives a toothy grin to the woman. ”No, but I can. Would you like it, Wieslav?”
Stiles looks up at him sharply. ”Peter—”
"It’s nothing, really.” Peter assures, placing a hundred dollar bill on the table, his other hand tightening carefully. Stiles doesn’t wince, but his hands curl into the material of the blanket. "Come on, love. We need to get you home. You’re dad’s been asking about you.“
Stiles lets himself get pulled away. He walks stiffly, but not enough to draw attention to them. The last thing Peter needs is for someone to think he’s kidnapping the boy.
They stop in a nearby parking lot, where Peter easily unlocks a sleek looking Mercedes with efficiency before dragging the teen over and pushing him against the side of the car. Stiles looks younger with his hair buzzed like this, clutching the blanket close and glaring at Peter. He’s briefly reminded of being half mad, holding this boy’s wrist close and offering the Bite. His mouth waters for a moment.
"I’m not going back, Peter—"
"Get. In the car.” Peter says stiffly, moving in close and crowding Stiles back. "Or I will make you get in the car.“
"I can’t go back. They’ll come for me— you’re all in danger—”
"Don’t be obtuse, Stiles.” Peter rolls his eyes, giving him a look that spoke volumes of Peter’s frustration with the entirety of the situation. "We’ll be in danger whether you’re there or not. Get in the car.“
"Just because I’ve managed to get rid of them for now doesn’t mean that they won’t come back.” Stiles hisses, standing up a bit straighter— he really would have made a beautiful wolf. "And they’ll be angry when they do.“
"All the better for you to come home and help us prepare for it then.” Peter replies with a pleasantness that is only betrayed by the cold look in his eyes. "Last warning, Stiles. If you don’t get in the car right now I will tie you up and put you in myself.”
Stiles’ brows furrow. ”With what—?”
Peter turns him about in an instant, shoving Stiles’ chest against the driver’s side door. He wrenches Stiles’ hands behind his back, unapologetic as the boy cringes and the blanket he was holding falls in a heap on the ground. There is an audible click as the handcuffs secure in place, and Stiles freezes.
“Are you serious?”
"Your father was convinced I would need them. Turns out he was right."
Peter grabs him by the scruff of his neck, biting back a grin as Stiles stumbles back against him, and jerks the door open. He feels Stiles’ hands flex against his hip and drums his own fingers against the metal edge of the door.
"Get in. Don’t make me gag you as well."
Stiles is quick to comply.
Peter ducks down and tugs the seatbelt out and across Stiles’ chest, letting his hand linger over the teen’s thigh for a moment longer than needed. Eyes narrow at him, and Peter doesn’t hold back a grin that is all teeth. Huffing out a put upon sigh, Peter crouches to pluck up the blanket and shakes it out before setting it over Stiles’ lap gently.
"I can get out of these, y’know.” Stiles mutters, eyes not leaving Peter’s face.
“Yes,” Peter nods. "But you won’t. You want to go home, and we all want you there. I want you there.“
Stiles’ jaw flexes, huffing out a sharp breath, and Peter doesn’t miss the way his cheeks color a bit. Reaching up, Peter runs his hand over his head and frowns faintly. He’ll have to threaten all the barbers in town not to touch his head and confiscate any and all electronic razors found on any persons Stiles might come into contact with.
"Besides,” Peter adds, gaze flashing a dangerous blue that earns a little leap in Stiles’ pulse. “You know I’ll knock you out if you try."
Stiles rolls his eyes.
"Let’s get you home.” Peter says and moves to stand, but stops when Stiles utters a quiet ‘wait.’
“It worked, right? They’re gone? No one— No one got hurt?"
Peter gives him a small smile. ”No one got hurt. Though I have a feeling you’re in for a world of it when we get back to Beacon Hills. Your father mentioned something about being grounded. Until you were twenty.”
Stiles’ nose wrinkles. ”Can we take the long way home?”
Peter laughs. ”Of course.”
He shuts the door, comfortable with the knowledge that Stiles isn’t going anywhere. He doesn’t let the boy leave his sight for more than five minutes the whole trip. Stiles doesn’t really seem to mind.