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"Oh no, what is he doing here?"
Stiles turned, just avoiding clipping someone next to him with his wine glass as the ripple of gossip suddenly cut to silence and the moderately large crowd of people currently occupying the living room of the pack house shuffled nervously back from the newest arrival to the party.
Like a bad teen movie, the entire room fell silent as the stranger entered, a sudden tension filling up the space like some sort of psychic pudding. Even the Christmas music, which had been cheerfully blasting at just a hair too loud for most werewolf ears to be comfortable, seemed muffled now.
The stranger stepped forward, and Stiles resisted the knee jerk reaction to cover his crotch before it gave away his first impression of the man. High school had been hell, and years of experience had drilled certain behaviors into his skull until they were instinct, or at least it did unless he wanted to die of mortification. As it was, any wolves in the room might be able to smell his attraction to a hot dad right off, but that didn't mean he had to give anyone a free pants snake show if he could help it.
The mysterious stranger didn't seem to notice the reaction of the crowd.
He was absolutely striking, rugged in a mature, confident way. He reminded Stiles of the days when Peter couldn't be assed to shave, those times they took the pack up into the mountains to run off some pre-moon jitters. Except this guy lacked the "I'm sexy and I know it" swagger Peter exuded. Instead, he seemed as unaware of his own sex appeal as he was of the way everyone stepped nervously back when he stalked silently forward with intent. Towards Stiles.
Like, directly at him.
"Wait, what?" Stiles snapped out of his drooling daze just in time to take exactly two panicked steps back before his back collided with something solid.
His frazzled mind barely had time to register the tingly mental feeling of "alpha" and "safe" before the hot weirdo was right up in his business and he was suddenly the unwilling filling of a hot daddy sandwich.
" Eeep ," he managed to wheeze out, his head thumping back against Peter's chest as the weird guy leaned in, ice blue eyes and soulful, shaggy beard doing things to the beast inside Stiles' pants for sure, but like, also the guy wasn't blinking even a little and it was freaking Stiles out.
He was kind of shocked, actually—once he realized he wasn't being maimed or murdered and could take a second to think—that Peter wasn't in possessive alpha mode over this guy getting so close to his emissary. Peter was usually a complete bastard about other supernaturals who thought they had any right to Stiles' time, energy, and occasionally just his attention. He's had to smack Peter metaphorically on the nose more than once over people being allowed to hug him before, yet all Peter did now was place a soothing hand on Stiles' shoulder as the stranger practically murdered his personal bubble.
"Chris, good to see you out and about." Peter was using his schmoozing voice, but with that humorous twist that he usually used to tease old family friends and the lady who ran the good coffee shop. "Please tell me it's pleasure and not business that brings you out of hermitage, also could you perhaps take a step back—yes there you go. You're scaring my baby spark."
"Ah," Chris said, leaning back a little further and closing his eyes. "That explains it."
Stiles watched him warily. The last person to sniff him and lean back like that had been a vampire, who had totally been getting high off the scent of his virginal, magically charged blood.
Peter seemed unconcerned.
"Uhh, hi?" Stiles waved, awkwardly. "I'm Stiles. Stiles Stilinski. Uhm, I'm Peter's emasarry? For his pack, I mean."
The guy was staring again, although he maintained the several foot distance between them this time.
Behind him Peter gave an aggrieved sigh. "Stiles, this is Christopher Argent. He prefers Chris. Say hello, Chris." He reached out, poking the guy in the shoulder in that demanding, playful, somehow threatening way Peter had with people.
"Stiles…" The guy had his eyes closed again, and was taking deep, meditative breaths. Stiles hoped that wasn't meant to stop him from snapping and attempting murder. He really wanted to make it to the end of the year without yet another attempt on his life.
"It's nice to meet you, Stiles." Chris said, coming out of his presumably non-murdery mental exercise to shake Stiles' hand.
"Oh, sure. You too?" Stiles babbled, awkwardly freeing his hand from the firm, and pleasantly warm, handshake.
The man gave Peter a nod, and then turned on his heel and headed for the door.
"Oh, that's it?" Stiles made a half step forward, but Peter's hand was still on his shoulder and held him back from following. "I, uhh, I guess I'll see you around?" He called out, waving half heartedly at Chris' retreating back.
Chris paused, turning his head to look over his shoulder at Stiles. His eyes seemed, for a moment, to glow an eerie blue, but it was gone before Stiles could properly decide if it was a trick of the Christmas lights that lined the room or not.
"Huh," Chris said, still watching with that intense look. "Yes, you will."
Stiles felt something, like a ripple of power, or a rolling fog maybe, spreading out at his statement. His ears were ringing slightly, and Chris' eyes were definitely glowing.
"Interesting. I'll see you then Stiles Stilinski."
Stiles gulped, watching as Chris, with no further comment, stalked back out of the party and into the night.
"Damn, hate to see him leave but love to watch him go," he muttered, whole body sagging as if the wire that had previously been holding him upright had snapped. "Also, what the fuck?"
Peter hummed thoughtfully, and reached around to take the wine glass from Stiles. He drained it in one gulp, and Stiles grumbled at the waste. Peter couldn't even get drunk like a human, so it was doubly insulting.
"That, my dear Spark, was an extremely lucky encounter."
"I think you mean extremely fucking weird," Stiles said, bumping Peter with his shoulder. He didn't want to admit it, but he was almost as unnerved by the event as he was turned on by it. "What is with that guy?"
"Oh, he's always like that," Peter waved for more drinks to be brought out, and the noise of the party gradually returned. "Besides, you should be honored. It's not every day Chris rouses himself to leave his cave and join society. And he did it just for you, without any doom or prophecies attached!"
"Doom or what now?" Stiles was beginning to wish for another glass of wine. Or something stronger.
"Prophecies! It's usually the only reason he leaves the house. He's a bit shy, and a lot grumpy. But I guess our local mothman just couldn't resist the light draw of a Spark." Peter tilted his head, taking in Stiles' gobsmacked expression. "Although I guess he technically did give you one prophecy. I hope you have something smarter to wear than that for your next date. Shame he didn't give you a hint about when you'd be meeting again, but he always was a little shit when it comes to helpful details. Make sure to put in a good word with him for the pack. Having the mothman as an early warning system would be exceptionally helpful."
"What," Stiles gaped, "He, mothman? What—really? DATE??" He turned abruptly towards the refreshment table, ignoring Peter's cackling and the stares of the other guests.
He needed that drink.