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He supposes they were naive to think they could keep this to themselves. Or maybe not naive. Maybe the right word is…hopeful.
He looks around the room. Boyd and Erica are cowering in a corner, curled around each other in anticipation of a blow. Allison has a hand over her mouth, eyes wide. Stiles’ hand is stretched out in front of him, flung over Isaac as if to block him from Derek’s rage. Scott…Scott is caught mid-crouch, frozen in the same indecision that has made this necessary, but with the addition of eyes wide, incredulousness just edging out the balance of horror to keep him from completely matching his girlfriend.
And Derek. Derek heaving breath and piecing together blood and bone and just this side of death. Looking warily at Peter’s claws suspended just inches from his jugular.
“Peter.” Chris refocuses on the subject at hand. “Peter.” He presses his hand harder against Peter’s cheek, cupping the flesh tightly and forcing Peter’s eyes to his. “No.”
Peter’s eyes are wild, holding focus on Chris only by dint of the metaphorical chain pulled tight between them. “‘Christopher. He deserves it.”
Peter isn’t wrong, but that isn’t the point. Not right now.
“What’s going on ?” Scott is confused. As he often is.
Stiles, on the other hand, is not. “They’re fucking, dude. Obviously.” If it hadn’t been Peter launching at Derek, Chris thinks it would have been Stiles. Derek has made the unforgivable error of aiming his rage at Isaac, even though the mistake had been his own.
“They are not. ” Allison hisses, even though he can see in her eyes she doesn’t quite believe the words she’s saying. “And what’s going on with you ?” She looks pointedly at where Stiles’ fingers are twisted into the fabric of Isaac’s hoodie. Chris narrows his eyes and takes another look. Stiles ’ hoodie. But really, none of that truly matters to Chris at the moment. He is needed elsewhere.
“Peter,” he says low, even though he knows at least half the room can clearly hear, “you don’t actually want to do this.” He wraps his other hand around Peter’s arm, pressing all the way through the leather of his jacket, straight to the tattoo hidden beneath. “We’ve talked about it, remember?” Talked about it with Peter on his knees, Peter on his back, Peter pressed against the wall with Chris’ hand at his throat and his tongue around the shell of his ear.
Peter shivers, eyes darting around the room, landing briefly on Derek before returning to Chris. His tension collapses all in one and his weight shifts toward the door.
Chris nods in response. “I’ll find you when this is done.” He drops his hands from Peter, and without a word to anyone, Peter walks away and disappears from the room.
As soon as he’s gone, Chris whirls on Derek. “You do this again,” he hisses, voice tight with fury, “you endanger this town, these children , with your utter stupidity and unwillingness to reach out for help, and I’ll kill you myself. Do you understand me?”
Derek is already standing, brushing dust off his shoulders in a show of not caring how close he’s come to death. Chris watches in frustrated anger as Derek’s face shuts down, only to open back up with sneering bravado and immaturity. He’s only 23 , Chris keeps reminding himself. Only 23. A child .
“As if you actually care about this town or my pack. As if you care about anything but your precious daughter. Although,” his lips curl down into distaste, “it seems you care an awful lot about my uncle. You Argents are really something, aren’t you?”
Before Chris can even think about answering, Derek jerks his head at his three betas, all still in varying stages of returning to the usual brat pack. “Let’s go.”
Erica and Boyd file out immediately. Chris watches with mild interest as Isaac starts to follow, then stops. “No.”
“What?” Derek snaps. “What the hell do you mean no ?”
“I’m not going with you.” Isaac’s brow is furrowed and Chris can see the tremble in his shoulders, but his stance is solid from where he stands just behind Stiles, whose fingers remain clenched in the tail of Isaac’s hoodie.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Derek still isn’t seeing it. Is just as stupidly blind to this as he is to his absolute lack of preparedness to actually lead anyone right now, at least not without help. “We’re going.” Then, Derek makes the mistake of reaching out and grabbing Isaac’s arm.
“Hey!” Stiles knocks Derek’s hand away and shoves him back. “He said he was staying!”
“What is…Allison?” Scott looks bewildered. “Allison, what am I missing?” Poor, good, stupid stupid Scott who is still five hundred times more qualified to lead than Derek. Scott who would absolutely die for his daughter.
Chris walks out. This is pack business, not his, and Isaac is going to be fine. He’s always known Stiles would kill for Isaac.
Five minutes later, in his car, his fingers are clenched white from where his hands grip the wheel. His worry, his anger, his fear that he actually might have to kill Derek one of these days swirls through his gut and makes him sick.
But once he finds Peter, he’ll be fine. Once he finds Peter and anchors him down, everything will be okay.
His phone vibrates. Once. Twice. It’s Allison. He doesn’t pick up. Not until he finds Peter.
Peter isn’t at any of the usual haunts where he goes to ground. Not at the Hale ruin. Not at the cemetery. Not at the Argent’s failsafe cabin in the woods.
His phone vibrates again. Still Allison. He still doesn’t pick up. Not until he finds Peter.
Finally, in a desperation move, he tries Peter’s apartment on the outskirts of the city. He doesn’t think it is likely, but when he pulls into the parking garage, Peter’s car is there, and when he unlocks the front door, the lights are on and Peter is in the living room, sitting still and staring out the window. The sun is filtering through the plants on the sill, casting Peter’s face half in shadow, half in light. His jacket is off, exposing the pale length of his arm, and Chris’ eyes are drawn like a magnet to the black letters standing stark like a vulgarity written on the wall of a bathroom stall.
“Peter?” he approaches cautiously, hand held out in front of him in either a show of peace or a preliminary protection against violence. He has never been sure which and that certainly hasn't changed now.
Peter sighs and turns. He has a potted herb in his hands. “Christopher.”
“It took me a minute to disengage. I was worried you - “
“Why are you here?”
The words are spit out with expected vitriol, but with just enough of an honest question at the end that Chris’ steps stutter, fingers just inches from Peter’s pulse.
“What happened earlier…I told you I would come. We have a deal.”
A small sigh gusts from Peter’s lips and his eyes briefly close. When they reopen his lips are pressed into a hard, barely there smile. “You don’t need to be here.”
Chris blinks, fingers still twitching a hair's breadth from Peter’s skin. “What?”
“You. Don’t need. To be here. As you said. We have a deal. An arrangement you might kindly say. You agree to debase yourself and scrub up after to ensure your little family stays safe with me. Because of an inconvenient piece of biology that refuses to give up after thirty years. The easiest, fastest way to bring me down. Collar me up. Keep me contained . Noble sacrifice on your part. Correct?”
There is a trap here, Chris is sure, a right answer and a wrong one, but he can’t quite put his finger on it. “I don’t think I’d put it exactly - “
Peter pushes on. “Well, Argent, job done. I’m down. Not even close to killing anyone, even those who really, really deserve it.” His voice descends to a growl at the end but immediately recovers. “So your sacrifice is not needed today.”
He is telling the truth, Chris knows. If he doesn’t believe his words, his stance, he knows it in the fact Peter is here, in his apartment, tending his plants , the very last place he would be if he needed anchoring. Chris knows he is telling the truth but it doesn’t make sense because his stomach still churns. His rage and his fear and his worry still crawl up his spine and taste tinny on his tongue and if Peter is fine then Chris can relax. Can call his daughter back and set the world to rights.
“Congratulations, Argent! Really. No need to hold your nose today. Perhaps we’ve entered a new stage. Or returned to one? After all, we did it this way for years as children. And it will be much easier to wash the stench from just a touch, yes? Argent? Argent.”
Peter snaps his fingers in Chris’ face and Chris jolts. “I - “
“So, in summary, you can go. Run away to self flagellate another day. No other reason to be here. Right, Christopher?”
There is a half a beat where neither of them speak. Where, somehow, Chris isn’t sure either of them even breathe.
The silence is broken by the harsh vibration of his phone. He jerks it from his pocket without thinking and when Peter sees the screen the tension in the room shatters and shifts and Peter’s tight smile morphs into a smirk.
“Ah. The daughter. You don’t want to go home because that means you’ll have to answer to her. Explain this fucked up mess you got yourself into. Well, then. Stay.”
Air gusts into Chris’ lungs and his stomach starts to settle, and then -
“I have errands to run anyway. Lock up on your way out, won’t you?”
Peter shoves his potted herb into Chris’ free hand and then he is gone.
Chris stares at the plant. Stares at his hands. Tries to decipher why the churning has turned to nausea and his fury still hasn’t dissipated.
His phone vibrates yet again. Still Allison. He still doesn’t pick up. He can’t. Not until -