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“Ratatouille!”
“God bless you,” I say, as Peter stomps into my foyer. “Why are you here?”
“Ratatouille,” he moans. “That’s what Stiles and Lydia made in their class. And now, I’ve been inflicted with that damn Pixar movie and Derek’s walking around calling Stiles his ‘Little Chef’ and it’s so nauseatingly sweet and disgusting that I want to eviscerate someone. I had to leave!”
“Because coming to the house of a hunter when you want to kill someone is in your best interests?”
“Please, like I would try to kill you, you should know better by now,” he says, rolling his eyes. “And what’s even worse, I can’t look at the stuff, and it’s your fault!”
I’m thankful that my wife and daughter are out shopping and the house is empty. “And how is that my fault?”
“Every time I look at it, I think of you and the eggplant and I can’t get it near my mouth without getting turned on. And Derek can smell it and he looks at me like I’m nuts – which, let’s be honest, if this is the worst he thinks my brand of crazy can get, it’s an improvement, but still…”
“Peter?”
He stops talking. “I have to stop hanging around Stiles,” he mumbles. “His verbal vomiting is contagious.”
“So you thought you’d come here and share your misery with me?”
When he nods, I offer, “I was watching hockey on television. You want a beer?”
“I… you don’t mind?”
“Seems kind of rude to make you leave since you just got here.”
He shifts from foot to foot and it’s awkward and endearing. The tee-shirt and cargo pants make him look even younger, and I’m not sure whether or not it’s been done on purpose, but it’s making me want to eat him up. Before I can embarrass myself, I point at the family room and say, “Go, Peter. Sit. Make yourself at home. Just take your shoes off first, so I don’t have to hear about dirt on the carpet.”
This causes him to grin and he bends over, untying his shoelaces. I most definitely do not check out his ass as he sets his sneakers next to mine in the front hall and pads silently into the family room. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as a hockey fan,” he says, curling into one end of the couch.
“Sport of champions,” I say. I hand him a beer and sit in the chair across from him, which is the best seat for seeing the TV. “We’re rooting for the Kings, if you don’t have a preference.”
“I don’t know much about it,” he replies. “The Hales are baseball fans by nature. Derek actually went to school on a scholarship…”
And there he goes, off on a tangent. I miss half of the game listening to him talk, and the irony is that I don’t mind. Not until he stutters mid-sentence and says, “Shit, they’re home.”
“Hmm?”
“Allison and your wife. I just heard your garage door go up, I didn’t think I’d stay so long…”
“How did you get here?”
“The Camaro.”
“Jesus,” I say, groaning. “Peter…”
“I’m sorry! I really came over to complain at you, I didn’t expect you to ask me to stay!”
“Okay, okay. You came over to talk, you stayed for the game. No problem.”
Except for my sweaty palms and clammy hands and racing heartbeat. Shit. I don’t get long to think about it, because the door from the kitchen to the garage bangs open and Allison shouts, “Derek? Stiles?”
“In here, Allison,” I call, and she enters at the sound of my voice. “Peter dropped by.”
“Hi, Peter. I didn’t realize you two knew each other?” she asks. The look of concerned confusion on her face warms my heart, because she’s right to be skeptical and it’ll make her a good hunter and safe.
But damned if it doesn’t bother me that she’s too perceptive for her own good right now.
“We thought it would be good to get to know each other, with as much time as you spend at the house,” Peter says. He grins, charm in full effect. “And then he tried to bore me to death with hockey.”
“Dad!” she huffs. “You’re a terrible host!”
Wait a minute. “Now hang on,” I protest, but she’s already flouncing into the kitchen.
“Mom! Peter Hale’s here, don’t freak okay?”
Victoria glances into the den, arches an eyebrow, and asks, “Peter Hale? You’re Derek’s uncle?”
He shoots to his feet and crosses the room, holding out his hand. “Yes, that’s me,” he says. “It’s nice to meet you in person, instead of hearing Allison mention your name.”
“I’ve heard your name mentioned as well,” she returns, and I give my wife such credit, because I know her well enough to know she hates him on sight.
I should hate him as well, I just… can’t. And I can’t let them stand there staring at each other any longer, because Victoria’s looking less than amused and Peter looks like he’s going to kill her to escape from the house.
I clear my throat, say to Peter, “Hey, come sit, you’re going to miss the start of the third period.”
He turns to look at me with sheer disbelief painted on his face. “What?”
“You’ve got terrible hearing for a wolf,” I say, and point at the couch. “Sit. Or, if you’re going to stand for a while, at least go get us two cold ones from the fridge first?”
“Right,” he says, dazed. “Cold beer. Be right back.”
He softly walks toward the kitchen, and Victoria pounces at the opportunity. “What the hell is he doing here?”
“Vic,” I say. “Don’t. I know how fucked up it is, but our daughter is part of his pack. We’ve gotten to know Derek and Stiles, but we should cover all of the bases.”
“He’s…!”
“Peter is Peter,” I say. “And he’s got just as much reason to hate us as we have to hate him, if not more. That’s on me.”
“No, that was on Katherine.”
“And it now falls to me,” I repeat. “Both sides have broken the Code in the past; we’ve been given the ability to make amends. He’s working on it as hard as I am.”
She frowns. “I still don’t like him.”
“You don’t have to.”
“But you do?”
I pause. “Yeah, I do.”
I hear Peter clear his throat and Victoria glares at him. “Well. Then far be it for me to stand in the way of your mutual love of hockey.”
She strides out of the room. I wince as I hear our bedroom door slam shut; I know without doubt I’m going to pay for this later. “So, I know you heard that,” I say.
He nods. “Should I go?”
“No, you should sit and finish your beer. And maybe I still have time to convert you to a hockey fan.”
“Doubtful,” he says, but takes his seat on the couch again. “So why didn’t you throw me out? I mean, you had every opportunity…”
“Peter?”
He pauses. “Hmm?”
Quietly, and in all sincerity, I say, “I want you to be here, kid.”
He drags his knees to his chest and grins. “I want to be here, too.”
We watch the rest of the game in silence.