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Stiles lays sprawled crossways on the bed, head pillowed on Peter’s stomach, a sheet barely draped over him, and that only because the air got a little too cool on his sweat-damp skin. Peter is running his fingers idly through Stiles’s hair.
“This tale isn’t necessarily resolved, you know,” Peter says. “We don’t have a grandmother figure, and while the original versions didn’t have a huntsman at all, the versions that do are probably more powerful.”
“They’re absolutely more powerful,” Stiles agrees. “But it’s pretty obvious who the huntsman is, and that’s a threat easily managed.”
Peter only thinks for a moment. “Chris Argent. Of course.” He sounds a little irritated; it is a little surprising that he didn’t see it immediately.
“I figure the grandmother role is open,” Stiles says. “It’s definitely not my dad.” He leaves unspoken why he’s so certain, but Peter has lived in Beacon Hills his whole life. The Sheriff’s tale, tragic as it became, is well known.
Peter hums softly. “We can probably use that to our advantage. Find someone with knowledge and power, maneuver them into the role of mentor, and the tale will help drive it from there. The grandmother is supposed to die.”
“Someone with knowledge and power that the world can do without,” Stiles specifies, giving Peter a poke.
“Of course,” Peter says easily.
Maybe too easily, but he is the big bad wolf. Stiles is the one making the decisions in this tale.