Chapter Text
Peter had many muses: lightning bugs at night, shimmering in a chaotic symphony like distant fireworks; the Aurora in the sky, creating surreal colors and patterns above a snowy landscape; tears running down a stranger's face while a gun rests in their hands; the daunting height of a massive cliff above turquoise water; dark storm clouds and lightning over bright, sun-lit trees; a beautiful person in a particularly alluring, pensive, or bashful pose; music, especially that with low tones and melody.
And none of them were working.
He sat staring at his computer with his fingers resting uselessly over the keys, reading over his last few chapters, reaching the end of the last sentence and... nothing. His mind spawned no new scenes. The characters on the pages paused in time and he couldn't push them on.
The dreaded so-called "writers-block".
Peter grimaced and reached for his glass of whiskey, positively disgusted at himself. Then groaned and ran a rough hand through his hair, disgusted at himself for caring about his writing enough to be disgusted at himself in the first place.
He hadn't cared about writing when he started. And he never expected it to get so far. He had sat down two years ago and thought to himself, If I don't find something to do to pass the time, I will end up killing every single blundering idiot in this god forsaken town. And so, deciding not to risk Derek disowning him, or turning him in to the police, or putting him down himself, Peter sat down and decided on a whim to write a book. He liked reading books. He had read just about every decent book the Beacon Hills library had, and even some that had never found their pages warped by the fingers of a human. It didn't seem like too much trouble to write one himself. The hardest part, really, was just coming up with the damn story itself. He had taken inspiration from some of the books he'd read, and eventually some reluctant ideas from his ever-so-original nephew, and eventually came up with an outline for a story that he figured should at least appeal to the moronic masses enough to bring him some passive monetary income while he wasted away in this hell-hole of a dead-end town.
Two months later, he finished his little project novel, a little over 58,000 words long. He contacted a publisher who owed him a favor of a lifetime and got himself published in just a week. And after the first month of sitting around aimlessly wondering if any of it had even been worthwhile, he finally began to see his royalty checks rolling in, just enough to justify the time he'd spent holed up in the house miserably typing out a story he neither cared about nor saw any hope in.
First it was a simple trickle of money, nothing spectacular. Just evidence that people were buying his book. Then there was the surge . Hundreds a month in profits turned into thousands a week . Apparently, people were liking Bleedthrough , a simple paperback about a depressed, angry man on the edge of collapse, getting wrapped up in a bank robbery, accused of murder, and forced to run for his life with an intent cop on his trail. At the end of the book, the cop who had taken a personal interest in his case finally caught him. And Peter decided that was the perfect place to end the book. The very last sentence in the book read: "He turned, and met the curious glint in the eyes of his pursuer."
It wasn't a particularly elegant sentence. Peter had wanted to do better for the last words his readers would see, but he'd sat at his computer for at least three days on end hanging on that last scene, trying to figure out how exactly to end it, how exactly to word it. It was one of the most excruciating experiences of his life, and he's quite literally burned before .
So, there it lay on his computer screen. And once he had decided that the book was finished, around lunchtime on an unremarkably cold Wednesday, Peter had sat there replaying the entire book in his head, considering just how much he cared about a few little plot holes, and finally accepted that he'd done a job well done. He had closed his laptop, gone outside, and found Derek sitting on the porch with his phone in his hands. He'd sat down next to him with a sigh for no other reason than to be near someone. He had no idea where the absurd need for companionship had come from but decided questioning it was far more tasking than just indulging the urge.
Then, ten minutes of silence later, he had gotten up and went back inside to make some calls to hurry up and get the damn thing published before he decided to just scrap the whole thing.
He didn't expect the damn thing to become an object of public adoration. He began to get hundreds and hundreds if not thousands of emails and letters begging him to continue the story, come in for interviews, get it advertised. Even his publisher told him that it would be in his best interest to turn his book into a multi-novel series. Peter had told him it he could go fuck himself.
But the letters continued, and the boredom returned. And Peter wanted his own damn car, and those royalty checks could double or even triple if he just wrote another stupid book. So, reluctantly, he wrote Cauterized, the second, and final book in the series. He found that some of the plot holes he hadn't bothered to fix ended up working in his favor and provided some interesting twists he was able to throw into the story. Dare he say, he felt sort of glad to wrap it all up and call that particular adventure finished...
And then there were five more books after that, which weren't quite planned as much as they just sort of happened . Needless to say, Peter is an author, whether he likes it or not. He had, in fact, made sure that in the "about the author" panel on the back of the book cover, it included the phrase, "reluctant author..." just so that people knew that none of this was of Peter Hale's own accord.
Well, not Peter Hale. Known to his readers, he is P. H. Wolfe, to be exact. This horribly ironic pen name that Derek teased him into using has haunted him in his dreams. Being addressed as "Mister Wolfe," in all the emails, letters and phone calls that he wasn't able to dodge had not been something he feared he would be forced to live through.
Whatever. Thankfully, very few people knew who he was beyond the pages. And those people are himself, his nephew, and the publisher. And that sniveling little weasel of a publisher would sooner die than tell anyone about him, because he knows Peter would hunt him down and torture him in a way that would make him beg for death. And Derek surely won't tell anyone. He doesn't talk to people anyway.
Peter groaned and set down his perfectly chilled glass of whiskey. What has he done to himself? He'd honestly be less tortured had he gone into a murder spree to sate his boredom instead.
Part of him, these days, wondered if his mistake was the mental exercise one gets when telling a story. To create something truly good , one has to put themselves into the lives of each of their characters. Perhaps it was a mistake, delving into the life of a normal person with normal problems and normal emotions in his writing. In order to write emotion, one typically has to have some level of ability to experience that emotion, and he wondered if that's what he accidentally did, in a backward sort of way. He wondered if submerging himself into the written mind of a person with actual humanity somehow conditioned his mind to adopt the same processes.
The very idea sickened him.
Maybe he should write about someone who couldn't figure out how to fucking finish his book so that he could get over this lack of inspiration!
He saw Derek lean through the doorway in the reflection on his dim computer screen and mumble a simple, two-syllabic, "Told you," before retreating to the living room. Peter wanted to strangle him.
" No ," Peter sighed. "I do not have writers-block."
"Then stop sighing at your computer," Derek shot back. He said, lower, and with a little disgust, "You've been at it for days ."
"Excuse me?" Peter called out needlessly, though pointedly.
"I said, you're going to pass out if you keep sighing like that! Because-"
"I assume the second half of that remark would be an inelegant, 'because of my arm around your neck'?" Peter finished, unimpressed.
Derek huffed. "Yeah, whatever."
"Uh-huh." Peter went to sigh once again, caught himself, then sighed extra hard just to prove a point. Gritting his teeth, he got up, grabbed his coat and left for the door.
"Where are you going?" Derek said, not bothering to look away from the TV screen.
"It doesn't concern you," Peter replied vaguely, realizing he had no plans. He just had to get out of the house, get away from that damn computer.
"Whatever... Just don't come back smelling like an orgy again. That was disgusting."
Peter smirked and grabbed his keys. "I forget, your delicate senses are still more hardy than your delicate self-esteem. Don't worry, dear nephew, you'll escape from your dry spell soon enough."
Derek sighed loudly and threw his head back against the couch cushion and Peter took that as his cue to leave.
He drove around aimlessly for a while, trying to find some kind of spark of muse. It had been happening so often; he couldn't understand how it all just stopped . Hell, just a few weeks ago, he had been on his way to the bank and got stopped by construction, and when he looked at the bare-bones, dangerous and haphazard guts of a building, he had this intense vision that rocked him to the core. He imagined the characters of his book running through the maze of plaster and metal, trying to escape and hide. He had rushed right back home and locked himself away with his computer and cranked out another 3,000 words just from that idea alone.
It was embarrassing how he had so quickly turned into that typical artist, searching for muse, seeing depth in the thinnest of linings and meaning in things which were absolutely meaningless. It was embarrassing. It really was. He's a sociopath . Papers have been documented about it and everything. Sociopaths aren't supposed to have muse. Not sane muse, anyway. Is it even possible to recover from sociopathy?
The way he sees it, sociopathy is a part of him. It is his personality, his ideals, his reality, his everything. And the thought of that being taken away from him and replaced by the same mental mechanisms as every other moron of the world was incredibly violating. He refuses to even entertain the idea that he may be becoming... normal...
He'll set himself on fire again before he allows that to happen.
About an hour of driving later - feeling pleasantly calm but certainly not mused or satisfied - he stopped by his favorite coffee shop on the way back to the loft.
Erica was there, and Peter was pleased. Erica was the only person who could get his coffee just right . Peter's sure to tip her an extra twenty or thirty bucks each time he comes in. That way, when she sees him, she rushes to help him instead of allowing someone else to butcher his coffee order. It also means he typically gets to skip the lines.
It's a symbiotic relationship.
"Mister Hale," Erica said in greeting, setting down the cloth she was using to clean the blemish-free marble counter, wiping her damp hands on her apron. "The usual?"
Peter needn't do anything more than give her a short smile and she was off crafting that wonderful brew with an excited grin.
Peter didn't bother waiting at the counter. He knew she yearned for that tip enough to deliver the mug to him personally. He wouldn't be himself if he didn't push his limits and bribe to some extent to get special treatment.
He sat down at a booth and pulled out his phone, seeing a message from Derek, saying, 'Bring back pizza'.
Peter sent back, 'In your dreams. I'll bring back steak.'
Just a few seconds later, his phone chimed. 'Yeah that too'
Peter rolled his eyes and instead scrolled aimlessly through some photos he'd taken over the months. He never used to take photos. Now if he sees something 'inspiring', he takes a photo of it.
It makes him feel dirty .
Peter sighed. He thought about sociopathy again. He hadn't ever read anything significant about a 'reformed sociopath' that wasn't just a low-functioning sociopath who had decided it was in their best interest to pretend to be normal well enough that people believed they'd 'healed'... He had always been on the high-functioning end of that scale, anyway. Even before the fire, he was cunning and charming but had no real care for people's emotions and well-being, outside of his family, of course. He could make anyone feel anything he wanted, if he put on the right face, used the right tone, the right words at the right time.
He had loved his family with all of his being. But, as far as he was concerned, he'd take advantage of what he could outside of those he cared for, and if someone got hurt, it was on them. At least, back then, he knew very well how to fake it. He knew how to make everyone love him without even noticing his manipulations, because he was "just so sweet!". No one knew a thing. Maybe Mom had a feeling but if she did she was too focused on herself to care.
After the fire, it only got worse. He didn't care about faking it anymore. Murder and law-breaking became a fun side-project and simmering, bitter anger took up most of his free time.
But now? Now he's taking photos of sunsets and describing the night sky and looking for a muse because he has writers-block.
What the fuck is wrong with him?
"You just don't like having anything in common with normal humans. You think you're above them," Derek had said to him one day. And, for the first time literally ever, he had actually been correct. But, of course, he'd had to go and ruin it by adding, "But you're not."
"Here you go, Mister Hale." Peter looked up at Erica and gave her a poisonously sweet smile. Luring her in to make her do his bidding...
At least that's what he's telling himself to make himself feel better.
"You are my angel, as always, Erica," he purred, wrapping his hands around the warm ceramic. It was always such a homely feeling.
"No, you're just picky," she said back, chuckling and shaking her head before winking and walking back to the counter to continue taking orders from customers.
Peter carried on scrolling through pictures while he waited for the coffee to cool down just ever so slightly (he could quickly heal from a burnt mouth, but coffee is best experienced pain-free, he thinks). He lingered over a particularly nice photo he'd gotten of the full moon in a dark blue sky, sitting nestled between a striking silhouette of black trees. He brought his mug to his lips, but before he ever managed to actually take a sip, the boy that then came tumbling through the front doors of the shop caught his attention and ripped it away from him entirely.
He wasn't quite sure what about the boy was so deeply fascinating to him. He searched for what had caught his rapt attention. Perhaps it was the flushed cheeks, cold-nipped and in need of a warm hand to caress them, or the parted lips that were just so kissable , or the bright honey-brown eyes that seemed to light up the room. Perhaps it was his long legs and baggy clothes concealing a fit frame that could really do with being pushed up against a wall, or laid down gently onto a soft mattress. Or perhaps it was the sheer energy that exuded from him, an energy he swore he could feel bursting into the shop. And a scent that was more mouth-watering than the freshly-baked scones Erica was pulling out of the oven.
"You're late," Erica called out to the boy.
"Blame Lydia!" the boy snapped heatlessly with a huff, pulling his thick jacket more snug on his shoulders, and a strange, almost fluttery feeling rose in Peter's chest. "She made me go all the way back to the store to get the streamers that she forgot."
"You could've told her you'd get them after, you know."
"Ha, yeah, sure, and have her rip off my head? Or even worse, and probably more accurately, my testi-..." The boy glanced at the customers as he walked past. "Um... Whatever. Point is I like all my bits right where they are, thank you very much. Hi, Miss Dupont."
"Staying out of trouble?" the older woman waiting in line asked him after he addressed her, wiggling a knowing finger at him.
"Never," the boy said charmingly, taking a bow ( what a lovely tight ass, god damn ) with a smile before making his way behind the counter. "Hey, I'm gonna wait for you in the break room, 'kay?" the boy said to Erica.
"Don't eat all the donuts!" Erica snapped.
"No promises!" the boy called out on his way down the short corridor behind the counter before disappearing around the turn.
"He's gonna eat all the donuts," Erica said to the older woman, who laughed knowingly.
Peter blinked. With the boy gone from the room, it felt as if he was coming back to himself.
What was that?
Peter waited patiently for nearly an hour, sipping his coffee slowly and hoping he would end up seeing that boy again. There was... something about him, and he wanted to know more. He wanted to see more of him, smell more of him. He wanted to hear his voice, the way his tongue moved in his mouth, the way his lips wrapped around each word. He could easily hear into the break room, nestled into the back of the little shop, but the boy never said anything. He thought he could hear the tiny beats of music playing over earbuds, and the unmistakable drumming of fingertips against a wooden tabletop, but he was too far away to make anything distinctive out.
Erica kept shooting him curious looks.
Eventually, after Derek's third text, which said, 'Foooooddd' , he realized he wasn't going to be able to see the boy again. He would probably end up being here until the store closed in four more hours, and as much as the boy intrigued him terribly so, he couldn't spend the entire day here sipping on coffee. Reluctantly, he got up, slipped Erica a $45 tip, and turned to leave with a sigh.
"Mister Hale?" Erica asked. Peter turned around. "Are you okay?"
He put on a fake smile. "Always." She didn't look convinced, but she put on a matching fake smile for him anyway.
"Have a good day, sir."
"You as well, Erica."
"Really?" Derek whined when Peter entered the loft. "You forgot the pizza...
And
the steak."