Chapter Text
To Stiles, Peter has always been someone that lurks in the shadows.
The one and only werewolf that would rather come out during a lunar eclipse than a full moon.
He isn’t sure when he started thinking about the Hale in this way. What he does know, though, is that he has never, really never, seen Peter in the sunlight.
The first time he notices, it’s June and they are holding a pack meeting in the woods. Merely six months prior, after their final showdown with the Nogitsune, Peter Hale had – although begrudgingly – accepted Scott as Alpha.
Stiles’ thing are facts. He collects them, takes pieces from dusty books, worthless objects and liars until he has enough to piece together a jigsaw made up of knowledge. Stiles knows a lot, and especially a lot about werewolves.
Stiles knows that a beta can’t get by without an alpha and that Peter didn’t have a choice in that regard. Stiles also knows that Peter reluctantly, grudgingly, accepted a boy as an alpha while gnashing his teeth.
But he accepted.
Stiles knows that Peter is going to drop Scott like a hot potato the first chance he gets. If such a chance presents itself. He also knows that, for the time being, the egotistical, sarcastic, creepy Peter is part of Scott’s pack. And thus, according to logic, also part of Stiles’ pack.
So Peter has to come when Scott says they are training and is forcing the whole pack to attend. Just like Stiles. Which doesn’t mean that either one of them is able to make any use of the training.
“Scott, Scotty-boy. I know that you want us all to train together and get used to the way we fight, but I’m human.”
A pearl of sweat drips into Stiles’ eye while he argues his point. The sun has reached its zenith and they all feel the heat.
”H-U-M-A-N, in case you forgot the word. And in case you forgot what that means: It means that I don’t possess werewolf strength, werewolf speed, sharp teeth, claws – “, Stiles holds up all five fingers of one hand while counting loudly, “ – and most of all, self-healing abilities. Which makes training with you guys hard.”
“But Stiles, you are still part of the pack.”
The way Scott’s big, round puppy eyes look at him makes Stiles realize that good old and loyal Scott really didn’t consider that Stiles doesn’t possess the same abilities as him.
Brotherly, Stiles swings his arm around Scott’s shoulders.
“I know that’s how you see it, but listen to my voice of reason, young padawan: I’d rather sit myself down underneath that beautiful pine tree over there and enthusiastically devote myself to my rune-homework.”
Scott shoots him a thankful smile for his counterproposal before turning to the one other person of the group protesting his idea.
Peter Hale is leaning against the big conifer Stiles gestured to during his reasoning, one leg bent and frame relaxed.
As he is resting in the shadows, there is of course not a drop of sweat on his pure skin and he looks so perfectly groomed it’s unfair. His usual grin, never-failing to make Stiles shudder, plays around the corners of his mouth.
Scott is never one to back down easily, though. “Peter, you’re a werewolf. You can train with us.”
Yes bro, Stiles wants to shout at Scott upon hearing his neutral tone of voice, 100 points for a normal interaction with Peter. Like he is Dumbledore, awarding Gryffindor with the House Cup.
He doesn’t, of course. Shout that is. After all, he wouldn’t want to jinx the so far pretty civil conversation. And also because if he moves more than necessary right now, he might actually melt from the heat.
Peter pushes away from the trunk of the tree with a little snort, his bigger figure towering over Scott.
“As nice as that sounds, my dear – “, he draws the word out like chewing gum and Stiles can almost see the sarcasm dripping from every letter, “ – alpha, but like trusty old Stiles here”, Stiles immediately pulls his shoulders up in defense, “I simply have better things to do.”
Scott starts to protest but Peter cuts him off right away.
“Besides”, he continues, “I’ve been a wolf my whole life and have more control over my instincts and fighting skills than this whole bunch.” He makes a sweeping gesture towards Isaac, Kira, Derek and Lydia, who are following the discussion intently (Kira), disgruntled (Derek), bored (Isaac) and disinterested (Lydia).
Which, rude. Derek has been a werewolf his whole life too, even if Peter is older.
Scott’s eyebrows draw together in a way that makes Stiles think of storm clouds gathering in preparation for a heavy thunderstorm. His mouth starts forming contradictions while Peter’s eyes turn into a more intense blue than normal.
Just before a heated argument breaks out, Stiles steps in between them, knight in shining armor and all that. He jumps in front of Scott, holding up a book.
“Peter can help me translate the rest of the Bestiary. There’s a few Latin passages in here I’m having trouble wrapping my head around.” His gaze wanders to Peter’s glowing eyes. “You graduated with an A+ in AP Latin, right?»
Peter holds his gaze for a few seconds and Stiles can feel sweat beading at his temple that has nothing to do with the warm weather. They are staring directly into each other’s eyes. Stiles gulps audibly. He doesn’t even dare to blink.
At last, the supernatural glow of Peter’s eyes vanishes and is replaced by a more pronounced form of his trademark mocking grin that always seems to dance across his features.
“My, my, someone has done his research”, he leers.
“Just like you, I expect”, Stiles promptly retorts.
Peter’s eyes glint and his grin grows stronger. “Indeed, my dear Stiles”, he mumbles, “indeed.”
Then he sinks gracefully to the ground at the foot of the pine tree and lifts his eyebrows invitingly. All this time, he hasn’t moved a single toe out of the shadows of the trees.
The soft grass and the cool ground next to him beckon Stiles to come closer, because at this moment he would do almost anything to get out of the blistering sun - even spend time with Peter Hale.
“Well, that actually sounds like a good idea. Keep your eyes peeled for any monsters that suck their victims dry”, Scott says. “We still don’t know what killed the dryads.”
A week ago, Derek found two dead dryads in the forest during border patrol. Stiles can attest to the scene being pretty gruesome, curtesy to Derek’s pictures. Why did they create that group chat for pictures of corpses again? It makes his stomach turn every time he sees that someone posted a message.
In any case, the bodies were completely sucked dry, empty shells robbed of all their energy. They still don’t know what exactly killed them. Just that it somehow divested the dryads of their forest magic, leaving behind shriveled, pale sacks of skin.
Stiles nods at Scott in agreement, then he settles down next to Peter while keeping a careful distance and starts unpacking his bag.
Across the clearing, Scott begins instructing the betas for the training session Stiles weaseled himself out of.
“By the way, it’s a spruce.”
Stiles eyebrows shoot up in confusion at Peter’s voice. At his look of inquiry, Peter adds with a mild voice: “The tree. It’s a spruce, not a pine tree. Botany isn’t your strong suit.”
“I see”, Stiles mumbles and for some reason, his cheeks burn red. He ignores it in favor of opening the Bestiary and promptly gets lost in the stories spilling from its pages.
For a while, it’s strangely silent around them. The rustling of the paper as he turns pages is the only audible sound next to the groans and grunts of the wolves and the distant playful war cries. Peter doesn’t seem to mind reading over Stiles’ shoulder. He tracks his translation quietly and Stiles loses himself in the work and the concentration required to switch between languages.
He doesn’t know how long he has been sitting there when a big hand folds over his right one, which is in the process of writing beast. He startles violently.
“Bestia can mean many different things. In this passage, it doesn’t refer to beast or monster, but simply means animal.” Peter’s voice, low and dark, is so close to his ear that Stiles can feel the warm breath fan across his skin.
Without Stiles’ permission, redness spreads over his cheeks. What is it with him blushing today?
“Oookay”, he murmurs, while leaning to the left as far as he can to somewhat escape the closeness to the older man. Seriously, werewolves have no respect for personal space.
Unfortunately, the new position leads Stiles to present his neck to Peter.
His pulse races and thunders in his ears. When he risks a cautious glance to his right through the strands of his hair, he can see that Peter’s teeth have extended and are hovering far too close over his neck for his liking.
A peculiar expression flashes over Peter’s face, there for one second and gone the next, vanished as suddenly as it appeared. Without Stiles getting even the chance to begin to understand what it means.
The long teeth shrink until they are once again nothing more than gleaming white human teeth. Stiles turns his gaze to the pages in front of him without comment, crosses out the beginnings of beast and writes animal instead. His heart is pounding in his throat as he feels Peter move next to him.
But nothing else happens. Stiles continues translating and Peter occasionally murmurs a comment or a suggestion. After half an hour has passed, Stiles has discarded all his reservations.
He has to admit that it is actually pretty relaxing. Working through the translation in his own time, a pleasantly cool breeze blowing through his hair and listening to the admittedly pretty helpful inputs Peter offers every now and then in a dark voice.
Then they are finished with the paragraph. Stiles just keeps sitting there for a moment, in the shadow of the tree. The spruce, excuse you, Peter.
Sun rays filter brightly through the foliage and under the protection of the tree, the beautiful weather is actually pleasant. Stiles breathes out all the air in his lungs and, for the first time since it has become warmer this schoolyear, he relaxes.
Except for the mystery around the dryads, there is no pending crisis. The only things at the forefront of his mind right now are his apprenticeship in runes (yes, Deaton finally promised to give him some books and training so he can start making something out of his spark), relaxing days spent helping out at the Sheriff’s station, and evenings full with friends and fireflies. Stiles is utterly and completely relaxed.
Which is why, of course, Peter has to go and destroy the nice atmosphere.
A heavy hand lands on his arm, finger wrapping around his wrist.
“You know, you could train with them, Stiles. Could do any and everything they do.” Peter’s gaze caresses his face, searching. “And maybe even more than them. You’d only need to ask your precious alpha and all your dreams would come true.”
Stiles ignores the cold rapidly spreading through his intestines and gives back: “My alpha? He is yours too, Peter. Don’t forget that.”
The right corner of Peter’s mouth pulls upwards in a weird way as he starts grinning at Stiles. “Mine, yours – alphas come and go, just like the members of their pack. I thought you had already learned that. After everything that happened with the fox.”
The cold in his veins turns to ice, freezing his extremities. It is as if he is inhaling a cooling unit with every breath, paralyzing him from the inside out. Suddenly, the temperature in the shadows is not pleasant anymore, it is far too cold.
The only warm thing he can feel is Peter’s hand, clutching his wrist. It burns like a ring of fire.
“I’ve offered once before, Stiles. And I’m sure the day will come when he will offer it to you too”, Peter murmurs into his ear.
Stiles’ gaze snaps towards Scott. His friend is only 50 feet away from him, but it feels like Stiles would need to cover miles to reach him.
Peter’s breath is the heat that makes him thaw. “You could feel like that again, Stiles. That powerful. You only need ask.”
Stiles’ heart starts pounding louder in his chest as Peter moves his wrist to his sharp teeth.
Maybe it’s the skin-to-skin contact and the resulting warmth that make Stiles mobile again. Or maybe he overcomes the cold in his chest with iron-clad will.
Either way, feeling returns to his limbs and decisively, he rips his arm from the werewolf’s clutch at the same time as he jumps up and stumbles backwards into the clearing, crying out: “Don’t touch me!”
Silence descends over the clearing.
Stiles’ gaze is interlocked with Peter’s. They flash their eyes at each other, Peter still in the shadows of the trees and Stiles underneath the sun that is trying to chase away the remaining cold seemingly lingering in his bones.
Peter doesn’t follow him. Peter doesn’t say a word. He only stares at Stiles with an intensity that makes him feel like the Hale is unfolding every single one of his little, inner secrets and starting to understand them.
Only seconds after his cry, Lydia and Scott have appeared at his side. Lydia sends Peter an obliterating look, one hand buried in her purse. Stiles knows from experience that she is ready to fling mountain ash from its insides.
Scott places a comforting hand on Stiles’ shoulder and it feels so different to Peter’s hand that Stiles might cry.
“What happened? Everything okay here?”, his Alpha asks.
Stiles swallows, notices how his gaze is still interconnected with Peter’s blue eyes and hastily averts his own.
“I’d rather sit with you guys now”, he finally manages to get out after the silence has reigned for an uncomfortable few minutes.
Scott looks him over carefully. Then he smiles, and it is only slightly forced. “Of course, man.”
He slings his long arm over Stiles’ shoulders and leads him into the other direction. Away from creeper-wolf and towards Kira and Derek, who have been following the whole thing from the distance with curious eyes and a furrowed brow.
Lydia relaxes her tense pose, but shoots Peter one more withering look before she throws her long hair over one shoulder and stalks back towards the others.
Even though Stiles is bathed in the warmth of the sun rays, he still has to shiver when he looks at Scott. Because he knows that Peter might be right. Sooner or later, it might not be enough for Scott anymore that Stiles is just Stiles. One day, he might offer him the bite. And expect something from Stiles that he knows he won’t be able to give his brother.
That scares him a hell of a lot more than all the demon wolves, kanimas and dark kitsunes in the world together. The possibility that Scott might expect him to say Yes.
During the remaining time of the training session, Stiles sits close to Scott and copies the same runes over and over. The only downside to Deaton finally taking pity on him and training his magical potential: Stiles has homework, even during summer break.
And it packs quite the punch. Stiles is not good in just memorizing stuff, he never has been, and the overlapping lines of the runes all look so damn similar it is beyond difficult to tell them apart.
Stiles practices day and night on them, but they just won’t budge to his will.
Deaton has been trying for a really long time with him already. The druid started with defensive spells. When Stiles wasn’t able to do anything with those he tried strategic ones. Some that improve your stamina, one that makes you more inclined to lip-read and so on.
Stiles picked up nothing. Hadn’t they know of his talent with mountain ash, he suspects Deaton would have given up on him again. But this way, they had tried offensive runes, and that was the first time something had happened.
Stiles had managed to produce a spark with a fire rune, and he had been so proud, too. Deaton had not been impressed much.
Apparently, it isn’t a good sign that Stiles gravitates towards a more offensive approach. The druid had went on and on about how important balance is for the ability to spell cast and their territory as well.
Now that they are a somewhat stable pack, Deaton and Derek have tried to establish a sense of the duties of werewolf packs towards their territory, the ground they consider theirs, in them.
Because they are supposed to be nature’s caregivers or some other bullshit, he supposes.
For Stiles personally, that means many, many lengthy meditations on forest ground that Deaton promises are some of the most important lectures when it comes to his powers.
Stiles on the other hand just can’t see any sort of sense in communing with dry leaves that don’t talk back.
In addition, they have learned that the more stable the pack, the better the supernatural and the human world would coexist. They have improved a lot in that regard. Most of the emotionally stunted people (cough Isaac, cough Derek) have actually learned healthy ways to communicate their feelings. But Stiles thinks there is one factor that greatly destabilizes their pack.
While he concentrates on his rune work, his gaze sweeps into the distance over and over again, where he quickly averts his eyes from the tall, dark figure beneath the spruce.
Peter’s eyes are trained on him every single time.
“Okay”, Scott calls out next to him some time later and claps his hands together. Stiles almost jumps into the air from the loud, unexpected noise. The others flock to him like pack members to an alpha. Scott tries to gesture in a welcoming way when he sees one of them missing. “Come on Peter, this is the pack goodbye.”
Peter doesn’t move a muscle.
“Well, all right”, Scott shrugs his shoulders and turns towards the others for their usual routine of bidding each other goodbye. Lydia kisses everyone’s cheek, Isaac, Kira and Scott are huggers and even Derek pats everyone on their shoulders with an open affection they had to work hard to instill in him. Stiles crosses Peter’s gaze once again.
Something is off, Stiles thinks to himself.
Is it typical for Peter to ignore Scott’s orders? Of course. Does Peter revolt against everything and everyone, no matter how small or unimportant it might seem? Even against gestures to bid each other goodbye? Yes, that is unequivocally something Peter does.
But even though Peter behaves like Peter normally does, Stiles cannot refrain from thinking that something is different today.
Something bothers him, a tiny detail that nags and nags his brain but he can’t quite grasp.
Scott steps over towards him and pulls him into a brotherly hug. Stiles sinks into the physical contact, but his open eyes stare across Scott’s shoulder over towards Peter.
The space underneath the pine tree that Peter had occupied all afternoon is empty. The Hale is gone as if he has dissolved into thin air and the Bestiary as well as the notebook that Stiles has been using to work on the translation for weeks are gone in the same manner.
Stiles can’t help but picture the underground network of caves Peter talked about a while ago. Maybe he disappeared through that. And the entryway lies underneath the pine tree. Inches next to where Stiles has been sat half of the afternoon.
No, Stiles has to correct himself. The entryway doesn’t lie underneath the pine tree. It lies underneath the spruce.
Even through the sinister premonition creeping up on him, Stiles has to smile.
It’s only after Stiles has driven home and further worked on his rune-homework that he notices it for the first time. When he tore away from his grip, Peter didn’t just not follow him.
He didn’t follow him into the sun.
Is Peter Hale afraid of the sunlight?