Chapter Text
Peter didn't know why, but for some reason the cat that had crashed into his apartment out of nowhere and had been nothing but a nuisance so far made his chest feel warm and light. Funnily enough, this smug bastard of a cat reminded him of Stiles with his smartass remarks and annoying pestering. He knew he should be aggravated, show his wolf eyes to make clear he shouldn't be trifled with. But just like with Stiles, he felt strangely honoured that the cat was going out of its way to pester him, and that it didn't care about the air of danger he knew he exuded. He was a werewolf, and he knew he smelled like one. The cat didn't seem to care, though. Just like Stiles, with him… that challenging look would appear in his eyes and cause this fluttering fee-
CRASH
-fuck, that was an antique vase. Peter shouldn’t have gotten distracted while the little devil was still in his house. As he swiftly moved to the crime scene, the brown cat looked down at him, meowing innocently while standing over the remains of the family heirloom.
———
Stiles had been panicked. That's his excuse. When he realised he was being followed, he had ducked into an alley. He had taken a risky move, transforming in the middle of downtown Beacon Hills, even if it was in a shady alleyway. The second he transformed, one of those flashing light arrows had hit the wall right next to where his head had been just a second before, and that was when he realised he had been found out. Those hunters had seen him transform. He was absolutely fucked. The secret that he had managed to keep hidden for years had been discovered, by fucking hunters of all people. Pure panic and instinct had taken over, and before he knew it he was running, fleeing, without any consideration for direction. Unable to think, he had followed the only familiar scent he could discern through all the scents of downtown Beacon Hills; it was a scent that told him pack and safety, and that was exactly what he needed.
However, that familiar scent had been Peter.
And Stiles had no clue how he had mistaken that for pack; the asshole must have been close to Derek recently because Peter wasn't pack, and Peter definitely wasn't safe.
But that's how Stiles had found himself in Peter's apartment, shaking on his paws, glaring up at a Peter who was standing over him and cooing at him. Because, maybe an important detail, Stiles was a werecat, and currently in his somewhat adorable cat form. But not that adorable, not adorable enough for Peter fucking Hale, you know, the sociopath, to be cooing at him, and reaching down to pick him up to probably cuddle. No. Stiles stepped back, making himself as big as possible and hissed at the hand approaching him. Still, the hand didn't even hesitate and was about to engulf him. Stiles didn't even have to think about turning violent; he lashed out, satisfied when he saw four red lines on Peter’s hand. He drew blood. Take that, Peter.
The scratches immediately healed, and Peter... He laughed. 'You're a spicy little thing, aren't you?'
Stiles immediately made himself even bigger by arching his back even further, trying to disprove the 'little' accusation.
Peter stepped back, observing him. Stiles glared up at him, not relaxing an inch. The man crouched down a little distance away from him, studying Stiles calmly no matter how viciously he hissed at him. ‘What got you so panicked, huh? Crashing into my apartment like that?' Peter’s voice was lower than normal, its quality soft and rumbling.
That made Stiles remember what he was running from, and it instinctively made him hiss at the window that he had jumped through, as if, had they managed to follow him all the way here, that would scare the hunters away.
Yeah, he was fucked. Out there didn't feel safe, but Peter definitely wasn't safe either. Who knows what that psycho had done to cats before? Lydia had told Stiles what a creep teenage Peter had been, and Stiles wouldn't put it past him to torture and kill cats for fun. So Stiles did what he always did when he felt threatened—he became an absolute menace.
It wasn’t like Stiles wasn't in control when he was a cat, but the instincts did become very strong. Add the panic and adrenaline still coursing through his body, and then on top of that, having the piercing blue eyes of Peter Hale, known mass murderer, probably insane werewolf, on him, following his every move… well, Stiles kind of lost track of what he did next. He remembered seeing the underside of Peter’s couch, and feeling vague annoyance at how clean it was—what did he move the couch every week to vacuum under here? Fucking overachiever. Then he remembered lunging for the glass of water standing on the edge of the coffee table, but Peter had been quick, saving it before he could swipe it off. Thoroughly frustrated at his prey being taken away from him, Stiles snarled at Peter and started stalking the house aggressively, looking for a new victim, preferably something breakable. Peter seemed to smell his intent and followed him, quickly moving breakable items out of the way. This caused more hissing, snarling and growling, of course. This was all Peter’s fault; he had hung out with Derek too much, tainted his smell, and lured Stiles to his apartment. And now, Stiles had to deal with these annoying conflicting emotions and instincts. So it was Peter’s own fault that he was on a mission to destroy his apartment. A mission that was failing so far, though. Then, Stiles’ eye fell on something that Peter definitely could not move out of the way of his destructive urge.
The pristine leather couch.
‘Oh hell no,’ Peter growled behind him, seeing Stiles zero in on the couch. His wiggling butt as he crouched threateningly may also have given him away. Right as he pounced, he felt Peter’s hands brush his fur, trying to intercept him. But Stiles was quick, chirping triumphantly as his nails dug into leather, leaving impressive scratch marks on the side of the couch. He climbed up, using his nails, making sure to leave more marks. And right as he started to dig his claws into the seat, two huge hands engulfed him easily, dragging him out of reach of the leather. Stiles yowled, offended. He tried scratching at Peter’s arms, but he couldn’t quite reach.
‘Yeah, yeah. Scratch me, I’ll heal. The couch won’t,’ Peter said, inspecting the scratches in the leather as he held Stiles in one hand, as far away from the couch as possible. As Stiles stilled, he started purring contentedly, seeing the damage he’d done. Yeah, that would not be covered up easily.
Peter looked up, surprised at hearing the cat suddenly purr. Then he followed the cat’s gaze to the scratches and sighed, disgruntled. ‘Of course, you start purring now.’ He brought Stiles closer to his chest, fooled into thinking he had calmed down, that he would be all tuckered out now. The second Stiles came in reach of Peter’s face, his only warning was a threatening yowl before he scratched at his chin. Peter’s surprised yelp made Stiles chirp in triumph again. Then he was wriggling out of Peter’s grip, which had loosened in the process.
The next second, he was across the room, tearing into the curtains as he climbed up, leaving as much damage as he could. From the top of the curtain, he jumped against the tall, ornate wooden bookcase standing next to it, clinging to wood that had no business being climbed and every business being expensive, and disappeared behind the raised carved scrollwork crowning the shelves. Here, Stiles found a new victim. A vase. A very expensive-looking vase. Safely stowed away on top of the bookcase. He almost chirped in contentment, but stopped himself; he shouldn’t give his hiding spot away. He wedged his nose between one of the swirls, peering down at Peter. Who was… blinking slowly, staring off into space. Weird. But awesome for Stiles. He started moving the vase, nudging it towards the edge of the bookcase. Every other few inches, he peered between the swirling woodwork to check Peter’s position. But he didn’t move, seemingly lost in very deep thought. There was even a hint of a smile gracing his face. For a second, Stiles paused, studying the man. It was rare to see Peter smile. Sometimes his lip would twitch, he had noticed, but usually Peter immediately got his face back under control, turning it into a smirk or a wolfish grin.
But Stiles had a mission, and something as simple as a smile would not distract him from this opportunity to absolutely fuck with Peter. Determined, he pushed the vase to the edge, then triumphantly sat up, his paw on that delicate vase’s neck, and chirped challengingly at Peter. Who did not react. What the fuck. This was his moment. The most important part was his victim seeing it and knowing he would be late to stop it. But Peter didn’t look up. Annoyed, Stiles pushed off the vase anyway. Peter’s bad participation skills were not going to stop him from doing this.
The sound of the crash was very satisfying. The shards splattered all over the floor, some of them disappearing under the couch on the opposite side of the room. Good. That should do the job. Peter should know he wasn’t to be fucked with now.
When Peter’s eyes finally found him sitting atop the bookcase, Stiles put on his most innocent look. He even added a little chirp, like he was saying, who, me? No I would never…
‘You little devil’ Peter said, staring up at him. But to Stiles’ surprise, there was no anger in it. The big bad wolf was staying remarkably calm. Annoyance, yes, but only mild annoyance. He knows that had he been human, or had Peter known he was Stiles, Peter would have cuffed him over the head already, he would probably grumble and kick him out. Stiles didn’t break eye contact, studying Peter. Maybe… no, that couldn’t be fondness, could it?
Peter broke eye contact before Stiles could come to a conclusion, looking down at the shards on the ground. ‘That was a family heirloom…’ he mutters to himself, ‘worth more than this whole apartment probably. Fucking hell.’ He grabbed a broom and started sweeping, while Stiles looked on contentedly at the results of his shenanigans.
Peter swept the last of the shards into the dustpan and set the broom aside. When he straightened again, Stiles was still perched on top of the bookcase, tail flicking lazily behind him, the picture of smug satisfaction. He looked down on Peter, his high position reinforcing his air that he absolutely owned the place.
Then Stiles decided it was time to go. He had broken what was probably the most expensive thing in Peter’s apartment, showing him who’s boss, so there was nothing else for him here.
He leaned forward, peering over the edge of the shelf, judging the distance to the floor. It was… far. Too far. He backed up a step, then tried another angle, crouching low and stretching one paw downward. No. Nope. Not happening. Too far. His stomach did that weird flip thing, and his paws scrabbled uselessly along the carved swirls of the bookcase, which were beautiful and ornate and absolutely not meant to be climbed. He paced along the narrow top of the bookcase, tail lashing in agitation, each step a little more dramatic and louder than the last. This was ridiculous. He had gotten up here just fine. He was not meowing. Absolutely not. he was in control, he was fine. Totally fine. All part of the plan. He was not panicking. Peter didn’t have to know.
Peter noticed immediately.
Of course he did. His eyes were following Stiles’ every move. But he didn’t say anything, stayed infuriatingly quiet. He was leaning on the arm of the couch, watching with open amusement.
Stiles glared down at him.
Fine. He wasn’t going to give Peter the satisfaction. He lifted his chin and sat down deliberately, proudly as if this had been his plan all along. He was not meowing. Absolutely not. He was not some helpless housecat that had misjudged a climb in its panic.
Minutes passed. Peter did not move.
Stiles frustration grew, he narrowed his eyes. How dare he. If Peter wasn’t going to do anything, he would escalate. Stiles drew a deep breath and let out a loud sharp highly offended meow. He stared straight at Peter as he did so, his tail lashing indignantly. This is your fault, Peter Hale.
He proceedsd to glare at the floor like it had personally offended him, just like Peter had done, on many occasions. He realised the floor didn’t deserve his glare, and Peter did. He turned it back on him. Peter should just swoop in and fix everything, now.
Peter blinked slowly, tilted his head and smirked. ‘Oh?’ he said mildly, ‘Need something, sweetheart?’
How dare he. This was all Peter’s fault in the first place. If Peter hadn’t picked him up, if Peter hadn’t been… Peter Hale, with his stupid wolf scent and stupid hands and stupid ability to rile up every instinct Stiles had, none of this would have happened. Outraged he meowed again, even louder this time. Then he slowly dragged his gaze from Peter to the floor, making very clear what he wanted to the idiot standing in front of him.
Peter didn’t move, of course. Stiles chose to believe that Peter was just incredibly dense, and wasn’t choosing to actively agitate him more. Because Stiles had every right to be helped down from the bookcase, and Peter should know that. Instead, Peter just looked even more amused.
Stiles flattened his ears and narrowed his eyes dangerously. His whole posture warning Peter that things would turn ugly very quickly if he didn’t act now. When Peter didn’t move an inch, he slowly, very deliberately lifted one paw and showed his claws. Then in a flash, he drew them across the intricately carved woodwork underneath him, leaving ugly scratch marks.
Peter was on his feet instantly.
‘Hey- no,’ he said sharply, all amusement vanished from his face. He was standing underneath the bookcase in seconds.
Stiles chirped smugly and lifted his paw again.
‘stop, you menace,’ Peter said quickly, a bit panicked, unable to reach all the way up and stop Stiles. ‘Alright,’ Peter sighed. ‘Alright.’
He reached up, arms extended, but even standing on the balls of his feet, he couldn’t quite reach the top shelf. He glanced at Stiles, then tapped his own chest in a clear invitation.
Stiles stared at him.
Absolutely not.
Jumping into Peter Hale’s arms? Like he was some dainty princess waiting to be rescued? The indignity. He leaned back, sniffing at Peter suspiciously.
Peter just waited, patient and infuriatingly calm. There was no amusement in his eyes now, just an easy expectation that Stiles would jump right into his arms.
Stiles looked at the floor again. Let his eyes track up the side of the bookcase underneath him, gauging the distance. Then back at Peter.
Fuck.
With a flick of his tail, showing he was definitely not happy about this, he crouched and jumped.
Peter didn’t flinch in the slightest as Stiles landed on him. His chest was firm, but in the way that his pillow is firm, you know, the good kind of firm. Peter’s arms closed around him without hesitation, one hand on his back, the other holding up his hind legs. Warmth enveloped stiles, and Peter’s grip was steady, solid, grounding. He froze, body stiff as a board, refusing to acknowledge how right it felt. Absolutely not relaxing. Nope. Nope. He did not relax. Not one bit.
Peter carried him back to the couch. Once peter was sitting, Stiles tried very hard to squirm away, one paw batting uselessly at Peter’s arm. Peter tutted, ‘Oh no, you don’t,’ and easily pulled him back. He reached for a folded blanket draped over the armrest, shook it out, and laid it beside him before setting Stiles down squarely on top of it. Peter leaned back, one arm resting along the back of the couch, eyes never leaving Stiles.
Stiles felt exhausted from the sheer effort of being feral, the adrenaline finally catching up with him. Slowly, he circled the blanket, eyeing Peter to see if he could jolt away. But Peter just raised a threatening eyebrow at him. In his tired state, it was enough to make Stiles sit down on the farthest corner of the blanket, just out of petting range.
He was asleep within minutes.
After a while, there was a subtle movement of the couch, the faint shift of weight, slowly dragging Stiles out of his deep sleep. Stiles always slept better in cat form, but rarely felt safe enough to do so. That’s what happened when your werewolf friends tended to show up unannounced in your room in the middle of the night. No way to keep your cat form a secret if they find you sleeping as one. The couch jostled some more, and Peter stood up.
As he passed, his hand brushed lightly over Stiles’ fur, almost accidentally, almost like he didn’t even notice. Stiles chirped, instantly, automatically, chasing the touch, the warmth of that hand, tail flicking in delight. Before he knew it, he was rolling over to his back, belly exposed. Letting out a demanding meow, unmistakably meaning pets, now.
He froze mid-meow, his brain finally catching up with his ridiculous instincts. Slowly, he rolled back on his belly and backed away from Peter’s hand. God, he could smell the scent of wolf and danger that Peter’s hand had left behind. His instincts should be screaming at him, not leaning into it, what was wrong with him?
Peter looked down at him, releasing a chuckle. It seemed to escape him; it wasn’t menacing or deprecating like Stiles was used to. No, it was low and fond. He gave Stiles another pet, deprecating this time, and walked away. Stiles didn’t move.
When Peter sat back down, there was a book in his hand. Peter started reading. Stiles waited a beat, then another. Peter was conpletely focused on the book. Carefully, inch by inch, he scooted closer. Then he stood up, pretending to sniff at a particular spot of the blanket that happened to be closer to Peter. Peter sighed almost instantly, and, without looking up from his book, he reached out with his large hand and nudged him firmly against his leg. ‘There’, he murmured softly.
Stiles hissed softly at Peter’s touch, but there was no bite to it, literally. He started kneading at Peter’s thigh with his claws, purely to hurt him, of course. Not because his instinct was screaming at him to do so, or because he was comfortable, or because the warmth of Peter’s leg loosened something in his chest. It was all revenge.
Peter just sighed again and rested his hand lightly on Stiles’ fur. Not holding him, not restraining him. It was just… there. Like a warning and an offer at the same time. Stiles ignored the warning, of course, and kneaded a little harder. Peter’s hand pressed down gently. Stiles huffed. Tail flicked. Back to kneading. Definitely to hurt him. Absolutely not because it felt nice.
Minutes passed. Stiles eventually stopped kneading, tired. He circled his spot three times, trying to find the best spot, before finally letting himself flop down against Peter’s leg. His tail curled around himself, claws retracted and his breath slowed down to a content rhythm. He was not purring. Peter shifted slightly in his seat, and Stiles… maybe he drifted off. Finally, A hand brushed lightly over Stiles occasionally, not enough to wake him, just… present, solid. Peter’s presence was still dangerous and infuriating, but it wrapped around Stiles comfortingly. Stiles had to admit, in the deepest, darkest corners of his brain, that he liked that part of Peter.
Of course, he would never, ever, say that out loud. The pack would think he was insane.