Chapter Text
Stiles sagged back against his jeep with a sigh that felt like it originated somewhere near the vicinity of his toes. Perhaps lower. Were they finally done? Jackson was apparently not a Kanima anymore, having been saved by the power of true love in true Disney princess style, and Gerard had been… defeated? Something, at least, though Stiles made a mental note to follow up on that loose end. He agreed that Gerard could not have gone far, but he wouldn’t put it past the sneaky, old bastard to have some sort of failsafe.
Stiles shifted his weight off of a particularly vocal bruise. He was beyond exhausted and more than done with today. Unfortunately, he was pretty sure almost everything here still needed addressing. Most urgently, —unless Stiles was hallucinating from a concussion courtesy of Gerard or crashing his car into a Jackson-Kanima— Peter was alive again.
That might be a problem.
Somebody should probably make sure the —resurrected??? What was his life— werewolf wasn’t going to try and kill everyone again.
Then, of course, there was tracking down Gerard, and figuring out what to do with Allison and Chris, whom Scott was all buddy-buddy with again despite all the Argent kidnapping and shooting. Then he needed to make sure Erica and Boyd made it out of the Argent’s torture-basement, and probably ensure that Jackson wasn’t going to go all crazy and murderous. Again.
Just thinking about it made Stiles want to collapse face-first into a pillow and not get up again for, say, a hundred years? That seemed reasonable.
Stiles scanned the surroundings again and winced when he saw Derek. Scott had apparently forced him to bite Gerard as part of his secret plan, but the alpha was holding himself tense and still, like the wrong move might cause him to break into a million pieces. While Scott’s plan seemed to have worked, Stiles couldn’t help thinking about how violating and terrifying that must have been for Mr. The-bite-is-a-gift-we’re-brothers-now Derek. Perhaps —Stiles winced again, harder— similarly violating to what Kate had done to him.
Stiles added checking in on Derek to his already intimidating to-do list.
At least everyone was finally grouped up together. They could tackle the most urgent issues together.
As if that line of thought had jinxed it, everyone began to wander off in little huddled groups. Jackson and Lydia arm-in-arm, Scott with Chris and Allison, and Derek with Isaac, until It was just Stiles left alone beside his Jeep.
With Peter.
That was probably a pertinent detail.
Peter prowled towards Stiles, head cocked to one side, and a smirk curling one side of his mouth. “Hello, Stiles.” he purred.
And you know what? Hell with that. Stiles was so done. He was beyond done. Looks like he was tackling item one on his to-do list right now. A tug of mental effort and a beckoning gesture summoned a curl of mountain ash from his jeep and snapped it into a circle around Peter’s feet.
Peter stopped in his tracks, and his creepy smile widened, gaining an element of hunger as interest sparked in his eyes. “Well, aren’t you full of surprises,” he said and folded his arms over his chest casually, apparently completely unbothered.
“What’s your plan?” Stiles demanded, with a half-hearted effort at intimidation that was probably ruined by the way he couldn’t bring himself to stop leaning against the side of the jeep.
Peter tilted his head. “What makes you think I have a plan?” He gave Stiles an innocent look.
Stiles regarded that with as much disdain as it deserved. “Cut the crap, Peter. You have a plan. You’ve always had a plan. What’s your plan now?”
Peter pursed his lips in an exaggerated moue of offense. “Can’t a man simply want to enjoy living again?”
Stiles rolled his eyes. “You killed your way through Beacon Hills in search of revenge against the last people who wronged you. Forgive me for wanting to ensure that doesn’t happen again. So.” He shrunk the circle with a sharp gesture. “Let me ask again. What’s your plan?” Stiles smirked faintly at the sudden unease that flashed across Peter’s face, there and gone in an instant. He wasn’t sure if he could crush Peter like this, but hey, apparently this whole deal relied on belief, and what do you know, Stiles believed the physics would check out.
Peter studied him for a long moment and then, inexplicably, a genuine smile twitched at the corner of his lip. “Immediately or long-term?”
The smirk was back. Stiles hadn’t missed it.
Stiles was so done. With an aggrieved sigh, Stiles reached into his jeep and rifled the glove compartment. He came back out with a large knife in one hand. It was a classic camping knife that he had modified to have wolvesbane coating the blade and mountain ash infused paint coating the handle. Because, be prepared, right? Stiles stalked forwards and shrunk the circle again so that it was nearly skin tight around Peter. Then he positioned the knife directly over Peter’s left kidney in a not-so-subtle threat of a slow death. “How about both?” he asked sweetly. “But better make it quick. After all, we wouldn’t want my hand slip, would we? And as a puny little human, I’m sure I don’t have the strength or endurance to hold it here for long.”
Peter’s eyes sparked with amusement and admiration, and an oddly assessing expression crossed his face. “Promises, promises, sweetheart.”
Stiles’s eyes went flint-hard, and the hand with the knife flicked forward, cutting a slit in Peter’s shirt and not quite cutting the skin. He raised an expectant eyebrow.
Peter’s smile widened, but he obediently began to talk. “Immediately, I want to ensure Gerard Argent’s threat is ended. Permanently. Afterwards.” he shrugged elegantly. “Afterwards, we’ll see. I have no interest in taking dear Derek’s alpha spark, worry not. Been there, done that, not particularly interested in a repeat.”
Stiles didn’t twitch. “And what about Scott and I? The others who had a hand in your unfortunately temporary death?” He was baiting Peter with that last bit, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret it.
Peter only smirked a bit, as if he saw the test and was amused by it. “You have nothing to fear from me. I was feral. It was a fair kill. I don’t hold a grudge.” He shrugged again like it didn’t matter, which Stiles wasn’t sure he fully bought, but okay.
“And what about pack?” Stiles pressed. “You’ll need one if you’re not going to go feral again. What’s your plan there?”
Peter flicked a hand in a dismissive gesture. “I’m sure I can lean on Derek’s family values to gain a place in his pack.” His eyes flicked over Stiles, suddenly assessing. “Other options might present themselves, but Derek’s little band of misfits will be enough to ensure I don’t go feral in the meantime. Regardless, to answer your real question, I am not, nor am I planning to be, any kind of threat to you or yours.” His gaze was knowing and vaguely approving, with a hint of faint longing behind his eyes.
Stiles studied him in silence for several seconds. Peter watched him back patiently with an air of amused indulgence. Stiles wasn’t a werewolf. He couldn’t hear Peter’s heartbeat to confirm that he was telling the truth, and even if he could, he wouldn’t put it past Peter, of all people, to have a way to fool that. Still, Stiles had grown up in the police station. He had seen all manner of scum lie with a whole gamut of believability. He leaned on the weight of that experience here. As far as he could tell, Peter was being honest.
Of course, that then begged the question of what to do next if Peter was being honest.
Stiles tilted his head as a thought occurred to him. Peter’s immediate goal dovetailed nicely with item two on Stiles’s to-do list. That… just might work actually.
Stiles stepped back and lowered the knife, shoving it into the waistband of his pants. He enlarged Peter’s mountain ash circle with a wave of his hand, but didn’t dispel it. “Alright,” he said. “Prove it.”
Peter tilted his head.
Stiles gestured to the trail of black goo from Gerard. “We’re going hunting.”
A downright predatory smile stretched across Peter’s face. “Oh, sweetheart. You have the best ideas.” But he didn’t move.
Stiles gestured again, more insistently. “Well? C’mon, bloodhound. Track.”
Peter raised an eyebrow, but didn’t protest the dog joke which put him well ahead of both Derek and Scott, to be honest. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” He gave the ash circle a significant look.
Stiles smiled blithely. “Nope. Let’s go.”
Peter studied him then took a hesitant step forward. The circle moved with him. Peter stopped, blinked twice, and then grinned. “Well, alright then.” He bowed towards Stiles with an expansive gesture. “After you.”
Stiles raised an unimpressed eyebrow and gestured back. “No, no. I insist. You first.”
Peter huffed a soft laugh and paced forwards, starting slow and gradually increasing speed as he gained confidence in Stiles’s ability to move the circle with him.
The trail led them towards the preserve in a meandering, staggering path. Peter led the way forward, head swinging side to side as he tracked Gerard by both sight and scent. Stiles mostly just scrambled along behind him, doing his best to keep up despite his aching ribs and general state of exhaustion.
A short ways into the trek, Peter glanced back. His expression didn’t change, and he didn’t say anything for which Stiles was grateful. He might have had to do something, he wasn’t sure what, if Peter had made a deal of it. But despite not commenting on it, Peter slowed his pace noticeably, and once they reached the forest proper, he began to casually hold branches out of the way for Stiles or warn him about particularly difficult patches of terrain in a deliberately off-hand manner. Stiles was simultaneously grateful for the consideration and annoyed with himself for being grateful.
It took longer than Stiles expected to catch up to Gerard, but still not too terribly long. Peter noticed first, of course, and his head snapped over, focus locking onto a distant sound like a hunting dog.
“That’s it, go get it Lassie,” Stiles gasped between pants for breath. The joke wasn’t up to his usual standards, but he was utterly unable to resist the opening.
Peter paused and looked back, meeting Stiles’s eyes just long enough to ensure that Stiles saw his eyeroll before facing forward and altering the course to head directly towards whatever he sensed. Stiles grinned to himself and followed.
It wasn’t long until Stiles could also hear the sound of someone clumsily stumbling through the underbrush up ahead. Galvanized, he quickened his pace, and Peter matched him without comment. Gerard came into view a few seconds later.
Stiles stumbled to a halt as soon as he saw him, emotions warring within him. Peter’s entire bearing changed, and he slunk forward with his head low as beta shift rippled over his features, every inch the top predator. He circled around Gerard, claws flexing in anticipation. A beat later, he pounced, knocking Gerard to the ground and rolling him so that he was pinned down with Peter’s fanged face grinning above him.
“Miss me?” Peter purred and then raised one clawed hand.
“Wait,” Stiles called before he even realized he was going to say anything. To his surprise, Peter did, pausing with his hand still raised and glancing over inquisitively. Stiles limped over. Man, running through the forest at night while still enjoying the aftereffects of a thorough beating was not fun. He stepped into Gerard’s line of sight and enjoyed the way the bastard’s eyes widened in surprise. He crouched down by his head, studying him, and taking a moment to examine his feelings on the matter.
“You?” Gerard rasped, sounding more confused and disbelieving than anything else.
“Me,” Stiles confirmed. He drew his knife from his waistband and rested the edge against Gerard’s jugular. “You chose the wrong person to send a message with. I hold grudges.”
Peter gave a short bark of laughter.
Stiles made a decision and glanced up at him. “Together?”
Peter’s grin was lethal. “Together.”
As one, Stiles pressed down with the knife and Peter sank his claws into Gerard’s chest, and together they watched Gerard breathe his last.
When it was over, Stiles stepped back and leaned back against a convenient tree. He studied his thoughts, poking at the awareness that he helped kill someone with the vague thought that he should probably be more bothered by it than he was. As it was, Gerard had been a threat to everyone Stiles cared about, and there was no way he was going to face legal justice for his actions. It was only logical to end his threat the supernatural way.
Stiles caught Peter giving him a faintly concerned look and shook off his heavy thoughts. Man, he was tired. “Thoughts for body disposal?” he asked instead of responding to Peter’s unspoken question.
Peter peered at him for another moment, still assessing, before shrugging. “I was thinking of doing the ever-classic dismemberment and burial in multiple graves to ensure no shenanigans.”
Stiles screwed up his nose. “Charming, but you’d know, I suppose. I’ll let you get to that then.”
Peter smirked. “Not going to help, sweetheart? Worried you might break a nail?”
Stiles rolled his eyes. “Puny human here, remember? I’ll let you of the super-strength do the hard manual labor, thanks.”
Peter laughed and got to work. Despite his comments, he didn’t seem the slightest bit annoyed at doing the job alone.
Peter worked swiftly and completed the messy job in an almost disturbingly quick fashion. Stiles eyed him suspiciously. “Done that before, have you?” he asked.
Peter smiled beatifically. “Ask me no questions, and I will tell you no evasively worded half-answers,” he answered with immense satisfaction.
Stiles snorted and rolled his eyes again. “Uh huh. Alright, let’s go.”
Peter fell in beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Stiles flicked him a sideways, suspicious glance, but didn’t question it.
“Now what?” Peter asked when they finally reached human civilization again.
Stiles blinked at him, torn out of his daydreams about fanciful concepts like mattresses, pillows, and a full night’s sleep. “What makes you think I have any plans beyond making a beeline for the nearest horizontal surface? I’m not even going to insist it’s a bed at this point.” Even as he spoke, Stiles shoved away his exhaustion and wishful dreams of rest, to stare in the direction of the Argent house, because, all joking aside, there was one more thing he needed to do before he would be able to get any rest.
Peter just looked at him, his expression practically screaming “Really?”, and gestured vaguely towards Stiles as if to encompass the way he wasn’t relaxing or making any move to go home.
Stiles sighed. “Okay. Fair point.” He rolled his shoulders and shook himself off. “You knew Gerard’s the one who did this to me, right?”
Peter nodded slowly. “I could smell him on you,” he said, like that wasn’t an entirely creepy thing to say.
“Right,” Stiles said with a vaguely disturbed, side-eyed glance. “Anyways. I wasn’t the only one down there. He had Erica and Boyd chained up in his basement of horrors, being tortured, and I don’t know if they got out. I need to find them and get them out if necessary.”
Peter studied him, an odd look on his face. “And you care… why exactly? I thought they were Derek’s betas, and Scott was very insistent that you two were not part of my erstwhile nephew’s pack.”
Stiles pinned him with a hard look. “Because we were tortured together and that changes things. They tried to draw Gerard’s attention onto themselves to get him to leave me alone, and I did the same for them. They had my back while we were all in there, and I’m going to have their backs now. Maybe they’re Derek’s betas, but if sticking together through torture doesn’t make you pack, I don’t know what does. Gerard dumped me to ‘send his little message’, but I don’t know what happened to them. I’m going to find out. Come or don’t.”
Peter raised his hands in surrender, but he was still watching Stiles with an odd, almost hungry light in his eyes. “I never said I wasn’t coming, sweetheart. Sounds like fun.”
“Right, fun,” Stiles muttered as he got into the jeep, Peter a step behind, mountain ash circle crawling in with him, because Stiles’s trust issues had trust issues. “Visiting the Argent torture-basement is so much fun. I’m having a blast.”
Peter snorted in amusement as he continued his more than a little bitter, and probably over-honest, muttered rant.
Stiles stopped the jeep outside the Argent house, glancing with wearied resignation at Scott’s motorbike parked outside, indicating the other teen was almost certainly inside with his girlfriend. Alright. Here goes nothing. Stiles put his hand on the jeep’s door latch, but was interrupted by a deep, thunderous growl. He shot a startled glance over at Peter. Peter was glaring at the Argent house so fiercely, Stiles honestly wouldn’t be surprised to see it burst into flames from the sheer intensity. His fangs were bared, and the rumble emanating from his throat promised a slow, painful death to the object of his focus. It was one of the most terrifying sounds Stiles had ever heard. Definitely more intimidating than either Scott or Derek’s growls.
Stiles honestly blamed his utter exhaustion and lifelong poor impulse control for what happened next.
Without stopping to think, Stiles flicked out one hand to smack Peter in the chest. “Knock it off,” he ordered.
Peter choked on his growl and turned to stare at him incredulously. And proving, once again, that he does not know the meaning of fear or self-preservation, Stiles actually wagged a finger at him. “No. Bad dog. Down.”
Peter just stared some more.
Stiles raised an eyebrow. He could do this all day.
Finally, Peter shook his head slowly and looked down and away, reverting back to a fully human form. He also stopped growling and looked significantly less murderous than before. So Stiles considered it a win and deliberately ignored any possible repercussions.
“Good. Thanks,” Stiles said. He tried for sarcastic, but the effort fell flat, and the words came out more genuine than he meant. Peter was still looking at him oddly, but he didn’t say anything and fell in beside him again as they approached the front door. It was starting to feel disturbingly natural to have Peter at his shoulder like that.
They reached the door, and Stiles hesitated, steeling himself. He wasn’t sure he had ever wanted to do something less than he wanted to walk back into that house. Beside him, Peter also looked like he was wrestling demons as he studied the house. His gaze kept flicking between the door and the circle of mountain ash that was still moving with him. He didn’t ask for Stiles to remove it though. He didn’t even look at Stiles.
It was that, more than anything else, that made up Stiles’s mind.
“If I remove the circle, will you be able to prevent yourself from going on a murder-craze inside?”
Peter’s eyes shot to him, wary hope lurking behind them. “I promise I won’t attack anyone first, but I reserve the right to defend myself,” he promised, and he seemed sincere.
Stiles studied him for a beat and then nodded. “Fair enough. But if you even twitch to attack me or someone else unprovoked, I’ll have you bound in mountain ash before you can blink. Understood?”
Peter smiled, the creep. “Understood.”
Stiles snapped his fingers, and the circle of mountain ash obediently slithered away, pooling in Stiles’s pocket while Peter watched in fascination.
But Stiles still hesitated, cursing himself for the weakness, but struggling to find the willpower to take that step forward.
Peter shifted his weight, a gesture that would appear thoughtless if it weren’t for the way that it caused his shoulder to brush against Stiles’s. Stiles glanced over, only to find Peter studiously avoiding his gaze, watching the house the way one might watch an active volcano, unsure if it were going to explode and kill everyone around it. In short, the same way Stiles was watching it.
Stiles was reminded yet again that Peter had even more of a reason to hate this house and want nothing to do with it than Stiles did, but he was still here. Helping and supporting Stiles for some reason Stiles couldn’t understand. Before he thought about it too hard, Stiles allowed himself to sway sideways enough to brush his shoulder against Peter’s in a matching gesture of support.
Then, taking a deep breath, Stiles seized his courage and knocked.
A brief wait later, Chris opened the door with a confused look on his face. “...Stiles?”
“Where’s Erica and Boyd?” Stiles demanded, not having the energy for pleasantries. Chris flinched and looked guilty, and Stiles’s heart dropped for a moment before anger abruptly rose in its place. He leaned forward, baring his teeth. “So help me. If you’ve hurt them…” Stiles hissed, threat dripping from every syllable. Peter growled from behind him, backing him up, and Chris’s hand twitched towards the gun at his waist. Stiles growled himself, swaying in front of Peter slightly and staring Chris down.
Chirs gave him a startled look at the gesture and visibly refocused. “What? No! I didn’t hurt them!”
Stiles sneered. “Right. You just listened to them, to us, scream, and did nothing. Much better.”
Peter’s growl gained volume, and Stiles reached back without looking to grab his wrist, squeeze briefly, and let go. Peter’s growl grew quieter, but didn’t stop.
Chris’s gaze flicked between them in confusion, but didn’t comment. Instead, he took a deep breath and looked Stiles dead in the eyes. “What Gerard did was wrong. I should have stopped him and I didn’t. For that, I sincerely apologize. I don’t expect forgiveness, and I know there’s nothing I can do to make up for it, but for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
Stiles reeled back, thoroughly caught off guard. Peter’s hand pressed against his back, out of Chris’s sight, in a gesture of comfort and support. Stiles regained his composure and the hand fell away, but the sense of security and camaraderie remained.
Chris looked away. “Erica and Boyd aren’t here. I cut them loose before the whole showdown. I don’t know where they went.”
Stiles was still struggling to process the unexpected, and oddly sincere, apology.
Likely sensing his unbalanced state, Peter stepped forward, drawing Chris’s attention. “Then you won’t mind us checking to confirm that, hmm?” he purred.
Chris stepped back and waved them forwards. “Go ahead.”
Stiles shook himself off and shoved the apology to the back of his mind to analyze later. He had work to do. Nodding stiffly at Chris, Stiles pushed past him and marched to the basement, ignoring the way that Peter flashed his fangs at Chris in passing. Shoving the door open to reveal the steps nearly made him falter, but he focused on the job he was here to do.
Sure enough, the basement was empty.
“Peter,” Stiles called, a wordless request in the name.
Peter slipped past him and paced forwards, studying the basement. He hesitated, nostrils flaring, over the spot Stiles vividly remembered getting beat to a pulp in, and his eyes flashed, fury twisting his face.
“Peter,” Stiles called again, and Peter glanced up, looking conflicted. Stiles wasn’t sure what Peter saw in his face, but he studied him for a moment, then took a deep breath, visibly regained control of himself, and set back to his job.
He hesitated again where Erica and Boyd had been tied, head swinging back and forth as he scanned the area. Then he trotted back to Stiles. “They were here until roughly when Chris said, and his scent joins theirs on the way to the door. As far I can tell, he didn’t add to their pain. It seems he was telling the truth.”
Stiles nodded sharply. “Well done. Thank you.” He clapped Peter’s shoulder as he turned leave, nearly missing the way Peter looked rather taken aback at the simple praise and gratitude. He did a double-take, but Peter had wiped the confusion from his face, following behind him with a conflicted look on his face. He didn’t say anything though, so Stiles set it aside to deal with later.
Or maybe never. Never was sounding awfully nice.
Scott was waiting at the top of the stairs. “Stiles?” he asked, head tilted in puppy-like confusion. “What are you doing here?”
Stiles glanced at him tiredly. “Gerard had Erica and Boyd locked up in the basement and was torturing them. I had to make sure they got out.”
Scott’s eyes went wide. “Are you sure they were here? Chris and Allison wouldn’t have anything to do with that!”
Behind him Chris flinched and looked away. Peter just chuckled darkly, prompting Scott to shoot him a distrustful glare.
Stiles just sighed. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure they were here, considering I was too.” He gestured to the bruises littering his body. “Where do you think these came from? I know I’m clumsy, but come on man, I’ve never been that bad.”
Scott flinched back, eyes wide.
“And as for Chris and Allison having nothing to do with that,” Stiles continued. “Both of them knew we were here. They watched me be dragged in and listened to us scream without doing anything. I know you love Aliison, Scotty, but you need to remember where she came from and what her family’s like.”
“Allison’s nothing like them!” Scott protested, but he looked uncomfortable.
“Oh yeah? Remind me, where did the crossbow bolt I saw sticking out of Isaac come from? I’m also pretty sure he had near-fatal knife wounds, and nobody else had knives. Where did those come from? The Easter Bunny?” Scott flinched back again, hurt, and Stiles sighed, scrubbing his face with his hand. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m tired, and I probably could have phrased that better, but my point stands. Just… Be careful, man. That’s all.”
Scott nodded, expression conflicted. Stiles patted him on the shoulder and walked past “See you later, man.”
“See you later.”
Chris stepped out of their way wordlessly as they left the house. Once outside, Stiles tipped his head up and took a deep breath of fresh air, letting the wind against his face wash away the icky feeling just being in that house gave him. His eyes opened, and mindlessly traced the stars. He wasn’t very good at identifying constellations. Maybe he should learn? Wouldn’t that be a poetic way to deal with insomnia? He could just call it a school project, make it seem deliberate. No dad, I have to stay up. I need to see the constellations in person, no really! His lips twitched just thinking about it. He could probably find some star charts online, pretend he was doing some sort of astronomy class. Or was that astrology? He always got those two mixed up.
“Vicious, sweetheart,” Peter drawled from right beside him, knocking him out of his rambling thoughts and making him jump.
Stiles twitched back, pressing a hand to his chest as if he could physically still his suddenly racing heart. “Geez, Peter. Don’t do that to me!”
Peter smirked, but obligingly stepped back to put a little distance between them, hands twisting to show open, empty palms. “Jumpy much?” he teased.
Stiles glared at him half-heartedly. “It’s not paranoia if they really are out to get you,” he rejoined.
Peter gave him a crooked grin. “Touche.” There was a pause while Stiles got his heartrate under control. “Now what?” Peter asked. “Are we hunting down your wayward betas?”
“Not my betas,” Stiles corrected. “They’re part of Derek’s pack.”
“Mmhmm.”
Stiles peered at him suspiciously. That hum sounded more dubious than agreeing. Peter just looked back innocently, waiting for an answer. After several moments of Peter refusing to crack, Stiles gave up and looked away, weighing his options. Boyd and Erica were probably fine, but the fact of the matter was, Stiles didn’t know, and wouldn’t know, with enough surety to let him sleep, until he actually saw them with his own eyes. Which meant he couldn’t go to bed yet even though it was well past midnight after the longest day in history. Damn it.
Stiles swore under his breath, extensively, and Peter laughed at him.
“Alright,” Stiles said. “Who really needs sleep anyways, right? Rest is for the weak!”
“Weren’t you just dreaming about beds?” Peter mused, head tilted in exaggerated contemplation.
Stiles stabbed a finger at him. “Hush you. We’re not talking about that.”
Peter mimed zipping his lips shut, but his eyes danced with amusement.
Stiles rolled his eyes at him, but gestured to the house behind them. “Are you still willing to play bloodhound for me?”
Peter tapped his chin in thought. “Say please?”
Stiles rolled his eyes again, harder. They were really getting a workout around Peter. “Peter. Would you help me track down Erica and Boyd, please?”
“Well, since you asked so nicely, it would be my pleasure. I haven’t had this much fun in ages.”
“Excellent, thank you so very much,” Stiles drawled, mostly-sarcastically.
Peter beamed at him. Stiles just shook his head in exasperation.