Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5454803.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Peter_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Stiles_Stilinski, Peter_Hale, Sheriff_Stilinski, Scott_McCall
  Additional Tags:
      Loan_Sharks, STD_Scare, Alternate_Universe, Dubious_Consent, Past_Sexual
      Abuse
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-12-18 Completed: 2016-02-19 Chapters: 10/10 Words: 117313
****** Loan Wolves ******
by veterization
Summary
     At seventeen, Stiles' mother dies, and suddenly, with bills piling
     up, Stiles and his father are in financial straits. Enter Peter Hale,
     the loan shark.
Notes
     Literally YEARS ago, I came up with the idea of writing a story only
     because I had come up with an amusing play on words that was too good
     not to be used for a title: Loan Wolves. Loan Wolves!!! I was
     CHUFFED.
     My original plan was to write a single-chapter PWP, then I thought
     I'd drag it out to three chapters, add in some plot. Then I just
     started writing, and right around the 40k mark, I decided to outline
     this bad boy, which yielded ten chapters, much, MUCH more than I
     originally intended. Now, all of it done and at the point where I
     loathe writing and reading it, I've deviated a lot from my first
     ideas and may or may not have lived up to the atual potential of the
     idea.
     A few things to mention: this story is a lot darker than what I
     typically write for these two (although the last couple of chapters
     might make you forget I ever said so). It deals with topics like
     grief, STD scares, and briefly talks about past instances of sexual
     abuse. Stiles and Peter's relationship also has elements of dub con
     for a while, so all of this wraps together into an end product of a
     fairly somber, heavy story. If this does not float your boat, I'd
     advise you to turn back.
     For those of you who are sticking around, I hope you enjoy the ride!
     Every single chapter of this story has already been written and
     rewritten, read and reread, so the plan is to update it every Friday.
***** Chapter 1 *****
It's a beautiful summer day in August, the kind where the birds chirp and the
sun is out, when Stiles' mother dies. He's seventeen, unprepared, and thrown
upside down all in the matter of a few hours.
He’d seen it coming, but he still wasn’t ready. He doesn’t know if he ever
could’ve been, because there’s just no magical button that makes a death okay,
or makes life without them peachy, or makes the last few days with them enough.
It never would’ve been enough. Stiles’ mother was supposed to always be there.
Things happen very fast after the funeral.
Most of it is a blur. Stiles remembers it as if drugged, as if underwater.
Mostly he recalls his father, his worn face peeking out from underneath the
hard mask he puts up for Stiles' sake. Stiles still hasn't figured out which is
worse, the crumbling facade, or the agony beneath. His father only ever lets
the mask slip when he thinks Stiles isn’t looking, like he thinks Stiles is too
fragile to see it, like Stiles isn’t feeling all the same things, like Stiles
wouldn’t appreciate the company in his sadness.
Afterwards, and this is where the memories and the voices blend together, a lot
of people tell him they're sorry. The doctors. The funeral priests. His
teachers. Scott. It falls on very numb ears that don't know what they're
supposed to do with apologies. All he feels he really knows how to do is
crumble, panic, surrender to his grief.
But Stiles doesn't want his father to see him break down either, so he doesn't.
He doesn't cry at the wake, and he doesn't let himself afterwards anywhere but
the lonely safety of the shadows in his room.
--
When Stiles was little, he was irrationally afraid of being abandoned by his
mother. The supermarket. The mall. The car. Even at his own house, when she'd
be late coming back home. The worst of scenarios used to brew up in Stiles'
mind, ones where she had plotted for years to leave him somewhere unawares to
fend for himself, where she would never return and never quite loved him enough
to even say goodbye, and he'd stand in the middle of a grocery store and feel
his eyes get hot and his nose get bubbly and his cheeks get wet, and then his
mother would appear out of nowhere with a few artichokes in her hand and
everything would be all right again.
Years later, when he would actually lose her, and this time for good, Stiles
would learn that those moments of paralyzing fear in a store were nothing
compared to how it actually felt to have someone you love leave you without
explanation.
--
Things don't get better as fall comes, or as winter does. Everybody keeps
telling Stiles that eventually things will improve, and eventually he'll stop
thinking his mother will be there every day after school to ask him how his day
was, and eventually life will get better, but eventually seems eternities away.
It's certainly more than just a couple of months.
It might all be easier if healing was the worst thing Stiles had to deal with,
or the only thing to focus on. But then the overdue bills start piling up.
He finds the first stack hidden behind the cereal boxes in the kitchen cabinet,
and the second hidden under a pile of books on the living room coffee table.
They're just pieces of paper with a few strict words printed on them from the
bank reminding his father he’s late making payments, but they make Stiles feel
like he's been run over by a train.
He has a panic attack in the shower after he first finds them. He feels
ridiculous afterward, like a child, sobs wracking through him with suds in his
hair and the bathtub slippery under his soles. He's not used to worrying about
money, but considering that most of the bills he found are dated back to months
ago, he apparently should've been worrying for a while now.
Not that his father ever told him.
He had never realized how expensive such intensive hospital treatment could
get, or funeral services, or even electricity bills. He used to think that his
father had invested wisely and they were sitting on a comfortable cushion of
savings, but the cushion is clearly not as comfortable as he has imagined since
it seems to have depleted in a matter of months.
But the bills keep coming in, and none seem to be going out paid and absolved.
He sees the overdue balances getting higher and higher, and he feels smaller
and smaller, and all he wants is for someone older and smarter and better at
navigating life than Stiles is to swoop in and make things all right again, but
it's a delusional fantasy more than it is an actual hope.
"I found all the letters under the books," Stiles says to his father two weeks
after finding them, hoping to be frank and honest and find a solution with him
since his dad hasn't stepped up to do so. He has a new bill in one hand,
already wrinkled from how many times he's read it, touched it, smoothed it out.
"You should've told me about them."
"What are you talking about?" the sheriff asks.
"The letters. The bills. Fucking dozens of them, dad." There's a lump forming
in Stiles' throat he can't seem to swallow down. "Why didn't you tell me?"
His father doesn't say anything for a long time; his eyes are trained on the
amber liquid sitting in a glass next to him, most of it already drunken away.
Stiles looks at it and feels sick, wishing he could hurl that stupid glass
against the window and watch the carpet stain. This is the fourth night in a
row his father's grabbed a nightcap from the liquor cabinet.
"There's nothing to tell," his father says. "I'm handling it, Stiles. It isn't
an issue."
Stiles doesn't know how that many unpaid bills can't be seen as an issue, if
not a complete catastrophe.
"Just let me help," Stiles begs, even as he doesn't know how he could. "I've
seen them. They're—the numbers are huge."
His father isn't listening, or if he is, he doesn't seem to want to carry on
the conversation. He picks up his glass and downs the rest of it in one go, his
eyes tired.
“We have to talk about this,” Stiles says, feeling helpless and invisible,
standing on a tightrope all by himself. “Dad.”
“Not now, Stiles,” his father says. He sounds tired, his glass pressed against
his forehead and his eyes closed. “I can’t right now.”
Stiles looks down at the crumpled paper in his hand, some of the ink smudged
with the sweat on his fingers. They can’t afford not now. They can’t afford
anything but now, before things get worse and worse and Stiles can’t handle it
anymore, too broken, too burdened by the weight of trauma pushing at his
shoulders like anvils. He knows what his father needs—to be comforted,
reassured—but Stiles needs the same thing, and he can’t force himself to grow
up too soon so he can take care of him. He’s supposed to be nothing more than a
teenage boy worried about girls and homework and prom, not money and mortgages
and his father’s alcohol problem.
“Dad, please,” he says quietly. He wants his father to look at him, open his
eyes and see how Stiles is hunched in on himself like a cold bird, tired where
it’s wrapped in its own wings.
“Stiles, don’t worry. Stop worrying,” he says, but Stiles can’t, he can’t. He
hasn’t stopped worrying since those days he slept curled up in a chair in his
mother’s hospital room. “Everything’s going to be fine.”
It won’t be. Stiles can feel it. It’s the same feeling that rattled his bones
when his mother started getting sick, that horrible, consuming, foreboding
feeling, that harbinger for nothing but bad news. They’re going to lose the
house; they’re going to lose each other.
All he can think the entire time is that he wants his mother to come home
already.
--
Stiles figures out pretty quickly that his father is mixed up in something he
shouldn’t be.
It starts out subtly: dark cars idling outside his house after he gets home
from school that seem to sit in wait, just watching, before driving off. His
father taking his phone with him into the garage when he used to talk openly in
the kitchen. The fact that when Stiles persists about their financial
situation, his father says he has it handled. It doesn’t feel like anything’s
been handled. It feels like his father’s been digging holes out of desperation
that he’s sinking into. They’re sinking into.
He listens to his father pay off bills on the phone—funeral costs, electricity
bills, medical expenses—with money he knows they didn’t have a few weeks ago.
Even with the extra shifts he’s been picking up at the station, Stiles isn’t
stupid. The money the two of them need isn’t going to grow overnight, overtime
or not, and the fact that it’s suddenly around is alarming, but Stiles doesn’t
have a solution. He doesn't even have a clue as to what's going on.
It makes him realize, not for the first time, how little control he has even
over his own life. He’s just a kid, and he can sit and cry and wail but it
won’t help, and even if his father doesn’t want him to worry and is
purposefully shutting him out because he thinks it’s for the best, Stiles can’t
stand by idly and passively crumble, not when it’s his family on the line.
The problem is, he doesn’t even know how to approach this. When he suspects
trouble, he turns to his father, who has always been a figure of comfort and
authority and answers, even when Stiles had none, but what is he supposed to do
when it’s his father who’s in trouble? It doesn’t help that his father isn’t
accepting help unless it’s in the shape of a liquor bottle. Stiles wants to
grab him, demand they tell each other the truth, beg for the two of them to
work together, shake him until the message sinks in, but he’s not sure it ever
would.
He wants his father to trust him. He wants to help. He wants to make sure that
they stick together when an important part of their family has just been ripped
away from them. And if he has to use underhanded ways to make it happen, he'll
resign himself to that.
He thinks about that as he stops at the mailbox on the way home from school,
rifling through the envelopes until one in particular sticks out to him. The
bank’s logo is on the outside, and his father’s name is printed onto it.
Stiles has already ripped it open before he realizes his mistake that it’s not
addressed to him, but now a sliver of a letter is sticking out and Stiles’
curiosity is grabbing him by the hair and demanding he read it. He weasels it
out of the envelope, struggling to find just one side of himself to give into:
the side that obeys the law and doesn’t read his father’s mail, or the side
that isn’t afraid to do a little digging to get to the root of a problem.
The latter side wins out. He folds open the letter.
We regret to inform you that the bank is unable to provide you with credit. As
the bank has already supplied more than three loans to your name, we no longer
feel that you are a desirable candidate for a loan. We apologize for any
inconvenience this brings you, and we wish you luck with your financial future.
Stiles feels a sinking pit in his stomach. Three loans already, and his father
is still looking for more? Where the hell is the kind of money that his father
needs going to come from if the bank is denying him?
The front door rattles with the sound of a key unlocking it and Stiles hurries
to stuff the letter back into the envelope and undo the damage he’s done, but
he doesn’t have enough time to actually make it look unopened and untouched.
He’s still clutching it in his hands like a criminal caught red-handed when his
father steps inside.
“Hey,” Stiles says, ignoring the instinct to stuff the letter behind his back
and hide it under his shirt. “How was work?”
“Fine,” the sheriff says. “You got the mail?”
Stiles looks down at the letter in his hand and thinks this might as well be as
good a time as any to bring it up instead of pretending he didn’t see. He lifts
it half-heartedly.
“Uh, yeah.”
“Anything interesting?”
“I opened a letter,” Stiles admits. “It was your letter, but it—it was an
accident. And I ended up seeing that the bank isn’t going to give us any more
loans.”
His father’s face is unreadable, but his lips are thinning, which Stiles can
make plenty of inferences from.
“Dad,” Stiles says sharply. “Are we out of money?”
“No,” his father answers immediately. “The bank—they just have limits on these
sort of things. We have money, Stiles.”
“From where?”
His father is already slipping into the kitchen, but Stiles follows him just in
time to see him pour himself a glass of what smells strongly of whiskey. Stiles
almost prefers it when his father hides his drinking from him instead of doing
it right in front of him.
“Dad, from where?” Stiles asks again. He doesn’t care if he’s annoying his
father, he wants to get to the bottom of this, not forget about it and push it
out until both of them are floating in a bubble of complete ignorance.
“A professional, Stiles,” his father says. “Everything’s fine. You don’t have
to worry so much, you should be focusing on school.”
The sheriff grazes by him with a full glass of liquor in one hand and the other
rubbing at his forehead, presumably to go upstairs and drink in his room where
he assumes Stiles won’t know he’s drunk. Stiles watches him go, everything
about his body sad and tired as he walks up the stairs.
A few pieces of the puzzle are slotting into place for him, though. There’s
only one kind of professional Stiles knows of next to the bank willing to shell
out so much money to someone in need, and just like that, the dark cars and the
secrecy come together and Stiles knows exactly what his father’s been hiding
from him. A loan shark.
--
Ever since Stiles’ mother started getting sick, Stiles has been sleeping less.
By now, her gone for months and not returning, Stiles has hardly been sleeping
at all. The sadness is too gripping to let it slip away long enough to sleep,
and on the rare occasion when his exhaustion prevails, it’s to a slumber
riddled with nightmares of his mother’s face, tortured, gaunt, ill.
Figuring out that his father is using loan sharks doesn’t exactly make it
easier to fall asleep.
His suspicions are confirmed when Stiles digs a little deeper into the
skeletons his father’s hiding in his closet. His father’s been sloppy, maybe a
byproduct of his increasingly frequent trips to the liquor cabinet, and Stiles
finds all the evidence he needs rooting through the trash and listening in on
phone calls from around corners. He finds a few notes in the garbage can that
don’t seem like anything but bad news, mostly crudely penned receipts and
agreements as to what money he’s borrowing and what the outrageous interest
percent is. The handwriting is sharp and aggressive, the kind that Stiles can
draw personality traits from, and the longer he stares at the dark black
letters the longer he can put together an image of the man who wrote it. He
imagines someone foreboding and unsmiling, always shrouded in black coats and
dark gloves with a gun concealed underneath.
He can’t imagine why his father would turn to someone like this, why he would
ever agree to such a shady, unfavorable deal, especially when he’s a cop, of
all things. The best he can think of is that they’re even more in debt than
Stiles knew, and that this was the only option, but Stiles is still
unbelievably stung that his father didn’t tell him, or at least brainstorm with
him about ways to save up money and pay off the bills. They work well together,
they’re a good team, a smart team, and they might’ve even found a solution if
his father had trusted him earlier, but by now it’s too late and they’re too
far gone and everything is already spiraled out of control.
The unfortunate bottom line is that it doesn't matter why, not when the deal is
already done. Now it only matters what to do from here on out. Stiles doesn't
know who these people his father's working with are, but he knows enough about
loan sharks to presume that they're violent, unforgiving people who are quick
to collect on their debts and torture their way back to their money. And with
the amount the sheriff needed, there's definitely a lot to be repaid. At this
point, not even Stiles trying to scrape together piggy bank money or find
himself a job is going to help them out of the financial canyon they've been
dropped into. Even winning the lottery might not.
He tries to find out as much as he can about these people without asking his
father, who he knows would rather vehemently deny being involved with loan
sharks rather than rope Stiles in as well, but it's not easy. Every note he
finds in the trash is unsigned, and googling Beacon Hills loan sharks doesn't
exactly lead him straight to a helpful website. All Stiles knows for sure is
that he has to help before things get worse, since his current idea of "worse"
is coming home to his father bleeding out on the carpet because persuasive
tactics go a long way with reclaiming monetary debts, and then fretting over
losing yet another parent when he hasn't even fully dealt with losing the
first.
The longer Stiles thinks about it, the angrier he gets. At the world, at his
father, at the fact that there are people out there happy to separate people
down on their luck with their money and then hound them for it plus interest.
He trusts his father, always has, but how can he keep doing so when his dad's
been trading out one debt for another and putting himself in harm's way in the
process?
His insomnia gets worse the more and more he realizes what kind of irreversible
trouble they're in. Stiles can handle the little things, like broken plates or
forgotten homework or a scrape after falling off a bike, but he isn't equipped
to handle anything of this magnitude. He's not sure his father is either.
He keeps trying to give his father the opportunity to come clean and be honest,
gently leading him into conversational directions where the truth could come
out and everybody can breathe a sigh of relief and the two of them can put
their heads together and work on this as an unstoppable duo, but his father
never takes the bait.
"So I'm not going to be able to come home until late tonight," his father's
voice drifts through the phone call. "I'll try to make it before ten, but don't
wait up."
Stiles parks the Jeep in the driveway, covering up the mouthpiece while he
turns it off so his father doesn't hear the pitiful groan his engine rattles
out as a clear plea to be fixed. Car work is expensive, and expensive is just
not in their vocabulary these days. He opens the door and hauls his backpack
off the passenger seat.
"What's going on?" Stiles asks. "Big break in a case or what?"
"Uh, not really. Just going to take some extra time finishing up around here.
Getting some work done."
He might be hiding the actual meaning between deceptive wording, but Stiles
knows what his dad is really trying to say. He's spending another night working
an extra shift because they need the money. With the looming threat of a loan
shark out and about presumably starting to get impatient for his loan to be
paid back, Stiles hates to admit that staying longer at the station might just
be the safest place for his father to hang out.
Stiles throws out another opportunity for the sheriff to stop beating around
the bush and tell Stiles the truth already. He says, "That's the only reason?"
The exhaustion has made him candid. He feels as if he hasn't slept in weeks,
and all Stiles can think about is that if his mother was here she'd brew him a
cup of chamomile tea and tuck him into the sofa for a long nap. He walks up the
steps to the front door, readjusting the phone.
"Yes," the sheriff says. It's a shame Stiles can't see his face over the phone.
"Of course it is."
It isn't. It isn't.
“Everything’s okay, isn’t it?” Stiles asks, fumbling to slip his key out of his
backpack. “I mean, you’ve been working so much overtime—”
“Don’t worry, Stiles,” his father interrupts.
Stiles stills, frustrated. “The less you tell me, the more I worry, dad.”
“Well, don’t,” he replies. He sounds about as tired as Stiles is exasperated,
making him feel bad he pushed in the first place. He just doesn’t know how to
approach this, how to treat his father, how to fix things, and he has the
suspicion he’s doing it all wrong. “I’ll be back later tonight. Are you home
yet?”
“Yeah.”
“Then just—take a long shower. Relax yourself.”
Stiles pulls in a deep breath. His father doesn’t get it—there’s no way a bit
of hot water can calm him at this point—but he doesn’t want to have this
conversation over the phone. “Okay. Fine. Just—just tell me something. You’d
tell me if we were in trouble, right?”
There’s a long silence on the other end, a silence that unfortunately speaks
for itself. It’s not even that Stiles doesn’t know, he does know, which is what
makes it all the worse when his father lies to him over and over no matter how
many chances Stiles gives him to do otherwise. Then the sheriff says, “Just
stop worrying, Stiles.”
Stiles thinks stop telling me to stop worrying and tell me if there’s something
to worry about and stop trying to protect me so damn hard for a few seconds.
“Fine,” he ends up saying, jamming his key into the door. “I’ll see you later.”
He stuffs his phone into his pants before his father can reiterate his pleas
for Stiles to calm down and unwind already, probably because it’s starting to
feel belittling, like Stiles is a fragile child who has to be protected from
the harsh truths of the world. Fine. Fine. He’ll take the stupid shower, and
he’ll pretend to feel better afterwards, and then he’ll go to bed and wake up
feeling just as terrible and everything will still be unresolved and his father
still won’t trust him with his secrets.
He shoves the front door open and drops his backpack on the floor, scrubbing
his hand over his face as he shuts the door behind him. He turns around.
And there, sitting at his dining room table, is a man in crisp all black who
Stiles definitely wasn’t expecting.
It freezes Stiles, like someone's jabbed icicles into the back of his neck, and
his instinct leads him to fumbling to back out the door again. His hand is
twisting the knob when—
"You must be Stiles," the man says, voice smooth. "Leaving so soon?"
He looks up at Stiles. There's not much of a question of who he is, but Stiles
is still stupidly hoping that maybe he's just a lost neighbor, someone in the
wrong place.
"Who are you?" Stiles asks, dreading the answer.
"Call me Peter," he says. He drums his fingers on the tabletop. "I'm a...
businessman, if you will, who's been working with your dad."
"I know what you are," Stiles says, staying close to the door. The knob digs
into his backside, reminding him of how close the escape route is. "Businessman
isn't exactly the word I'd use."
Peter ignores the second half. "Oh, you do?" A smile stretches over his face,
something primal. "Then you must know why I'm here."
Stiles is pretty sure he knows, but this would be a hell of a time to make
assumptions. "Are you here to kill me?"
"Kill you?" Peter sighs like he expected more of Stiles, like he thinks his
deduction skills could do better. "Now... dead bodies can't really pay dues,
can they?"
Stiles was afraid of this. He's heard of loan sharks—horror stories on the
Internet, mostly—but he's never met one in real life. He knows what they're
good at. Intimidation. Threats. Pulling fear out of someone's nostrils. Stiles
slides a hand behind his back, wondering all the while why he had to come home
so early today, why he had to come home at all, and tries to slip his fingers
around the knob. He'll only have a few seconds to jerk it open and run, and
when he does, he better pick the right direction or—
"As much as I admire your tenacity," Peter drawls, standing up from the table.
"Trying to make a run for it would not bode well with me. Why, it might make a
guest like me feel... unwelcome."
Stiles freezes, the hand on the door falling off the knob as if Peter can see
through his backside with X-Ray vision. He watches as Peter rounds the table,
stepping up to the shelf against the wall and dragging his fingers down the
spines of books there. He walks around Stiles' home like he's had ample time to
explore it, anything and everything from Stiles' room to his father's drawer of
cold cases to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, and has become perfectly
comfortable in his surroundings. Almost like, if the sum owed to him is large
enough, he could easily repossess every item he so pleases to take with him if
not the entire house itself.
"I'll be honest, Stiles, I was fully expecting your father when I showed up
here today," Peter says as he pulls a book out and absent-mindedly flips it
open to the center.
"You mean when you broke in?" Stiles' mouth says without permission, like his
voice is braver than his body.
Peter's reply is nothing more than a chuckle. "I have to say, I was expecting
it to be harder, considering this is the residency of a policeman." He flicks
his sleeve up his forearm to check his watch. "I was also expecting said
policeman to come home on time, but I think that this," his eyes sweep over
Stiles, "is even better."
"What do you want with him?" Stiles asks. His attempt to ease open the door and
bolt out into the streets was already foiled; how likely is it that he can
finagle his phone out of his pants to warn his father to stay at the office, no
matter what? Or rather, how likely is it that his father then wouldn't do the
exact opposite?
He just can't let this happen. He can't let a few of his father's poorly made
decisions influenced by too much whiskey and misery ruin everything. He has to
step in, he has to negotiate. He has to find a way to get Peter out of the
house before his father comes home and real damage can be done.
Peter snaps the book in his hand closed to push it back into the shelf,
grabbing an old framed picture next to it instead. "Him? Nothing. My mind is
definitely not thinking of what your father could do for me right now, Stiles,"
he murmurs. "Lovely photograph. Is this your mother? She's gorgeous."
Stiles grits his teeth. The past few months, somebody even mentioning his
mother's name has meant unexplainable, bubbling rage touching a part of himself
usually dormant, a part that burns hot and angry and then retreats into
something sad and miserable, hunkering in on itself. But now, hearing the
apologies, the condolences, even the long assurances of support seem better
than how Peter's nonchalantly bringing her up and plunging a steak knife into
Stiles' lungs without even bothering to notice.
"Was," Stiles says on a dry mouth.
"Oh, of course," Peter says, putting the frame back. "Let me guess. Lots of
funeral costs? Was she buried in a marble casket?" He tuts. "People never seem
to grasp the concept that the dead have no conception of expensive investments
on their behalf."
"Medical bills," Stiles says, and there comes that familiar feeling, so strong
it almost smothers the fear, the overwhelming pull of the tide taking him under
and churning his stomach, nothing but black, endless mourning he doesn't feel
he'll ever escape from. There were funeral expenses, certainly not cheap ones,
but they were nothing compared to the hospital fees, the feeling of sitting in
a sterile room and listening to the monotonous beeping of a machine whittling
down his mother's life to nothing but her heartbeat.
"What a shame," Peter says. "Leaving you and your father all alone..."
It sounds like a threat, like he's exploiting the fact that no one but Stiles
is here and no one but his father is likely to join in on their conversation,
leaving Stiles helpless. Vulnerable.
"Please," Stiles says. He doesn't know what to expect, what to prepare himself
for—violence? Aggression? Threats? "Don't hurt my dad.”
"Your dad?" Peter murmurs, half his attention gathered to the half-drunken
bottle of bourbon sitting in the middle of the table, the remains of Stiles'
father's evening. "I'd much rather focus on you."
Himself. Stiles doesn't have anything to offer, unless, of course, he's just
become ransom bait to be kidnapped and used as leverage until his father pays
up. The idea makes his throat dry up. His father doesn’t need this, he doesn’t
need the stress of a missing son when he’s just lost his wife, doesn’t need to
feel like his family is crumbling around him. Doesn't need to come home to his
son bruised and bleeding because he's been used as a warning to pay up fast.
"Just give him some more time," Stiles begs. "He'll make the money. He will."
"It's a particularly generous sum, I'm assuming you know, and I do know enough
about your father's salary to know that just isn't true," Peter says. There's a
very sick smile on his face that's making Stiles nauseous.
It isn't hard to figure out that Peter came with all the knowledge he needed,
all the numbers to point out exactly how deep Stiles' father is in his own bad
idea and how unlikely it is that he can get himself out of it. Stiles has no
more cards to play or lies to tell. Peter's smarter. Or at least, prepared for
Stiles' gut instinct to protect his father at all costs.
"However," Peter murmurs, taking a slow, leisurely step forward. Everything
about the way he moves is languorous, fluid, oozing assurance that only comes
with certain power. "I could be persuaded to... lessen the blow."
Stiles watches how he stops in front of him, Peter's eyes fixed with a
captivating hunger that crawls up his spine as he looks him up and down. Stiles
swallows.
"How?"
Peter smiles. "An exchange of services, if you will," he says. "I've delivered
my end of the bargain. Now you pay me back."
He doesn't wait for Stiles to ask questions or connect the dots. Instead, his
hand comes up to twine itself into Stiles' short hair, grabbing it as leverage
as he tilts his head left. His eyes are still hungry, but now they're on
Stiles' lips, drawn to the way Stiles' tongue darts out with nerves to lick
them. His thumb reaches up to brush over his mouth and pull the breath out of
Stiles in the process.
"You can't mean," Stiles stops himself, unwilling to say it out loud. "You want
me to—?"
"Yes, Stiles. I want." The pad of his thumb swipes away from Stiles' mouth with
a ragged exhale that quickly morphs into a growl, something uninhibited and
unrestrained. "Daddy wouldn't want you to, but see... I know you'd do anything
for him."
He grins, almost shark-like. It makes Stiles wonder if this is what Peter's
best at, drawing people into debt and then finding whatever weaknesses they'll
buckle under to his advantage. If he's the first to be used like this. His
entire body is thrumming like it's infested with bees buzzing in his ear,
fogging his head.
And the worst part is that Peter's got him all figured out. He would do
anything for his father, and he'd do it with no concern over himself. It's what
his mother would've done, even if she wouldn't condone Stiles doing it now.
God, he just wants to feel alive again, especially after months of missing her,
of feeling like a body improperly packaged, of being hollow. Maybe this is a
way he can feel alive.
"You can't tell him," Stiles whispers. The minute the words leave his mouth, he
feels himself go cold in anticipation.
Peter shakes his head. He's still smiling, infuriatingly so. "Of course not,"
he agrees, and then his thumb slips upward to graze the shell of Stiles' ear.
"It'll be our secret."
Stiles is tired of keeping secrets. From his father, who thinks he doesn't know
about the loans and the debt. From Scott, who thinks he's fine and sprung back
to life even after everything that's happened. It makes him wonder for that
split second what he hates more—the lying, or the suspension in helplessness
where he can do nothing but watch everything around him crumble. In the next
second, the answer feels obvious to him.
"Okay," Stiles breathes out shakily. "How much less?"
Peter moves closer still. From this distance, Stiles can see everything—the icy
blue eyes, the unshaven stubble. His hand slips to Stiles’ scalp, gripping his
hair. "I'll halve it," he offers, "if I get to fuck you."
Fear courses through Stiles like an avalanche. It's not like he hasn't touched
himself, or hasn't let his fingers wander in the shower, or hasn’t even been
touched by someone else, but this, being fucked over a table without a moment's
consideration by a man whose career is to scare, that's different. Peter must
notice the fright radiating off him, and the hand firm in Stiles' hair loosens,
stroking his scalp.
"You're afraid," he comments, a twist to his eyebrows.
"I never, I mean—" Stiles breathes in through his nose. "I haven't."
Peter's low chuckles interrupt his broken confessions. He's amused, the
bastard, probably by Stiles' anxiety, and it makes Stiles want to reel his arm
back and aim his fist up Peter's chin. He clenches his hands by his side and
resists the urge. It would be nothing but a momentary victory, a second’s worth
of triumph before he’s down on the ground, defeated.
"You're a virgin," Peter says. He sounds heady now. "I'm having a truly
wonderful day."
“I want to,” Stiles says in a rapid breath. “I just—I’ve never.”
“Shh,” Peter murmurs. “It’ll be good.”
And more than anything, Stiles wishes he could be completely disturbed—repulsed
and uninterested in what's about to happen next—but he wants to know more. He
wants to see what will happen, whether he'll walk away with another bad
decision under his belt or satisfied. Renewed. Alive again.
"Get a move on already, for god's—oh," Stiles stops himself, because apparently
the words are unnecessary. A second later there's a mouth on his neck, latching
over his pulse point and laving over his skin, and then a blend of sharp teeth
bite down. He sucks hard over Stiles’ jugular, sure to leave mottled marks
behind. “Careful.”
“No,” Peter murmurs, tongue pressing against his pulse point, presumably to
taste the rapid beats of his heart. “I don’t think I will be.”
The air pushes out of Stiles in a rush as Peter’s hand travels up his quivering
stomach, slipping under his shirt and pulling it up as he goes. This is
happening, this is actually happening, and Stiles isn’t sure what to do, where
to touch, what’s allowed, but then Peter’s pushing his shirt up enough to duck
down and lick up his sternum, flattening his tongue over Stiles’ nipple, and a
groan falls out of his mouth with no coaxing necessary.
The hand in Stiles’ hair tightens again in command. “Take this off,” Peter
demands, tugging at where Stiles’ shirt has been rucked up to his armpits.
“Now.”
He lets go of his hair but doesn’t relent with his tongue, continuing to taste
Stiles’ chest as it jolts and flutters beneath his mouth. Stiles follows
instructions, noticing through the daze of being touched so fiercely that
things are moving fast with Peter, clearly not a man for beating around the
bush, and he fumbles to pull his shirt off. He holds the crumpled wad of it in
trembling fingers, chest heaving upward every time Peter makes a hungry noise
on his flesh and licks and sucks and digs his teeth over Stiles' most sensitive
spots, tongue curling over his nipples until Stiles is sharply crying out and
gripping the table behind himself for support. The shirt slips from his
fingers, falling helplessly to the ground, forgotten.
He's getting hard. He can feel his cock straining against his jeans, and it
shouldn't be this easy, it definitely shouldn't be this fast when the hands
touching him belong to someone this reprehensible, and what does that say about
Stiles? He sucks his lower lip into his mouth to keep the noises curtailed,
stuck between giving in and letting his body feel or refusing to submit to
Peter.
"Let's see you take out that gorgeous cock," Peter says on his collarbone,
hands sliding up and down his shaking waist, stopping to graze his fingernails
over his ribs.
Stiles can't back out now. He agreed, and he needs to help, and he wants this,
and his father can't do this alone, and Peter's hot breath is fanning out over
his neck as a constant reminder that he's on display, a transaction waiting to
be fulfilled. He moves his hands away from where they're white-knuckled on the
edge of the table, keeping himself upright, and unzips his jeans. Peter starts
chuckling, like he's amused by Stiles' willingness to take orders, and Stiles
is wracked with more horror and humility than he thought possible. He doesn’t
even know the last time someone’s seen him completely naked.
He pushes his jeans down to his thighs and they slip down to his knees. He
palms himself through his boxers, the swell of his erection pressing into his
grip, but it isn't enough for Peter.
"Off," Peter says, a definite hiss to his voice this time.
He doesn't give Stiles a second chance, though, taking over and tugging, hard,
on Stiles' boxers until his cock springs free. Stiles is suddenly horribly
self-conscious, aware of his every curve, bone, pale inch of skin, like he's a
boy changing in a locker room of strong men, and the urge to hide his head in
his hands is incredibly strong. He closes his eyes but can still hear the way
Peter softly breathes out, and Stiles knows instantly that he's looking,
examining Stiles, judging him.
"No need to be shy, Stiles," Peter says. His voice sounds different, the
control slipping, his cool mask giving way to a quiet reverence of Stiles'
body. "You are gorgeous."
His mouth fastens over Stiles' neck again, hungrily sucking on his jaw, his
neck, his chin. It continues for too long, until Stiles is raw and shuddering,
but despite his expectation that any moment Peter will roughly jerk him off,
his cock remains untouched. It becomes frustrating much too quickly, and
without being able to help it, Stiles' body is canting forward, seeking out
Peter's touch, his hands, and his sensitive cock nudges Peter's still
frustratingly clothed stomach. He whines. He's so pathetic.
"Is there something you want, Stiles?"
Stiles hates him so much. Peter's lower lip drags up his neck and suddenly he's
biting his ear, coaxing an answer out of him, and Stiles' embarrassment flies
to the back burner to make room for his burning arousal. Peter's hand winds
back into his air, his fist tight by his scalp, demanding him to speak.
"Yes," he admits. He's hard enough that it's starting to hurt.
"And what is that?"
Bastard, Stiles thinks, but says, "Touch me."
Peter chuckles. This is probably all funny to him, the way Stiles is biting
back his need, searing up with shame, and yet still overwhelmed with the want
of release. One hand trails its way down Stiles' stomach until Stiles is
fluttering underneath him, suddenly ticklish when he's never been before, and
slips lower still to rest over his naked hip.
"You need this?" Peter asks, one last test, and Stiles nods with nothing more
than a jerk of the chin, somewhat mollified that even Peter is asking for
consent. It seems to be enough, because Peter's hand curls around the base of
Stiles' cock and Stiles nearly sobs at the feeling.
"Y-yes."
"I know you do," Peter says. His hand slides surely down and up his dick,
picking up pre-come as he goes to slick the way, but even then it's too dry,
enough that it's almost on the side of painful. "I can read you so easily,
Stiles. I know you're pretending you don't want me. This." His hand tightens
roughly on Stiles' length and his hair and Stiles cries out sharply. "You think
you shouldn't. You're better than this. This is an obligation you have to
fulfill. Am I right?"
Of course he's right. Stiles would never do this unless he had to—he'd never go
out and try to pick up a man like Peter and see if he can fuck feeling back
into him. He represses things and balls them up in a pit of chains in a
treasure chest deep in his rib cage, and that's how he handles his problems.
This is what reckless, rebellious, clueless teenagers do who want to piss off
their parents and lose their virginity as quickly as possible. But now that
he's here, faced with Peter and the hand cupping his dick and the mouth on his
jaw, he knows, as much as he wishes he wouldn't, that Peter's right. He does
want this, and he's hard as hell, and going to combust from the shame if the
misery doesn't do him in.
He thought about it, what his first time would be like. Less after what
happened to him last year, but he still did. Stiles let himself mold together a
bit of a delusional fantasy—a pretty girl, a picnic blanket, a starry night on
the soft forest floor, everybody coming at the same time. What he gets instead
is this, a deal, a negotiation, a man with no finesse stroking his cock almost
cruelly, with hands that have probably never been gentle ever before, and it
angers Stiles to no small degree that this is still making him feel good.
"Fine," Stiles admits, his breath lost in his mouth. "You're right."
"Then tell me what you want," Peter growls. His voice is no longer soft with
seduction, instead full of hissing birds and dangerous snakes and deep,
demanding growls. Stiles shuts his eyes, so damn embarrassed, and yet still
knowing all the while that he's going to obey. He has no idea what the hell
he's doing, if any of this will still feel like a good idea when it's all over,
but it's too late to twist his way out of Peter's hands and the worst part is
that he doesn't want to. He wants to feel alive again, like some living,
breathing, feeling thing, not just a poorly wrapped skeleton going through the
motions, and if sex with a stranger isn't going to light up a spark inside of
himself, he has no idea what will. If anything even could.
"I want," Stiles begins, and falters. There's so many things he wants, but
somehow, right here and right now, it all boils down to this, to Peter looking
at him with thirsty eyes and touching him with rough hands. "I want you to give
me the best you've got."
He swallows, but doesn't take his words back, even as Peter seems momentarily
stilled by his boldness. Stiles can't give into fear now, not when there are
other things to prioritize, specifically: the fact that his dick is throbbing
and Peter's still wearing clothes.
"Is that so?" Peter murmurs. "My. How feisty you are."
"Shut up," Stiles demands, and he grabs Peter by the jaw and reels him in for a
heated kiss that he's feeling his way through on instinct alone.
Peter's mouth isn't gentle. He groans into Stiles' unexpected kiss, tongue
sliding past his lips and teeth sinking into the equation, and then he squeezes
Stiles' cock and twists his wrist just right on the upstroke and leaves Stiles
pulling away with a gasp and a shudder.
"God, you're so young," Peter's moaning, dragging his mouth over to Stiles'
jaw. "Everything must leave you begging for it. Doesn't it, Stiles?"
Stiles doesn’t want to hear him talk. He pulls Peter back in, wrapping his arms
around Peter’s neck and yanking him forward until their lips are touching
again, bruising each other. He’s not even sure where this thirst inside of
himself is coming from, but it’s like there’s a monster under his skin
desperate to get closer to Peter, urging him to wrap himself around him and rut
against him and ask for more. Maybe it’s all of his suppressed emotions coming
out in one rush of sexual need, no longer able to be ignored.
"You gonna fuck me?" Stiles asks on the slickness of Peter’s mouth.
Peter pulls back. His grin splits his face. "As many times as I'd like."
Stiles knows it's a threat, a leering promise that should spiral him off into
repulsion, but all it does is send a shiver of anticipation down his spine. He
hopes Peter is a man of his word, in more ways than one, that he’ll halve their
debt when this is over and that he’ll fuck Stiles with as much vigor as he
seems to do everything else. He wonders if they’ll do it right here, if he’ll
spread Stiles open and fuck him right here on the table.
"Stiles," Peter breathes, fist in his hair again. "Turn around."
So he was right. He will be fucked up against a table, palms flat on the
surface and chest bent over it. The pants pooled around his ankles almost make
him trip as he turns, twisting around and bracing himself on the table as
fingernails run down his back. He tries finding his breath, tries locating it
amidst the thumping heartbeat drowning out everything else, and ends up
unsuccessful when Peter's hands spread his ass cheeks and suck the oxygen from
his lungs like a vacuum. Cold air touches his hole, followed shortly by a
finger outlining his ass and touching his entrance, waiting for shudders to run
through Stiles’ body.
They do. Stiles bites into his lower lip, trying to stay calm as Peter’s
fingers tracing his hole, and then suddenly, he's withdrawing his hand, leaving
Stiles to arch over his shoulder to see why.
"Don't look at me like that," Peter says. He fishes his wallet out of his
pants. "I'm not going to fuck you dry. Preparation is essential in life." Peter
pulls a packet of lube out of a corner of his wallet, the son of a bitch, and
Stiles nearly calls him out on being so damn arrogant to find it necessary to
carry travel-sized lube with him at all times. "You never know when a naked
seventeen year old boy with a truly undeniable ass just waiting to be ruined
drops in your lap."
Drops in your lap. Stiles has to ignore every single gut instinct in his body
to beat Peter the fuck up. He's struggling with life, he’s reeling, he's hardly
making it through the week with his grief and his father and the worry that's
pulling him apart, and then there are people like Peter, bad people, who are
convinced the world only exists to service them. He's about to point out how
fucking terrible it is that there are conniving loan sharks out there sitting
on piles of money and raking in the good luck with open arms when a newly
slicked finger pushes at his hole, silencing all of Stiles’ incoming
complaints.
“Have you done this to yourself before, Stiles?” Peter asks, the pad of his
thumb rubbing over his rim, playing with the dip of his ass.
Barely. Stiles hasn’t been too ambitious when it comes to testing his body,
seeing what it responds to, and he’s never gone past a fingertip or two nudging
his hole. Stiles has a suspicion that it’ll thrill Peter to know that he’s in
uncharted territory.
“Not really,” Stiles admits.
Peter chuckles. “You’re going to have to do better than that, Stiles.
Stiles can feel his cheeks burn red. “Never more than a finger.”
“Ah. We’ll have to change that then, won’t we?” Peter suggests.
He’s clearly not waiting for an answer, instead looking to jolt a reaction out
of Stiles as he eases in a lubed finger to the knuckle and pulls apart Stiles’
ass cheeks with his free hand as if he’s watching how Stiles’ entrance takes
him, how his digits sink in, and Stiles groans at the feeling. He can feel some
of the lube slide down his ass, the excess cool on his skin, something he’s
never experienced before in his life, and here he is, about to go from zero to
sixty in a matter of blinks.
But if he’s expecting Peter to hurry through the prepping, he’s wrong. Peter
seems to be a fan of the slow drag, the teasing, the torturing someone to the
brink before letting them claw their way to the finale, everything about his
movements slow and thorough. His finger slides in deep in Stiles’ ass only to
pull abruptly back out, leaving Stiles’ ass clenching on nothing for a
disorienting second right before Peter comes back to work in a second finger,
the stretch making Stiles hiss.
“Easy now,” Peter murmurs, and his extra hand is still spreading Stiles’ ass,
making sure he has nothing short of the best view in the house. “You’re so
tense, Stiles.”
“No fucking shit,” Stiles gasps out.
Peter tuts, unimpressed. “Lucky for you,” he says, his voice low and
promissory, “I have a few ways to make you relax.”
Stiles doesn’t know what that means, if it’s a blatant threat or a warning to
loosen up, but Peter makes it clear exactly what tricks he has at his disposal
when he twists his two fingers deep inside Stiles, so deep Stiles’ back is
arching, and crooks them just right to press against something that has Stiles
gasping, shuddering, briefly seeing heaven.
“Now that feels good, doesn’t it?”
“Fuck,” Stiles moans, and then, hating himself, he says, “Yeah.”
“Gonna feel better when it’s my cock,” Peter assures him.
“Fuck,” Stiles says again, because in the shot of pleasure wracking him, he had
actually almost forgotten about the fact that he’s about to be fucked. His back
is slick with sweat and his entire face is burning, especially when, with the
element of surprise on his side, Peter finds his prostate again, coaxing noises
Stiles is failing to keep silent out of him. This is nothing like what he
imagined, intrusive and amazing and dizzying at all once, the feeling of being
slowly stretched.
Peter’s clearly done this before—he knows exactly how to shift his knuckles,
how to angle his fingers, how to build up a rhythm, and Stiles briefly wonders
how it would’ve been if his first time was instead with someone his own age,
inexperienced and unsure and wild with nerves, if it would feel as
frustratingly good. Stiles bites into his lower lip and pushes his ass out
without even meaning to, desperate to feel Peter’s fingers press into his
prostate again.
"'S too much," Stiles pants, and before he can help it, he's clenching around
Peter's fingers and Peter inhales sharply. His hand palms over Stiles' left ass
cheek, squeezing.
"Is it?" Peter asks, failing to relent, sliding his fingers in and out of
Stiles, almost as if he's spurred on now. "Tell me what you really want then,
Stiles."
"Fuck," Stiles curses. He wants to say fuck you and fuck off but he also wants
to say fuck me, and choosing between the three for the best contender isn't
easy, even with the way Peter's fingering him mercilessly. "I'm not—I can't.
I'm not giving you the ego boost."
It's almost surprising when Peter chuckles softly instead of demanding he obey
and feed his narcissism by begging to be touched. He slips his fingers free,
and the whimper that escapes Stiles' lips is completely unintentional.
"I like you, Stiles," Peter says, squeezing his ass again, and suddenly the
head of his cock is nudging his entrance, coaxing another layer of sweat out of
Stiles' skin. "I like you very much."
Stiles waits for the intrusion, but Peter takes his time teasing, rubbing his
cockhead over Stiles' opening and up and down the line of his ass, like the son
of a bitch is refusing to go ahead with fucking him until Stiles gives him the
satisfaction of asking for it. It’s maddening, nothing but the drag of Peter’s
cock brushing over his skin, barely touching, and Stiles whines out loud at the
sensation.
“Are you waiting for me to decompose?” Stiles snaps, biting back the joke that
maybe Peter’s waiting for him to be legal—then again, Peter doesn’t seem to be
the type of man concerned with the legality of his actions, whether or not
others are involved. “Or are you ever going to fuck me?”
Peter sighs. “Haven’t you ever heard of appreciating the view?”
Stiles feels his cheeks burn. Peter’s cockhead is still teasing his entrance,
apparently looking to reduce Stiles to shameless begging, and Stiles can’t
imagine what there is to look at. He just wants to be fucked, just wants to
feel something again, but something is poking him in his better judgment,
trying to remind him of the consequences. Stiles acts on it for one second.
"Go slow," Stiles throws over his shoulder, not quite begging. His hands are
sweaty where they're flat on the table, Stiles both scared out of his wits and
desperately aroused, a combination of sensations he's not all too fond of. It'd
be easier if it was just one or the other, simpler to process, simpler to
understand. But he's never given simple, and he's never given easy—what he's
given are conflicting emotions.
Then Peter's hands are rubbing over his lower back, easing his muscles into
submission, sliding lower and lower until he's palming Stiles' ass cheeks and
slowly pulling them apart. Stiles hangs his head when he realizes that Peter's
looking at his hole, staring at it, watching it flutter with every nervous
breath Stiles takes. Stiles squares his shoulders and braces himself for the
intrusion, but it doesn't come—instead Peter's thumb traces his entrance again,
playing with the lube still there. The idea of his ass slowly being played with
again makes Stiles' entire body heat up with impatience, especially when he
realizes that his cock is throbbing and his hands are sweaty because he wants
to be fucked as soon as possible. He grips the table with slippery fingers.
"Please," he gasps out.
The tip of Peter's thumb slips inside him. It hits Stiles then, he's doing this
on purpose. "Please what, Stiles?" Peter murmurs.
Stiles' entire body pushes back against Peter's thumb, but Peter doesn't give
in, instantly sliding it out and resuming his frustratingly soft outlining of
Stiles' hole. "Please fuck me," Stiles says. "Please."
"Do you need it?"
"Yes, fuck. Please." He has the distinct feeling that Peter responds to
begging, so he pushes his ass out for him and whines. He thinks he actually
does need it. His body feels like one of those firecrackers at Fourth of July
that someone lights and everybody watches, waiting for the fuse to run out and
ignite, and there's Stiles, just waiting to detonate. He’s wound too
tightly—has been ever since he stumbled out of that hospital room numb all
over—and needs a release, something that’ll unravel him.
Peter doesn't seem interested in denying him anymore. His breathing's gotten
heavier, less controlled, and suddenly his patience runs out and the head of
his cock is pressed against Stiles' opening, slicked up and sliding in at an
almost forceful pace. Stiles grips the table because Jesus Christ, it's like
one smooth thrust and he's on home plate, buried deep inside Stiles and leaving
him panting, scrambling at the table.
"Fuck!" Stiles cries out, his fingernails scraping over the table, desperate to
find purchase somewhere, his entire body overwhelmed. "I said—I said to go
slow!"
"I didn't say I was going to listen," Peter says, and Stiles at least takes
comfort from the fact that it sounds like Peter is struggling to put sentences
together, the sensation of Stiles around him almost too much to focus through.
He doesn’t waste time after that either, pulling out almost entirely before
pushing back in, hands keeping Stiles’ hips in place, the strong hold Peter has
on him probably the one reason Stiles isn’t crumpled to the table. This is new
and intrusive and so, so different from just a few fingertips slipped in during
a shower, rough and intense and sure to leave bruises where he’s being held by
Peter’s firm fingers. He opens his mouth to tell Peter to slow down, to give
him just a second, but then Peter’s cock thrusts hard inside him and hits
something that steals the breath from his lungs, something good, so good that
the pain of the stretch is almost forgotten.
Stiles grabs hold of the table hard enough that it groans under his shuddering
weight, cock leaking and mouth open in a breathless groan, and all of it's
going too fast for his brain to even pick up on the fact that he's being
fucked, for real, by a virtual stranger against a table. He doesn't know if
this was a good idea or a bad idea anymore, all he knows is how overwhelmingly
hot it is to have Peter's dick inside him, his grip on his hips, his mouth on
the back of his neck.
He wishes he was hating the feeling if only because he knows he should, because
how fucked up does that make him that he's enjoying this? Everybody would judge
him, Stiles knows, no matter the reason. No matter that it felt good, or that
it saved his father a life's supply of headaches, or that it eased his own
burden. Even with Peter driving into him, hips snapping in and out of him so
hard he shouldn't even be able to remember what day of the week it is, Stiles
is thinking about it, how he can't ever let anyone find out about this. About
Peter, the way he's murmuring praise and filth to Stiles as he fucks him, the
way Stiles is eating it up.
"That's it," Peter's saying, his hands greedy over Stiles’ sides, pulling him
closer with every thrust, his every touch hot and hard.
Stiles’ mouth is starting to dry up with how relentlessly he’s crying out, his
groans mingling with Peter’s breathless exhales. Peter’s cock inside him is
nearly a mind-boggling experience, the thickness and the fullness and heat of
it unthinkingly perfect, the way it’s ramming into Stiles and bringing with it
the slick sound of flesh against flesh. Peter’s fingers find their way back to
Stiles’ hipbones, unfairly steady, and Stiles stutters into the touch.
“Fuck, fucking shit, oh my god,” Stiles is babbling, completely helpless,
suspended somewhere where the English language doesn’t make sense anymore,
doesn’t matter anymore. “That’s—a-ah—that’s so—jesus, it’s good.”
“No one’s seen you like this, have they?” Peter says, and at least his voice
isn’t as composed as his sturdy hands, the sound of it raspy and dark. “Coming
apart underneath them. Stiles, tell me.”
“Fuck, n-no—and you fucking know it, you bastard,” Stiles cries out. “Oh,
motherfucking yes.”
He had no clue he could even be this vocal during sex—it’s never more than a
few muffled moans when he’s masturbating, and that’s only when he’s sure no
one’s home—and now suddenly he’s groaning filth and pleas for release, biting
into the hand that’s cushioning his cheek and whining at the way Peter seems to
speed up. His ears are ringing, tingling like the rest of him, but through the
euphoric white noise he hears Peter moaning, saying something that almost
sounds like Stiles, a heady praise that sounds positively sinful coming out of
Peter’s mouth.
"You have no idea how good you look like this, Stiles," Peter pants. One of his
fingers rubs the stretched rim of Stiles' hole, pulling a whine out of him.
"Watching you take me. Next time," he begins, "next time I'm fucking you on
your back so I can watch all those pretty noises come out of your mouth."
A hand circles around Stiles’ torso to circle his neglected cock, squeezing
almost too hard, stroking almost too roughly, but it fits in with the way
Peter’s touching him and fucking him, favoring a wild coarseness over gentle
caution. Stiles isn’t sure he can be trusted to keep his voice at an indoor
level when Peter’s thumb slides over the head of his dick, and for one
blindingly white moment, he can’t breathe, he can’t think, he can’t do anything
but shudder and tremble and grip the table for support as he comes in hot
bursts of pleasure, hoarse groans making their way out of his throat.
The only thing keeping him from falling into a stupor is Peter still hammering
into him. It almost feels like too much now that he’s come, Peter still aiming
for his prostate and pushing soft, helpless ah, ah, ahs from Stiles’ dry throat
with every slide of his cock. If even possible, his thrusts have gotten harder,
more forceful, and Stiles feels raw and spent every time Peter snarls above him
and pushes in, but still incredible, like his body is riding out some great
tidal wave. Peter’s losing his precision, his every movement turning less
coordinated that the last, instead driven by some primal instinct, and Stiles
twists back onto him with the energy he has left.
“Fuck, Peter,” he groans, desperate and trembling.
“Say it again,” Peter growls.
“What—”
“My name,” Peter specifies, thrusting into him that much harder. “Say my name
again."
“Peter,” Stiles says, though it comes out as more of a breathless shudder,
whispered from his throat. “Peter, shit, Peter. Come on, fuck me.”
Hearing his name whimpered out of Stiles’ mouth seems to give Peter the push he
needs. He thrusts in hard once, twice more, and then he’s groaning so deeply
Stiles swears he can feel the entire table rumble, sagging on Stiles’ backside
with his full, warm weight. There’s heat and sweat between them, Stiles still
trying to find his breath, and when he shifts his hips he realizes that Peter’s
still inside him and gives out a soft, horribly embarrassing moan at the
sensation.
“Stay where you are,” Peter orders right by his ear, taking a moment to suck
another mark onto the back of Stiles’ neck right under his hair.
He pulls out but doesn't let Stiles recover from his sensitivity, because
suddenly there are fingers slipping over his hole and easing it open, coaxing
come out, and Stiles hangs his head and whines.
"A—ah," Stiles cries, hips jerking, and Peter shushes him and gently pushes a
finger in to feel his slick entrance, leaving Stiles gasping and legs
stuttering. "Peter."
"You have no idea," Peter says with a long-suffering sigh, "how much I'd like
to keep teasing you. Exploring you." He punctuates this by dragging his finger
back out, circling the rim. "But I run the risk of never leaving to ravish you
as wholly as physically possible if I don't keep with my schedule."
With that he's withdrawing his touch from Stiles' ass and pulling up his pants
from the sound of his clanking belt buckle. He sounds so composed, like a
businessman finishing a company luncheon, and Stiles is lying wrecked and
boneless on a table. He can hear the sounds of Peter zipping up his pants, and
smoothing out his shirt, and taking a few satisfied breaths, and Stiles hardly
even knows where he left his lungs and his grip on reality.
He clenches his thighs as come starts sliding down the back of his legs, the
table the only thing keeping him from sliding to the floor in a daze of hazy,
embarrassed euphoria. He’s starting to realize now why his sensible side kept
trying to prod in and warn Stiles away from this—the afterglow doesn’t leave
him feeling nearly as pent-up and aroused and desperate. If anything, it leaves
him feeling as if he might’ve just made a thoughtless mistake.
“Stiles,” Peter murmurs, his hand warm on the back of Stiles’ neck. He tugs at
the short hair on his nape, forcing Stiles to lift his head and face the world.
The shame gets worse when he looks at Peter, his cheeks flushed and his lips
twisted into a satisfied curve. Stiles moves to cover his face again, pressing
his forehead to the table, but Peter’s grip in his hair tightens and he forces
Stiles to look at him so Peter can probably take in his hooded eyes and bitten
lips. He hauls Stiles up by the back of his neck until he’s standing, sliding
the hand in his hair to his jaw so he can grip his chin.
Stiles can’t even look him in the eyes, the heat crackling up his neck at the
sight of Peter’s debauched appearance, made so by Stiles, and shuts his eyes
just as Peter tugs him in by the jaw and kisses him messily, all teeth and
tongue. He wasn’t expecting it, not when Peter seems to be someone who’s too
distracted by a body writhing under his to even bother with something like a
kiss after the heat of the moment’s over, and he almost unexpectedly bites down
on Peter's lower lip on accident, catching himself just in time to do little
more than graze his teeth over Peter's mouth. Not like a bitten lip would
actually matter. Not like Stiles could actually hurt Peter.
Peter pulls back with a sated sigh, like the refreshed exhale someone lets out
after sipping on something cool in the summer, and briefly tugs on Stiles' lip
with his teeth.
"It was a pleasure," he drawls, mouth hot and slick against Stiles', "doing
business with you."
Right, the deal. Stiles had almost forgotten. He realizes suddenly—too late,
admittedly—that he has no guarantee that Peter will keep his word on actually
halving what his father owes, and something about his smile doesn't exactly
advertise trustworthy man to negotiate with. Now in the aftermath, Stiles feels
extraordinarily stupid.
"You have to keep your half of the deal," Stiles says, grabbing Peter's elbow.
He has no power here, no paperwork supporting his cause, no hope except that
Peter will be enough of an upstanding man to keep his promise. "I mean it."
Peter smirks. He touches Stiles' jaw with his thumb. “You can trust me.”
“Right.”
"You can." He drags his thumb down to Stiles' chin. "Especially since I'd quite
like to make this repeatedly lucrative for the both of us, if you're catching
on." He leans in a fraction, and considering that he just gave Stiles an earth-
shattering orgasm, it almost feels ridiculous that his reflex is to arch away.
There’s just something about that smile, that leer that has Stiles on edge.
"And I don't take on business partners all that often."
He says it like Stiles should be flattered—honored, perhaps—but Stiles is too
busy trying to process what he's implying to work on showing gratitude. Peter
kisses the corner of his mouth, and it should feel chaste and quick, but it
somehow ends up feeling much dirtier, almost like a bookmark for later.
"I'll see you soon, Stiles," Peter says.
Something about that sentence troubles Stiles. It’s probably the last bit.
“Soon?” he says, gut swooping.
Peter smiles at him as he’s heading for the door. “Well. Sooner rather than
later.”
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
     Now THIS is a Very Christmas Update. I hope everybody who was
     celebrating today had an absolutely amazing time, and maybe you can
     count this chapter as a special gift from me to all of you super
     lovely people who sent me super lovely comments last week. Honestly--
     even if it's just be a couple of words, it makes my heart swell like
     crazy to read your support.
     See you guys next time in 2016!
Stiles hardly remembers anything of the funeral. All he does are the bits that
hurt the most, like that it was a gray, cloudy day, like when he stood at the
podium to give his goodbye speech and he saw nothing but sad faces and black
clothes staring at him, all of them expecting something, waiting for Stiles to
make them cry with stories about how his mother used to do nice things for the
community. He didn't want to make anyone cry, least of all himself, which he
knew was going to happen with or without speaking; it was just a matter of
time. Standing up on that podium, it was t-minus four minutes.
He remembers seeing Scott's face in the crowd, tilted into the same misery
Stiles saw on each and every face, but something about his was different from
all the rest—he was watching Stiles closely, like the misery was directed
straight at him, like Stiles was the real tragedy here. Forget the dead mother,
the left behind son is the tearjerker.
Maybe he was looking at Stiles that way because he knew how it felt to lose a
parent, no matter the means, or maybe it was because he didn’t think Stiles
could handle the aftermaths. Ultimately identifying the expression as pity was
one thing, but soon realizing that it wasn’t the last he’d be seeing of it was
another.
He tried his best to give his speech, staring at the notes in his hands, the
ones he had penned in scribbles because he hadn’t wanted to write it at all in
the first place, trying to focus on the words. He lasted a few seconds before
he figured out that the words sounded all wrong, that they left Stiles’ mouth
miserable and flat, and he was supposed to be celebrating his mother, not
crying. Not crying.
Then somebody in the audience started weeping, and Stiles remembers wanting to
shout not yet, I’m not done, it’s not supposed to be sad, wanting to seize the
sobbing woman by the shoulders and tell her she didn’t have the right to cry
when it was his mother, and this was his speech, but then the priest was
standing next to Stiles and leading him away from the podium, whispering words
of gruff encouragement Stiles didn't want to hear: it’s all right, son.
He twisted out of the grip and ran, his feet frantic on the earth—Stiles
remembers that it had just rained and the ground was slick—but he made it
upright to the nearest sanctuary, behind the buffet table, only the hem of his
pants catching mud. He crouched behind the cold food, unable to hold the
wetness in any longer, the tears squeezing their way out. All he had wanted
then was for his father to come after him, kiss his temple, assure him that
they were going to be all right, but nobody did, not until the crowds starting
moving to the food and Stiles didn’t want to be in the way. He wasn’t even sure
how much time had passed, just that his face had become swollen and his eyes
were aching with a dryness that could only mean he had cried himself out when
he wasn’t paying attention, and once he reemerged from the ground, the reddened
eyes were enough of a sign for people to approach him left and right, offering
meaningless condolences and Kleenexes and pats on the shoulder, like any of
that actually made a difference.
Scott came up to him at one point, that same sympathetic, understanding,
pitying expression on his face. Stiles couldn’t bear to look at him. He had a
plate of cheap catered food in his hand, and even the sight of it made Stiles’
stomach churn with more than just a complete lack of appetite.
“Do you want anything?” Scott asked. He meant well.
“I want to get rid of this suit,” Stiles answered. His voice came out unlike
his own, too scratched and coarse to belong to him.
“Okay,” Scott said. “Do you want to go drive to the nearest dumpster?”
Stiles nodded and left it at that; he didn’t want to hear his own voice again.
Weeks later, he only remembers fractions of any of it, like a slideshow of
singular, fuzzy moments that his brain deemed worthy of remaining in his
memory. Now, with all of it done with, Stiles wishes he had paid better
attention just to see if among the crowd of black, there had been a man in a
crisp suit who had approached his father with a business card and a financial
deal to help pay for everything, hardly any catches.
It probably would’ve been cathartic to come up to said man, tap him on the
shoulder, and barrel his fist straight into Peter’s face then and there.
--
He can’t sleep that night after Peter leaves. He lies in bed, every part of him
aching, Stiles aware of every single sore muscle like his body’s been sculpted
anew and his bones are still hurting, still too fresh to use. There’s something
else there too, stronger than even the physical pain: shame.
It wraps around him like a coat too thick, suffocating him, filling his mouth
until his eyes water. Being nearly untouched, being young, being a virgin, they
were all things Stiles was ready to change, but on his own terms, in his own
ways, and now it’s like someone’s flicked a switch and he’s dirty and used and
wooden, a puppet maneuvered around at the will of others. He’s already lost
control of his relationship with his father, of the foundation of his family,
but now he’s lost control of himself as well, of his body, of his autonomy,
after he had promised himself after last year that he never would again. He
knows that he wanted it in the heat of the moment, that it had felt good and
incredible and volcanic, but it no longer feels like pleasure alone is enough
to stave off the regret.
He doesn’t realize he’s crying until he feels a hot line run down his cheek to
his temple, a searing wetness that slides all the way down to his neck and to
his pillowcase. What was he thinking? Had he really thought that this would
help anything, that all it took was one rough, hard fuck and all of the
negativity would drip out of Stiles’ body, leaving nothing but a can-do
attitude and a newfound strength? And why, of all the people, did he think that
entering into a bargain with the man responsible for the darkness under his
father’s eyes and the lines between his eyebrows would be the right person to
use?
He hadn’t even wanted to look at his own skin earlier as he had pulled his
clothes off to slide into his sleepwear, convinced that he would be met with
too many souvenirs of Peter’s touch too soon, dark red marks and mottled
bruises—what makes him think that he can deal with any of mentally? It's
already a wreck site in his brain on a good day, but now he has to factor in
the trauma that comes with burying his feelings and trying to use sex to shut
the lid on them.
All he keeps thinking is that if his mother was here, she'd know what to do.
What to say. She'd sit on the edge of Stiles' bed and comb her fingers through
his hair and assure him that he's still the same silly kid and that nothing's
really changed, that he can stop worrying about everything and anything. Then
again, if she were here, none of this would've happened in the first place.
There wouldn't be loan sharks and his father's drinking problem and Stiles
crying into his pillow to deal with, it would just be he and his family having
nice breakfasts and going on road trips to the beach and being simple, happy.
He hears his father arrive right around ten p.m., the roll of tires against the
gravel clear outside Stiles’ window, followed by the slamming of the car door
and the faraway noise of the garage door shuttering opening. Stiles rolls on
his side and hopes that his father doesn’t check on him, and if he does, he’ll
be able to pretend he’s sleeping convincingly enough that he won’t talk to him,
curtailing the tears long enough to stay quiet and breathe evenly through his
mouth as if deep in a dream.
It seems his fears are unfounded, though, because his father doesn’t come up
the stairs at all. Stiles can picture him in the kitchen, pulling out his
bottle of scotch and sinking into the couch with it, body weary, eyes glassy as
he drinks. Stiles watches the clock, how minute after minute ticks by, how it
doesn’t take long for eleven p.m. to approach, then midnight, and Stiles can't
sleep. It's like his body's still running on regret, too busy digesting the
last twenty four hours—fuck it, the last few months—to properly shut down for a
good sleep and stop fucking shaking already.
The hours alone with his thoughts seem to make things worse rather than better.
All he can think about is Peter’s hands, hot with possession, gripping Stiles’
hips, holding him close, how Stiles had grasped for the table and come hard,
how much he had liked being manhandled and fucked, how he should’ve said no and
turned down Peter’s offer from the very beginning, and now he’s gone and
stepped into the water and made things harder. All he wanted was to come in to
his knees and then the tide came in and Stiles got much more than he bargained
for, grappling for the surface from deep underneath. It was supposed to be
easy. It wasn't supposed to fuck everything up beyond repair.
Another tear leaks out of Stiles’ eye, slipping down his cheek to his ear. He
hasn’t cried since the funeral, something about the way the wetness stings his
eyes reminding him of nothing but the priest’s hand on his shoulder, the crowd
of distorted, bawling faces in front of him, and he doesn’t want to start again
now. He smears the heel of his palm over his eyes, dragging the tears from his
eyelashes and sucking in a breath to try and soothe the heat building up in his
throat, the lump of sadness gathering there nearly brimming over.
He can’t handle this alone. He doesn’t know what made him think he could. What
is he scared of, the continued pity? The careful hugs? The whispers of that
poor boy, or even worse, what kind of father raises a son to do something like
that? What he’s done with Peter, he can’t ever take that back. That part of
himself is gone. He curls a hand over his mouth to quiet the sobs, biting into
his palm as he squeezes his eyes and tries to keep the tears in.
"Stiles," his father's voice says abruptly, muffled through the barrier of the
door.
It's like someone pushes a button on his tears, a lever pulled on a shower's
spray, and Stiles quiets instantly. He doesn't want his father to see him this
way; he doesn't even want to look his father in the eye after what he's done,
not when he can still feel Peter's touch on him like a ghost's fingers. He
wipes his tears off his cheeks with his sleeve just before his bedroom door
creaks open and the dim light from the hallway peeks in, the silhouette of his
father blocking most of it.
"Hey," he says, only the line of his collarbones and the shape of his head
visible through the ajar door. "You okay?"
"Yeah," Stiles says, doing his best to pitch his voice into something chipper
and casual. All he can do is grip the sheets and hope his father doesn't turn
on the light, illuminating his bloodshot eyes and the tear tracks on his cheeks
to be seen and then, naturally, asked about. He doesn't have any answers, at
least not good ones or ones he wants his father to hear. "I'm fine."
"Thought I heard you," the sheriff says.
Stiles notices that his voice isn't slurred, the words clear on his tongue. He
must've not drunken anything tonight, and his investigative powers are much
stronger when he's sober. Stiles wouldn't put it past him to catch on to
Stiles' suspicious behavior and the lies he's feeding him now but is too
respectful of Stiles' unspoken request for privacy to prove deeper. That, or
it's just dark enough to do Stiles a favor.
"Everything's fine," Stiles says again. Just don't turn on the light. Just
don't turn on the light. "You going to sleep?"
"Yeah." There's a long pause in which the sheriff is probably waiting for
Stiles to speak up if he wants to, giving him the chance to tell the truth.
When a few seconds of silence pass, he sighs. "I'll be in my room if you need
me."
"Sure."
The door creaks shut again, the room back to being cloaked in complete
darkness. It feels more comfortable like this, when he's hidden in the dark,
when his emotions are kept behind the shadows, but he can't always stay cooped
up in his room, drawing the blinds, feeling restless and ashamed and lost.
What's going to happen when his father finds out that his debt has been
lowered, and not just by a few dollars, even a few hundreds? What if he asks
Peter, who then in turn has no problem breaking his promise to Stiles of
keeping their encounter a secret? After all, it's not like he's a man driven by
morality—lying probably wouldn't be breaking his code of ethics if he's fine
with harassing people for money and deflowering teenagers.
It hasn't helped. If anything, it's made it that much worse. He had been hoping
to use this as a distraction, as something to take the edge of the numbness
that had come and never gone with his mother's death, something to throw life
back into his veins, and all it's done is made him rigid and brimming with
remorse, without the knowledge if he's done something right or horribly wrong.
He listens to the sound of his father's footsteps receding down the hall before
they fade, and wonders if, only one room away, his father is having trouble
sleeping too and is doing little more than staring at the ceiling, mind and
heart too fitful to slow down and relax. Stiles used to climb into his parent's
bed when he had trouble sleeping when he was younger, irrational nightmares
typically the cause back then, and for a moment, Stiles entertains the idea of
dragging his sheets around his shoulders and slipping into his father's bed
just to be enveloped in the familiar scent, hear the even breathing of somebody
next to him.
But he's not young anymore, and he can't crawl into his father's arms and
depend on him making everything okay again. He's grown up and whether he likes
it or not, he has to fucking deal. He just has to.
He twists around the bed, presses his eyes to the pillowcase, and lets the
fabric go damp under his tears.
--
Stiles doesn't remember falling asleep when he wakes up the next morning, but
the feeling of sand under his eyelids makes it clear that he must've eventually
fallen asleep in between all of the bouts of crying. It's embarrassing,
standing in front of the mirror and seeing nothing but the sad, exhausted boy
he doesn't recognize as himself staring back, eyes so swollen Stiles spends ten
minutes splashing water on his face waiting for the evidence of his rough night
to fade.
A knock on the bathroom door pulls him away from where he's arched under the
faucet letting the water run under his eyes, and Stiles jerks back up, rubbing
the wetness off his face.
"Stiles, you're not asleep on the toilet, are you?" his father's voice drifts
through the door. Stiles hopes to god he doesn't open it, and then takes a
moment to think about when his life became he on one side of a door and his
father on the other, desperate to keep the barriers intact and hide.
"I'm up," Stiles says. "Just gonna take a shower."
He turns on the shower head just to make sure his dad doesn't slip the door
open and poke his head through to wish him a good morning. He'd have too much
explaining to do if his father saw him now, eyes still swollen, shoulders
hunched, the exhaustion pulling his bones down after a night not well slept.
"All right. I'll be downstairs," his father promises. Stiles presses his ear to
the door to listen for the confirmation that he's walked away to busy himself
with caffeine and toast, then locks the door shut just in case.
Then without warning, the list of things to explain away grows exponentially
when Stiles shucks off his clothes and catches a momentary glimpse of himself
in the mirror.
"Fuck," he says aloud.
Everything about him reeks of sex. His fingers trail over multitudes of purpled
marks imprinted on his skin, some discolored enough to look like watercolor
paintings, bruised greens and yellows and reds all mingling together in the
shape of fingerprints all over Stiles' torso, accentuated by the odd teeth
marks here and there as well that seem to scream mine and do not touch in
Peter's voice. He can't imagine this not being Peter's design, exploiting
Stiles' humiliation and leaving him a walking billboard of sex and
submissiveness.
The resulting anger that pulses through him is a welcome distraction from all
the other emotions churning through Stiles like a sickness, like a fever. He
wrenches himself away from the mirror, unable to look at himself and his
branded body, a souvenir of his regrets he can't escape, and ducks into the
shower when the stream is still much too hot. Stiles gasps, the water pounding
his back like a boiling waterfall, but a part of him welcomes the sting, how it
seems to cleanse his skin and leave it red and raw. The heat is like a storm of
needles on his shoulders, biting his back, searing his shoulders, and it makes
Stiles groan, especially when his hands touch down on the marks left behind by
Peter’s fingers on his hips. They’re still sensitive, but not as bad as the
ones left by Peter’s mouth on his shoulders—just brushing over those feels like
the phantom of Peter’s teeth on his neck, the heat of his breath fanning over
Stiles’ collarbone.
Stiles tries to ignore all of them, rubbing that much harder into his skin to
wipe away Peter's touch, his saliva, his words whispered onto Stiles' flesh.
It's one of the roughest showers he's ever had, even including the two-hour
long one he was forced to take after playing soccer in the mud as a twelve-
year-old. Back then, it was just about cleaning his skin—now it feels like
cleaning everything, like rebranding every single mark with his own touch, like
smearing away even the darkest of spots with soap and hot water. He comes out
with pink skin and most of his aching muscles melted out of their stiffness—all
but one that's most definitely never ached before—skin no longer sweaty with
the memory of Peter's touch.
How long does it take the body's cells to completely remake themselves? Seven
years? That's comforting, Stiles thinks—only six years and three-hundred and
sixty-four days until every strand of his DNA and each individual piece of
touched skin forgets Peter entirely.
He can do this.
He stands at his bedroom door after he’s covered up and redressed, unsure if he
should even go any further. If he should go downstairs and face his father at
all. What if it’s obvious by his face alone? What if he still smells of Peter’s
cologne and sex? What if he’s walking like a boy freshly fucked? What if his
father knows right away long before Stiles can ever bother to build up a lie?
“Stiles,” his dad calls up the stairs, making Stiles jump. “Don’t tell me
you’re asleep again.”
He can’t hide in this room for the rest of his life. He has to face his father,
and he has to make sure that he doesn’t suspect a thing, which disappearing
under his bed to deal with his life might provoke. He pulls his t-shirt up
around his neck, making sure every single spot is concealed, and opens the
door, his heartbeat like a drum in his ears as he makes his way downstairs.
He's fine. He was careful.
Everything will be okay, he tells himself over and over in a frenzied chant,
even as the steps seem to lurch and wobble underneath his feet. He's strong
enough to handle this.
“Morning,” he says once he slides into the kitchen, not making eye contact. He
doesn’t want to see the first expression on his father’s face, if it’s
suspicion or scrutiny or shock. “Is there still coffee?”
“In the pot.”
Stiles nods, skirting past him, excruciatingly more aware of every limb than he
ever was before. Maybe it’s fine. Maybe everything is fine, and he just has to
pretend to be fine as well. He shuts his eyes as he reaches for the pot,
reminding himself that lying to his father is something he’s supposed to be
well-versed in, if not downright skilled with. His hip bumps into the counter
and for one frightening nanosecond, it feels like Peter's hand over his pelvis.
“What did you do yesterday? You weren’t here when I got home.”
“I was,” Stiles says, staring at the coffee, at the tiny bubbles floating to
the top of his mug as he pours. “I was just in my room. Needed some time for
homework.
“That took you all day?”
“Yeah. It’s fine, though. I’m fine.”
His hands tighten on the cup’s handle. He’s not doing this right. He’s lied to
his father a million times about inadvertently broken vases and who ate the
last pudding and yet here he is, needing to lie more than ever and finding his
mouth broken, unable to put together anything but jumbled red signs that
something is wrong, something is up and needs further investigating.
“…you’re fine?”
“Yeah, fine. I’m fine. I was home most of yesterday. Had a lot to do.”
He turns around, squeezing the mug in his hand like a lifeline. His father’s
face says it all—he’s not doing a very good job representing his own case. He
should’ve stayed upstairs, safe behind that door, and not said a word until he
could cobble together a good story, something more believable than what he’s
spewing now.
"Stiles." The sheriff’s flat out glaring by now, eyebrows knitted tightly
together. "What happened yesterday?"
He can hardly keep the nausea at bay because he knows. His father knows what
happened, and he's having trouble breathing. He grips the counter behind him
with his free hand, knuckles white where they're holding on for sheer support,
the entire room lurching with the horror of Stiles’ short-lived façade
collapsing in front of him.
"Nothing," he says. It's nothing, it was nothing. He had to do it.
He didn't have to enjoy it, though.
Stiles turns around, unable to look at his father and the deep-set lines of his
forehead creasing together anymore when he can hardly hold his breath in his
mouth without dissolving into a panic attack. He rocks back and forth on
deceptively casual feet, reaching for the sugar bowl to appear busy, fine,
totally normal.
"You—" The sheriff isn't convinced. His voice is hard, the emotion Stiles has
been trying desperately to pull out of his father for weeks suddenly here when
he least wants to face it. "Your neck."
His father’s hand lifts to gently tug at the back of his shirt. Fuck.
He had completely forgotten the back of his neck, the slope of his spine, the
bottom of his hairline, all prime spots for Peter's teeth to graze and mouth to
lave over yesterday. Stiles twists around swiftly, his hand slapping over the
nape of his neck as if holding onto a stinging burn. He thought he was so
careful with covering up the evidence, especially when the memory of Peter's
tongue, his mouth, his bruising teeth is still so fresh to Stiles, the parts of
him sucked and licked still tingling as if electrocuted, but the dim reflection
of himself he sees in the microwave makes it clear—his tee’s slipped just
enough in the back to betray his efforts. Stiles has seen his skin in the
mirror, all speckled red, a beacon of the trouble he's stepped into like a bear
trap, unmistakably bite marks. He should've known that the back of his neck
hadn't been spared in the tirade of Peter's mouth.
"Bug bite," Stiles says, rolling his lips into his mouth. "Me and Scott—we took
a walk in the woods. I wanted to clear my head."
His father doesn't believe him for a second. He's looking at Stiles like he's
watching a time bomb, just waiting for that first click of restraint before
Stiles is dissolving into hysteria and tells the truth. He wants to, of course
he wants to, but he can't, not when he's made himself part of the problem, part
of the responsibility. A part of him is angry underneath all the panic, because
his father hasn’t told the truth in weeks no matter how much Stiles pushes, but
now he’s the one on the other side of a blank wall refusing to reveal its
secrets and clearly doesn’t like the feeling of being shut out.
"What did you need to clear out?"
Stiles looks at the floor; it seems to sway under his gaze. "Stuff." This one's
not too hard to lie about. "Mom. You. If everything's really fine."
His father sighs heavily. He probably thinks that Stiles is too young, he can't
handle honesty, he doesn't know what it's like to deal with adult problems, and
Stiles ought to stop pestering him for answers already. "Everything is fine."
Stiles knows he's lying. It doesn't get any easier, knowing that his father is
lying to his face, that he doesn't trust him with the actual story, that he
isn’t even considering that Stiles can figure it all out on his own. He keeps
his hand on his neck, hiding the evidence of his own distress, of his meddling
in his father's distress, and doesn't meet his eyes.
"Yeah, okay."
"Stiles."
The sheriff moves closer, presumably to touch Stiles on the shoulder or to pull
him in for a reassuring hug, but Stiles doesn't want to be touched, not yet,
not when he's positive his father can smell Peter's scent on him, can tell
what's happened to him. He can't know, no one can ever know. He flinches, his
entire body jolting when his father comes near. It stops the sheriff in his
tracks.
"Sorry," Stiles says instantly. Everything about him feels skittish, like a rat
running across floorboards, running in helpless zigzags away from the broom
that keeps smacking down inches from his tail.
"Stiles," his father says, this time with more feeling. "Is this about—your old
problem? Last year’s incident?"
Stiles tenses. He doesn't want to talk about that, he never wants to hear it
spoken to him again. His father uses that experience as nothing but proof that
Stiles is too fragile, too delicate for the real world, and he can't handle
being looked at as if he's something to be protected and pitied simultaneously
anymore.
"No, dad. Really." He needs to go back upstairs, he needs to put on a new
shirt, he needs to leave this conversation before he makes things harder for
himself. “Everything’s fine. Please.”
He’s not sure what the please is for. It seems to come out involuntarily,
probably meaning either please leave it alone or please believe me or please
let this be the last time you ask. He’s pretty sure that if his father steps
closer and asks him in that soft, earnest voice that feels like home if there’s
anything Stiles wants to talk about, Stiles will crumble, and he can’t, he
can’t—
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
"Okay, I believe you. There's a letter for you, by the way," his father says
around his coffee cup. Stiles glances up at him, hardly believing his luck, and
now that Stiles lets himself properly look at his dad, Stiles realizes that he
looks good today, clear headed and well-rested, no fog of a hangover hung over
his eyes. He had been right about his father skipping the nightcap yesterday.
It's almost enough to put Stiles in a better mood, think that things are
improving and some of the sadness might be lifting from the oppressive,
smothering veil over their heads it has been, but then he grabs the letter from
the counter and notices something's off about it.
All it says on the envelope is Stiles. There's no complete address, not even a
return address, not even a postage stamp. Stiles feels icy in a matter of
seconds, because surely his father has noticed too, and that means he’s not out
of the woods yet.
"Whoever sent it didn't mail it," the sheriff says, confirming Stiles' fear.
"They put it straight into the mailbox." He takes a step closer and Stiles
instantly tries to hide the letter against his chest as if it'll erase its
existence. "Stiles. Do you know who it's from?"
He asks the question in a familiar voice—his cop voice, not his dad voice—and
Stiles' first instinct is to tell him everything, because isn't that what
policemen are for? Isn't that what dads are supposed to be for? But he can't,
he can't bring himself to tell the story out loud, and this time it's not only
because he doesn't want to share the burden with his overworked father, it's
because he's ashamed. He knows his cheeks are flushing, so he ducks his head,
trying to hide the signs of his nerves that he knows his father will recognize.
This isn't his father's problem. It doesn't have to be his father's problem.
And god knows that he already has enough. Stiles unfolds the letter from his
chest, trying to no longer treat it like something to burn or conceal away from
the public eye.
"It's probably just Scott playing a joke," Stiles says. If he isn't convincing
enough, if he doesn't act casually enough, his secrets are blown, he has to
remember that. "Nothing serious."
He looks away from his father's eyes after that; something in them seems to be
luring Stiles into telling him the whole truth. For a second, he expects his
plan to not work and for his father's police reflex to kick in, demanding to
see the letter or rip it out of Stiles' grip, but he doesn't. It's probably
because he trusts Stiles, which makes it that much worse.
"Okay," he says. He sighs again, that same sigh Stiles heard from his ajar door
the other night, the sigh that makes his father sound twenty years older than
he really is. He puts his coffee cup down. "Listen, I have to get to work."
"Yeah, sure."
Stiles watches his father retreat, no longer attempting to approach Stiles for
a goodbye hug, too cautious and too afraid of pulling more inadvertent flinches
out of Stiles. He waits until he's slipped into his sheriff's jacket, the door
is shut behind him, and the lock being turned sounds, and then adds on a few
extra minutes just in case his dad comes back looking for a forgotten badge or
packaged lunch. He waits for that telltale rumble of tires against the
driveway, rolling out to the street, and only then does he rip open the
envelope.
There's a piece of paper inside of it, mostly blank. All it says is:
The alley behind the old skating rink on 3rd street, 8 o'clock tonight. Come
alone. I'll know if you won't.
Know that it would be in your best interest to show up. Take from that what you
will.
There's no name signed on the bottom, but Stiles doesn't need one. He's
perfectly aware of who that handwriting belongs to, and he can't even imagine
what would've happened if his father had opened it himself and seen what was
inside. He's so close to fixing everything, to being able to go up to his
father and say look! You can stop worrying now! and smile and feel his father's
arms around him in a grateful hug. He has to be more careful.
He tears the letter up in so many pieces that the message is completely
unsalvageable. Then he resigns himself to the possibility that after tonight,
six years and three-hundred and sixty-four days might have to restart again.
--
Stiles makes sure his father’s not even close to coming home when he leaves for
the alley that evening, eliminating any and all nightmares in which his father
manages to tail him to the skating rink and catch him red-handed and knee-deep
in a mess he never should’ve thrown himself into. He tells himself the entire
time he drives to stay calm and stop imagining the worst, like Stiles’ body
being held for ransom in a dark warehouse, a hunch Peter’s playing that the
sheriff cares about Stiles as much as Stiles cares about him, and that the
fastest way to get the rest of his money is to use Stiles as bait, and here’s
Stiles carelessly driving to his own doom.
No. He needs to calm the fuck down. If Peter had wanted to kidnap him, tie him
up and use him as leverage, he could’ve done so sooner. No, instead he chose to
fuck Stiles against a table, and for whatever reason that Stiles has forgotten,
that’s supposed to be comforting.
He pulls into the rink’s parking lot seven minutes before eight. The entire
area is shrouded in darkness, the streetlamps either too dim to illuminate the
way or long broken and never replaced. Stiles remembers the rink from when he
was younger, how it was a spot every kid wanted their sixth birthday party to
be at. The carpet was outdated and Stiles could never quite learn how to
balance on wheels, but it had been a good time, and the laughter that came with
falling on his behind had always been much more enjoyable than honing actual
skill. He tries not to look at the now dark, abandoned building and compare it
to his own life via a disturbingly accurate metaphor.
He kills the engine, knowing all the while that he shouldn’t be here. He should
be in his room, doing homework, dicking around procrastinating on the computer,
but Peter’s words—it would be in your best interest to show up—they’re haunting
him like a threat, like if he doesn’t comply, he’ll wake up in a bloodbath
caused by his own obstinateness.
The minute he gets out of the car, Stiles can tell why Peter chose this strip.
The place is deserted, the sad neglected remains of a corner of town that could
never entice enough customers to drop by, leaving behind nothing but broken
signs, smashed windows, and a sinister silence. In the distance, a siren
sounds, too far off for Stiles to even tell where it’s headed. He closes the
car door behind himself, every molecule in his body unsettled.
The fact that it’s so empty is disturbing him, which was probably Peter’s
intention. No one to call out for if he needs help. No one to rescue him if
things get ugly. And considering that Stiles isn’t planning on holding back
with his diatribe regarding Peter leaving him threats in his mailbox, things
might actually get ugly.
There’s nothing but a flickering streetlight and the dull, clouded illumination
of the moon to light the way for him, but Stiles can make out the skating rink
easily enough, the faint outlines of the words still high on the building. He
slips behind it, feeling very much like he’s throwing himself down the rabbit
hole as he does so.
The fear fades like someone’s vacuumed it from his body the second he turns
into the alley between buildings and sees Peter. His silhouette is
unmistakable, lean and effortless against the brick wall, one foot propped up
and the other stretched out in front of him. If only he was wearing a shady
trench coat and holding a vintage gun in one hand, the villain from the forties
look would be complete. The inexplicable rage explodes in Stiles like a boiling
pot spilling over. He charges forward.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing, leaving messages like that in my
mailbox?" Stiles hisses. The fury he didn't feel earlier in favor of fear is
here now upon seeing the casual, completely unperturbed form of Peter leaning
against a wall, like he doesn't realize how serious any of this is for Stiles.
It is. "My dad found it. If I hadn't been there, he might've opened it. He's a
cop."
He steps close enough to make out the curves of Peter's face, the arch of his
cheekbones, the point of his nose. Peter exhales slowly, the sound radiating
annoyance.
"Not a particularly competent one," Peter murmurs.
Stiles acts on bare instinct alone, a visceral muscle inside of himself
triggered at the mention of his father, and his fist swings through the
darkness to make contact with Peter's jaw. He thought the shadows would hide
the incoming blow, but Peter's hand shoots out, grabbing his fist with almost
supernatural speed, and squeezes ever too much, leaving Stiles gasping.
"So much raw emotion. I like that," Peter says, still sounding bored and
nonchalant and infuriatingly unaware of the way he's single-handedly ruining
Stiles' life, from his mental health to his insomnia to his crushing guilt. He
looks down at the fist in his tight grip. "You know, I could break all the
bones in your hand right now."
Stiles jerks his fist out of Peter's grasp, drawing it close to his chest and
massaging the knuckles. "Stop it."
"I wouldn't have done it," Peter says, as if he's offended. "Do you think that
little of me?"
"Yes," Stiles grits out.
He should be nicer, be more conscious of how easily Peter could destroy him
with a flick of his thumb, but he looks at the features of Peter's shadowed
face and remembers, instantly, how he had touched him, how he had liked it, and
the guilt and shame bubbles up in his throat like a clawing animal, turning
into anger by the time it reaches his mouth. He's a toy, essentially, a boy who
can be operated by strings and cues, and that's why he's here, why it was so
easy to lure him out of his home to a dark alleyway after nightfall.
Peter takes a step closer to him. He smells of expensive cologne, a subtle
reminder that he has everything Stiles doesn't, everything he and his father
are fighting for. He feels himself go rigid at the proximity but refuses to
give Peter the satisfaction of stepping back and yielding to him.
A hand shoots out of the darkness, pulling a strangled noise from Stiles' lips
at the idea of being struck—or worse, dying here and now—but then there are
fingers on his neck, doing little more than tracing the spots where Peter's
bruises are left behind, Stiles shuddering at the ginger ministrations.
"You know, Stiles," Peter murmurs, his hands brushing over the tendons of
Stiles' neck, his touches so teasingly light that they're ticklish. "I'm very
good at reading body language." His hand slides down, pressing flat on Stiles'
chest, feeling out his heartbeat. "You, for instance. There's fear. There's
anger. There's that inscrutable teenage thirst to prove yourself. And...
there's arousal."
Stiles swallows. "You're wrong."
"Am I?"
Peter's fingers trail down his chest, headed southward, but something in Stiles
snaps like a rifle’s trigger and he seizes Peter's wrist, stilling him.
"I could have you arrested," he warns in low tones, going as far as to dig the
blunt of his fingernails into Peter's skin. His response is a low chuckle that
admittedly is not what Stiles had been hoping for.
"That's cute," he drawls. "I'll humor you." He leans in until Stiles feels his
breath on his face, can see the startlingly bright blue of his eyes, almost
like lit lasers in the dark. "Go run home to your father and tell him all about
me. Don't leave out any details now."
Stiles hates him. He hates himself for liking the way his hands felt on him,
and he hates him now even more for listening to him goad him, treat him like
the child everybody is belittling Stiles into being. He lets go of Peter's
wrist, still furious, still angry.
“I’ll indulge you further. Let’s say you do get me arrested—you really don’t
think I run a solo operation, do you?” Peter asks, a very pleased smile on his
face, like he’s laying down a royal flush on a poker table. “Nepotism is
extremely lucrative in the money lender business.”
He’s right, and just when Stiles thinks he can’t hate him more, he does. Of
course Peter’s prepared. Peter doesn’t seem to be the type of man to do
anything by halves. He has every side of himself covered, protected from
whatever feeble attacks Stiles can throw at him, and the very idea of
successfully removing Peter out of his life only to deal with the rest of his
family is wretched enough to be honestly nauseating.
"You just don't fucking care," Stiles spits out. "You wanted my dad to find
out. You wanted him to see all those marks on me. You just want to see things
get harder for me because it's entertaining for you."
Peter sighs, a heavy breath pulled from his mouth like Stiles just isn't
getting it, like he's too young. Too stupid.
His thumb touches the side of Stiles' lips, slotting into his mouth. "Or maybe
I just like marking you up," Peter says, touching Stiles' tongue with his
finger. "Honestly, though, Stiles. There are such better ways to use your mouth
than fighting with me like this..."
Stiles pushes him away like there’s a gun nestled in his mouth. He hates the
way his body reacts, how it arches toward Peter like it craves his rough touch.
He wipes his mouth where Peter’s brushed against it, every part of his body
suddenly warm, and not just from simmering anger.
“I hate you,” Stiles says. He doesn’t know why he’s here—to be the subject of
Peter’s ridicule, he’s guessing—but he’s done. He wants to yell and spit until
Peter’s entire face flashes with fury and he leaves Stiles alone, leaves his
entire family alone.
“You’re lying,” Peter says, sounding gleeful. And it’s true, he does hate him,
he hates the way he treats him, but he doesn’t hate him enough to not want him,
and that makes every part of him burn with humiliation.
“Oh, fuck off. Or how about this, go fuck yourself. Or even better, go find
yourself another underage boy to molest, how’s that?”
Stiles shouldn’t have provoked him. He's flat against the bricks in a second,
back slammed into the wall with a force strong enough to knock the wind out of
his lungs. Peter moves fast, like a stealthy tiger, so fast it's almost
inhuman, a thought that solidifies when Peter snarls against his neck and
Stiles feels his teeth against his pulse point, barely grazing his veins. He's
powerful, that much is obvious, and Stiles is no match for his strength. He
shouldn't have come. He never should've even let him touch him in the first
place.
"Don't test me, Stiles," Peter says on his neck. Stiles stays frozen under his
touch, terrified that any second, Peter's teeth are going to sink into his
flesh and leave him bleeding. "I asked you to come for a reason."
Stiles tries to regulate his breathing, tries to focus on something that isn't
the pulsing pain of his abused spine. He pushes against the hold Peter has on
his wrists, pinned to the bricks by his shoulders, and finds that he's not
strong enough to do much more than struggle like a dying animal. He thinks he
knows why he's here already. A part of him wonders if he already knew before.
"I'm in a... generous mood," Peter says, and his tongue follows his words,
licking up slowly to Stiles' chin. Stiles turns his face away. "And that's a
short-lived circumstance. So you better be listening."
When Stiles says nothing, Peter's teeth tease his jaw, descending down and
biting just hard enough to hurt.
"I'm listening," Stiles grits out.
"Good." Peter licks over the hurt he’s caused, suckling on the redness left
behind by his teeth. "How would you like to chip away at daddy's debt?"
Stiles closes his eyes and wishes he were anywhere but here, with anyone but
Peter. He hates how easily Peter's been reading him, whether it be his body
language or his weak spot for his father's happiness, and how it's all becoming
a tool against him, a bribe to follow along with Peter's demands. The worst
part is that Stiles can see the puppet strings and still can't bring himself to
cut them.
Peter knows exactly what to say and do. He knows exactly how to manipulate
Stiles into getting what he wants. He's too smart, and Stiles worries that he's
no match, and that he should run now while he still has the chance.
"What do I have to do?" Stiles whispers, hardly wanting to hear the words leave
his mouth.
Peter chuckles again, and suddenly his body is pressed flush against Stiles',
his every curve feeling out Stiles' every curve. He laughs against Stiles'
throat, his laughter deep and pleased like everything is going according to
plan perfectly.
"Stand there and be pretty for me," Peter instructs. "Let me wreck you."
Stiles doesn't want to submit, but he knows he will, it's just a matter of
principle of first mentally battling with himself over it all so he can still
feel like someone smarter than this, someone who understands ethics and how the
world works even if he's not executing this knowledge in the slightest. He's
like a tightly coiled animal, held in captivity and waiting to pounce but
instead stuck in a cage too small, and here's his chance to give in and value
animalistic urges over logical decisions. His hips pulse forward into Peter's
without him thinking about doing so, seeking out the touch, and he whimpers at
the barest of contact through their pants.
"Shh," Peter says, pushing his finger to Stiles' mouth, giving Stiles an
opportunity to notice that his wrists have been released and his hands are
already in Peter's hair, holding him by the ear and the nape of his neck.
"Answer me. Will you stand still and let me touch you?"
Stiles nods. It's not good enough of an answer though, clearly, because then
Peter's hand is on his hardness, squeezing.
"Tell me," he demands, and his voice is tough like sandpaper, echoing through
the alley, almost too overbearing to be produced by human vocal chords.
"Yes!" Stiles gasps. His head falls down from the brick wall and tips against
Peter's temple, every bit of himself overcharged and trembling with an entire
cocktail of emotions. Uncertainty. Fright. Sex. Desperation. A strong,
undeniable undercurrent of needing to be touched, craving release.
"Tell me you want it," Peter demands. "Tell me you what it is you need."
"Touch me," Stiles pleads. His entire body is already shaking, pulsing like
there are electric shocks weaving through his system. "I—I need you to touch
me."
"Good," Peter growls, Stiles' words clearly what he wants to hear.
He wastes no time after that, pulling aside the neck of Stiles' shirt so he can
get a good look at the purpled marks littered across Stiles' neck, collarbone,
even the upper part of his chest. If he didn't know better, he'd think Peter
was an animal with a compulsive need to claim Stiles' body as his own, leave
his signature on his flesh, a theory made more pronounced when Peter's mouth
rumbles against his neck, the sound like a guttural snarl coming from a wild
dog. Peter sets to work deepening all of his marks and creating new ones, a
dizzying mixture of tongue, teeth, and mouth working against Stiles' skin until
Stiles is feverishly rutting his hips against Peter's, looking for friction.
"You really do want it," Peter says, and he sounds delighted and predatory all
at once. His left hand trails its way around Stiles' ear, following his
hairline down to his neck. "Every single part of your body is begging for me."
Stiles bites his lip to keep from whimpering. He can't handle Peter's dirty
mouth, all of the filth he's whispering into Stiles' skin as if sharing
secrets, his words combining with his touches into a truly lethal blend of
almost agonizing arousal.
"Keep talking," Stiles asks, squeezing Peter's shoulders.
Peter doesn't seem to need the prompting. “Did you see all these marks,
Stiles?” he asks, leaning in to bite over a sore spot on his neck. “Do you see
what they do?” His tongue, all too hot, flattens over the throbbing vein there.
“They make you mine. You know that, don’t you?”
All Stiles is even sure of at this point is that he’s trembling, shivering like
he’s cold but in truth, burning up, every limb so hot it hurts, making him want
to beg. His lungs are hurting; he really ought to breathe more, but it’s hard
when Peter’s running his teeth over his shoulder and chasing the pain with his
tongue, leaving Stiles that much warmer.
Peter’s leg pushes up between his thighs now, pressing himself those crucial
inches closer, providing something solid to buck up against. Stiles can hardly
breathe, but he wants to be involved, wants to sneer back and dish out what
Peter’s clearly comfortable giving him, using his teeth and hands to sting as
much as Peter’s capable of doing. He tries to grasp coherency with each labored
breath that pushes through him, but all his brain can even zero in on is the
hard line of a body keeping him flat against the wall, the fingers searching
his body and the mouth leaving it shaking.
“How about I fuck your mouth, Stiles?” Peter asks. “Would you like that?”
Stiles doesn’t say a word, but his hips are pulsing forward and Peter can
easily tell what the shudders his body’s suppressing mean, that he wants, oh
god, he wants. Peter grabs him by the jaw to tilt their mouths together and
digs his teeth into Stiles’ bottom lip, tugging it into his mouth, making
Stiles go slack against the wall, nothing but Peter’s leg between his keeping
him upright. His hand slides down to Stiles’ ass, palming him through his
jeans, touch lingering briefly by the curve of his back before he pulls back
from Stiles, the sudden lack of heat almost disorienting.
“Tell me that you want me,” Peter says, tipping his head closer so he has to do
nothing but whisper near Stiles’ lips, “in your mouth. Tell me you want to
taste my cock.”
“I—I want to,” Stiles says. He can feel the shame crawl up his body like
insects, the prickles heating up his legs, but he wants to.
Peter seems to know, seems to read it on Stiles’ face. His thumb comes up to
touch Stiles’ jaw. “You don’t have to be ashamed, Stiles,” he murmurs.
How does he always know? Is it written that obviously on Stiles’ face, is he
that translucent? He doesn’t want Peter to read his face, especially not when
it’s apparently a gateway that’s easy to be let into, so in a moment of surging
intrepidity, he shoves Peter off of him to give himself the room to sink down
to his knees.
He’s never done this without obligation before, and even Peter being who he is,
Stiles knows he doesn’t have to do this; Peter doesn’t get off on Stiles’ lack
of consent. It’s a little numbing, knowing that he’s willing to and even wants
to suck Peter off, taste him in his mouth, see what he’s like when Stiles is
the one responsible for his undoing, when Peter’s no longer in control, but
he’s at the mercy of his own orgasm. He unzips Peter’s jeans with possibly more
force than he needs to.
“I’m not ashamed,” Stiles says petulantly. He knows Peter’s going to argue, so
he pulls his underwear down before he can.
He almost backs out then, face-to-face with Peter’s hard cock, not because he’s
feeling queasy and unsure, but because of how much he really wants to touch the
curve of him and lick over the heat of his skin. After last year, Stiles had
been so sure, so sure, that this was something he’d never want to do again, but
now—
“Then get on with it,” Peter hisses. One of his hands winds its way into
Stiles’ hair, just a soft pressure now that could easily tighten and maneuver
Stiles as he pleases to speed up the show if he doesn’t do it himself soon.
Fine, Stiles can handle a challenge. He dives in headfirst, fairly certain that
Peter is not a man of gentle teasing but instead one of instant gratification,
and fastens his mouth around the head of his cock without pause, flattening his
tongue against the underside.
Peter’s response is instantaneous. A low groan that seems to vibrate out his
throat hits the air, the hand in Stiles’ hair squeezing the strands he has in
his grip. It’s not enough to hurt, but enough to spur Stiles on to return the
favor, sucking almost harshly at the tip and letting his upper teeth barely
graze his shaft. It’s almost exhilarating, knowing that here and now, he’s in
charge, even if he is ducked between Peter’s legs and kneeling on the gravel.
He ups his game, curving his tongue and licking broad stripes up and down the
length of Peter’s cock, Peter’s fist getting tighter and tighter in Stiles’
hair as a response. He never thought he’d enjoy hair pulling, but right now
it’s almost intensifying everything that much more, from the taste of Peter in
his mouth to the way he’s nudging Stiles’ throat with the bucks of his hips.
It’s like Peter can’t even help himself, dick stuttering past Stiles’ lips,
control slipping, body gently shaking with every exhale he takes that Stiles
can feel vibrate through his skin. Stiles pulls back to breathe after Peter’s
length nudges the back of his throat, hands shaking where they’re holding onto
Peter’s bare hips.
"Am I the only one who's touched you like this?" Peter asks, rubbing the head
of his dick against Stiles' lower lip, smearing behind pre-come that Stiles
catches with his tongue.
Honesty bolts out of him before he can even craft together a lie. "No," Stiles
admits, voice already raspier than before. His eyes flicker open, still hooded,
and he sees Peter tense, a clear rage running through him with the intensity of
racing horses, right before his fingers grab hold of Stiles' short hair again
and tug, hard this time.
"Who's touched you?" he demands.
Stiles doesn't want to talk about it, not when he's on his knees and barely
coherent, barely able to move without trembling, so he reaches out to guide
Peter's cock onto his tongue, distracting him with a slow, deliberate lick up
his length. "Stop," Stiles says. “Don’t ask me.”
His hand on Peter's dick seems to be convincing enough for him. He brings his
length to his parted lips, licking it, tasting him, paying attention to the way
Peter's body shudders under his ministrations, every breath he takes tight and
restrained, like he's keeping some great, uncontrolled beast at bay, drawn out
with Stiles' slow, curious tongue.
He lets Peter manhandle him, maneuver his head as he sees fit, hollowing his
cheeks around the push and pull of Peter’s dick. It’s almost dizzying, the
sounds Peter makes as he fucks Stiles’ mouth, the short, heady pants and the
low, rumbling groans. One of his hands slips from Stiles’ hair to touch his
cheek, feel himself in Stiles’ mouth, and then he’s withdrawing his length to
let Stiles chase it with his tongue, licking its leaking tip.
“Look at you,” Peter murmurs. “You like this, don’t you, Stiles? Feeling me in
your mouth?”
Stiles can feel himself flushing with embarrassment because he does, he does
enjoy this, the way Peter’s warm on his tongue and reaching the back of his
throat, the taste he leaves behind. He knows he isn’t supposed to enjoy it, not
because it’s sex, but because it’s a transaction. Peter’s just taking what
Stiles owes him, the debt that needs to be paid, and he’s just evening the
score, which should by all means be a turn off, not something that leaves him
throbbing in his pants. Peter's rough and tumble with all of his pushes and
thrusts, his cock insistent against Stiles' tongue, not minding the clumsy cage
of his teeth or the way he's feeling all this out with the sexual instinct
that's brewing inside him, and his aggression only spurs Stiles on.
There's probably something wrong with him for enjoying that, the way Peter's
manhandling him and fucking his mouth, thumbing at his cheeks, whispering
murmured praise of how good Stiles looks like this, and it's all Stiles can do
not to reach down and touch himself, jerk himself off while he sucks on the tip
of Peter's cock.
But he doesn't, instead using his hands to wrap around the base of Peter's
length and touch the heat of skin by his thigh, feeling the way Peter's muscles
flutter with every ragged breath he takes. From the way Peter's dissolving into
rough pants and even tougher fingers on Stiles' jaw, Stiles figures he must be
pretty damn good at this, like all this time, his oral fixation has just been a
stepping stone up to this, the point where he can drop to his knees and reduce
a man as powerful as Peter to bitten lips and low groans all because of his
tongue. He wants more, though, wants to see Peter completely undone, so he
sinks down as far as he can on his cock until tears sting his eyes and his own
erection goes from steadily growing to aching, leaking in his pants, then goes
back to sucking on the head with a worshipful tongue.
That seems to be the last of Peter's restraint, a dizzying growl rolling
through his body as he spears his fingers into Stiles' hair and fucks his mouth
without hesitation, without bothering to hold back, holding Stiles in place as
he jerks his hips in and out of Stiles' mouth. It's almost too much for Stiles,
his cock aching, hurting, Peter pounding in and out of his mouth, deeper every
time, only making Stiles' own arousal spike to a fever pitch, and he gasps in a
breath as Peter's dick slips out to rest on his lower lip, hands shaking.
"You're going to swallow for me, sweetheart," Peter advises, sounding
positively wrecked, and waits for Stiles' nod and for his tongue to draw his
cock back into his mouth before he resumes his brutal pace. "I can tell you
want it, how badly you want to taste like my come. Tell me you want it."
He thrusts into Stiles' mouth almost savagely, not even giving him a chance to
answer, as if he knows without confirmation that yes, Stiles wants to taste
him, lick him clean, feel him spill down his throat even though he shouldn't
want to at all. Stiles whines, so hard it hurts, fingers fumbling where they're
working the rest of Peter's cock, and the sound hums through Peter’s dick
enough to apparently send him over the edge, the heady grunt he lets loose the
last warning Stiles gets before he's coming.
Peter spills down his throat, Stiles swallowing what he can until Peter eases
out and the rest lands on Stiles’ mouth, dribbling down his chin, the taste
strong on his tongue. Stiles keeps licking at Peter, pulling helpless tremors
from him until he’s too sensitive, soft on his tongue, at which point Peter
yanks him back to his feet by grabbing a fistful of his shirt by the collar,
hauling him up when he can barely stand on his own legs yet.
“Good boy,” Peter murmurs, already fastening his own pants closed again.
Through the dark, he looks absolutely fascinated by Stiles. “You did that
wonderfully.”
Stiles can’t believe that his soft praise is making it all that harder to will
his erection away, but it’s as if Peter smells it in the air long before he can
bother to hide it, looking down at the bulge in his pants and smirking before
he slots his thigh between Stiles' legs, his grin shark-like.
He doesn’t give into Stiles straight away, though, instead busying himself by
pulling something out of the inner pocket in his jacket. It’s a handkerchief, a
flimsy white napkin, and he shakes it out before dotting it along Stiles’
mouth, cleaning up the remnants of his come. It’s almost bizarre, Peter using
his modest, Victorian handkerchief to wipe the proof of a successful blowjob
from Stiles’ face.
“I think you deserve a reward for that,” Peter says, taking his time cleaning
Stiles’ chin. “And I very much want to see that pretty mouth moan for me.”
Stiles whines. “Please.”
Peter makes a soft noise in response, a long, drawn out collection of mmms, and
then he tucks his napkin away inside his blazer and looks Stiles up and down
like he's looking for the best spot to focus on to make Stiles keen and moan.
"I'll make you come," he promises, "if you tell me how much you loved sucking
my cock, Stiles."
He should be embarrassed, he should be insulted, but it's like Stiles doesn't
even know how to be, his body curving into Peter's touch like a flower to the
sun. He clutches at his shoulders, feeling the need to be touched wrack through
him like sobs.
"I loved it," he says, throat sore, and he doesn't even have to lie. "Tasting
you—fuck, Peter."
"Tell me."
"It was so good. Made me so fucking hard." He squeezes Peter's shoulder blades
as hard as he can, needing his hands, needing more. "Please."
The begging seems to work on Peter, pushing a primal button in him that has him
growling and pushing Stiles against the wall, fingers flexing where they're
tight on Stiles' trembling body.
"I have to be honest, Stiles," he says. "A lot of the things I'd like to do, I
don't want to in a dark alley. I'd much rather have you spread out for me on
your bed." He ducks in and slides his teeth down Stiles' neck like he just
can't help himself. "Like eat you out while you beg me to fuck you. Slowly
finger you and watch your body ask for more."
God, Stiles needs serious help because he wants all those things too. Peter
paints quite a picture, one that has Stiles leaning back against the bricks for
support and breathing levelly through his nose.
"Is this going to cost me?" Stiles pants. He can't imagine Peter granting him
sexual favors without it cutting into the debt he earned back today, especially
considering that Peter is a man of money and manipulation more than he is of
good will and kind gestures.
He’s wrong, though. Peter laughs against his neck, the sound like thunder.
"Stiles," he says, hands sliding down to his thighs, then up to his zipper. "I
would pay for this myself."
Stiles' mouth drops open. He doesn't quite care for that implication—that he's
interested in the business of putting his body up for sale and working corners
in tight pants—but before he can come to the defense of his own dignity, his
pants are being shoved off down to his knees and Peter's hands are slipping
into his underwear, wrapping around his erection, sufficiently quieting his
complaints.
It's fundamentally unfair that Peter is so good at this. He strokes Stiles with
a touch that's firm and just shy of too much, too hard, leaving Stiles scraping
his palms on the brick wall behind him just to find purchase on something. He
settles for wrapping his arms around Peter's shoulders and digging his
fingernails into his back through his shirt, matching Peter's hisses with low
groans of his own as Peter keeps up a steady pace with Stiles' dick.
"I feel like it's almost wasteful not to give attention to your ass," Peter
says almost conversationally, clearly recovered from his orgasm and now focused
entirely on unraveling Stiles thread by thread. "But I'll settle for later.
Another time." He nudges his nose against Stiles' jaw. "Would you like that,
Stiles?"
"Nngh," Stiles breathes out, and when Peter squeezes him almost too roughly, he
cries out, "yes, fuck, absolutely, definitely."
Peter murmurs approvingly at that, moving to slide Stiles' underwear off his
hips to grant him more access. It isn't until Stiles is practically stark naked
with all his bottoms pooled around his ankles that he remembers that they're in
an alley, a perfectly public area open for passerby who might end up getting
more than an eyeful of Stiles' privates. If he were operating under stronger
thought processes right now, he'd make efforts to cover himself up if not
demand Peter pick this up in the safety of indoor privacy, even though he'd
accept the backseat of a car by now, but the sad truth is that Peter's thumb
playing with the pre-come on the head of Stiles' cock is taking up too much of
his brain power.
"Thought about this last night," Peter says, still so frustratingly cool and
collected, all the while reducing Stiles to a complete mess. It feels like eons
ago that the roles were reversed and Stiles was high on the triumph of making
Peter come. "About you, pressed beneath me, begging for more." Peter's free
hand shoots out at practically impossible speeds, his thumb rubbing over the
corner of Stiles' parted mouth. "I have to say, seeing it in front of me is
much more fulfilling than the fantasy."
If Stiles was even slightly capable of multitasking, he'd take the opportunity
to both enjoy the hand savagely pumping his cock and think about this new
information that he's infiltrated Peter's fantasies, that he's something Peter
thinks about, dreams about. Of course he thought of Peter too, kept feeling
phantom touches all over his body long after he had left, kept catching sight
of the budding marks on his neck in mirrors and imagining being fucked by him
again. From the sound of it, this might just be the beginning of a very
sexually beneficial method of lowering his debt, and he won't have to imagine
any more.
"Did you think about me too, Stiles?" Peter asks, as if burrowing inside his
mind. "Did you think about what it might be like to have my cock between those
pretty lips of yours?"
Peter's wrist curves on the upstroke then, leaving Stiles that much more
incoherent in a matter of nanoseconds. Unfair.
"Thought about you fucking me again," Stiles admits, biting hard into his lower
lip. He draws it into his mouth, his teeth catching on it as it slips back out,
redder than before. "Can’t even look at my kitchen table without—oh—thinking
about it.”
“Oh?” Peter whispers. “You think about how I had you bent over it, begging me
to make you come?”
Stiles whines. He tries to duck his head, hiding the way his entire face is
about to make it clear exactly how hard he’s going to come in less than ten
seconds, but Peter stops him before he can, pushing their mouths together with
a fierceness that almost hurts. Stiles comes right as Peter’s tongue slips over
his lips and his hand drags up on his shaft, his groan falling straight into
Peter’s mouth. Something about Peter’s kisses feel like he’s being swept
underwater, like even the concept of breathing is far off. He’s only vaguely
aware of Peter’s fingers zipping his jeans back up, too lost in the way Peter’s
teeth are scraping over his bottom lip, tugging it into his mouth, to pay much
attention to much else.
His head falls back to the bricks, lungs aching from shortness of breath.
Stiles lets himself breathe until his heartbeat dips back down from alarmingly
lethal levels, eyes sliding closed until Peter’s hand squeezing his wrist snaps
him back.
"Give me your phone,” Peter says, holding his hand out.
"What? Why?"
"Give me. Your phone." Peter talks through only gritted teeth the second time,
so Stiles obeys and pulls it from his pocket, dropping it in Peter's hand. He
slides it open, leaving Stiles to wonder why he’s never bothered with password
protection, and seems to familiarize himself with it before handing it back to
Stiles—still intact, amazingly.
“What was that for?”
“You didn’t like the mailbox method,” Peter says. He taps the screen of Stiles’
phone. “Here’s the modern alternative.”
Stiles slides it open and notices that Peter's added himself as a new contact.
Stiles dryly concludes that Peter most likely doesn't need Stiles' number in
return, not with his easy access to Stiles' private information thanks to his
omniscient connections. It’s like a constant reminder hanging over him that
Peter’s in charge, that just when Stiles thinks he has tricks up his sleeve,
Peter’s expecting every single one of them.
"You put yourself under Peter Hale," Stiles points out. "If my dad sees you
texting me, do you really think he'll just assume that the Peter I'm talking to
happens to be different from the Peter he's using loan shark services from?"
"Then change my name to Abraham Lincoln, for all I care," Peter says. “What you
do at home is not by business.”
“It isn’t?” Stiles says. “Are you really under the assumption that you haven’t
infiltrated my home life?”
Peter’s teeth flash in a satisfied grin. “Oh, have I? I’m flattered.”
He’s turning away, ready to leave Stiles here still drunk on the aftermath of
his orgasm to fend for himself. Stiles looks down at the phone in his hand,
freshly branded with Peter’s presence.
“So I guess I’ll be hearing from you again,” Stiles says to Peter’s retreating
back. “This is a thing we’re doing?”
Peter looks over his shoulder, eyebrows drawn together. He stops. “A thing?”
“Yeah.” Stiles gesticulates between them feebly. “You drop me a line with
absolutely no notice, then we have sex in exchange for less debt.”
Peter pivots back around to face him. The moon is high enough to bathe the
right hemisphere of Peter’s face, icing his cheekbones and glowing silver on
his hair, dappling the strands like a crystal crown. A gracious smile splits
his face.
“I know you’d do anything for your family, Stiles,” he says. He arches his
eyebrows in question.
“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”
“That’s what I thought,” Peter says. He turns around again. “I think you have
your answer, then, Stiles.” He peeks over his shoulder as he walks away. “I’ll
see you soon.”
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Notes
     Can anybody seriously believe that last night was New Year's Eve? And
     that it's now 2016? And that it isn't actually still 2010?
     As usual, thank you to everybody reading/commenting/kudosing. You
     guys are stars.
Discretion has never been one of Stiles' strong suits. He's more of an
unfortunately-in-your-face kind of guy when you combine the clumsy face, snarky
comments, and generally loud presence in any given room, so it takes some
finessing to learn how to dial himself down.
He has to when his mother goes from occasional doctor visits to permanently
being set up at the hospital. It broke Stiles' heart to see his mother
surrounded in lifeless bedsheets and a machine that reduced her to nothing but
monotonous beeping, not even a plastic plant to spruce up the ambience. Stiles
wanted to be there for all the time—after school, right before school, all
night long—but the nurses didn't take kindly to him sleeping curled up in the
chairs adjacent to the bed.
After that, it became a challenge—a distraction, almost, something to focus on
that wasn't his mother wrapped in stiff linens that made her look so, so pale,
and Stiles was finding ways to sneak past security guards and wandering nurses
just to spend that much longer by his mother's side. There were times when he
was sure she didn't want him there, but rather at home in a warm bed pretending
to be all right, pretending not to miss her, because she wore this sad smile
whenever Stiles successfully made his way past the obstacles and stood by her
bed with everything from books to games to snacks laden under his arms.
Months later, Stiles finds that his body hasn't forgotten the art of sneaking
around just yet.
It's all a matter of footwork and lung capacity, treading softly and holding
your breath, staying quiet and guarded at all times. He tries to stay only on
the balls of his feet where his sneakers don't squeak as Stiles makes his way
up the driveway after meeting Peter in the alley, his t-shirt still a little
damp from the post-orgasm sweat that clung to him the entire ride home. The
light's still on inside the house, a dim yellow glow visible through the
window. His father's still awake. He might be wasted in the kitchen or poring
over work in the dining room or passed out on the couch, but Stiles still has
to be careful when just one ill-timed step and one to-the-point question will
do him in.
He has to be careful. He has to be perfect.
Stiles slots his key in the front door as slowly as possible, easing it open
just slowly enough to avoid the loud creaking of the hinges. He steps inside,
hoping to slip upstairs without anyone calling after him. His hope is killed
rather quickly.
The door eases shut behind him without its usual telltale creak, but Stiles'
carefulness is unnecessary, what with how his father is sitting bathed in the
orange glow of the living room lamp on the couch, probably waiting for Stiles
to come home with not even the TV on to distract him. He looks tired, every
wrinkle on his worn face intensified by the shadows created by the unforgiving
light directly next to him.
"Where have you been?" he asks, sounding just as weathered as he looks. "You
didn't let me know you were going out."
Stiles instantly feels bad about it. It feels like that's all he's doing
lately, feeling bad for his father or feeling bad for himself, like he should
be doing better. It's a protective urge, he thinks, some blind impulse inside
of him telling him to keep his father uninvolved—or at least, keeping him from
being involved further—and keeping secrets seems to be the only way to make
sure that happens.
"Sorry," Stiles says. "I thought you'd be working tonight, I just didn't want
to bother you."
"Who were you with?"
There's a look on his face that Stiles almost can't place until he realizes
what it is—the same hard-edged way he looks at suspects when he's interrogating
them while still maintaining a careful casualness not to scare anyone off.
Stiles has seen it through countless windows, but never directed at himself. He
doesn't care for the feeling. It reminds him of how much he's hiding, and
worse, how consequential it would be if he stopped hiding it all. He wants to
tell his father to stop asking questions, stop trying to figure out Stiles'
secrets like they're cases, say it's for your own good.
"It was just me and some guys from lacrosse," Stiles says, rolling his lips
into his mouth. "We went bowling."
"Oh yeah? Where?"
"Nowhere special," Stiles says. He's never been more aware of his body, of how
his father can read it, can usually tell when he's lying. Why couldn't he have
just been already asleep? "Why are you still up?"
The sheriff stares him down for another few long seconds, the scrutiny clear in
his eyes, the distrust. Then he gets to his feet, allowing Stiles to see the
whiskey glass he had hidden in the shadows in one hand.
"I was worried about my son," he answers. "Call next time."
Stiles nods. "Sure, dad."
His father's face softens a moment later, the hardness of the police mask
slipping aside like now he feels bad about treating Stiles like a suspect to a
crime. His sudden trust, reappearing without any gentle coaxing, takes Stiles'
heart in its hands and chokes it. He takes a step closer, smiling crookedly at
Stiles.
"Did you have fun?" he asks.
"Yeah. 'Course." Yeah, the handjob was fun. The blowjob was fun. Not as fun as
bowling, but what possibly could be? "Sorry I worried you."
"'S all right," his dad says, already turning away to hit the hay, done
interrogating Stiles and no longer willing to stay up waiting for a familiar
Jeep to roll into the driveway. "Don't stay up too late."
He goes upstairs then, leaving Stiles to watch him disappear down the hall. He
knows he's lying, there's no way he didn't pick up on all of Stiles'
mannerisms—so the question is if he's going to do anything about it, and what
lengths would he go to. Would he have someone trail Stiles? Tap his phone?
Watch him at school?
Stiles has certainly gone to similar lengths with his father. Rooting through
his mail, listening in on his phone calls, keeping tabs on how much he drinks
in one night, and that’s just Stiles showing slightly invasive concern—his
father is a cop. Who knows how far he would go if he thinks there’s a reason to
keep an extra wary eye on Stiles’ routines.
Stiles remembers how upset he was when he first found out that his father was
using loan sharks, how betrayed he had felt, how upset he was that his father
was keeping something this enormous from him, and not just that, had something
to keep from him in the first place. By now, Stiles realizes that he’s no
better. He has his own secrets to hide and knowledge to conceal. Never before
has he felt further away from his past self, his past life, the one where the
only thing he lied to his father about was whether or not he had finished his
English essay yet or if the dishes were done.
--
The worst part of if it all, Stiles thinks, is still having to go to school
like everything is fine.
It’s one thing to feel like he’s being suffocated by the crowds, by all the
people looking his way, but it’s another to constantly have his mind drift in
class, always back to his father, their financial situation, his mother, all
things that grab hold of his mind much more firmly than the lessons on the
blackboard. It doesn’t help that he can’t stop thinking about if his father is
catching onto his secrets, leaving Stiles to obsess maddeningly over if he’s
left any evidence behind, anything to point in his direction that he’s meddling
in matters he ought to be staying out of.
What if he comes home tonight, and his father knows everything? What’s his best
excuse to give in a situation like this? I did it for you? I never meant for
you to find out? They all sound feeble, and Stiles can already imagine how
helplessly they would stammer out of his mouth and how his father wouldn’t
understand.
If only he had gotten a better night’s sleep last night. He can’t sleep lately,
hasn’t been able to coax his brain into shutting down for weeks, and it’s
leaving him feeling like an old stuffed animal fraying at the seams ready to
start spilling over. He’s tired. He’s aching. He’s feeling too much to be held
inside by a couple of threads.
Someone is tapping him on his shoulder. Stiles blinks out of his thoughts and
back to the classroom he’s in—god knows he wasn’t listening to the lecture—and
turns to the right where Scott, a desk away, is holding a folded piece of paper
out to him. He shakes it. Stiles takes the hint and grabs it.
You don't look great, it says.
Stiles looks at it, the scribbled words and what he guesses is supposed to be
kind concern underneath. Somehow, though, in his hypersensitive, sleep-deprived
brain, it comes across as nothing more than an insult.
Stiles crumples the paper up in his hand. He pivots toward Scott, shoots him a
thumbs up, a flat smile, and mouths, "Thanks."
Scott watches his note turn into a wrinkled mess in Stiles’ fist, then leans
over to Stiles’ desk. There’s worry in his eyes, the kind that makes Stiles
want to turn away and jump through the window and out of class and far away
from school, because what does Scott know? How hard has he even tried to figure
out what’s wrong with Stiles? It’s like he’s been keeping his distance from
Stiles for fear of him imploding, overwrought with untapped emotion and
screaming rage and overwhelming, spitting sadness, and now he’s trying to pick
his way into Stiles’ bubble, checking to see if the bomb has gone off yet or if
it’s not yet safe to approach.
Or maybe Stiles’ insomnia is painting the worst of everyone, and not always
accurately.
“Do you want to talk?” Scott whispers.
Stiles’ head is pounding. Scott’s looking at him for answers, and the teacher’s
still talking, some never-ending lecture that has Stiles scratching to get out,
and the pen in his hand feels too heavy, and his entire body is exhausted.
“Right now?” Stiles asks, winding a hand into his hair to rub at his scalp and
try to rub, beg, the ache in his skull away. “No. No, I don’t want to talk
right now. Why? What do you have to say?”
He’s made Scott uncomfortable. The tired, restless pit of anger in Stiles’
stomach is happy about that. The rest just feels unthinkingly sad.
“Just checking to see if you’re okay,” Scott says.
“Checking to see if I’m okay,” Stiles repeats, tapping the pencil’s eraser on
the desk until it’s a fast, agitated rhythm.
“Yeah. You don’t seem—I mean. I’m just asking if something’s wrong. You seem a
little distant lately.”
Stupidly, angrily, selfishly, Stiles wants Scott to keep asking and keep
prodding until it’s all out and then maybe Stiles will feel better, or if
nothing else, he’ll know that Scott cares. The student in front of him has been
arching her head over her shoulder subtly, either listening in or silently
asking them to stop talking in class, and all it does is make Stiles feel all
the more upset.
“And your dad told me maybe it was about, well. What happened last year—”
“Oh, so now my dad is okay with talking?” Stiles snaps, sitting up. He’s so
tired, and he’s so angry, and sitting here in class feels like he’s just
wasting time pretending to be normal, pretending to be okay, just another high
school kid who forgot the homework. “When I try to get him to open up about
bills and about mom and about how I’m falling apart, he’s not interested, but
when you come over, he’s a regular old Chatty Cathy?”
Scott looks instantly alarmed at Stiles’ outburst, eyes wide, but Stiles
doesn’t regret it. He feels like he’s constantly sitting on the edge of a
volcano, just one teeter away from losing it all, and sometimes the lava spews
up and Stiles feels the impending burn of more pain and he can’t keep it all
together anymore, and fuck Scott if he doesn’t get that.
“Are you okay?” Scott asks gently.
If he could, Stiles would slam this desk in half just to make a statement. “No,
I’m not okay! But it’s—it’s not anybody else’s problem,” he says, scrubbing his
hands furiously through his short hair. “And it’s not because of last year, or
I haven’t gotten a good night’s sleep in weeks, or there's a constant pounding
in my head, or I’m tired all the goddamn time. Maybe I’m just fucking
grieving.”
He doesn’t realize that his words are gaining volume until the sharp ring of
his voice hangs in the air after he’s done, shrill and embarrassing. There are
people staring at him—most of the class, actually—and their teacher is frozen
by the blackboard, eyes focused on Stiles. Everybody’s looking at him like his
father has been, like he’s explosive, like one wrong word and he’s bursting.
He waits for the silence to break, for someone to laugh or for the lecture to
continue, but it doesn't. It feels like there's a blinding spotlight right over
Stiles' head, burning a hole into his neck, and all he wants is to slide down
into the floor and melt into the tiles. He's so tired. He's so angry, he's so
sad. He's so embarrassed, and he's feeling all of it all the time. He needs to
go dive off a cliff or bathe in ice, something to snap out of it, something
that'll keep him from exploding in the middle of class at Scott of all people.
Stiles doesn't wait for the stares to gradually fade and heads to turn away; he
seizes his backpack and sprints to the door. He hasn't been paying attention
the entire period, so he's fairly certain that walking out won't have any more
of a consequence on his grade than even staying in class would. He hears the
murmurs following him like buzzing bees, mumbles about what’s wrong with him,
where he’s going, what’s happened to him, and Stiles just wants to plug his
ears and run for the parking lot until he can hunker down in his Jeep and try
to shake off the infernal pounding in his head.
He doesn’t make it quite that far. He rounds the corner out into the hall and
collapses on the ground against a locker, the lock digging into his back as he
hides his head in his knees, the darkness in his curled up body comforting,
like it’s just him, at least for now.
That doesn’t last for long. A pair of footsteps approaches him within the
minute, whoever they belong to unaware that Stiles wants to be alone, that that
show in the classroom wasn’t for attention, it was real, just an explosion
that’s now simmering down into jittery debris. He picks his head up from his
knees, catching sight of a familiar pair of sneakers.
“Scott,” Stiles breathes, glad that if anyone’s come, it’s him. “I’m fine.”
Scott doesn’t believe him, but Stiles didn’t really expect him to; there’s only
so many times he can tell the same lie before somebody starts catching on.
Scott settles down onto the floor next to him, crossing his legs and leaning
against the lockers.
“Are you really?”
Stiles doesn’t want to get into it. If he says no, that’s only the start of the
conversation, a catalyst into a slew of what his problems are, why he’s not
okay, who he’s been letting down, and if he’s having that conversation at all,
he’s not having it here crouching on the floor at school.
“You didn’t have to follow me,” Stiles says to his knees.
“I did. You would’ve followed me.”
He would have. At least, the friend he wants to be, might even remember being,
would’ve. Now, he’s not so sure. Now he’s a mess of his own thoughts, the
vortex he’s spiraling down into, the insanity the fatigue’s driven him to, so
much so that he hasn’t even bothered to ask Scott how he’s doing lately. Where
exactly is the line between taking needed time for yourself and being
inarguably selfish?
“I’m sorry for snapping at you,” Stiles says, rubbing his eyes. They feel so
ridiculously heavy. “I’ve just been so… drained.”
“That’s okay,” Scott tells him instantly. “I know things haven’t been easy with
your mom.” Scott falls silent for a moment, and that second of pause seems to
be full with unspoken pleas like I wish you’d talk to me more and I’m here if
you want to share, things that Stiles knows Scott is being too careful to say
out loud. “I think you need some way to get out your stress.”
Stiles lets out a hollow laugh. He’s found a way, for sure, in the form of
meaningless, rough sex with an emotionless loan shark. At least, that’s what he
wanted it to be. Now it feels like just another load on his heap of ever-
growing problems.
“What do you suggest?”
“I don’t know,” Scott says. “Maybe take a bath. Or take a few walks. Or just
spend some time with yourself relaxing. You look like you need some rest.”
Stiles cradles his temple in his hand. “Yeah, I do.” He thinks about how little
he’s actually slept recently, how he’s gotten nothing but extremely familiar
with every notch in the ceiling over his bed. “I just can’t seem to do it.
Every time I close my eyes, it’s like… I’m back in the hospital. And I can
smell it and hear it again and it’s just—I can’t do it.”
“Stiles,” Scott says, and there it is—that sad lilt of his voice that makes
Stiles want to cry. “Why don’t you spend the night at my house tonight? It
might help.”
“That’s really nice,” Stiles says. He rubs at the bridge of his nose, then
right over his eyebrows where the pain is focused. “But I have this monster of
a headache and I should probably just try and sleep it off.”
“You’re sure?”
Stiles nods. He’s pretty sure it actually would do him some good to hang out
with Scott and take a break from his own overrun brain for a few hours, but
he’s worried that it’ll lead to honesty, and confessions, and next thing Stiles
knows, he’s feeling comfortable enough to think that it’s a good idea to share
what’s been happening and he’s inadvertently dragged Scott down into the dirt
with him. He’s not going to risk it.
“I’ll text you tonight.”
--
Stiles gets home that night with the earnest intention of keeping his promise
of texting Scott. It only takes a couple of minutes for that plan to derail.
He had optimistically brought home a pizza in the hopes that his father would
be here, willing to sit and have dinner and talk with his son, but the house is
empty. The part that’s bothering him is that his father clearly did show up,
only to leave again. The coat closet door is open and the sheriff’s police
jacket is slung over the bannister, and strangest of all, there’s a frame face
down on the dining room table.
“Dad?” Stiles calls out a few times, just in case.
Nobody answers, and when Stiles checks his phone, there’s not a single message
from his dad, something courteous like out grabbing dinner, be back at eight!
or went out with coworkers for drinks, don’t wait up! Something, anything, to
let Stiles know that he hasn’t actually been forgotten. He looks at the empty
house, and the empty house looks back, silent, and Stiles hopes this year of
his life doesn’t give him abandonment issues.
He toes off his sneakers and picks the frame up off the table, flipping it
around to see the photograph inside.
It’s the picture that used to be on the shelf by the dining table, the one of
his mother that Peter picked up not too long ago and admired. It’s always been
one of Stiles’ favorite photographs—how carefree his mother seems, how her hair
is blown behind her in the wind, how young she looks in her yellow sundress.
How happy young Stiles is perched on her hip, held up with one of her arms, how
he’s smiling straight at the camera like he never usually did when he was that
little. The frame is broken, the glass split with a massive series of webbed
cracks stemming out from the center, like someone’s dropped it.
The cracks go straight over them both, distorting the image, making the
photograph seem eerie, broken, sinister. Stiles slams it back down how he found
it, facedown, and blinks away the heat behind his eyes threatening to spill
out. He thinks he can imagine how his father’s evening went down—coming home,
feeling nostalgic and sad and alone, and looking to all he has left of his
wife: her immortalized self smiling but stuck in a picture frame, only to feel
all too much at once.
He runs to the kitchen, hardly thinking, and reaches for the old whiskey bottle
his father thinks he hides well. Stiles doesn’t bother behind discreet about it
as he unscrews the cap and drinks, chugs down gulp after gulp until his throat
is aflame and his teeth hurt and his eyes are burning, until the bottle is
nearly empty. He used to be so careful when he stole from his father’s liquor
stash, feeling like a bandit all the while, wiping free his fingerprints and
taking only as much that he knew wouldn’t arise suspicion from his father, but
it feels different now, almost like a challenge, like if his father can drink
every night to feel better and forget the pain, Stiles can too.
He grabs the scotch after that, swallowing down mouthfuls of it as well. As a
matter of fact, he’d love for his father to realize and confront Stiles, only
because it would give Stiles the chance to confront his father right back, tell
him to his face that he’s setting a bad example and that Stiles needs his dad
and be furiously honest for once in months.
Stiles doesn’t bother to put the bottles back perfectly where he found them,
with the labels pointing in the right angles and the lid screwed on just
tightly enough. He’s sloppy about it, careless, miserable and feeling too much,
so much that he’s not sure his one body alone can hold it all.
He can’t count all his fingers when he’s done. The world rocks about too much,
churning and wobbling underneath him and leaving Stiles even sadder than
before. He sits on the last step of the staircase in the dark when the nausea
settles in through the drunken dizziness, waiting for his father to come home,
waiting for someone to sit by him and hold him close and promise to take care
of him when he throws up in the backyard. When no one comes, Stiles feels
himself get sadder still, emptier, lonelier, suddenly cold and hungry. It
reminds him that he’s supposed to text Scott, that he promised to talk to him
tonight, and for a moment he entertains the idea of asking Scott to come over,
but then Scott would ask why he’s drunk and Stiles would have to tell him, and
he can’t. He can’t go through the same thought process over and over again in
his head until it’s pounded into him how unbearably alone he is, how he has no
one to actually unload on. Be honest with.
Except for Peter. But Peter doesn’t really seem to count, maybe because he’s in
on the secret.
It’s with that thought that Stiles feels the bile push at his throat, his
stomach fiercely protesting, and he barely stumbles into the bathroom in time.
--
Even with the alcohol to help, Stiles can’t sleep, or if he does, it’s in
disorienting waves, fits of sleep that only leave him rolling endlessly on the
mattress, looking for that soft spot that lulls him to slumber or that position
that doesn’t make him feel sick to his stomach after already vomiting twice in
the toilet. He had been hoping it would completely knock him out, leave him
drunken and exhausted and unable to stay upright, and instead he’s nauseous and
emotional and drained of the energy to do anything other than count bumps in
the ceiling.
It feels like a record low. Laying—half drunk, half miserable—in his bed trying
to think of something, anything other than how pathetic he is. It was just a
picture frame with a crack in it. He didn’t have to raid his father’s liquor
cabinet and spend the night not only alone, but alone and plastered.
As far as Stiles knows, his father hasn’t even come home yet. It’s completely
dark outside, only a patch of moonlight visible in the night from his window,
and his father hasn’t even seen fit to text or call. He could be out there
getting murdered by knife-wielding lunatics and Stiles would be the last to
know. Stiles squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to think about that
particular possibility.
Then, eerily quiet, his bedroom door creaks open without any of the usual
telltale squeaks of old carpet forewarning him of somebody outside of his room,
and a tall, dark silhouette of a figure barges inside.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” Stiles goes from staring red-rimmed at the ceiling to
shooting up in bed like a frightened deer. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
He’s flat on the mattress in seconds, pushed onto his back in a matter of
blinks, Peter crouched on top of him. He wastes no time, leaning in with a
noise of raw hunger escaping his throat as he licks up Stiles’ neck, lapping at
the curve of his shoulder, scraping his teeth over the veins there.
“Nice to see you, Stiles.”
Stiles is still trying to calm down his rapid heartbeat. He ask again, “What
the fuck are you doing here?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Peter mutters on his neck. “I’m collecting what’s due to
me.”
He bites down on Stiles’ skin at that, like he’s claiming what’s his, and
Stiles can do little but arch off the bed, hissing at the pain. His leg hitches
up over Peter’s thigh without thought, the rock hard line of Peter’s erection
against his stomach making his heart push against the cage of his ribs.
“How much?” Stiles asks. He can’t imagine there’s much left on his father’s
debt, but he doesn’t know what the exchange rate is on blowjobs and anal sex.
Peter chuckles. The sound is like a vibration through his muscles where Peter’s
mouth is open on his neck. “However much I’d like.”
Stiles’ entire body goes stiff at that, no longer sluggish with sleep,
realizing exactly how little power he has here. It’s all in Peter’s hands,
everything from Stiles’ body to his freedom, and that means he could very well
be twisted around Peter’s thumb for years. And isn’t that what loan sharks do?
Cash in on the extreme interest? What if Stiles is the interest? What if he’s
bound to Peter forever now, stuck in a devil’s bargain?
“What do you want me to do?” Stiles asks, swallowing on a dry throat.
Peter sits up for a second, the pressure of his mouth against Stiles’
collarbone suddenly missing. He’s looking at Stiles like he’s telepathically
reading all of his deepest thoughts, eyebrows furrowed. “Relax.” His hands
smooth up Stiles’ chest, pushing aside his wrinkled night shirt as he goes.
“You’d think I was some sort of…” He seems to consider his words, leaning in.
“…clawed monster.”
Aren’t you? Stiles thinks. He looks at Peter, shrouded in the dark, the sharp
lines of his jaw and wandering hands catching onto rays of moonlight, and
wonders if this is what a monster is, if this is what temptation is, wanting
something from someone you shouldn’t.
In a snap movement, Stiles props himself up on his elbows, ready to stare Peter
down. He’s not submitting. Not this time. There’s something in him roaring,
demanding him to even the scales, give as good as he’s getting, hang onto the
power he’s losing, losing, watching slip away.
“How many others are there?” he asks. “People who can't pay so you just seduce
their offspring. Boys like me who give you whatever you want.”
Peter pushes him back down to the bed again, Stiles' elbows slipping out from
underneath himself. The movement seems effortless for Peter. “No one.”
“No—no one?”
Peter nudges his shirt high enough to lick over his left nipple, drawing it
into his mouth and sucking viciously until Stiles is gasping. “Trust me,
Stiles,” he says on his skin, his breath hot on his chest. “If there were other
boys, I would be too concentrated on," he stops to bite down on Stiles' skin,
"this body of yours," another sharp nip, "to notice them."
"I'm flattered," Stiles says dryly even as his body stutters up into Peter's
touch. It's like he doesn't know how to be soft, how to be kind, but maybe
that's not even what Stiles wants. Everyone's been coddling him since the
funeral, even Scott's been treating him like fragile glass, and it's almost
refreshing to have someone treat him like he's a statue, something strong and
sturdy that can handle roughness just fine.
"You should be," Peter murmurs. "Now turn around."
Stiles does it. He wonders if he'll be fucked again, and if this time, he'll
have to bite into a pillow to keep his father from hearing. He's prepared this
time, mentally and physically, and he slides his knees underneath his chest and
arches his ass upward to satisfy. That's another part of himself he's learning
about—he likes to please, to feel the burn of praise in his cheeks while
someone peppers him with quiet adulation.
Turns out he's wrong. All it takes is his boxers to be tugged away and one hot
stripe to be licked up his opening for Stiles to realize that Peter has other
plans for him tonight, plans that might not even end in Peter coming himself,
like watching Stiles plead for more and grip the sheets and curl his toes is
enough. Peter's tongue, warm and wet and absolutely amazing, flicks over his
hole again.
"Holy shitballs," Stiles breathes out.
"Told you I wanted to do this you," Peter says, close enough to Stiles' hole
that every word puffs out over his skin, pulling shudders from his muscles.
Peter's hands palm his ass, spreading the cheeks, and his tongue flattens over
his entrance again, slowly sucking, and Jesus Christ, this is Stiles' death.
"Have you under me. Writhing. Tasting you. Hearing you whimper."
Whimper, he does, completely unable to hold it in. He pushes back into the
slickness of Peter's tongue, a heavy groan falling off his tongue, which ends
with Peter drawing back and no, no, no, no, the tongue on his ass was good.
He looks over his shoulder, watching as Peter squeezes his ass cheeks,
massaging them, teasing him. "What gives?" he asks.
"Daddy's home and down the hall," Peter says. "You better stay quiet."
God, how wrong is it that Stiles finds this unbelievably hot. He turns back
around and fastens his mouth over his pillowcase to stay as silent as he can.
This is nice, he has to say, being pleasured by Peter and essentially earning
money as he does so—not that he's going down that road where he starts thinking
of himself as a prostitute—and being able to lean back while Peter eats him
out. It does make Stiles wonder what Peter's getting from this, and if it
really is enough of a reward for him just to see Stiles' body sweat and beg for
him.
Peter’s tongue descends back down onto Stiles' hole before he can question it
further, Peter’s finesse quickly making way for his eagerness. His measured,
meticulously controlled licks turn into unabashed lapping at Stiles' hole,
spreading him open, tasting him, sliding in and out at a pace that's almost
harsh.
Stiles tries his hardest to both revel in the fact that there's a tongue
fucking him right now and try and rein in any sprints to the finish his body is
headed towards. He wants this to last, he wants to stuff a pillow in his mouth
for hours just to keep the noises at bay while someone leisurely eats him out,
and Peter definitely has the skill to keep it interesting even if he were to
keep it up for twenty four hours straight. Then with a particularly wet hot
lick over the puckered muscle of his opening, Stiles inadvertently lets the
pillow slip and moans deep in his throat.
Out of nowhere, Peter's hand smacks down on his left ass cheek, leaving him
gasping. "I told you to be silent," Peter murmurs, his fingers kneading over
the skin still tingling from his slap. "Behave."
Stiles nods, practically incoherent at all the sensations bombarding him. He's
never been touched so many places before, stimulated so intensely, and Stiles
can't deny that feeling Peter's palm smack down on his ass felt almost...
thrilling. He stokes the fire, easing his ass into the air.
"What if I just can't keep quiet?"
He sneaks a glance over his shoulder. Peter's smirking at him like he
recognizes a challenge when he sees one.
"I could always occupy that mouth with other endeavors," he says, one hand
still absently running over the back of Stiles' thigh. "Although I really would
like to keep fucking you with my tongue. Maybe ease a finger in there too." As
if presenting Stiles with a preview, his hand slips closer to Stiles' hole, his
thumb rubbing over the wetness his mouth has left behind. "So maybe you'd just
like to be punished."
Stiles doesn't protest. Fine, maybe this isn't the healthiest of outlets, and
fine, maybe he ought to deal with his grief and his lost virginity and all his
other shit before he focuses on exactly what turns him on when a diabolically
attractive man hell bent on pushing him toward orgasm so hard he'll probably be
sobbing when he comes, but Stiles decides that living in the moment might be
the only philosophy his brain can handle at this point. He tilts his ass
higher, listening carefully to the way Peter makes a noise of strangled want,
right before his hand comes down on his ass again, this time the other cheek.
Yes, Stiles definitely doesn't mind that.
Peter doesn't pander about catering to Stiles' kink exploration, however. He
has a goal, which is clearly to send Stiles to the brink of insanity, as he
spreads Stiles' ass again and leans in to suck on the furled muscle of his
hole, his tongue flicking out occasionally to breach him. Stiles goes back to
hiding his groans in his pillow, entirely aware even in the intoxicated haze of
his arousal that this isn't a moment he wants his father interrupting because
he's being too vocal with his pleasure. The cotton goes damp in his mouth
quickly, eyes fluttering closed as Peter stays true to his word and slides a
finger in next to his mouth, licking around the intrusion.
"Come on," Stiles musters out, grabbing the edges of the mattress just to keep
his head above water. "More."
He pushes back against Peter's finger, hissing at the stretch, but he wants
more, wants to feel the way two of Peter's feel inside of him, wants to hear
Peter's ragged breathing at the sight of Stiles' hole swallowing his digits.
"So needy," Peter says, but he sounds almost impressed. His mouth moves up the
curve of Stiles' ass, briefly biting down over the knob of his spine. "Can you
come with your cock untouched?"
"Fuck," Stiles moans. “I’m game.”
“Good boy,” Peter says, and fuck, Peter needs to watch what he says with his
mouth or all it’ll take is one stutter of his hips against the mattress and
Stiles will be spent.
Peter doesn’t take the challenge to make Stiles come lightly. Suddenly there’s
a hot, slick mouth back on his hole, wetting the way for another intrusion, and
Stiles lets instinct take over as he pivots his hips upward and arches his back
and moans, uncaring of the pillowcase he’s supposed to be using to muffle the
noises. He doesn’t get any quieter when Peter’s second finger slips in, wasting
no time crooking up and yes, there, fuck, god yes—
His cry reaches a pitch when Peter’s teeth bite down on his lower back right
where his ass curves, hard enough to hurt, hard enough to sting.
“Stiles,” Peter rumbles against the bite, flicking his tongue over the spot
before grazing his teeth back over the reddened skin, a silent warning. “Be
good.”
“Yes, sir,” Stiles says, tucking his tongue against the roof of his mouth to
try and stay silent. He rocks back into the fingers still inside him, his
entire body clenching against the bedding and needing more, thoughtlessly,
desperately crazy for Peter to keep going.
“Good,” Peter says, the words rolling through Stiles’ flesh and causing his
hips to jerk forward in blind arousal. “I know you want to let loose, and trust
me, Stiles, I’d love to hear you.” He punctuates this with a throaty groan
against Stiles’ skin right before his fingers push into him again, harder than
before, twisting. “Groaning for me, whimpering, shaking, begging me to fuck
you…”
Yes, Stiles thinks. His entire body is straining under the pleasure as Peter’s
fingers pick up the pace, sliding from smooth, slick thrusts into something
wilder, harsher, fiercer. He’d do all of that if he could, his mind nothing but
a broken litany of fuck me, fuck me, dear god, fuck me, Stiles’ body aching to
recreate the feeling by hitching his hips into Peter’s fingers to ignite the
heavy, hot bursts of pleasure coursing through him, muscles spasming and legs
flexing with every touch.
“And I’ll make it happen,” Peter promises, his voice dark. “Spread you out and
fuck you somewhere where you can be as loud as you want, but for now…” He
spears his fingers back into Stiles, and suddenly there’s a third, slipping in
alongside the other two and making Stiles’ world sway like a buoy in the ocean.
“Please,” Stiles hisses, voice low, not even sure what he’s begging for. He
sucks in a breath when Peter’s tongue traces the intrusion of his fingers
again, flicking over the edges of Stiles’ stretched entrance. “Peter.”
Even whispered, the hoarse way Stiles is moaning his name seems to be spurring
Peter on. Peter’s cheek brushes against the sensitive skin by Stiles’ hole, the
barest of stubble forcing him to sink his teeth into his much-abused pillowcase
again. Peter’s fingers are relentless, hard and slick where they’re pushing
into Stiles, rubbing against his prostate, his cock leaking with every
particularly focused push right against it.
“The way you look while you’re being fingered,” Peter’s murmuring, sounding so
heady that it almost sounds like he’s the one being fingered into oblivion.
“You’re so needy. It’s… riveting.”
Peter stops talking, using his mouth to lick around the stretch of Stiles’
hole, nipping gently into the sensitive skin there. Stiles’ entire body burns
under the intensity of Peter’s voice, the fact that he’s looking at Stiles’
entrance, watching the way his fingers slide in and out easily . He’s burning
everywhere, his body, his cheeks, his midsection, and Stiles knows he’s close.
His hips stutter.
“It’s embarrassing,” Stiles says into the pillow.
“Riveting,” Peter repeats firmly, words hot on Stiles’ skin.
Then Peter’s fingers all slide out only to sink back in, and Stiles’ brain goes
back to chanting fuck me, fuck me endlessly. He has half a mind to twist around
and demand that Peter do so, pull his fingers free and replace them with his
dick, make Stiles grab the headboard and be fucked, hard, heavy, rough all
around, which is crazy—it wasn’t even that long ago when Stiles was still sore,
still carrying around souvenirs from the last time Peter fucked him, but here
he is panting for it again—
"I can't take it anymore," Stiles hisses, rutting against the mattress, every
part of him shuddering from the sensations. "Fuck, I have to come—I have
to—Peter, say I can."
"You can," Peter says, and he voice has gotten deeper, almost primal, almost
animalistic.
It’s like Peter's permission has flipped a switch, Stiles only needing two more
rough pushes of Peter's fingers before he's coming, biting onto his lower lip
hard enough to break skin as his orgasm ripples through him, and yes, god yes,
everything doesn’t hurt for a solid three seconds. After that, it's like
anesthesia is trickled through his bloodstream, like he's waking up from
surgery hardly aware of where up or down is, completely lost on the details
from just a few seconds ago.
Then it creeps in like always. The afterglow, complete with shame. The
unavoidable recollection of the horrible reality he still has to face around
him. The fact that his come is on his sheets and Peter’s saliva is still damp
on his ass. The fact that he wanted all of it.
He’s jerked away from his thoughts when Peter’s mouth descends on his back,
trailing suckling kisses up the knobs of his spine, occasionally stopping to
lick Stiles clean along the way. It’s surprisingly erotic, the slow, hot drag
of Peter’s tongue up and down his skin, which, considering that he’s just come
fairly hard, is impressive, and Stiles unconsciously arches up into the
touches, away from the mess of his release under his stomach.
“You don’t have to be so embarrassed, Stiles,” Peter murmurs on his back. “It’s
okay to enjoy sex.”
“I enjoy sex,” Stiles mutters into the pillow. “I’m embarrassed about you.”
“Is that so?” Peter seems to be amused up until he sinks his teeth into the
small of Stiles’ back, nearly breaking the skin. Stiles jolts, twisting around.
“Why do you keep biting me?” Stiles demands, curling his arm behind himself to
touch the hurt where Peter’s teeth just gripped him.
“I just can’t help myself, obviously,” Peter says. “Come here.”
He hauls Stiles closer by the neck, Stiles nearly tumbling straight into his
lap with the force of his strength, and then there’s a parted mouth pushed
against his, pulling at Stiles’ bottom lip with teeth, urging him to kiss back.
Stiles does almost as if by instinct, but it takes a second for him to catch
up—Peter’s kissing like he’s still inches away from coming, with that fervent,
pent-up ferociousness, the kind that could almost rev Stiles up for round two.
Peter’s hands are everywhere in seconds, gripping his waist, soaring over the
dips in his spine, briefly flitting over his still wet hole, causing Stiles to
jump and gasp away from Peter’s lips, but Peter doesn’t miss a beat, greedily
turning to Stiles neck to lick over the vein by his jugular.
It winds down after a few more moments of frenzied, almost staggering kisses,
Peter’s fervent touches turning into softer swipes, gentler bites. Stiles’
entire body is wracked with trembles by the time Peter’s done, pulling away
with a deliciously swollen mouth and hooded eyes. Then he grins, and Stiles
wants to keep kissing him, tug him down onto the mattress and pick up where his
body left off, demanding to be fucked, and actually thinks about doing so.
“There we go,” Peter murmurs, thumb brushing over Stiles’ hairline, smoothing
back sweaty strands. “Better.”
Stiles is still registering that he’s not being thoroughly made out with
anymore. His eyes flutter open. “What?”
“Just waiting for that overbearing cloud of shame to lift,” Peter says, then
kisses the corner of Stiles’ mouth, tongue flicking out to trace his lower lip.
He pulls back just as Stiles chases his mouth, almost ready to get hard again.
“It’s a real mood killer, Stiles.”
Stiles is aware enough to understand that he’s being burned. “Fuck you,” he
says, pushing at Peter’s chest. All he manages to do is shove himself back onto
the mattress, sheets damp underneath him. It makes Stiles notice his naked legs
and exposed dick while he's still wearing socks and his sleep tee, and there's
Peter, still fully clothed. "Aren't you going to come too?"
"Excuse me?"
"Aren't going to fuck me?" Stiles asks, and he hates that there's a lilt in his
voice makes him sound almost hopeful, pleading.
“Such filthy language," Peter tsks. "What would your father think if he
overheard you?"
"I think my father would have much more to say about the man in my bed."
Peter chuckles. He seems to be all too amused to have his snark matched by
Stiles' comebacks instead of Stiles cowering away from his sharp tone of voice,
and he leans in closer, tipping aside Stiles' knees to nestle between his
thighs.
"And what," Peter purrs, "would he say about me making you come twice in under
an hour?"
The denim of Peter's jeans brushes against Stiles' length, the cold of the
zipper making him inhale sharply. How can he already be getting hard? Is he
that much of an insatiable teenager?
"He would have you beheaded."
"Would he?" Peter asks, sounding gleeful. Suddenly his hand is snaking down to
Stiles' thigh, palming his growing erection. "I suppose I'm lucky that he's not
here then."
"Very," Stiles agrees. He can imagine how the door would creak open and his
father's face would appear in the shadows, the shocked gasp echoing through
Stiles' brain, how quickly everything would go wrong—and then Peter's hand
squeezes his cock and all he can think is just fuck me already, but he refuses
to say it out loud and give Peter the pleasure.
Peter doesn’t seem to want to hear anything from him anyway, because he pushes
Stiles’ knees apart to lean in and kiss him, wet and slow. Stiles’ hand curls
over his forearm and he kisses back without thinking, acting only on the
impulse that tells him to meet the tongue licking over his lower lip.
Apparently Peter kissing him like they have all the time in the world is all
that it takes for Stiles’ cock to go from gaining interest to completely alert,
especially when Peter draws Stiles’ lip into his mouth and bites down. It
startles Stiles how much he actually likes kissing Peter, how much he enjoys
slowing down for a second to drag their tongues together.
"I'll be honest, I really only came to hear that pretty mouth beg for me,"
Peter confesses when he pulls back from Stiles’ swollen lips, then abruptly
runs a hand down Stiles' thigh and slips two fingers back inside him, making
Stiles' entire body shake. "But since you're already so nice and open for
me..."
"Fuck," Stiles breathes out between his teeth, lifting his knees for Peter's
fingers to slip deeper despite himself, despite his pride to appear as
unaffected as possible.
"What if I fuck you? Would you like that, Stiles? I think you would."
"Hnn."
Peter's free hand seizes the underside of Stiles' knee, blunt fingernails
scratching into the skin, demanding confirmation. Stiles doesn't want to give
him the satisfaction of telling him just how badly he wants it, how he wants to
be suspended in that haze of sex just a little longer, feel the pain and the
pleasure blend together and pull him away from the world around him, feel Peter
fuck him unyieldingly.
"Give me an answer or I won't do it, Stiles."
Fuck him, fuck him so goddamn much, how the hell is there someone out there who
Stiles can fantasize about sucking off and kneeing in the balls simultaneously?
A second later Peter's fingers slip out of him, leaving him that much emptier,
that much hungrier, and Stiles doesn't want to play this game with Peter but he
isn't exactly in a position to make decisions when his hardening cock is
already making demands again. He reaches out with a desperate hand, grabbing a
fistful of Peter's smooth shirt, one fleeting part of him almost wanting his
father to appear just to stop him from doing something so irreparably stupid.
"Fuck me," Stiles demands. "I want you to fuck me, dammit."
Peter seems to regard him as if considering whether or not to help Stiles or
not with a tedious chore, and Stiles is one second away from reaching for
Peter's pants and unbuckling them himself when—
"One condition," Peter murmurs, leaning across the bed to reach Stiles'
nightstand and pull a drawer open. It's full of comic books—or at least, the
comic books are a good decoy for what's underneath, Peter flicking them aside
to reveal the bottle of lube Stiles has well hidden, so well hidden that the
only way Peter could've known is if he had looked around, searched through
Stiles' room. He pushes the tube onto Stiles' chest. "I get to watch you finger
yourself."
"You get off on watching other people feel humiliated?"
Peter cuts Stiles off with a hard kiss, his tongue briefly stroking Stiles'. "I
get off on watching you prepare yourself so I can fuck you," he whispers onto
his lips.
“Pervert,” Stiles whispers back, but he grabs the lube anyway, his arousal too
heavy to say no.
Stiles screws the tube open. He's hardly used it, bought it on a whim of
curiosity only to be stuffed into his nightstand under a stack of inconspicuous
comics in shame. He had only felt brave enough to use it one night months ago,
and even then, it was hardly a fingertip, and no one was watching, a scenario
completely reversed from the way Peter's eyes are following his every movement
now, an audience to a show Stiles has never put on before. His entire body is
warm, hot with embarrassment, but his muscles are slightly looser having
already come once tonight, giving him the extra push of thoughtless confidence
to fucking go for it.
He slicks a finger up—then two considering how easily Peter's just worked into
him—and tries to remind himself that if Peter's eaten him out, he can watch him
finger himself.
"Come on, Stiles," Peter coaxes. "Let me see you."
Stiles whimpers, a combination of the words and the shame, the self-
consciousness crawling up his neck like needlepoints, but obeys and spreads his
legs, sliding down on the bed far enough to give Peter the view he wants. He
hears Peter hum approvingly and turns his face away, the blush burning his
cheeks, and he slips a shaking hand lower and lower until he's closing his eyes
and pushing a single finger inside himself, the sensation similar and yet so
different from how it felt to have Peter fingering him, the size and the
roughness unmatched. The lube eases the way, making it easy to slide inside
another finger and start up a rhythm, wrist straining to try and reach the same
spot Peter could.
"That's it," Peter sighs, his hand curling around Stiles' ankle. "Perfect,
Stiles."
Stiles doesn't know what he's referring to—the view, his fingering skills,
him—but it coats his cheek with a fresh layer of redness, reminding him of the
fact that he's not alone, and that someone's watching him fuck himself on his
fingers, and that any moment someone's cock is going to be replacing them, and
Jesus Christ, Stiles can't hold back the moan at that thought. He slides his
fingers free in time to slick up a third finger, sinking them all in to the
knuckle and groaning at the fullness even though it still isn't enough, hips
convulsing and pushing forward.
His arm hurts fast, the angle all wrong and his wrist twisted just to try and
push his fingers up inside himself. It’s good, but it’s not good enough, not
like it would be if Peter was touching him and fucking him and biting marks
onto his skin all at once, and Stiles whines at how needy he feels, how
desperately he wants Peter to drag Stiles’ hand away and line up his cock with
his entrance.
"Peter," he bites out, thighs shaking. "I need—you have to fuck me."
"Oh, do I?"
"Peter," Stiles gasps, hating that he's begging, hating that he'd beg more if
he had to. He spears his fingers in and out, aching for more, twisting at the
knuckles.
"Shhh," Peter says, silencing Stiles with a sharp bite to his shoulder, and
then he's finally, finally, pulling off his shirt and sliding his buckle off,
undressing to the point where Stiles thinks this show might actually make it on
the road. “That’s enough.”
He shouldn't want this so much, Stiles knows this. It's one thing to rely on
sex for an escape, letting orgasms sweep aside the worry, but this isn't fast
and easy sex, it's teasing and playing and making everything so much hotter and
fiercer and harder than it even needs to be. It's one thing for Peter to enjoy
himself here, but for Stiles to be literally sobbing with need—
"Stop," Peter's saying, tugging at Stiles' wrist to pull his fingers free of
his hole. "Incorrigible."
Stiles realizes in a heartbeat that Peter's naked now, chest dappled with dark
hair and heaving, slightly defined muscles, hips broad and cock curling toward
his stomach so nicely that Stiles very nearly feels his mouth water. He's
pushed to his back in an instant, Peter managing to manhandle him away from the
wet spot he came on not too long ago, and Peter's slicking up his length with
Stiles' lube, no longer tucked away to be rarely acknowledged.
"You're the one who wanted to see me finger myself, you filthy old bastard—oh."
Stiles never gets the chance to finish his insult, Peter pushing up Stiles’
knees and lining up his member and sliding into Stiles all in a matter of
blink-and-you-miss-it seconds, pulling all logic and vocabulary out of his
head. It wasn't even that long ago when Peter had Stiles bent over the table
downstairs fucking him for the first time and yet somehow, unexplainably, this
time's even better, forcing Stiles to muffle his moans by holding his palm over
his mouth. Peter doesn't waste time with gentle words and slow rocking, going
from zero to one hundred with the way he slams his hips into Stiles, demanding
to be felt, demanding to be revered.
“Talk to me,” Peter demands, thrusting in and biting the side of Stiles’ leg
where it’s hitched up, the sensitive skin right by his knee, and Stiles nearly
breaks skin digging his teeth into his palm to keep quiet. “Tell me how it
feels to take it so well.”
“Shut up,” Stiles gasps out, hardly able to push any other coherent words
together.
His back feels raw where it keeps rubbing over the bedsheets with every push of
Peter’s cock into him, and his hands are shaking, and then Peter’s grabbing
Stiles’ length in his hand to pump in time with his hips and things start
spiraling out of Stiles’ realm of control. He should be embarrassed, really,
because he’s about to come twice in so little time, but his body doesn’t have
the capacity to hold his humiliation right now, not when it’s already brimming
with heat and passion and a building second orgasm. Peter licks a slow, sordid
stripe up his neck that has Stiles moaning straight from his throat.
“So tight for me,” Peter growls on his jaw, and when he pulls back, Stiles
realizes for the first time that they’re fucking while facing, the sight of
Peter’s glazed eyes and bitten lower lip unbelievably overwhelming. Stiles
reaches out without thinking, thumb sliding over the corner of Peter’s mouth,
and for a split second he could swear that Peter’s eyes light up—
“Fuck,” Stiles groans, because the flicker in his eyes is gone and suddenly
Peter’s pounding into him that much harder, hitting his prostate, gripping his
hips, right there, oh god yes, holy shit. “Peter.”
It’s almost unexpected when Peter comes and Stiles feels the warmth of him
spilling inside of him, everything halted for a mighty second where Peter’s
entire body shudders and stops, Stiles caught in the same wave of frozen
pleasure he is like they’re momentarily connected through magical sexual
telepathy, and Stiles is about to keen and beg for Peter to keep going, but
then Peter’s slipping out of him and sliding down his body to swallow down his
cock without a shred of warning, Stiles’ body going straight back to racing at
two hundred miles per hour.
He tries to stay quiet, to keep in all the unabashed moans he knows Peter is
tugging from him, but it’s nearly too hard a task. He pushes his hips up into
Peter’s mouth, hands scrambling on the sheets, Peter’s tongue warm and wet and
perfect, and he supposes that’s one way to avoid washing his sheets, Peter just
fucking swallowing the evidence. He looks down at how Peter’s crouched between
his legs, sucking Stiles’ cock like he was built to have it in his mouth, and
then Stiles is absolutely blindsided with his own orgasm like there’s a punch
slamming straight into his gut.
It’s very, very quiet after. Peter’s still licking over the head of Stiles’
dick, teasing, and Stiles pushes him away when it’s too much, grabbing Peter by
the shoulders to keep him still. He listens for the slightest of noises—a set
of footsteps from down the hall, his father clearing his throat through the
wall, the creak of the carpet right by Stiles’ door. Everything is blissfully,
thankfully quiet.
“He’s asleep,” Peter murmurs on Stiles’ thigh, licking the skin there, and
fuck, his voice sounds a little bit hoarser than before and Stiles wants to
drink a couple more swigs of scotch.
Scotch. Right. Even just the thought of the taste shoves a tornado of nausea up
his throat, reminding him of how terrible it felt to be arched over the toilet
in the bathroom throwing up just a few hours ago, so no, no drinking for him
for at least three decades. He feels sticky and sore and all he really wants
now is a cool glass a water and to be left alone.
Stiles pushes at Peter’s shoulders until he stops running his tongue up Stiles’
thigh. “Stop,” he says. “Twice in one night is enough.”
Peter retreats from Stiles’ legs, sitting up. “Well, I only came once.”
“Right,” Stiles mutters, scrubbing his hands over his face. “See. Knew you
wanted to come.”
Peter looks at him like he’s descended from another planet. “Are you actually
grumpy right now?” he asks. “You realize I just sucked your dick, yes, Stiles?”
"I'm not grumpy. I'm just saying, I was right." Stiles arches over the bed,
struggling to reach his boxers. Even in the darkness, even after just having
Peter's tongue in his ass, he's not comfortable laying naked in front of Peter,
in the wetness of his own come, no less. "You came to milk me for what I'm
worth. Or what my dad's worth, really. And of course that includes you getting
off."
Peter grabs Stiles roughly by the jaw, forcing Stiles to look at him. "For
god's sake," he murmurs, exasperated. "I came because you asked me to."
Stiles pushes his fingers off his chin. "What?"
"You texted me," Peter says, enunciating with bared teeth. "Asking—begging,
really—me to show up and distract you."
"I didn't."
Then Peter does what Stiles really wishes he wouldn't, which is bring evidence
to light. He fishes his phone out of his discarded jeans, navigating his way to
the proof, a text that he holds in Stiles' face. The bright light of the screen
is a shock to his eyes, Stiles squinting at the message in front of him.
come over. no1s home. lonely n want a distraxtion.
"That wasn't me," Stiles says, even as he sees, clear as day, his name on the
screen proving him wrong. He tries to figure out what the priority for his
hands is: sliding his boxers on or covering his face to hide his humiliation
and ends up going for a compromise, finagling his underwear on with one hand
while he covers his face with his other forearm. "I was drunk."
"I realized. Scotch. Chivas Regal, wasn't it?” Peter asks. Stiles shifts his
arm just enough to peek out with his left eye. The look on his face must be
inquisitive enough that Peter continues. "It has a very distinct flavor."
Stiles frowns, dragging his arm away from his face. "I threw it up."
Peter chuckles dryly. "It lingers."
Stiles doesn't want to sit here covered in his crusting come talking about how
prevalent the taste of alcohol is under both vomit and toothpaste. No matter
how hard Peter complains about it, Stiles can't help it, how the shame comes
crawling over his body like an itchy blanket. Nothing about this is tasteful or
elegant or worthy of pride, the only thing missing being the seedy motel. His
ass is already sore and his head is already starting to ache with the budding
of a hangover and now, to top it all off, he's properly mortified over having
sent a booty call text to Peter while drunk. He heaves a sigh.
"Sorry about texting you. It won't happen again." He'll put his phone on
fucking child lock before he lets himself raid his father's liquor cabinet
again.
"Oh, I didn't mind," Peter murmurs. "It was a nice night." His hand curls over
Stiles' temple, sliding into his hair. "Didn't you have fun?"
Stiles thinks about the broken frame and the hard liquor, about feeling broken
himself sitting on that step.
"It was all right."
Peter doesn't say anything for a couple moments, his fingers wordlessly carding
through the short hair by Stiles' ear. Then, "Next time you're drowning in
sadness, let me know before you get trashed."
Drowning in sadness. He was fine, he wasn't drowning in anything, he was
staying perfectly afloat. He looks at the wall, unwilling to let Peter see his
eyes and call his bluff if he denies drinking himself into a stupor to try his
father's coping method on for size.
"Why's that?" Stiles asks. “You want to hang out? Have me dump my troubles on
you? Cheer me up?”
Peter’s eyebrows furrow together. “No,” he says. “I was going to say that I
have better booze.”
“Right,” Stiles says, letting out a deprecating bark of laughter and closing
his eyes. “You can go now.”
“You sure?”
Stiles opens one eye. It might be nice to have someone slipped in next to him
in bed, a warm weight to hold onto or at least just know is there, a comforting
presence, like a flashlight in the closet, but Stiles has the distinct
suspicion that Peter isn’t the best contender for the position of late-night
snuggler. He nods.
“I’m sure,” he says. “Get out.”
“Suit yourself,” Peter says, shrugging, and the next time Stiles opens his
eyes, Peter’s gone.
***** Chapter 4 *****
Chapter Notes
     I'm way, way, way behind on replying to comments but I still want to
     thank you guys for taking time out of your days to send me the most
     adorable comments. I always get super excited when I see them come
     in.
     The ride gets a little rockier this chapter. There's also a bit in
     the middle that takes place in a restaurant that was shamelessly
     inspired by Leverage's episode "The Bottle Job" which, every single
     time I saw it in the past few months, encouraged me to keep writing
     this story. (If you haven't seen the show yet and like awesome OT5s
     and ass-kicking, do yourself a favor and give it a whirl.)
The first time Stiles figured out that his father was involved in something he
shouldn't be was long before the billing statements came into his hands. There
was a moment, only a few weeks after the funeral, when in a chance of being in
the right place at the right time—or perhaps the wrong place at the wrong
time—Stiles overheard a phone call that definitely wasn't the average call to
grandma.
His father's voice was low, hushed, urgent and worried. Stiles heard most of it
through a door, some of the words inaudible, but enough of them reaching his
ears for him to realize that there was something wrong.
He caught onto words like loan and interest and just a little bit longer. It
almost sounded like begging. Stiles was used to his father speaking with
authority, speaking as a cop, as someone in charge of a situation, but here he
was pleading and desperate, and it chilled Stiles like ice cubes poured down
his back. He didn’t have his father’s police instincts, but he knew when
something was bad, when there was something brewing to be wary of.
So he kept listening. He already knew how to be as light as possible on his
feet, how to crouch around corners and listen in to conversations Stiles knew
he wasn’t supposed to be hearing. He found a way to figure out all of the
things his father was trying to hide from him. He learned how to fish bill
statements out of the trash and how to eavesdrop on calls until it was easy for
him, nearly second nature, to snoop around his father.
Months later, Stiles hasn't outgrown the habit.
He's curled around the corner of a wall, holding in his breaths to be as quiet
as possible, peeking around the wall to see if the door on the other side of it
is closed or gently ajar. It's closed, but the wood is thin enough that Stiles
can make out bits and pieces if he strains his ear.
"—have it soon."
Stiles flattens himself against the wall, pressing his ear closer.
“Next Monday. I won't have it all, but—” he stops, as if interrupted. “Soon.”
Stiles holds his breath. It's not a matter of guess work anymore as to who's on
the phone—it's either Peter or someone working directly with him, checking up
on the money due to be heading their way, and Stiles can only cross his fingers
that his name doesn't casually come up in the conversation, a random insert of
your son's really been busy lately, hasn't he? to send the cards toppling.
“How did that happen? I thought it was—” His father stops mid-sentence again,
only to hastily begin again. "I'm not saying I want it to be more, I just
wasn't expecting the generosity."
Oh god, oh shit. Fuck, this is when it all comes to light, and Stiles should've
known that he couldn't keep this hidden under his fingernails for long. What is
he going to tell his father? What is his father going to think of him? Will he
be too disgusted to look him in the eye, will he be ashamed, repulsed,
horrified by Stiles?
"Well, if it wasn't generosity, what was it?"
Stiles squeezes his eyes shut. A litany of please, please, please, don't let
him know, don't tell him, please, chants through his brain like a prayer.
"Fine. I won't question it."
Peter had said that he didn’t work alone, hadn’t he? Maybe his father’s talking
to one of the others, someone who doesn’t know all the details whether they
wanted to give them out or not. He hears his father murmur something, but he’s
too far away to make it out, so he sucks in a breath and rounds the corner,
crouching closer to the door.
“—soon,” his father’s saying again, more firmly this time. “Yes, I’ll have it.”
Stiles slides closer still, desperate to hear anything else, something that
makes it clear that his secret’s been uncovered. It would be so easy, and hell,
Peter would probably love it, the idea of letting a few choice words slip out
while he’s on the phone with Stiles’ father and letting him connect the dots
for himself. Stiles hasn’t worked out yet how he’ll handle this if his father
stumbles over it, he hasn’t even worked out yet how it would sound if he told
him himself, how to be as tactful as possible. Is there even a good way here?
Is there no difference at all from hearing from a stranger that your son’s body
is essentially up for sale versus hearing it from said son himself?
Suddenly the door's flying open and his father is there, abruptly frozen when
he sees Stiles leaning silently against the wall. "Stiles," he says. "What are
you doing?"
"I was, uh. Looking for you." Stiles goes for nonchalant. It’s scary how second
nature this is becoming, staring his father in the face and lying. "Who was
that on the phone?"
“Oh. It was just… someone at work. Looks like I’ll be picking up some extra
shifts.” Apparently, his father is getting good at it too.
“How come? Are we short on money? I thought you said—”
“No,” the sheriff says instantly. Stiles wants to grab him by the forearms and
shake him and tell him he knows, he’s taking care of it, please stay home and
rest, but he doesn’t know how. “There’s just a couple guys who are out sick and
they need some people to fill in for them. Don’t worry about it, Stiles.”
“I—I always do, dad,” Stiles says just as his father brushes by him. He tries
to laugh, doing his best to not seem like his entire body is close to
overflowing with it all—being lied to, having to lie. “That’s what I’m supposed
to do.”
His father shakes his head instantly. “No, Stiles. I’m supposed to worry about
you. Not the other way around.”
"I mean, that's nice and all, but we're a team," Stiles says, then takes a leap
of faith. "Mom would've wanted us to stick together."
Even using her name is a risk—Stiles knows how it affects himself, he has no
idea how violently it affects his father—and it's a risk he probably shouldn't
have taken when he sees his father's entire frame droop with misery. Stiles
wants to grab him and shout me too! so they can at least commiserate about the
misery, be sad together, but his mouth isn't saying the words he wants it to.
It isn't opening at all.
"Don't worry about the money, Stiles," his father says, a note of finality in
his voice, that that's the end of that. "We're fine."
They're not, and Stiles knows that, and his father probably knows it as well,
but they're both too busy bothering with the eggshells under their feet to
actually speak up. He remembers all the days he would sit and talk with his
father, endlessly, for hours, about inane things like police work and where the
best pizzas in town were and what they were going to get Stiles' mother for her
birthday, and at the time, Stiles had no idea that they were novelty items he
was supposed to be cherishing, rare occurrences to value like once-in-a-
lifetime gems. He misses that version of his father more than ever, how he
laughed, how he shared, how he always had a solution to whatever Stiles had
warped into a problem.
Now they both have problems, and Stiles doesn’t think either of them are really
paying attention.
--
Stiles goes out with Scott for dinner as an apology for forgetting to follow up
on his promise of texting him after his night of too much alcohol and too many
bad choices. It doesn’t exactly feel like a good night for going out—he has a
headache and what feels like the ticklings of a budding cold under his skin—but
Stiles feels he owes Scott an evening together after all of his purposeful
neglecting.
It might even feel like a normal night out if Stiles wasn’t so hyper-
consciously aware of how he’s behaving and if he seems like himself, or at
least enough of himself to not arise any suspicion on Scott’s part. Ever since
his outbursts in the middle of class, he knows that Scott can’t be completely
oblivious to what he’s going through, which is just another reminder for Stiles
to keep it together and rein in all eruptions of emotions. In the recesses of
his mind, he knows that suppressing probably isn’t the healthiest of choices,
but he doesn’t feel like he even has any other options. So he swallows it all
down and resigns himself to enjoying one goddamn hour out of his room.
“Sorry about the other night,” Stiles gets out of the way as they take their
seats in a cramped booth. The restaurant is busy tonight, loud enough that
Stiles almost has to shout just to have what he really wishes would be a
private conversation. “I meant to text you.”
“What happened?”
“I fell asleep,” Stiles says instantly. He had that one at the ready, positive
that Scott would ask if he didn’t clear it up himself. The dark circles sagging
under his eyes might belie his excuse, but he’s sticking with his story.
He doesn’t have the biggest appetite lately, probably a side effect of his
unending headache, the heaviness of the exhaustion dragging down his shoulders,
but he pretends he’s as ravenous as ever and orders a stacked hamburger when
the waiter comes around. He wonders if it’s something he’s learned from his
father, a police instinct to never show weakness or submit to failure, basic
training that Stiles might’ve picked up on.
He tells himself to just fucking relax already. This is the sort of evening
that Stiles would’ve had fun with months ago, throwing ketchup packets at Scott
across the table and bad-mouthing teachers. It’s like he can’t tap into that
part of himself anymore, completely clueless on how to be normal, how to be
himself, and he ends up eating in relative silence, unable to even wrap his
head around a safe conversation topic that doesn’t inevitably lead back to
Stiles having to explain why he’s acting so strangely, why he’s always so
tired, why he’s so drained.
His eyes scan the restaurant, chattering with laughter and low conversation
that seems much more titillating than the hush fallen over his and Scott’s
table, only to realize someone’s looking directly at him from near the bar,
someone who Stiles recognizes. Peter.
“Shit,” Stiles says, and proceeds to accidentally push over the table’s salt
shaker.
“Woah. Your food need major salting?” Scott jokes.
“Sorry. Clumsy moment.” He looks up and sees Peter still watching him, this
time with an amused quirk to his mouth. The unwavering strength of his stare
feels like it’s intense enough to make Stiles melt, Peter’s eyes completely
unblinking. “Sorry,” Stiles mutters again, trying his best to scoop salt off
the table. “I’m just—I’m gonna go ask them for some more salt.”
He gets to his feet too quickly, knees knocking against the table and nearly
upsetting the glasses. He shoots Scott a tight smile, hoping he can’t see the
sudden shift in demeanor Stiles has undergone in the last thirty seconds.
He squeezes his way through packed tables until he’s right at the bar, Peter no
longer staring at him like he’s a dessert he wants to dig into from across the
room by the time he approaches, his eyes instead downcast at the glass the
bartender has deposited in front of him, picking a lemon off the surface of his
drink.
“What are you doing here?”
Peter takes a long sip from his glass of iced liquor that makes him look
unfairly like a Bond villain. “See, I was going to go see your father. Apply a
little pressure.” He raps his fingers on the bar top. “But then I thought, why
not just find his son, who is honestly much more fun than squeezing a grown man
for the money he owes me.”
“Leave my dad alone,” Stiles instructs in perfectly even tones. “I know you
already applied pressure during that phone call yesterday. He’s doing what he
can, and fuck, I am too.”
Peter smiles. “You were listening in?” he asks. He slides his hand over Stiles’
shirt, smoothing out a wrinkle by his shoulder. “Afraid I’m going to divulge
our little secret?”
Absolutely, all the time, of fucking course. Stiles feels his eyebrow twitch
and just hopes Peter doesn’t notice his clear discomfort with the idea of Peter
slipping up while talking to his father and letting out just enough of their
secret to arise suspicion.
“I’m here with someone,” Stiles tells him. “I don’t—you can’t be here. You have
to go.”
Peter tilts his head past Stiles’ shoulder to try and peek a look at his booth
where the back of Scott’s head remains gratefully unturned. “I don’t think I
do,” Peter murmurs, slipping his hand down from Stiles’ shoulder to his
collarbone, tracing the line of it with one fingertip. “Tell me, Stiles. Can
your father still afford groceries with his current state of debt?”
Stiles shoves his hand off of him. “That’s low, even for you.”
“Just a reminder,” Peter says.
“For what?”
Peter slowly tilts forward just enough that Stiles thinks he’s going in for a
kiss, only to instead take the lobe of Stiles’ ear into his mouth and trap the
skin between his teeth. “For how easy it is for you to make things easier for
your father.” His voice is like smooth butter this close to his eardrum. “And
how you’d be a fool to waste the opportunity.”
Stiles thinks he’s already a fool for coming over here in the first place. All
it takes is one tilt of Scott’s head for him to notice the man Stiles is
standing awfully close to at the bar, and after that, it’s only a series of
questions before Stiles has to paint on a familiar mask of indifference and lie
through his teeth. Lying twenty-four-seven is more exhausting than Stiles ever
anticipated.
He steps back from Peter’s personal space, wishing his ear wasn’t tingling from
how Peter had dragged his tongue over it. “Go home, Peter,” he says, hoping it
sounds like an order.
Peter snags his wrist before he can walk away.
“I could always make a quick stop before I do,” he says, voice sharp like a
fang. “Your neighborhood, perhaps?”
“Are you seriously threatening me right now?” Stiles hisses. “I’m not taking
the bait. You’re a fucking terrible person.”
For a flash of a second, Peter looks ashamed. It’s gone in a heartbeat.
“You’re right,” Peter says. “I don’t have to threaten you to get you to do
something you already want to do.” He pulls Stiles by the wrist until he’s
stumbling between his legs. “Isn’t that right?”
“Seriously, go home,” Stiles says, pulling his arm free.
He can't fathom why Peter decided that taunting Stiles about his evident
attraction to Peter would be a good way to spend his evening, but Stiles isn't
giving in and offering him the laudatory responses Peter was probably hoping
for. He goes back to his table, fully aware of Peter’s eyes searing into his
backside the entire time he goes, praying all the time just that Peter doesn’t
follow him. He doesn’t, thankfully, and Stiles slips back into his seat trying
his best to shake that entire encounter off.
“Did you get the salt?”
Stiles looks up. “What? Oh. The salt. They’ll, uh. They’ll bring some.”
Silence reeking of disbelief lingers in the air like an overbearing cloud,
until finally, Scott says, “You know, Stiles. You’ve seemed a little…” He
smooths his thumb over the edge of his plate. “I don’t know. Stressed?”
To put it mildly, yes, he’s been stressed. Something about Scott’s observation
irks him—if it was so easy for Scott to notice just after sneaking a few
glances his way during school, why hasn’t his father noticed? Why hasn’t he
said anything?
“You’re right,” Stiles says, and he wants to talk about this, he does, he wants
to talk about finding broken picture frames and being turned away by his father
and being worried all the time, but the consequences are too big. “But it’s
nothing. I’m just… adjusting.”
“To life without—”
Stiles is almost glad when the waiter appears by their table, cutting off
Scott’s words and what Stiles is certain he wasn’t ready to hear. He tops off
their waters, ice cubes clinking, and leans in closer to Stiles.
“From the gentleman at the bar,” the waiter says, dropping something by Stiles’
plate that is most certainly not from a gentleman.
It's a napkin, folded into an origami masterpiece that Stiles desperately wants
the satisfaction of ripping up. He would, too, if he didn't know that ignoring
Peter's written messages would mean him coming over here delivering a vocal one
face-to-face. He opens it slowly under the hope that Scott will lose interest,
but his eyes stay focused on the unfolding napkin.
It reads: Meet me in the hallway by the bathrooms. Five minutes.
He stuffs it under the table, tearing it into streamers in the discretion
offered there. He's about to make up a silly excuse, like that it's a sweaty
bar napkin note version of a wrong number, when he notices that Scott's
grinning around his straw.
"You have an admirer," he croons, then arches up on the seat to try and find
the sender in the crowd, presumably expecting a flirtatiously waving young
woman a few tables away. Stiles counts his lucky stars that Peter's no longer
unblinkingly staring in his direction, as he would be hard to miss. "Who do you
think it is?"
Stiles lets the confetti remnants of the napkin rain from his hand onto the
floor. "Pretty sure that was a mix up," he says. He gets to his feet. He
doesn't want to give in to this madness, he does not, he does not. "I'm going
to go the bathroom."
But he will anyway.
"Okay. Look out for anybody winking at you on your way."
Stiles chuckles, even if the sound comes out a little flat. He slips out from
the booth and hastens over to the bathrooms, following the overhead signs
around a dim corner. He's right at the door to the mens' and about to peek
inside, fully suspecting Peter to be preening at his reflection as he gussies
up by the mirror, when he's yanked back by the fabric of his shirt and spun
against the wall without warning, the air surprised out of his lungs.
"You scared the pants off of me," Stiles breathes, not shocked to find Peter in
front of him, trapping him against the wall.
"If only I had," he murmurs, and then, like they aren't in a public place in a
busy restaurant shrouded from view only by a single wall, Peter cups Stiles'
groin through his jeans.
"I thought I told you to go home," Stiles says, hips stammering into and away
from the touch, like his body can't make up its mind.
"Oh, no. I came here for a reason." It sounds like if Stiles were to ask what,
you would be the answer. "It would be a shame to have wasted the drive."
Peter spends no more time talking, diving into Stiles' neck with a barely
contained gnarl of want and tugging his shirt aside to expose the tips of his
collarbones, sucking a spot into the pale valley between them. His hand
multitasks all the while, unbuttoning Stiles' pants to create enough leeway to
slide his hand inside and slip it around to seize his ass cheek.
"You exhibitionist freak," Stiles gasps, unfairly both furious and aroused. His
body can't seem to figure out which side it's on, still twitching between
canting into Peter's touch and pulling away. The chase only seems to spur Peter
on that much more. "Anybody could fucking walk over here. Or out of the
bathroom. We can't—"
"Oh, yes, Stiles, we can."
Peter's hand circles his ass until it's touching Stiles' hole, barely flitting
over it. Stiles' zipper has come undone and Stiles reaches out to grab his
pants before they start inching down and exposing the fact that someone's
practically fingering him, face already getting hot.
"What, is this a turn on for you? Nearly getting caught?"
"No. But getting you riled up definitely is."
Peter's gripping his chin and pulling Stiles in for a filthy kiss before he can
respond, tongue running over the upper line of Stiles' teeth right before he
tugs his lower lip into his mouth and fucking sucks on it like something out of
Stiles' dirtiest wet dreams. An unintentional moan hits the air and it takes
Stiles a moment to realize it just came from his own mouth, the pleasure
leaking out of his throat in soft whimpers and quiet groans. Peter's mouthing
at the side of his throat in an instant, lips warm, and Stiles never wants it
to end.
The anger seems to fuel his erection, which only makes Stiles angrier, unable
to quench it even when he knows it's exactly what Peter wants to see. Peter
wants to see him react, roar, yell, all only to be slowly undone and kissed
into submission and moans and pleas, probably because it gives Peter a high to
mold someone's emotions like that, take them from high strung and aggressive
into needy and pliant. Stiles doesn't want to do him the honors of obeying, not
now when they're practically in public and Scott is waiting for him at the
table for him to return with a salt shaker and a smile, but even now as he
tries to focus on those things, Peter's thumb flattens against his hole,
outlining his rim, and he finds himself becoming more and more helplessly
distracted.
Then the fingers by his ass vanish, slipping from his pants entirely, and they
reappear tucking themselves into Stiles' mouth. He curls his tongue around them
without question.
"Stiles," Peter says, and it doesn't help that he says his name like it's
something decadent to be treasured, a sweet to roll around in the mouth slowly.
"You always know exactly what to do with that precious mouth of yours."
It's maddening that they fall into this so easily, with less and less protest
from Stiles every time. Peter retracts his fingers and slips them back into
Stiles' underwear once Stiles' mouth wets them enough, nudging one against his
hole.
"You should wrap a leg around my waist," Peter advises.
"You need to fuck off," Stiles says, getting more and more irritable the longer
Peter doesn't fingerfuck him. He can hear the noise of the restaurant all too
clearly, and he doesn't know how long it'll take until someone comes strolling
around the corner or out of the restroom and runs smack dab into a real life
porno, minus the cameras. "Just get on with it."
Peter does get on with it, Stiles' assertiveness apparently enough to convince
him, and he pushes a finger inside Stiles without further persuasion needed.
Even slicked up from his mouth, Peter's finger is dry, almost on the side of
painful, but Stiles' leaking cock doesn't seem to notice. He lets Peter press
hot, unrelenting kisses against his jaw, his chin, his parted mouth, and tries
not to think about how completely indecent and illegal doing any of this here
and now is.
"What I wouldn't give," Peter says on his lower lip, sliding his finger in
deeper and pushing his hips, hard, against Stiles' until their clothed
erections are rubbing, grinding against each other, "to rip off your pants and
see that pretty cock of yours. Nice and hard for me." He drags his teeth over
the swell of Stiles' mouth. "Or take you into a stall and have you ride me, sit
on my thighs and take my cock."
"You're so fucking unsanitary," is the best Stiles' short-circuiting brain can
come up with. "You complete fuckwad. Fuck."
Peter seems all too amused by Stiles' colorful language, almost like he's
celebrating in this side of Stiles he can coax out, and he presses one more
kiss onto his lax lips before he withdraws hi ms fingers and sinks to the floor
and holy shit, Stiles is not expecting this.
Peter tucks Stiles out of his pants and draws him into his mouth without
hesitation, suckling the head of his cock almost softly, so
uncharacteristically gently that Stiles can only think he's trying to get
Stiles to demand he be rougher. Stiles can't help it, bucking into the heat of
Peter's mouth and hitting the back of his throat every time, and if Peter can't
handle what he's giving, he doesn't let on. He only wishes he were on a
mattress, back bowing off of it and Peter taking him deep in his throat,
somewhere private and dark, but instead they're in the ambient light by the
restroom of a reputable establishment. Stiles hears a loud bout of laughter
drift over from the other side of the wall. He clenches his hands where they're
digging into Peter's shoulders.
"You can't just have me anytime you want, you know," Stiles says even as Peter
sucks at the tip of his cock with an obscene amount of skill. "I—oh my god—I
have my own priorities."
"They should be me," Peter growls, voice delectably coarser than before, and he
nips at the sensitive skin of Stiles' thigh.
"They aren't," Stiles gasps out, feeling himself already go tighter and tighter
in his midsection, rolls of pleasure fluttering from his abdomen. "I have
school and friends and you're—you're just the loan shark I have to fuck in
between all that."
"You're lying," Peter shoots at him. He licks over the side of Stiles' length,
stroking the base, tenderly squeezing. "You like this. I know you do."
"You don't know shit," Stiles says, but he loses his train of thought as Peter
sucks him back fully into his mouth, his teeth just barely grazing him, and
every center of his brain screaming at him to hate Peter, fight Peter, fucking
murder Peter for sucking his cock in a restaurant, goes dim and quiet and loses
power. "Shitshitshit, I'm gonna come."
Peter doesn’t take this as a cue to slow down and pull back—instead he sucks in
a breath and goes back in, this time swallowing Stiles down in one swift second
and leaving Stiles scraping the wall, Peter’s scalp, the fabric of his shirt.
He doesn’t know when this arrangement became so much about pleasing Stiles
instead of Peter, but he had been sure when it all began that it was about
nothing but Peter’s enjoyment, his release over Stiles’ orgasm, not sucking
Stiles off and rimming him and teasing him with his fingers. As far as turns of
events go, this one is almost pleasant considering he's currently in the middle
of a dexterous blowjob coaxing him to the brink.
He comes with Peter’s hands whispering up his thighs, his orgasm wrung out of
him like he’s about to black out against the wall with the force of it. Peter
keeps licking over the head of his softening dick until Stiles is practically
mewling at the sensations, thighs trembling when Peter's enthusiasm doesn't
relent, like he just can't get enough of Stiles. He reaches out with his eyes
closed, not even sure what he’s looking for or what he wants to press into his
touch.
“Peter,” he murmurs, finally reaching the hard line of his shoulder and
squeezing. “I want—”
“What do you want, Stiles?” Peter asks, rising to his feet, voice deliciously
wrecked, eyes wild, lips swollen. Stiles pushes his thumb against the corner of
his mouth, fascinated by the softness of it.
“Shut up,” he says, and slides his hand into Peter’s pants to circle his cock,
jerking him off with a roughness Stiles isn’t even sure he can trace the source
of. “You talk so fucking much.”
Or maybe it’s just embarrassing for Stiles to say out loud that what he wants
is to get his hands all over Peter and make him come. He strokes him steadily,
changing the pressure, changing the tempo, all the while keeping his gaze on
Peter’s half-lidded eyes, the way he oozes sex and power, things that
apparently Stiles can’t resist. Peter leans in to kiss him again, tongue
working in circles in Stiles’ mouth that Stiles hastens to keep up with.
It’s almost hard to make sense of the fact that it’s not just the two of them
after that—Peter’s teeth are a gentle pressure against his lower lip and his
cock is hot in his hand, and it’s physically impossible for him to focus on
anything else when that’s happening. Peter’s so, so close to him, their bodies
flush together and leaving no room to breathe, especially when Peter’s breath
loses rhythm, turning frantic. It’s a little dizzying to think that Stiles is
the one responsible, that it’s his hand wrapped around Peter’s dick that’s
making him lose control. He speeds up his fingers, smearing the precome on the
head of Peter’s cock as he goes and making everything slicker, hotter.
“Stiles,” Peter murmurs, pulling back from Stiles’ lips to instead lick over
his jaw. “I bet you have no idea how intoxicating those fingers of yours are…”
He’s right, Stiles has absolutely no idea. He’s never spared his hands second
looks, and now he’s going to think about Peter every time he has his fingers
wrapped around a pencil or a water bottle or a steering wheel, how Peter likes
them, how Peter gets hot and heavy just looking at them. He flexes his fingers
around Peter’s cock, dragging them up and down, trying to figure out the best
way to drive Peter mad and cause his breath to hitch.
He thinks of Peter taunting him over at the bar, telling Stiles that he has no
reason to threaten him into doing something he wants to do, likes to do, and
Stiles knows that he’s right, even if he hates to admit it. Even just the idea
of confessing to Peter that he loves this, the way they bring each other to the
brink and how Peter just knows exactly what Stiles needs is embarrassing, but
it’s also absolutely true. He leans in to suck a mark onto Peter’s neck, give a
little payback for the bruises bitten all over his skin the first time, and
it’s apparently all Peter needs to come, because he groans deep in his throat
and tightens his grip on Stiles’ hips, stilling.
Stiles is unendingly smug about the fact that Peter’s come in his pants and
gets to deal with that for the rest of his night, but some of his smugness is
curtailed when he pulls back from what he was sure was going to be a mean
hickey on Peter’s neck only to see that his skin is completely clear, no blood
visible under the surface. Peter distracts him a moment later, nibbling his
ear.
“All your worrying for nothing,” Peter whispers on his jaw. “We weren’t
caught.”
“Yeah,” Stiles says, still fogged over with the way Peter’s teeth are teasing
his skin right up until he remembers what he’s even talking about. “Shit, oh my
god. We’re in public.”
He can’t believe he almost forgot such a crucial detail. He pushes Peter off of
himself, suddenly remembering that Scott could come around the corner at any
moment, that anyone at all could come around the corner and shoot them
judgmental looks that Stiles would replay in his head over and over again lying
in bed that night. If he's going to pretend to have self-control and tell Peter
that he refuses to have sex just because Peter snaps his fingers, he actually
has to back up his own statements.
“Relax,” Peter says, reaching out to trace Stiles’ temple. Stiles knocks him
away by the wrist. “You’re very warm, you know that?”
“I think I’m getting sick,” Stiles says, and leaves it at that. Peter looks at
him with something that might actually be concern. Strangely enough, Stiles is
angered by it. It seems like these days everybody's concerned for him, but
nobody's actually acting on said concern. “You have to go. You got what you
came for, right?”
“Conceited much?” Peter scoffs, the worried expression gone in a heartbeat. “I
have a drink still waiting for me at the bar.”
“Fine. Are you going to stay there? At the bar?”
“I guess you’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you?”
Stiles would rather climb out of the bathroom window, or alternatively, grab
Scott and go get dinner somewhere in Canada instead than sit around with his
nerves hot on his neck waiting to see if Peter really does leave him in peace.
He scowls.
“All right. Have fun sitting around in a drying pool of your own come.” Stiles
flips up his middle finger, very comfortable leaving with the last word, but
Peter grabs his forearm and jerks him close.
“You’re forgetting something,” he says, and pushes their mouths together in a
kiss that, considering it’s closed-mouthed, feels astonishingly filthy.
Actually, what it feels like is a goodbye kiss, definitely too much passion to
be the average couple’s goodbye kiss, but a goodbye kiss nonetheless. Stiles
tries to figure out exactly when this started, or why this is something Peter
even wants to do, but Peter’s pulling back too soon and giving him one last
grope of the ass as a farewell before he can. Stiles watches him go despite
himself.
He slips into the bathroom before he returns to his seat just to make sure that
he doesn’t look like he was just debauched by a stranger, even if he was. He
smooths back his tousled hair and waits until the flushed color high on his
cheeks fades until he no longer looks red-faced and flustered, wondering, not
for the first time, what the hell is wrong with him that he just let Peter suck
him off in a restaurant hallway and then reciprocated with a handjob without
hesitation.
He touches the back of his palm to his forehead. Peter’s right, he is warm. He
already has an unyielding headache and feels unthinkingly tired, so the last
thing he needs is a fever to add on top of all that, not that he thinks life is
about to offer him a reprieve. He scrubs a hand over his forehead, splashing a
bit of water from the sink onto his cheeks to cool down his warm skin, and
heads back out when he feels sufficiently suspicion-free.
“Hey,” Scott says when Stiles slides back into the booth. “You okay? You were
gone for a while.”
“Yeah.” Stiles checks the clock on the wall and realizes nearly half an hour
has passed. Of course Scott is asking questions. It’s a miracle Scott didn’t
check up on him himself. “The toilet—uh. I had trouble flushing. The handle’s
broken.”
“Oh.” A long pause stretches between them. "I think your food's gone cold."
Stiles looks down at his half-eaten hamburger and his drooping fries, both
unappetizingly cool. He feels as if he can't even tell anymore if he's being
convincing or if his every move is giving him away, making him look that much
guiltier, that much shadier. He wants to be okay, and if he can't be okay, he
at least wants to be able to persuade others that he is while he pretends. He
grabs a fry and stuffs it into his mouth while Scott touches the edge of his
crumpled napkin, not meeting Stiles' eyes.
"Stiles, if something was wrong, you'd tell me, right?"
The fries go down his throat like clay after Stiles hears him and realizes
nearly the exact same words left his mouth not that long ago when he asked his
father the same. His father had lied, just like Stiles knows he's going to, but
Stiles had been able to tell. He wonders if Scott will.
He spares a glance over at the bar. Peter's seat is empty.
"Everything's awesome," Stiles says, wiping the salt off his hands with his
pants. "But thanks for asking."
--
Stiles learns pretty quickly what separates dreams from reality when his
nightmares, some of them repeating and gaining detail work with each rerun,
become increasingly vivid to the point of making it hard to differentiate real
life from something his mind cobbles together to torment him in sleep.
He learns the basics. Can't read. Can't focus very well on faces. Can't
remember how he got where he is. Can't make sense of idiosyncrasies like extra
fingers. The only problem is that in dreams, Stiles hardly ever remembers to
check for any of the above.
Like now. He thought he was at home, trying to drown out the noise in his head
with a couple hours of mindless television, but he’s not anymore. Everything is
dark, like maybe his father’s flicked off the TV and the light and left Stiles
in the oppressive shadows of his room, but he can’t make out a single shadow, a
single speckle of moonlight. It’s not his room. It’s a hole.
It’s never-ending. No matter how much he strains his eyes, no matter how hard
he looks, how far he cranes forward, he can't see anything but an interminable
darkness, a deep, black void, and he feels intrinsically that this is where his
mother has been resting. If that's where his mother is, surely she's scared.
Surely she needs her son. Surely he can't just let her die.
He tries to reach into it, feel for her, but there’s nothing. He keeps
reaching, keeps leaning, keeps arching in, and then his feet lose balance and
he’s falling, sucked into the night, spun into the dark air and plummeting,
plunging, tumbling—
He doesn't realize he's awake until his body registers that there's something
holding him still, keeping his thrashing limbs at bay. He’s shouting too, or at
least, he’s desperately trying to, but there’s a hand on his mouth quelling the
sound, and it feels like he’s suffocating, like he’s chained to a burning
stake, like he's being excruciatingly smothered, and this is why he almost
prefers to the insomnia to actually sleeping. It’s just never a good night, no
matter what Stiles does.
It takes him a moment to realize that it isn't his father struggling to calm
him, but it's someone else, Stiles trying to focus in on the body kneeling on
his through the blur of his panic. The realness trickles in slowly; he's awake
and his heart is pounding hard and he's back where he remembers being, in bed,
sheets twisted around his frantic body. A familiar whiff grounds him, the
slight scent of cologne or aftershave or laundry detergent that Stiles has
gotten more used to than he'd like recently.
"Peter," he says, surprised at how breathless he sounds when the name slips
from his throat, like he's been running. Fighting.
"Do you always wake up screaming like that?"
No, Stiles thinks angrily. He usually wakes up like a normal human being,
silent and reserved, but the dreams have been getting worse. His mother—she
always seems so close, closer every time. It makes his eyes sting to think
about how he loses her every time just by waking up.
“Get out,” he says thickly. Every part of him is cold, clammy with the sweat
gathered on his skin, and he just needs to breathe, which he can’t do with
Peter pinning him to the bed, an overbearing weight looming over him. “Get off
me.”
To his surprise, Peter relents. He moves to the edge of the bed instead,
releasing Stiles’ wrists and slipping off his waist.
“You were having a nightmare,” Peter tells him.
“Yeah, no fucking shit.” Stiles takes a deep breath, still trying to separate
his dream from real life. Not that much of a difference, he thinks. She’s still
gone. He still couldn’t save her. He rubs a hand over his eyes, wiping away the
wetness gathered there as surreptitiously as he can. “I don’t want to tonight.
I can’t.”
Peter huffs. “What are you talking about?”
“Whatever the fuck you’re here for,” Stiles snaps. “I don’t want to do it.” He
puts his other hand over his face as well, hiding the way his mouth crinkles
when tears start leaking out of his eyes. “I know that must suck, your boy toy
not being in the mood for sucking cock, but that’s where I’m at right now. So.”
Peter’s hands fasten around his wrists, tugging his hands away from his face.
Stiles turns his face away, trying to hide it in the safety of his pillow, but
it’s too late—he knows Peter’s seen the tears. It feels like his body is
nothing but a nauseating blend of guilt and shame lately, and it’s bad enough
feeling that way when he looks in the mirror. It’s worse when others are
looking too.
“It’s true that my interests have been… singular in the past.”
Stiles yanks his wrists free from Peter’s grip. “And what, now you care? You’re
turning over a new leaf? Thinking about other people’s feelings?” He rolls on
his side, turning away from Peter. He just wants to sleep. He wants to sleep
well so badly.
“I didn’t come here for sex,” Peter says, sounding annoyed. “Your father’s in
the next room.”
“Like that’s stopped you before.”
Peter’s hand grabs his shoulder, twisting him back around forcefully. “Would
you shut up for two seconds?” he growls. “I came to see if you were all right.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Stiles says, voice colorless.
“Because I could hear your fucking—” Peter cuts himself off. Stiles looks at
him, watches how his entire body goes stiff like he’s said too much, or more
likely, cared too much. “You need to learn to control your emotions.”
“Oh, that’s great. The loan shark is giving me advice on feelings.” The
overwhelming need to hit something thunders inside him, but he knows Peter
would catch his fists long before he would even get the chance to swing. “Just
let me deal with my fucking panic attacks in peace.”
“That’s what I’m saying,” Peter growls. “It’s not healthy. You have to learn to
calm down. Process, not suppress.”
“What the fuck would you know?”
Peter’s mouth curls up at the edges like he’s just been indirectly insulted.
“Consider me a cautionary tale, Stiles.”
Stiles doesn't want to riddle that out. He doesn’t want to be having this
conversation. He doesn’t want to be up in the middle of the night, aching for
slumber but unable to actually succumb to it, his body constantly on edge, in a
perpetual state of worry, remorse, sorrow. He curls back onto his side, so, so
tired.
“I just want to sleep,” he murmurs.
The bed shifts, like Peter might be giving in and letting him have the peace he
wants, and he waits for the creaking sound of the window sliding back open so
he can escape the way he came. The noise doesn’t hit the air. Instead, Stiles
is distantly aware of the sound of a clinking belt buckle and fabric being
shed. He squeezes his eyes shut, unsurprised, but still irked. Apparently Peter
wants what Peter gets.
The bed dips again and Stiles braces himself for what comes next—a hand sliding
down his waist, a palm on his crotch—but then Peter’s sliding in under the
sheets and manhandling Stiles next to him by the shoulder until he’s tucked
against him, almost as if holding him under his wing, keeping him away from the
world. The fabric of Peter’s shirt is pleasantly cool against Stiles’ temple.
“Sleep, Stiles,” Peter sighs. His arm is folded under Stiles’ back, curled
around his shoulder, his fingers dancing a lulling rhythm on his arm.
“I can’t,” Stiles says. Like this, he can’t hide the fact that his eyes are
wet, his eyelashes pressed directly against Peter’s shirt, moistening the
fabric every time he blinks. “And when I can, I don’t want to be asleep.”
“Nightmares,” Peter says without bothering to ask. “What do you dream about?”
Stiles takes in a slow breath. He hasn’t told anybody about his dreams, not
even his sleepless nights, but there’s something about being pressed up against
someone’s side listening to the thud of their heart through their chest that
makes him feel vulnerable, open. Maybe it's that quiet candor that comes with
being awake deep in the night when everything else is asleep.
“My mother,” he says in a small voice. “I’m always too late.”
Nothing but silence drifts through the room for the next few moments. When
Stiles arches his head higher up Peter’s chest to sneak a look at his face, he
sees that his eyebrows are furrowed like he’s in thought. Stiles can only
presume it’s a snide comment, something about how Stiles was too late and he
ought to let go already, but then Peter's shifting his hand so it slides into
Stiles’ hair and saying, “You have to accept that she’s gone. Or the dreams
won’t ever go away.”
“I know,” Stiles murmurs. He pillows himself back onto Peter’s chest. The hand
rubbing his scalp feels so good, so calming. “It’s just that. Those dreams are
like… all I have left of her. And I know that they’re dreams of her dying and
leaving but I get to… look at her. And talk to her. And touch her.”
“You know,” Peter says. “That won’t be enough one day.”
Stiles knows. He knows that clinging onto her, especially the wispy, weightless
figment of her that exists only in his worst dreams, is only going to make
things harder and hurt more, but it’s almost like a temporal high, a fleeting
moment of happiness that he’ll stupidly indulge in every time just because he
thinks it’s worth the inevitable pain to come. He doesn’t know if he’s right,
but he’s almost positive that letting her go—now, especially, when nobody is
there to fill in all the spaces she's left empty—will hurt more.
“You don’t have to be here,” Stiles mumbles on Peter’s chest even as his eyes
start drooping at the way Peter’s touching his hair. “I’m okay.”
“You aren’t,” Peter says sharply. “Good god. Are all teenagers so goddamn
stubborn?”
He sounds supremely annoyed, but he doesn’t make any move to leave. It lets
Stiles soak in the fact that Peter’s practically snuggling him, their bodies
aligned and legs slid close, their position one that seems to imply
familiarity, even romance. Stiles isn’t quite sure that sits right with him.
The idea of Peter being nice to him, or rather, granting him the rare favor of
being nice to him, feels like it’ll have repercussions, like any second Peter’s
going to spring back to his feet and demand compensation for listening to
Stiles’ feelings. Either that, or he’s pitying Stiles, giving him the coddling
he thinks he needs because he’s weak and vulnerable and oh so fragile, and
Stiles feels like lately all he’s doing is trying to prove to people that he’s
okay, he’s all right, he’s not going to fucking break.
On an impulse that surges through him like a jolt of electricity, Stiles rolls
on top of Peter, straddling his hips and zeroing in on the way Peter’s face
twists with surprise. Then he slams his fist down into Peter's jaw, Peter's
chin snapping away right before his knuckles make contact. His hand jams hard
into the pillow instead, reflexes too slow.
They're fighting in an instant, like someone's changed the channel on the mood
of the room. Peter's fingers grip Stiles' wrists, stilling his attempt to free
himself and keep hitting, keep trying, keep proving himself to be a little
bigger than these frail bones everyone seems to whittle him down to, and he
flips Stiles onto his back in one smooth movement that twists the sheets around
them. Stiles' skull scrapes the headboard on the way down, the pain fast and
strong as he's pinned to the mattress in a matter of nanoseconds.
"Fuck!" he curses, too loud to be considerate of his father sleeping a room
away.
He wants to yell, throw out the meanest, nastiest insults he knows until
Peter's face crumples and Stiles hits the weak spot hidden behind dirt and dust
and ice inside of him, but he can't focus on words, his body too concentrated
on trying to hurt. He shoves his knee up, hoping to hit Peter in the shin or
straight in the family jewels, but before he can—he’s always too slow, Peter
always too fast—Peter crawls on top of him, slamming his knees to the mattress
with his own as weights to keep Stiles in place.
"Fuck you!" Stiles hisses, the best his brain can do with words right now with
his skull throbbing, head rearing up at Peter like a pinned, angry dog as he
delivers his remark.
"I'd much rather fuck you," Peter says in response. The bastard isn't even out
of breath. For whatever reason, it makes Stiles struggle harder, fighting
against the hold Peter's strength has on him.
"That's the problem, isn't it?" Stiles nearly shouts, voice hoarse. "That's
what you're for, and I knew it. You're just—you just wanted to pretend that
you're better than that, that you care."
He wishes he could feel triumphant at having seen through Peter's deception,
but it only makes him feel uncomfortably hollow. Maybe it's because Peter's
giving him that look, the one that makes him feel weak and small, or maybe it's
because being pinned helplessly to the mattress is making him feel all the more
so. Maybe it's because being right is pretty damn depressing in this case.
"I'm not under the delusion that I'm a good man," Peter tells him. "But I
wouldn't be here if I didn't, well."
"If what? If you didn't want to see if I was up for a fuck?" Stiles wants to
keep struggling, the weight of Peter trapping him onto the bed starting to
hurt, but he's lost the energy. He hates how he sounds like he's disappointed,
like he's expecting Peter to care, or worse, cares himself and longs for
reciprocation.
"You're lucky I'm not the easily offended type, Stiles," Peter says. "The
version you paint of me is truly reprehensible." He scoots down the bed an
inch, just enough to free Stiles' pinned legs and give him the chance to draw
his aching knees up. “You seem to be under the impression that I only take
pleasure in tormenting you.”
He lets go of Stiles’ wrists then too, leaving Stiles to rub the spots where
Peter squeezed too hard. “It’s not an impression. It’s true.”
“And why are you so sure?”
Stiles doesn’t want to exchange banter. His bones are heavy with lethargy, an
exhaustion he can’t sleep away, and he doesn’t care how good Peter’s intentions
supposedly are tonight. He doesn’t believe him, and he doesn’t need him here.
“I don’t need you to be here,” Stiles grits out. “I don’t need you to pretend.
I know who you are. You’re a bad guy and so please, please, spare me the
performance where you pretend you aren’t.”
“Does it occur to you that I’m not all bad?”
“No,” Stiles says. He sighs, waiting for Peter to take his cue—he’s not wanted,
he’s not needed, and he should go. Stiles burrows back into his pillow and
closes his eyes, trying to convince his body to succumb to sleep again, even if
it is fitful and full of dreams he wishes his brain wouldn’t build for him.
“That was a shitty thing you did in the restaurant.”
“What? Blowing you?”
“Seriously?” Stiles doesn’t want to argue and banter right now. He takes in a
deep breath of his pillowcase, the soft smell of linen almost soothing. “You
can go now.”
He waits a few moment, ears focused in on the complete silence, nothing but the
rustling of the wind outside the window to be heard. He listens for the second
time for the sounds of Peter sliding off the croaky mattress and padding across
the old carpet to the window, but they don’t make it to the air, like Peter’s
perfectly content to sit here and watch Stiles sleep to observe him for signs
of weakness or wait until he’s passed out to season him for the oven. Like no
matter what, he's only ever going to do the complete opposite of what Stiles
asks him to.
Stiles is about to open his eyes and demand, once again, for Peter to leave him
alone, but he’s too slow—Peter’s lying back down beside him again, pulling and
pushing at Stiles’ shoulders until he’s situated in the crook of Peter’s
shoulder, tucked into the protective circle of his arm like they weren't just
scrambling for the upper hand and Stiles wasn’t trying to knock teeth out of
his mouth a second ago. Peter's skin is extremely warm, possibly from their
earlier struggle, and his hand is broad where it’s curled over Stiles’ elbow,
keeping him close.
Stiles gives him this: as far as theatrics go, Peter’s very good at pulling
them off believably. If Stiles were to close his eyes and nestle his nose into
Peter’s neck and give in to his charade of kindness, he certainly would feel
loved. He supposes that in of itself is nice enough, even if it isn’t real.
"Thanks for pretending," Stiles admits. “You’re good at it.”
“Hush already,” Peter says right away, and then, without meaning to, Stiles
falls asleep.
--
Stiles wakes up with a heavy headache that sits in his skull like a slug, an
ache so dully poignant that Stiles can only hope it’s a result of too little
sleep. It’s still dark outside when he first awakens, unable to coax his
restless limbs back into relaxation, something still aching inside of him that
he can’t quite put his finger on, like he was dreaming of another funeral right
before waking, the details gone but the feeling still there, like a
stomachache.
Peter’s no longer around, not even lurking in the closet or making himself at
home in Stiles’ living room. There’s no sign of him ever visiting at all, the
window shut and the other half of the bed cold again, no longer warm with the
lingering heat of Peter’s body, not that it matters; Stiles feels like he’s
burning up from the inside out when his eyes open, the sheets mangled into
knots by his ankles.
It feels like there are clouds of humidity trapped in his chest, a wet
thunderstorm turning his insides soggy and hot, and now he’s left to nurse the
aftermaths. It feels like the budding of a brutal cold.
His father’s not downstairs when he makes it there, shirt stripped off to give
his skin the air to cool off, but unlike Peter, the sheriff has a few signs
left behind of his presence. There’s a half-drunken bottle of whiskey by the
kitchen and his police jacket is no longer slung over the back of the chair in
the dining room. A swarm of bitterness rushes up Stiles’ throat, and without
meaning to, Stiles wonders what exactly makes a good father if a father’s not
there when he’s needed.
He tries to shake that off while he nurses a mug of lukewarm coffee out in the
backyard, breathing in the nip in the air. It’s quiet out today; the weather is
too gray and too foreboding to encourage any early morning joggers or playing
children, leaving the world unsettlingly quiet. He looks out over the cold,
unmoving yard, at the swing he hasn't played on in years but is still cemented
into the ground, at the patches of dead, brown grass by the fence, at the
strawberry garden abandoned in the corner. Stiles can remember, as clearly as
if it were yesterday, the sight of his mother kneeling in the dirt nursing her
plants with a pair of yellow gardening gloves over her hands on warm spring
days. He can't imagine that the strawberries will have much of a chance this
year.
Stiles gets to the bottom of the coffee mug quickly, leftover brown sludge
staring back at him when he’s done. He swills it back and forth, watching it
drag from one side of the cup to the other, and waits for the clear air to
weaken his headache. It doesn’t. It hasn’t gone away in a while.
Stiles’ first instinct is to call Mrs. McCall for some ice packs and TLC, but
something stops him. He stares out at the ashen clumps of clouds in the sky,
folding and unfolding as they inch past the gray expanse. What if it isn’t a
cold? What if everything that’s been bothering him lately is all a symptom of
something bigger, darker, harder to let pass?
Everything clumped together—the fatigue, the headaches, the fevers, the
constant sluggishness, the sore throats—what if it’s worse than Stiles thinks?
He sets the mug down on the kitchen counter and goes back upstairs to his room,
booting up his laptop with a few impatient pushes to the start button. It’s
probably just a cold. A long, persistent cold. Everybody gets them in the
winter, the kind of annoying viruses you just can’t shake.
He types all of his symptoms into google and thinks, over and over, in his
brain that it’s just a cold and that he can’t worry about this, not when he
already has so many other things to worry about. He clicks his way numbly to a
medical website, scrolling frantically to the bits that matter.
Possible diagnoses: Common cold. Seasonal flu. Measles. Whooping cough. HIV.
The dread forms faster than Stiles can talk himself out of it. In seconds, the
consternation is there, hot all over, making him sweat and panic and see
nothing but a blurred, swaying world in front of himself threatening to tip
over like a boat capsizing. He goes back to google and types in symptoms of HIV
with fingers he can hardly convince to move.
The most common symptoms are similar to a flu-like illness within several days
to weeks after exposure to the virus. Early HIV symptoms include fever,
headache, fatigue, rash, sore throat, and swollen lymph nodes in the neck.
It would make sense. He’s been having sex with a man he knows next to nothing
about, whether it be his past or his interests or his sexual health, and
Peter’s never taken safety into consideration. There’s never even been a
condom.
Fuck, there’s never even been a condom.
And how is that something Stiles could’ve overlooked? He remembers, in great
detail, sitting down with Scott and Mrs. McCall as a twelve year old being
lectured on the safety of sex, on the horrors of pregnancy, on how to always be
as protected as possible, and how the conversation had been so embarrassing
that it had engrained itself into Stiles’ brain as all talks about sex with
adults did at the time. He remembers buying his first condoms one day on a whim
just to feel more grown up, and then feeling as if he had to avert his eyes
when the cashier rang the box up if only because he could tell that Stiles was
a virgin, only to then stuff the bag deep into his closet with the receipt in
tow.
But it was never just his responsibility. There are two people having sex, and
two people who decide to start sticking their dicks places, and that means
there are two people who carry the burden of being safe, and with that, Stiles
goes from frightened out of his wits to furious as fuck.
Who the hell does Peter think he is to fuck underage boys and not make sure
he’s being safe? Was coming in Stiles’ ass that important to him that he
couldn’t be bothered to throw a condom on? He thinks about how Peter behaved
last night, like some sort of caring knight in shining armor, someone who gave
the impression that Stiles’ well-being actually mattered, someone who drew
Stiles in and soothed his aching muscles, and none of it was actually real. It
was pretend, just like Stiles knew all along.
He feels unbelievably stupid and naïve and young for making such a mistake,
that is, if mistake isn’t too soft a word considering his entire life stands to
change if he really does have HIV thanks to a loan shark he thought it would be
all right to make deals with. How the hell is he supposed to take care of his
father and fix his mistakes when he can’t even stop himself from making them
too?
He slams his laptop closed, getting to his feet and grabbing for his hair,
yanking at the strands to keep from crying out. How could he let this happen?
How could Peter have let this happen?
He acts on blind anger, blind impulse, nothing but the reflex to yell and push
blame. He’s grabbing his phone before he can think rationally with calm. His
thumb trembles the entire time he’s clicking his way into his contacts, finding
Peter’s name and foregoing the angry text message and heading straight for a
phone call. It rings, and rings, and Stiles wants to scream.
“You fucker,” Stiles says, unable to muster up a hello, completely bound to his
anger.
“Well, good morning to you as well,” Peter says.
“I can’t believe you,” Stiles says, and he can barely keep his hands still. All
he can see is his computer screen flashing before his eyes, the hot panic
washing over him, the words HIV blinking up at him, all of his bad decisions
taunting him from all sides. “I knew you were a horrible human being, but this,
this takes the cake.”
The line rustles, like Peter’s shifting the phone to switch ears to make sure
he’s hearing this properly. Stiles can picture him perfectly, sitting in a
glamorous condo with a plush bathrobe around his shoulders and a five-course
breakfast in front of him, his day unfortunately soured by the angry kid
ruining his morning. Stiles doesn’t care. Peter might’ve given him a lifelong
disease, he’s never going to put Peter’s feelings into consideration ever
again.
“Pardon,” Peter says, the dry humor gone from his voice. “What exactly is going
on?”
“You lied to me. You said there weren’t any other—that I was the only—”
“Didn’t take you as the jealous type.”
“Oh, fuck off, Peter,” Stiles says. He’s shaking, hardly able to hold the
phone, and it’s all Peter’s fault. He doesn’t even remember the last time he
was this furious, boiling over at all ends, and the worst part is that it’s not
just with Peter for lying to him, but with himself for falling for it all even
though every single neuron inside his body knew he shouldn’t have taken
anything Peter said as anything more than fancifully woven fiction.
“I didn’t lie to you, Stiles,” Peter says, and now he sounds angry too, only
instead of erupting like Stiles, he’s keeping it to a dangerous level of
simmering under the surface. The urge to throw his phone against a hard surface
has never been stronger.
“Yeah. I forgot about how moral you loan sharks are,” Stiles snarls. “I mean,
taking the virginity of teenagers is fine, and robbing hard-working people of
their money is fine too, but hey, you draw the line at lying.”
“Stiles.”
Peter’s voice has a sharp iciness to it that can only mean Stiles is going to
wake up without his eyeballs tomorrow, but he doesn’t care, he’s not afraid of
this bastard. He doesn’t want to be afraid.
“I’m not afraid of you,” Stiles says, feeling the need to have the words leave
his mouth, to have Peter hear them. “I’m done with all of this. I don’t want to
do it anymore.”
“Done with what?”
“You! Being your toy, your pet!” Stiles shouts. Every part of him is quaking
like there’s an earthquake rumbling in his bones. “I’m not doing it anymore.
I’ll find some other way to pay you back, but I’m not. I’m not for fucking sale
anymore.”
It feels incredibly liberating, hearing the way his voice is strong and solid
despite the fact that his phone is about to slip from his fingers and his
breath is stuck in his throat, unable to make it to his lungs. He waits for
Peter to say something, anything, but it seems he’s been taken aback by Stiles’
outburst. It makes Stiles wonder if this is the moment he’s supposed to hang
up, have the last word and be done with it. Done with Peter.
He lacks the willpower.
“Peter?” he says.
“Fine,” Peter says suddenly, as if prompted to speak. “You don’t want the easy
way out anymore? You can find another way to pay me back. And your debt isn’t
exactly light.”
“Easy way out? What part of this do you think has been the easy way out? Do you
really think anything about you is fucking easy, Peter?"
It’s not until the click sounds in his ear that Stiles realizes that Peter’s
already hung up, nothing but the sound of a monotonous beep and his own
bothered breathing to be heard.
***** Chapter 5 *****
Chapter Notes
     I hope if there's anything people picked up from last chapter it's
     this lesson: don't self diagnose, kids.
Stiles was the one to see his mother die.
It wasn't a great day. His dad was supposed to be there too, but he was caught
up at work, and it's not like any of them knew that it was going to be her last
day, and there Stiles was, doing homework by her bedside until he was
completely blindsided by the fact that his father was dying before his eyes.
The nurse on duty held him for a long time afterwards, holding him close to
keep him distracted from the fact that doctors were hovering over his mother
confirming her lack of a heartbeat. It took Stiles hours to believe any of it.
He kept waiting for her heartbeat to beep on the machine again, or for her eyes
to flutter open, or for her body to gentle sit up and roll out of bed, but
nothing happened, and Stiles was left with nothing but a shrill ringing in his
ear while the nurse hugged him to her chest and his hands shook. She had been
wearing perfume that smelled of tulips. The smell makes Stiles want to cry
nowadays.
When his father had finally shown up, things got worse. Stiles watched him run
into the hospital, his face pale and twisted with shock, and then he looked
through the room's windows at the sheets covering Stiles' mother and he broke,
wilting like a dead flower, stepping blindly away and unable to speak. It was
horrifying, seeing the man Stiles thought of as nothing but strong and
resilient and invincible fall completely undone.
They drove home that night in silence. Stiles couldn't focus on anything other
than the salty tear tracks drying on his cheeks and the way his entire body
wouldn't stop trembling. All he could think about was how it always baffled him
when he saw couples leaving hospitals with freshly born babies, how he couldn't
understand how anybody could adjust to going, abruptly, from a family of two to
a family of three, and here he was with his father doing the opposite, and how
the hell were they supposed to cope with losing someone from their family?
All he knew for certain in that moment was that he never wanted to return to
the hospital, not when the smell of the halls and the sound of heartbeat
monitors and the taste of cheap coffee in styrofoam cups were engraved in his
brain as the last things he experienced before it happened, before she died.
And yet, despite everything, he still ended up coming back.
Sitting in the waiting area while the intercom crackles overhead and Stiles'
entire body shakes with worry, he realizes with a growing tangle of dread in
his stomach that this is the first time he's been to the hospital since his
mother died. She was moved to the long term wing fairly soon, but Stiles always
still went through the main entrance when he came to see her, always full of
people nursing emergency injuries and crying children not sure how to handle
the pain. Stiles is there now, surrounded by that exact group, and it feels
like all of their eyes are focused on him because he's not walking around with
a bloody compress or holding an ice pack to his head or showing off any sign of
physical distress. All of them must know—whatever his problem is, it's hidden,
it's mental, it's dormant, it's something that's probably his own damn fault
anyway. Stiles can practically see the judgment curling out of everybody's
eyes, so he hangs his head and tries to breathe. In and out. In and out.
Down on the other end of the chairs, Stiles hears a little boy cry while his
mother whispers to him. He probably got hurt on a bicycle or jumping off the
shed roof or trying tricks on a skateboard, and he'll go home with not much
more than a colorful bandage or two on his injury. Stiles remembers how much
all those inconsequential accidents seemed to hurt when he was younger, how he
would wail and scream and how each burst of pain would rip through him and
leave him shrieking harder. He got used to the scratches and scrapes and
smaller stuff eventually. It makes Stiles wonder if this—his insomnia, his
depression, his stress—is something that will hurt less eventually too. A pain
he can grow out of.
That's all in his head, though, something he can mentally battle, which seems
almost harmless compared to HIV. Stiles can't imagine getting used to HIV.
What if it's positive? What if the rest of his life is warped because of one
thoughtless decision, one he agreed to only because he wanted to help, to ease
the weight on his father's back. It wasn't even supposed to go this far, it
should've been nothing more than a quick fuck and nothing else, and now he's
scared out of his mind because if it's positive, he can't hide anymore. He'll
have to tell his father, and what will he think of Stiles then? Would he still
hug him, would he still love him?
He doesn't realize until his head's bowed between his parted knees that he's
having a panic attack, everything about his body seizing, twisting, screaming
for air he can actually digest. He can't do this alone. He's just a kid,
someone who's supposed to have the luxury of being young and stupid and
unattached to everyone and everything.
He's fumbling for his phone with shaking hands that can hardly steady it as he
goes to his contacts and acts on instinct more than reason, scrolling straight
down to the Ss and finding Scott's name. He pushes it against his ear, still
trying to breathe, to focus on the swaying blue of the world around him, but
nothing's being processed by his brain but the sterile smell of the hospital,
the same smell he couldn't shake off for weeks after his mother died just a few
halls away in a tiny gray room.
"Scott," he says. His voice is a wreck, hardly holding words together. "Where
are you right now?"
"At home. Why? What's wrong?"
"I need help," he says. "I'm at the hospital and I need—I need help."
"The hospital? Are you okay?" Stiles tries to focus on Scott's voice, how
familiar it is, how he's fallen asleep during sleepovers in Scott's basement
hearing it. "My mom can—"
"No," Stiles says instantly. "Just you. Come alone, please. Please."
"Okay, yeah, I will. Just breathe, Stiles. I'm getting my keys."
Stiles shuts his eyes and listens to him, going his best to take slow breaths
that rattle in and out of his mouth. Scott's like an anchor, something sturdy
keeping him from spiraling off into the ocean to he swept under the waves, and
once he gets here, things will be better. He'll kneel by Stiles' chair and ask
him what he needs and things will be better.
“If I was in trouble—you’d help me, right?” Stiles says, gripping the phone too
tightly, biting into his bottom lip. “You’d go with me?”
“Stiles, tell me what’s wrong."
“I don’t know. I just—I think I did something bad.” He rubs his forehead,
trying to persuade his burning eyes to keep the hot tears locked away. He sits
up again, pulling his head out from between his knees, and is all too aware of
the eyes fixated on him, judging, assuming, watching. “I need your help but—but
you have to promise not to ask me any questions.”
"Okay. I promise."
"Good. Hurry, please."
He hangs up before Scott can fill the silences with his curiosity, not that
Stiles could even blame him. If he was in Scott's shoes, he'd want to know why
his best friend is crying on the phone while they alone in a hospital waiting
room, but he can't give him the details, not when it puts Scott in danger.
Knowledge isn't something you can just shake off. You carry it around, you deal
with it, you can't say goodbye, and this is something nobody but Stiles should
be spending nights awake over.
He slips his phone back into his pocket and tries to think about how the hell
Stiles will even get out of this alive if he doesn't have a single soul to
confide in. He had Peter, but Peter's gone, and not just that, but possibly
left him with a lifelong disease as his parting gift, so Stiles isn't sure he
ever wants to look him in the face again unless it's to formally invite him to
get packing for Hell.
He shouldn't be thinking about Peter right now. Peter's not here. Peter ran the
second things got hairy, and now Stiles is here on his own trying to regulate
his breathing. After Scott's parents got divorced, Stiles remembers coaching
him through panic attacks, how he reminded him to fill and empty his lungs with
each breath, but for the life of him, Stiles can't take his own advice. He
keeps trying to calm down, but then everything rushes back like a tidal wave
crashing over him and dragging him back to sea just as he's nearly struggled
his way back to shore.
It seems like years of rocking gently back and forth and squeezing his eyes
shut fiercely enough to hurt, every passing second loud in his ear, and then,
out of nowhere, a warm hand is touching his back. Stiles jerks up, pulled out
of the darkness he was descending into, and sees Scott's anxious face right
next to him.
"Stiles, what's wrong? Why weren't you in school today?"
Stiles shakes his head. "I couldn't go. There was no way."
Scott sinks into the seat next to him, his hand still on Stiles' back, still
keeping him grounded, rubbing soothingly over the tense muscles gathered like a
tightly coiled spring there. "What's wrong?" he asks.
"Well, I think I'm having a panic attack," Stiles says, and it comes out flat
and weak, like a comedian who doesn't even enjoy his own jokes. "So that's fun.
Like a day at the beach, really."
"Breathe, Stiles. Just—open your mouth and let the air in," Scott says,
sounding so much like his mother that Stiles very nearly believes it's actually
Melissa gently leaning over him. "It's going to be okay. Whatever it is."
Stiles can't see how it possibly could be. Scott wouldn't be saying this if he
knew. If he did, he'd be a little less optimistic about the outcome of Stiles'
life and general mental health. He remembers when he got his wisdom teeth
pulled, and how his mouth had swelled and everything had tasted like pennies
for weeks, and how he would sit around massaging his gums, so sure that his
mouth would never feel normal again—that's exactly how he feels about
everything right now. It's all been a blur of pain and misery and helplessness
for so long that Stiles can hardly believe that things will ever go back to how
they were. That they even could.
"Remember when we went to the beach together and you broke your arm walking on
all those rocks? I've never seen you cry so much and you got through that. In
one piece and everything."
Scott's hand keeps running in circles over Stiles' back, the sensation
inexplicably calming. It's not like that, it's not nearly as simple as a broken
arm, but Scott doesn't know that and this is him being supportive in the best
way he knows how. Stiles nods, since after all, he's right. The bone healed
eventually. The cast came off at one point. The pale skin of his wrapped arm
caught sun again in time.
He breathes in and out as instructed, the force of every inhale tightening his
ribs and every exhale shaking its way through him. The panic subsides slowly,
still ebbing underneath the surface, unable to shake off entirely, but subdued
for now.
"Are you okay?"
Stiles nods. "I am. I'm okay."
Scott's hand slides off his back, Stiles missing the warmth and reassurance
instantly but unwilling to say so out loud.
"Then why are we in a hospital?"
"I just." Stiles has no explanations that don't cause everything to boil over
and burn his hands. "I'm not sure if I need to be, to be honest."
Stiles can tell from Scott's perplexed brow alone that he isn't understanding.
And why would he? All Stiles is giving him are random puzzle pieces, never
trusting him enough to show him what the end result is supposed to look like.
"...all right. Then why—"
"Scott, please. Please, buddy." He reaches over the armrest and grabs Scott's
wrist, begging him not to continue. He's had secrets on the tip of his tongue
for weeks, demanding to be heard and told and picked off of his heavy heart,
and if Scott persists any more, he'll tell him everything. "Please stop with
the questions."
Scott looks at him for a long time while Stiles ducks his head, gaze fixated on
his shoes where the shoestring is frayed. He can feel Scott's furtive eyes on
him, figuring out all of his secrets, and feels sick to his stomach. The last
thing he needs is Scott involved in all this as well, roped into the madness
because Stiles wasn't strong enough to handle it on his own.
"I shouldn't have—you can go. I'm fine. Really."
"What?" Scott straightens up. "Stiles, I'm staying. I'm sorry, I'll stop
asking, I'm just—just worried about you."
Stiles nods. It sounds familiar, and it makes Stiles wonder if this is all just
one big circle, if he's treating Scott just like how his father is treating
him, saving him from secrets he thinks he shouldn't have to bear and making it
all that much worse in the process. He slips his fingers down from Scott's
wrist to grab his hand, Scott reciprocating the grip without a word. It feels
unbelievably nice, holding onto someone. Like it was something he needed.
"I know you are, and I'm really glad that you are. Not because I want you to
be, but because it's nice feeling like you're always there for me. You know?"
Scott nods. "Yeah. I am."
"Mr. Stilinski?" A nurse is standing a few feet away, in seafoam scrubs and
with a clipboard in hand. “Come on in.”
He gets up, not realizing how much he's trembling until Scott shoots up next to
him and steadies him with an arm around his shoulders. Stiles hopes—knows,
really—that no matter what, Scott will always be there. To hold, or to be held
by. They follow the nurse together, straight into a room at the end of the
hall, everything around them oppressively gray.
The nurse already has her pen poised at the ready on the clipboard when Stiles
shuffles inside. She motions up to the examination table while Scott takes his
seat in the corner, quietly supportive but still keeping his distance in case
Stiles wants to pretend he isn’t here, Stiles hopping up and trying to calm the
storm of a heartbeat in his chest.
“All right,” she starts. She has soft brown eyes, and they remind him of Mrs.
McCall. It’s actually comforting, feeling as if she’s here without really
having her here and telling her eye-to-eye that he might have a sexually
transmitted disease. “You didn’t tell the front desk much. This isn’t an
emergency, right?”
“No,” Stiles says, although from the sirens in his head it certainly feels like
one. “Not really. I still have all my organs in place and everything.”
He pats his stomach as if to check. She spares him an odd look.
“Good,” she says. “Then what seems to be troubling you?”
Stiles sneaks a glance over his shoulder at Scott. He’s looking at his feet. He
seems to be completely immersed in the idea that despite being called here by
someone nearly in tears, he wouldn’t be missed if he blended in with the window
treatments, like Stiles is resenting his presence and how it pries into his
privacy. Then again, it’s not like Stiles has been all that open with Scott
recently. The sudden shift—that is, from refusing to talk to him in class to
begging him to come to the hospital to support him while someone diagnoses a
mystery illness—must be a little surprising.
“I’m having some weird symptoms. I thought it was just a cold, but it’s been
going on for… a really long time.”
“What specifically?”
“Uh. I have a ton of headaches, pretty much all the time. I can’t sleep, but
I’m tired all the time. I feel like I’ve been getting a cold for ages, my
throat just really hurts.”
“All right.”
She scribbles on her clipboard for a while, a lot longer than Stiles thinks she
needs to jot down what he’s just said. He wants just one look over her shoulder
to see what's there, and if any of this is as bad as he's fearing it is. An
overwhelming want for it to be weeks later, months later, years later, anything
to not be in this moment in this hospital where his palms are damp and his
entire body is shaking and all he really has the capacity for is fear, washes
over him and leaves him cold.
"And I just feel... really drained. Like even just getting up in the morning is
too much."
She keeps scribbling. Keeps scribbling. Keeps scribbling.
“I, uh. Did some research and I feel like it might be HIV,” Stiles says,
scratching his jaw. “Could it—?”
“Let’s not jump to any conclusions,” the nurse says instantly, her pen stopping
mid loop. “Have you been sexually active?”
Stiles looks at the floor, how his feet dangle off the bed without reaching the
ground, anything to keep from looking Scott in the face right now. “Yes.”
“Oral sex? Anal sex?”
“Yeah. Uh, both.”
Stiles squeezes his eyes shut until he can’t hear anything but the faint
scratching of the nurse’s pen on the clipboard. He can’t help but wonder what
she’s writing, or better yet, what she’s not writing, what she’s thinking in
her head. Probably that a boy that young shouldn’t be worrying about HIV. A boy
that young shouldn’t know what it’s like to be fucked. A boy that young should
be studying hard in school to make his parents proud.
“Well, I still wouldn’t jump to any conclusions yet,” she says gently, tucking
the pen under the clip. "There are other symptoms for HIV. Fevers. Rashes. What
you've listed could still be a variety of other things."
She smiles in a way that's probably meant to be reassuring, but all Stiles can
think is that even if it isn't HIV, that only means there's something else,
potentially worse, wrong with him. He buries his head in his hands, hands
clammy on his face, and almost instantaneously, Scott's hand is on his back
again, a silent comfort. If Stiles is drowning in the ocean of his own worry
right now, Scott is the one piece of driftwood trying valiantly to keep him
afloat.
"Don't worry, Mr. Stilinski," the nurse says. "We'll get you sorted. Take some
blood, test your saliva. Let’s get you down the hall."
With that she's capping the pen and opening the door, holding it open for Scott
and Stiles to file out. Scott slips out, but right before Stiles can, the nurse
steps in the way.
“Uh, just a moment.” The nurse lays a gentle hand on Stiles’ shoulder, leaning
in to keep their conversation a bit more private. “You used to come in here a
lot. Your mother was a patient here, wasn’t she?”
Stiles looks at her, realizing that she probably doesn’t think that every time
Stiles hears someone so much as mention his mother, it feels like he’s decaying
inside out. “She was.”
She nods. She tilts a little closer, squeezing Stiles’ shoulder. “If you need
any help, Mr. Stilinski. Someone to talk to. Someone to help you get through
this, we can find those people for you.”
It’s a nice gesture, and Stiles smiles at her, but getting himself a therapist
would involve bills, and going home and explaining to his father that he even
needs help coping with all of this misery would do nothing but pile more
worries on his father’s shoulders, make him feel like an inadequate father,
like he isn’t even there for his own son. The bottom line is that now isn’t the
time to be selfish. Now’s the time to think about his father, save him from the
hurt. Then he can work on his own hurt.
“I’m okay,” Stiles tells her. “Thanks, though.”
He’s very aware of Scott’s eyes on his back as he slips out to the hall, all of
his questions written clear as day on his face. He's almost grateful for the
distraction of the blood test after the nurse leads him down to a smaller room
and fits him in a chair and feels along his forearms for the juiciest veins,
giving Stiles a good ten minutes of time to figure out what to say to Scott
when he's done here. It was dangerously unwise to beg Scott to come here, but
Stiles is glad he did regardless—even with the extra questions, the extra
stress, he can't imagine being here alone. Facing this alone. And it's not like
he could've fucking invited Peter.
He stays conscious while the needle pierces him, an accomplishment of its own
that deserves attention, and stares unwaveringly at the ceiling as the needle
starts getting increasingly uncomfortable in his arm. The entire time, he sees
Scott in his peripherals, lingering by the doorway and watching with worried
eyes, ready to grab any hands that shoot out because they need fingers to
squeeze. Stiles is really, really happy he's here.
He's sent off after his mouth is swabbed and arm bandaged with the promise that
he'll see results soon in the mail and a call from the doctor if they need
to—only if they need to, the nurse had stressed—discuss options regarding any
unfortunate outcomes that the tests may bring to light.
"You didn't even pass out at the needle," Scott says as they walk out. The
crying boy on his mother's knee is gone, probably being showered with lollipops
and kind words. Stiles wants a lollipop of his own.
"I know," Stiles says. "I'm pretty proud of myself. Especially after that
breakdown I had in the lobby."
He laughs, the sound dry and horribly self-deprecating as it comes out of his
mouth. Scott seems to notice, as he comes to a halt and touches Stiles'
shoulder.
"It's nothing to be embarrassed about," Scott tells him. "I'm just glad you
called me." He squeezes Stiles through his sweatshirt. "Do you want to go out
to lunch?"
Stiles can tell from the look on Scott’s face alone that he wants to ask
questions completely on the opposite end of the spectrum of do you want to go
to lunch, but is doing his best to give Stiles the peace he asked for. Stiles
can honestly say he has no idea how Scott’s doing it, considering he just found
out that his best friend is sexually active with someone who may or may not
have given him a sexually transmitted disease. Stiles can only imagine what
sort of images he’s painting of Stiles right now, if he’s pitying him or
shocked by his actions or just quietly confused, but what matters is that he’s
not making a big deal out of it. At least not out loud.
“Yeah. Let’s go to lunch,” Stiles says, nodding. Worrying about the results now
isn’t going to do him any good. They’ll come in eventually, and until then,
Stiles will suppress all of his instincts to freak out and panic and gnaw his
fingernails down to the quick.
They walk out to the parking lot, and that’s when Stiles sees a familiar bike
abandoned near the entrance that looks like Scott rode here as quickly as
possible, threw his bike aside without bothering to lock it up, and ran inside
to find Stiles. The sight of it makes Stiles feel immeasurably fond as they
pick it up together to stow in the back of Stiles’ Jeep.
“I still can’t ask any questions, right?” Scott asks as he climbs into the
passenger seat.
Stiles shakes his head. This day has been draining enough; adding in the long
confession that he’s been sleeping with the loan shark that’s been terrorizing
their family because they’re short on cash is not something he’s up for
tackling along with the hospital visit.
"I think it's better if you don't," Stiles says.
“It’s better if I don’t?”
“Just trust me,” Stiles says. He looks over at Scott, at his puzzled eyes, and
thinks that it won’t always be like this. Secrets and dishonesty and emergency
hospital visits. “I’ll tell you eventually.”
--
He doesn’t hear from Peter again. A part of him expected a threatening text
message, just a reminder of what he owes or who he’ll be working with in the
future or that he’s made a bad decision cutting Peter off, something that gives
Peter the last word. Nothing.
He even checks the mail box, just in case Peter’s back to sticking notes inside
it just to piss Stiles off. There’s nothing there either.
--
Waiting for the results might actually be worse than going in to be tested.
He's just drained, but now he's drained and paranoid that any day now he'll
check the mail and there'll be a letter from the doctor with his blood results
in it—or worse yet, his father reaches it first, and Stiles will find him
sitting behind the dining room table holding the results in white-knuckled
hands, looking lost and shocked and disappointed in his son.
Thursday after school makes it officially two weeks and one day of waiting when
he creaks open the mailbox door and sees nothing but ads from a neighboring
phone provider nestled in the box.
The sight of it makes his backpack seem at least ten pounds heavier on his
shoulders. He feels more tired than ever, in need of nothing more than a nap
that isn't disturbed by nightmares of his mother's touch, only one second and
four centimeters away, not the stacks of homework in his bag right now. He's
not sure what it is lately—never before has he been so aware of his
insignificance. Of just how little he, and by extension, his three chapters
worth of algebra reading due in class, actually matters in the grand scheme of
things. It's a philosophy he's used in times of defeat and trouble before.
Stiles trudges up to the door, fishing his keys out of his pocket. Then he sees
something.
The welcome mat's been disturbed. Stiles can see the outline of it on the
pavement, how it's shifted just a fraction, and kneels down to pull back a
corner. There, right where his father has repeatedly advised him not to keep a
spare key because of the risk of predictability that comes with using your
doormat as a hiding spot, Stiles' extra key is missing.
He knows who's inside. The only part that truly baffles him is that Peter
bothered with the formality of a key at all; there are windows to smash near
the back and a back door that could be hacked away with a few good kicks, both
methods that would paint excellent pictures of danger that Stiles knows Peter
very proudly likes to advertise wherever he goes. Nothing feels quite like
coming home than seeing shattered glass all over the living room, and Stiles
wouldn't put it past Peter to decide vindictive aggression is a great way to
get back at Stiles for their last phone call.
That, or he's in there right now getting what's owed to him in the form of
valuables. There are plenty of things in Stiles' house that can be pawned for
cash, and that's Peter's end all, be all, isn't it? Money.
He doesn't want to face him. The Peter that's in there right now can't possibly
be in a good mood, and can't possibly want to see Stiles. Stiles doesn't want
to see him either. He's so damn tired and just wants to sleep for three
eternities until a meteor hits the earth and he can no longer slumber away
reality. He wants his bed and his sheets and his pillow, and Peter isn't going
to stop him. His exhaustion is winning out over his better judgment on this
one.
Stiles opens the door, not all too shocked to find it already unlocked. The
door creaks shut behind him, and once again, Stiles is not all too shocked to
see that he's right: Peter's here.
He's sitting on the sofa, though, not looting the place with a thief's burlap
sack slung over his shoulder looking for valuables to pawn since Stiles is no
longer giving him his money's worth in sexual services. He seems, aside from
the breaking and entering, to not be doing anything illegal, let alone
invasive. Stiles has to admit, that part actually is shocking.
"Hi," Stiles says. His voice sounds wrecked and tired and weary enough to make
him cringe. He drops his keys in the bowl by the door, the sound louder than
he'd like it to be. "You're not robbing the place."
"No," Peter says. "I'm not."
"Did you already rob it?" Stiles drops his backpack, scanning the area for a
sign of swept desks or missing furniture. Everything's in place. "If you're not
here to rob me, you must be here to kill me."
"What?"
"You can't be happy with me," Stiles sighs, rubbing his eyes. Not a single atom
inside of his body wants to be having this conversation. He wants to scream
into a pillow for twenty minutes, maybe have enough of a solid cry to dehydrate
himself, and then fall asleep on his bed when his eyelids swell too much. "You
must be here to do bad things to me. Make me pay. Show me who's boss. Etcetera,
etcetera. Right?"
Peter gets to his feet, eyebrows furrowed closely together. "What?" He shakes
his head as if clearing all of Stiles' mumbling out of it, dismissing it as
irrelevant. "Let's go upstairs."
He says it like it's even his place to dictate where Stiles goes in his own
house. That's just who Peter is, Stiles thinks, the kind of person who believes
they own every room and space and galaxy they walk into, and a part of Stiles
is legitimately jealous of the confidence it requires, confidence he's being
lacking lately. Among other things.
He obeys without even meaning to, following Peter up the stairs and into his
own room, Peter leading the way like the rightful owner of the entire house.
Maybe that's it. Maybe Peter's decided to hell with Stiles and what he has to
offer, why not just take the entire house for what it's worth and subtract it
from their debt. Maybe they'll move to Oregon to be with Stiles' grandmother.
Maybe things would be better anywhere where Peter isn't.
They slip inside one after the other, Peter shutting the door behind them as
Stiles' eyes flick over to the bed and the rumpled sheets on top of it and he
thinks about how nice it would be to sink into them and just forget. He stays
standing instead, lingering near the door just in case he needs to be on his
guard and ready to make a getaway. He still can't imagine Peter's here for
nothing more than to sell Girl Scout Cookies.
"You look awful," Peter says after a stretch of silence.
Stiles huffs. "Thanks."
"Why do you look awful?"
"Why do I look awful?" Stiles repeats, and Peter nods. "Well, let's see. I'm
tired all the time. My head is pounding so hard it feels like there’s a hammer
in there. I'm so stressed it's a miracle I haven't barreled off into the sun
yet. And oh, you're here to kill me."
"I'm not here to kill you," Peter snaps, annoyed.
"Then why are you here?" Stiles asks. "What? Decided you're not going to take
my no as an answer? You're getting what's due to you anyway?"
His eyes are starting to burn, the telltale searing that comes with tears
welling up and threatening to brim over, and the last thing he wants is to have
Peter notice, but he always does. He can always figure out what Stiles is
feeling, like it's written on his chest or is coming off of him in waves, but
Stiles doesn't want him to know that he's about to break down; he's already
shown himself to be plenty weak in the face of the mighty loan shark, and he
doubts it's a good idea to continuously prove just how easily he can be
overpowered. He turns away, trying to keep the tears away. He needs sleep. No
well-rested person cries this much, not when Stiles never used to.
It's just too much. One person can't feel all this, one body isn't meant to
undergo all of these sensations at once. His mother, his schoolwork, his
father, Peter, the bills, his medical results.
"You have no idea what life has been like for me these last few weeks," Stiles
says to the wall, refusing to face Peter. He feels his voice breaking in his
throat and stops himself there.
"Things will improve."
Stiles bites down on his lower lip, his tears hot where they're clinging to his
eyelashes, and suddenly finds it so easy to be boiling over with anger. What is
it about Peter, how every time he says something out loud, he has to lace the
words with an air of supremacy, like he knows best? Like he knows anything at
all about what Stiles has been through? Like all Stiles really needs is a wake-
up-call that eventually, things won't hurt so much, and that'll be enough to
get him back on a happier, saner path?
"They won't. Not while you're here," Stiles says, and now there's no hiding
that he's crying even with his face hidden and body turned away, not with the
way his voice is hitching. "Not while mom isn't." He digs the heels of his
palms into his eyes until he sees spots from the pressure. "I miss her. All I
can see of her are hospital beds and how she looked right before she died and
how I had to be there to see it. And now you're here fucking everything up even
more than it already is."
There's an urge inside him, the urge of a five-year-old body, that's telling
him to stomp his feet and cry as loudly as he wants until he's done and his
eyes feel like sandpaper, but he's not five anymore, he's nearly eighteen, and
he has to keep things together. There are people counting on him to keep things
together, to be okay. He sucks in a breath, wishing he had never said any of
that out loud and also fiercely wishing he could stick a bath plug in his tear
ducts just to compose himself.
"Stop," Peter says. Stiles doesn't know what he's referring to, whether it be
the tears or the words or just the fact that Stiles is breaking down in front
of him right now and he doesn't know how to handle it, but he can't stop, not
now.
He turns around, aware that the charade is up as far as hiding his tears go.
The sound of his crying, the way each sob struggles pathetically up his throat,
is the only sound in the room to be heard, nothing to focus on but his misery
and how it's weeping from his mouth. Peter's not moving, not even leaving like
Stiles is sure he wants to, not even twitching a single finger.
"I just—can't anymore." Stiles wishes he weren't crying. He wishes his face
would cooperate and sculpt itself into something reserved and unaffected
instead of the show it's putting on right now. "Everything is fucking horrible.
Everything I ever had is just—"
His words are swallowed away by cloth, something soft interrupting his mouth
and pressing between his lips. It's not until a hand rests on his neck that
Stiles realizes Peter's tucked him against his chest, pressed tightly to his
shirt where Stiles' cheek can pick up the steady thumps of Peter's heartbeat.
It runs a little faster than he expected.
"Stop talking so much," Peter says. He sounds both irritated and soothing, like
a father who's never comforted his child before, everything about his method
rough around the edges. "It doesn't help."
Stiles' fist pounds into Peter's chest, twice, either to push out the anger or
to feebly struggle against Peter's arms. It still doesn't quell the tears, hot
and unabated now where they're spilling from his eyes.
"I can't help it," he says. "I can't talk about this to anyone—fucking no one
but you. Fuck. That's so messed up."
His voice breaks. He tries to imagine breaking open in front of his father like
this, who would hold him and shush him in all the right ways, but then take
responsibility for Stiles' sadness and let another layer of guilt wrinkle his
face. The last thing he wants is for his father to worry, to think anything is
wrong past the odd science test here and there. Another fresh wave of tears
seems to wash over him like an angry hurricane’s tide.
"I don't want to hear it," Peter says. His words, sharp and uninterested, are a
stark contrast to his soothing hands as they run down Stiles' back.
But he wants to talk, and it hits him then exactly how absurd this is and if
Peter has come to the same conclusion. If he has, Stiles wonders why he hasn’t
left yet. He knows that Peter is nothing but hard edges, a massive glacier
that’s unmovable, and he doesn’t want to talk, doesn’t want to get emotionally
involved, assuming he’s even capable of doing so, but he’s still here, still
holding Stiles against his chest.
“So much shit has been happening,” Stiles whispers. He keeps looking for that
release, that outlet that makes him feel like a real person again, not just a
programmed automaton. Maybe talking is what he needs. “Like, more than one
person can physically handle. It’s too much.”
Peter’s hand slides up to touch the back of his head. “Take a breath,
sweetheart. You’re stronger than you think.”
That almost sounds like a compliment, like Peter’s mouth is capable of saying
nice things and words like sweetheart. He opens his eyes, eyelashes wet against
Peter’s jacket. “Really?”
“The human body is built to withstand countless blows, mental and physical. I
think it would surprise you, how much it can handle.” He sighs, his hand coming
to a rest on the nape of Stiles’ neck. “You don’t have HIV.”
Stiles freezes. He hadn’t told anybody, except perhaps Scott, who came as close
as anyone to being with him at the hospital, why he was there, what he was
afraid of. He looks up from Peter’s chest, frowning. “How do you even know
about that?”
“Don’t insult me,” Peter murmurs. “Blood results are incredibly easy to
intercept.”
Stiles pushes away from him, the comfort of his proximity stung by the fact
that Peter has no problem rooting around in Stiles’ private affairs, going as
far as to steal his mail. “Give them to me.”
“You don’t need them,” Peter says, sighing again. “I could’ve told you that you
didn’t have HIV. Unless, of course…” He steps closer again, filling in the gaps
Stiles tried to put between them, and slides his hand under his ear, thumb
brushing his jawline. “…the others who you say have touched you are to blame.”
Stiles isn’t interested in telling him the story. He wasn’t when Peter had his
dick in his mouth behind the skating rink and he isn’t now, just like when
everybody else asks, looking for nothing but nearly an entire year of his life
summed up in one trauma-free sentence because it might be interesting. He sets
his jaw, refusing to speak, and knocks Peter’s hand away.
“Fine,” Peter says. “Don’t tell me.”
“I won’t.” Stiles holds his hand out expectantly instead. His eyes and cheeks
have already swollen, making him feel like a petulant child more than ever.
“Give me the results. Come on.”
Peter looks down at his outstretched fingers for a long time. Either he doesn’t
understand what Stiles wants from him or he’s determined to be petulant and
keep the upper hand by lording information over Stiles’ head, but he doesn’t
give him a thing.
“Peter,” Stiles tries again, this time doing his best to make it sound like a
warning.
Peter doesn’t seem to take the bait. “You could have just asked me,” he says.
“I could’ve told you I’m clean. What kind of person would that make me, fucking
people when I’m saddled with a sexually transmitted disease?”
“Terrible,” Stiles says. “Which is exactly what you are.”
Peter chuckles. “Now that hurts.”
Stiles isn't laughing. He's tired of being played with. Every part of his body
is drawn taut, tight with nerves until he can finally just know, does he have
to be worried or not. Is his life going to be completely different from now on
or is he clean. Is Peter literally the worst mistake of his entire existence or
just a mildly unwise decision?
“Peter,” Stiles says again, lower this time. He reaches out, unsure of his
intention but vaguely aware that touch might be a persuasive tactic, before he
lets his hand drop to his side again. “This is serious. This is my fucking
life. Do you even get that?”
“I’m going to prove to you how I know.”
“Know what?”
“That I didn’t give you HIV.” Peter takes a step back, as if bracing himself
for a somersault through Stiles’ room. His eyes meet Stiles’ for a second.
“Hold your breath.”
“Why do I need to—”
The words are swallowed back by his throat when, in seconds, Peter’s throwing
his arms out and roaring, an animalistic, monstrous sound that has Stiles
throwing himself backwards until he’s pressed up against the door, every one of
his innate instincts telling him to hunker down and hide or run at the speed of
a bullet, but his body’s frozen, completely unable to react in a fit of
paralysis as Peter's howl booms through the room.
The nightmare doesn’t get better. In a matter of blinks, Peter’s gone, replaced
by a hunched, predatory creature, the human barely visible under the icy eyes,
the clawed hands, the sharp fangs, all of it so emphatic that it looks like the
man's body beneath it is a costume, a poor attempt to look like a real person
instead of a primordial animal. He's hairy and looming and broad-shouldered,
his entire frame rebuilt into something scarier, larger, unreal. Peter takes
three long, ragged breaths, the sounds more like carnal growls than exhales.
It takes Stiles a minute to realize two things: one, he’s no longer on his feet
and his knees have buckled out under him, collapsing him to the floor, and two,
he’s forgotten entirely how to breathe. There is absolutely no air influx
between his lungs and the world around him. That, or the oxygen has completely
flown from the room, leaving Stiles to die a quaking, wheezing, undignified
death on the floor.
“Stiles,” Peter says, but it doesn’t sound like Peter, it sounds like a bear
with Peter’s vocal chords, mangling them into something rough and sharp. “I
told you to hold your breath.”
Which Stiles would’ve done, if there was any breath there to hold. He still
can’t breathe, he can’t even feel the solidity of the ground beneath him, can’t
tell where left or up or right or down is. All he can see is straight ahead
where something furred and heaving stands in front of him, definitely not a
grounding sight, but rather something that's spinning the world and leaving
Stiles gasping and breathless. He tries again to draw another gulp of oxygen
into his body, but it isn’t working, his body just isn’t functioning anymore,
and his entire chest heaves before the world blacks out.
--
There’s something extremely cold on Stiles’ forehead. Cold and wet. Cold and
wet and unpleasant, and he can probably put a stop to it if he opens his eyes.
He does so, and instantly, a forearm comes into view, a forearm that’s attached
to an elbow, attached to a shoulder, attached to a neck that’s holding the head
of—
“Peter,” Stiles says, voice a little croaky, and instantly remembers everything
like somebody's hitting him in the gut with an encyclopedia. He reaches out,
stilling his arm, and sees that Peter’s holding a wet towel in his fingers that
he’s bunched up and dragged across Stiles’ face.
“I told you to hold your breath,” Peter says. He sounds extremely irked, which
Stiles thinks is all kinds of insensitive. He could’ve fucking died. His heart
was going way over the speed limit for a few seconds there. He pushes the towel
away.
“Kind of hard to do that when there was a—a.” He rubs his temple, moist from
the towel, and tries to piece together what he saw again. “What the hell are
you?”
"Werewolf," Peter says, so effortlessly, so casually, like all of this is no
big deal.
"Werewolf," Stiles repeats faintly. He has to be honest, as bizarre and cool as
this is, the last thing his life needs right now is the stress of werewolves
being real. Not just real, but involved with him. Financially and sexually.
Almost medically, but— "So you heal. Is that what you were showing me?"
"Yes," Peter says. "I can't very well give you an STD when my body protects me
from having them."
Stiles is pretty sure that there would've been other ways to prove that, like a
fun magic trick where the swords shoved in the box are real, or by letting
Stiles feed him expired milk and watching as he doesn't have to heave curdled
dairy over the sink. Then again, Peter's the type to choose flair and drama
over practicality, so Stiles isn't surprised. Annoyed and light-headed, but not
surprised.
He thinks about sitting up, but realizes he probably ought to digest this
outrageous new twist of his world before he tries to walk around. Stiles will
admit, this does make sense of some things—the occasionally glowing eyes, the
extremely swift strength. Dazedly, Stiles realizes that if he hadn't intervened
with his father's debts and his father hadn't been able to pay them off, his
dad might've become a late night werewolf snack. It's one thing to battle a
regular loan shark, another when the loan shark is actually a savage beast with
teeth specifically designed to quickly tear out hearts and slice into necks.
"What about everybody else?" Stiles asks. "You don't work alone, do you?"
"Ah. Let's just say that this is... a family business. And this," without
missing a beat, Peter's claws are out with a sharp shrink, hand loftily waved
in the air to show them off, "runs in the family also."
A loan shark family made of werewolves. A werewolf family made of loan sharks.
Stiles is starting to develop a headache. He suddenly wants to go through every
unsolved murder file in his father's police cabinets and see if he finds
anything he can attribute to supernatural power, anybody found maimed in a
field somewhere with suspicious claw marks. Is this really all real? Is he
still passed out? Is this all just a new nightmare he's experiencing?
Peter picks up the towel and runs it over Stiles' forehead again, like Stiles
still looks pale enough to possibly pass out for round two, Stiles grimacing
all the while as the wetness drags over his skin. He faintly notices that the
stretch of tear tracks on his cheeks has vanished, presumably washed away by
Peter's determination to drench Stiles' whole face.
It's almost nice, or at least the kindness behind it is. It's not lost on
Stiles that it wasn't that long ago when he was agreeing to be fucked by a
stranger for the greater good of his family, and now said stranger is bent over
him with a cool cloth without even being bribed into helping. It's a nice
feeling, being taken care of by someone who looks like they could smash through
doors with their fists alone. He stops squirming, letting the cloth swipe over
his hairline.
"Why did you tell me?" Stiles asks.
"That I'm a werewolf?"
Stiles nods. "Yeah. I mean, it seems like... classified information. Like a
secret."
Peter grins, then pulls away the towel to replace it with his hand, trailing a
finger down Stiles' temple, touching the cool dampness left behind. "Who are
you going to tell?" He leans in, pushing his nose against Stiles' cheek,
inhaling on his skin. "Will you tell the police department on me?" His smile
grows. "Will you tell darling daddy about the wolf in your bed?"
A few weeks ago, that same probing would’ve earned Peter one of Stiles’ poorly
executed right hooks. Now he can’t be bothered to do more than chuckle. He’s
oddly tired, and he wonders if that’s what fainting does for a man. It’s a
different exhaustion than what he’s been feeling, a sturdy drowsiness that
almost feels solid enough to guarantee him a real night of sleep, not just
wavering fits of sleep interrupted by constant turning, constant twisting, his
mind too busy to let him give into his fatigue. Tonight might be different, and
he thinks he might know why.
“That’s the first time in a long time that I’ve felt alive,” Stiles murmurs,
concentrating on the ceiling. “Probably because I thought I was going to die,
but still.”
Peter’s silent for a moment. “First time in a long time,” he repeats slowly.
“First time since—well.” He takes a deep breath. Every time he’s thought about
her, even just said her name out loud, it’s felt like talons gripping his
insides, and he wonders if now will be any different. “Since my mom died.”
Peter’s quiet again, this time for so long that Stiles can’t help but wonder if
Stiles is putting him off. Peter is not about sentimental speeches and
carefully balancing emotions, let alone handling someone else’s. He goes to sit
up, ready for the brush off, and then Peter’s keeping him flat on his back by
pressing a hand to his chest.
“It was grief,” he says. “All the symptoms you had. Nausea, headaches, fatigue.
It was just grief. It has more powerful of a grip on the body than I suppose
you realized.” He shrugs a bit. “And probably also a bad cold, but yes, sadness
can take down your body if you let it.”
Stiles turns to look at Peter. There’s something he’s never seen on his face
before, an expression bordering on apologetic, if not outrightly sympathetic,
and it looks almost incompatible with Peter’s face, usually always molded into
a self-satisfied smirk, like he’s wearing a hat meant for an entirely different
head. Stiles’ first reaction is to wipe it off Peter’s face, put something more
natural and mean and expected there, demand he take off the mask. He props
himself up on his elbows.
“How do you know?” he asks.
Peter tilts his head, and this time his smile is self-deprecating. “You and I
have more in common than you think, Stiles.”
Stiles lets that stew in his brain. He doesn’t like the conclusions he’s coming
to. He thinks of his own secrets, of the stories he doesn’t want to tell,
doesn’t even want to hear come out of his mouth being spoken by his own voice,
and says something he normally wouldn’t. “You don’t have to tell me if you
don’t want to.”
“Wonderful. I’m not planning on it.”
Stiles chuckles. He supposes he deserves that one considering how tight-lipped
he’s been about his own past, but oddly enough, here and now, he almost finds
himself wanting to share. It feels like Peter’s here for once without an
ulterior motive, his eyes not on the prize in the horizon but on Stiles, just
Stiles. He settles back down onto the mattress, his entire body finding it
surprisingly easy to relax into it.
“Okay. How about this." He holds out his hand as a peace offering. "One day
I'll tell if you tell."
Peter looks down at the proffered palm in his direction and slots his hand into
Stiles', giving it a shake that's probably firmer than it needs to be. Stiles
likes this, even if it's just a far off promise to maybe trust each other at
one point. Stiles can't imagine Peter making many of these pacts with people,
which makes him wonder—
"Are there really no other boys like me?" Stiles asks. It feels, very suddenly,
like an important question.
"No," Peter says. He props himself on his arm to arc over Stiles, a look on his
face like he feels lucky to be here, to be looking at Stiles under the glow of
this intimate light of dusk. "Are there other men like me?"
"Oh yeah. You're not the only loan shark my father owes money to, you know, and
they all want a piece of this." He gestures down his body before the
suggestiveness of the motion is undermined by a yawn climbing from his mouth.
"That's hilarious," Peter mutters. His hand settles on Stiles' chest, and it
feels like a soothing weight, or possibly a possessiveness claim, or both. "Go
to sleep, Stiles."
He is tired, that much is true, and he wants to sleep. He's wanted to sleep for
months, but now that he has the opportunity, his mind is storming with
unanswered questions. "No, wait. I have questions. Werewolf questions."
"Ask them tomorrow," Peter tells him.
No, no, he very much wants to ask them now. He can't find out that hairy,
clawed werewolves are real and that his world is not nearly as sane as he
thought it was and then snuggle in for bedtime. He has the golden opportunity
to learn all the trade secrets about werewolves and what they can do and if the
silver bullet myth is real and he can't very well squander it now that he has
Peter talking. It feels like there's a special moment between them right now,
something that isn't charged with aggression or the perpetual need to one-up
the other, like there's real honesty and dare he say it, gentleness, between
them at the moment that Stiles is positive won't survive the entire night. The
fact that he's tired in a way that might actually lead to sleep for the first
time in months is one of the biggest let downs Stiles' life has ever deemed fit
to give him.
"I want to talk," Stiles tries again insistently.
"You're tired."
"I am, but I want to talk." Stiles rubs his hands over his tired eyelids. "Will
you talk with me tomorrow? Really?"
"Yes," Peter promises. "Would I lie to you?"
"You would," Stiles says, letting his eyes close. "But I'll believe you this
time."
"Good."
Peter's knuckles softly graze his cheek. The last thing he remembers before
sleep pulls him into a much-needed hug is the sound of Peter chuckling, right
by his ear, like a happy lullaby.
***** Chapter 6 *****
Chapter Notes
     I think a lot of you have already started to catch on to what secrets
     lurk in Stiles' past, especially those of you who've read the tags.
     But all that comes later--first, a little shot of lightheartedness
     and my favorite thing about writing Stiles and Peter together--snarky
     banter.
     As usual, thank you to all you guys who've been sticking with this
     story week after week and letting me know how much you look forward
     to updates. You are the best!!
Stiles wakes up the next morning feeling extremely out of place, and it takes
him a moment to realize that he's just had an entire night of sleep without
interruptions, random awakenings, or horrendous nightmares.
The rest trickles back in after that initial victory gets internally celebrated
and Stiles revels in the long lost feeling of well-rested limbs, like the fact
that Peter is a werewolf and monsters are real and he's vanished from Stiles'
bed without a trace of proof he ever stepped a foot inside this room. The only
thing even slightly indicative of his visit is the fact that the window is
unlatched, signaling what his exit route was last night. Sure, if Stiles had
supernatural strength and reflexes, he might jump out of people's second-story
windows too just for the hell of surviving it.
The next thing he notices is that he feels unbelievably refreshed, like his
body's spent the night bathing in goat's milk and then being rubbed down in
lotion while chamomile tea was poured into his bloodstream. It's a feeling so
foreign to Stiles that it takes him a moment to remember that he used to feel
like this all the time, back when he could collapse onto his mattress and sleep
for fourteen hours straight, and here he is feeling it again, like getting a
hug from an old friend. He really had a long, good, replenishing night.
Then he realizes that he’s been undressed to his boxers, and there’s only one
possible offender who could be responsible for that. Stiles looks down at his
chest, half expecting a crude, proprietary message on his skin written in
lipstick. There’s nothing, the only evidence that he was ever clothed at all
piled on the floor, his t-shirt, socks, and jeans all folded together like an
invisible maid swept through during the night and tidied up Stiles’ life.
He peels himself off the wrinkled mattress and throws off the sheets,
stretching his well-rested limbs with relish. He feels like there ought to be
doves chirping to and fro and domesticated rodents handing him articles of
ironed clothing, that's how good he feels.
It isn't until he's getting to his feet that he notices that there's a note
folded on his bedside table, a piece of paper torn out of the school notebook
lying open on Stiles' desk. He unfolds it, only one line worth of words
scribbled on it.
Pancakes at IHOP, 9am. Be there.
A little bossy for Stiles’ taste, but at least the vaguely threatening closing
like a chilling or else to instill the fear of thirty mafia men in Stiles’
heart is no longer there. He doesn’t text Peter that he's seen the invitation,
perfectly content to let Peter stew, but starts getting dressed to head out
anyway.
He notices then that there’s another piece of paper left for him, this one
sticking out of the jeans Peter’s taken the liberty to clean up, larger than
the note left for him on his nightstand. He pulls it out and realizes what it
is—his test results.
For a second, the nerves flutter back to the surface—what if Peter’s wrong, and
he’s managed to give him something he can’t get rid of? What if he’s not out of
the woods yet by a long shot?—and he folds open the paper with all of his
organs lodged in his throat.
HIV 1 – Negative.
It's not until his face starts aching that Stiles realizes he's smiling ear-to-
ear. Now this, this is the kind of thing he'd like to frame and hang on his
wall just as a reminder that hey, life isn't so bad, and hey, maybe watch who
you agree to take your clothes off around, but pinning his medical results to
the wall might not be the most inconspicuous place in the world.
He stares at it for a few more seconds, letting the good news sink in before
stuffing it in his sock drawer so his father doesn't accidentally stumble over
it and Stiles' good mood is ruined. It's been a while since he's felt this
good, this relieved, and he has to say, the idea of a warm stack of pancakes on
this beautiful morning couldn't hurt.
--
It doesn't take very long for Stiles to pinpoint which car is Peter's in the
IHOP parking lot. In a classic case of which-one-of-these-is-not-like-the-
other, Stiles scans his way through three beaten up Sedans, two old pick-ups,
and one extremely dusty SUV before his eyes land on the one diamond gleaming
amid all the dirt: a sleek, beautiful Corvette.
Paid for by unscrupulous interest fees and illegal money lending, Stiles' brain
adds, but. Stiles will admit it is a nice car. He drags his fingertip over the
paint job as he walks by, half expecting an alarm telling him in loud monotones
to walk away from the priceless vehicle unless he wants his grandchildren to be
paying off the debt of the damage he could potentially cause, and listens to
the car door squeak under his touch, totally clean. Stiles would probably hate
that Peter drives around in a car like this if he wasn't so sure that Peter in
anything even remotely less cool—god forbid he picture him behind the wheel of
a soccer mom van—would make him look like a sad father trying to spend time at
the dry cleaners just to get a moment to himself.
He steps inside the restaurant, having resisted the temptation to go crack eggs
on the windshield or piss in the gas tank, and looks around for a familiar face
amidst the other breakfast goers. In a corner booth by a wide window, Peter
waves him over.
He's alone, but he was clearly expecting Stiles' company as a sure thing
considering there are two tall glasses of water on the table, one near him and
the other perfectly untouched. Stiles finds his certainty in not being stood up
both immensely frustrating and somewhat amusing. Stiles could tell horror
stories of just how many times he sat in a restaurant waiting for a date to
show while working his way through the bread basket in solitude.
Not that this is a date.
"You know," Stiles says, sliding into the seat opposite him, "nothing says
middle life crisis like a man your age in a Corvette bought with the money
robbed off of people's innocent backs."
Peter spares him a momentary glance. "Yes. And nothing says gold digger like
the teenager hanging out with him." He sticks his hand into the air before
Stiles can so much as think up a clever retort. "Waitress! We're ready."
Stiles fumbles for the menu. "We're not ready, hello. Unless you're referring
to yourself as multiple people. Which I guess your ego would be all for."
"I had you pegged as a creature of habit," Peter says idly. "Always eats the
same food at his favorite restaurants. Always rereads the same books. Always
wears the same underwear. Am I wrong?"
"I'm wearing fresh underwear, thank you very much," Stiles grumbles.
“And the rest?”
“Fine! I always get the chocolate chip pancakes,” he says, a defiant part of
him seriously considering ordering something new and potentially incompatible
with his taste buds just to spite Peter, but it’s been a while since he went to
IHOP and he wants his favorite meal, goddammit. “You’re paying.”
“Only if you put out,” Peter murmurs to the napkin he gets busy unfolding and
tucking over his lap. “Otherwise I see no reason we can’t share the bill.”
“You’re paying,” Stiles repeats, more loudly this time, and then the waitress
sidles up to the table just in time to stop what might’ve progressed into a
heated argument over what wouldn’t have been much more than a fifteen dollar
bill with a man who’s probably carrying hundreds in his wallet right now.
“Good morning," Peter says to the waitress with a nearly pleasant smile that
makes it clear that he can actually be civil, if not nice, to people. "He'll
have the chocolate chip pancakes. I'll have the red velvet. Extra whipped
cream."
"Extra whipped cream?" Stiles repeats, snorting after the waitress disappears.
Peter, suddenly uncharacteristically prim at being called out for his choice of
topping, frowns at him. "Guilty pleasure," he says.
Stiles waves him off. Peter could order a dozen hand-picked strawberries,
rainbow sprinkles, and the blood of righteous virgins with his breakfast for
all he cares right now. Today is about Stiles and how nice it is to have things
go right after facing down the firing squad of bad luck for way too many
months.
"Whatever. There are so many things out there for me to judge you about that
whipped cream doesn't even make the top ten list," Stiles reassures.
“I’m glad it makes you so happy to think about all of the different ways you
can judge me.”
“Oh, very happy.”
“You’re in a good mood today,” Peter observes suspiciously just as the waitress
approaches with two giant plates of pancakes surrounded by sliced fruit and
slides them onto the table.
“Hey, I don’t have HIV, and werewolves are real, man.” Stiles unrolls his
swaddled utensils from their napkin cocoon, ready to dig in. “And it’s been a
while since I’ve had anything more than toast for breakfast, so yeah, this is a
good day so far.”
He stuffs his overloaded fork into his mouth, brimming with stacked pancakes,
and licks his upper lip to clean off the whipped cream smeared there. It’s been
a long time since he went out to have breakfast with someone. Lately it’s been
nothing but sitting at the dining table alone with a plate of half-heartedly
nibbled food.
“You eat like an animal,” Peter comments just as Stiles shovels his second
mouthful in, this one big enough to stuff his cheeks.
“Thanks,” Stiles says through the fluffiness in his mouth. He takes a moment to
chew and swallow, then says, “Especially considering who the real animal is,
eh?” He winks. Peter’s flat expression stares back at him. “Speaking of. Can I
ask my questions you promised me now?”
“As long as you don’t talk with your mouth full,” Peter says, then makes a show
of sliding his fork into his mouth, smoothly withdrawing it, and gracefully
swallowing. It’s like dining with the king, Stiles thinks, which Peter probably
believes he is, but still.
“You’re kind of a dick, you know that, right?” Stiles says, feeling the need to
have this on the record. He slides back on track. “So what’s it like?”
“What’s what like?”
“Being a werewolf, obviously,” Stiles says.
“What is it you’d like to know?”
“Uh, everything.”
“Hmm.” Peter takes another bite, taking the moment to consider the question.
“My senses are heightened. On an evolutionary standpoint, I’m better than the
average human in every possible way. I’m also very good at murder.”
“At least you’re humble.”
“I try.”
Stiles watches him take another bite of his breakfast. Sitting there in a
plastic booth with his napkin splayed over his lap and syrup on the corner of
his mouth, he looks perfectly ordinary, almost innocent. There are people
around them right now probably enjoying their food without a single inkling
that they’re sharing breathing space with a werewolf hiding in a man’s leather
jacket, the newer and more frightening “wolf in sheep’s clothing” metaphor
that’s apparently real life. Stiles isn’t sure if he’s thrilled or terrified by
this turn of events.
Well. If nothing else, it’s definitely cool.
"So this is a pretty sweet deal, isn't it?" Stiles asks as he inspects the army
of different syrups sitting on the table, experimentally drizzling a few over
his plate. “I’m guessing you have super powers. What are they?”
“Super powers?” Peter repeats dubiously.
“Yeah. Like, do you not have to eat? Or sleep? Can you run with the cheetahs?”
“No,” Peter deadpans. “I also don’t rest in coffins or live on a diet of only
human flesh. As for the cheetah outrunning, I’ve never actually tried.”
“You should.” Stiles grins. “You know, we could go to the zoo after we’re done
here. Throw you in the tiger cage. See who’s stronger.”
“I’m glad you’re having fun with this, Stiles.”
“I am,” Stiles says gleefully. He actually thinks it’s the most fun he’s had in
a while, but the fact that it’s with Peter is keeping him from even considering
saying it out loud. “What else can you do? Can you read minds? Can you talk to
animals?”
“That’s a great imagination you have there, Stiles.”
“Come on. I’m basically giving you a chance to gloat. You should be loving
this.”
One of Peter’s eyebrow arches, probably in agreement. "All right,” he murmurs,
rearranging himself on the seat. “I can’t read minds. But I can smell feelings.
Although it's more of a general... scenting of the mood. Of the air a person
unconsciously gives off."
"Are you serious? Scenting of the mood?"
"Yes. They all have smells. They're just subtle."
"And what, you've been smelling me?"
"Of course," Peter scoffs. "Can't exactly turn it off."
“God, that’s annoying,” Stiles mutters under his breath, suddenly remembering
all those moments when Peter just knew what he was thinking like he was x-
raying his way into Stiles’ brain. “You've done that to me so many times. My
feelings are mine alone, buddy.”
“It promotes honesty,” Peter steamrolls over Stiles’ complaints. “So many
people never say what they’re feeling, which is hardly the foundation for a
good relationship, let alone a good conversation.” He takes a moment to chew
his next bite. “There are definite benefits to a post-manners society, like
efficiency, and considering that I can see through whatever pretenses people
like to put up, I live a pretty efficient life.”
Stiles throws his head back with a groan. “God. It’s to be nice. People don’t
always say what they’re thinking because they’re sparing someone’s feelings.
Not that you have any practice in that.” At Peter’s unamused glare, Stiles
points his fork at him and continues. “And it’s hypocritical, you know that?
It’s not like you tell people what you’re really feeling.”
Peter’s eye twitches; he clearly has no rebuttal. Stiles takes a moment to
revel in the completely unknown sensation of winning a conversation that has
Peter at the other end of it, who has a notorious propensity for needing the
last laugh or else.
He ends up saying nothing, leaving Stiles to swim in the glory of his triumph
while Peter cuts into his pancake in silence. It almost feels like having a
squabble with a friend, like hanging out with a friend. Like all of this
crushing drama of having to deal with life’s shittier moments can take a step
back for a little while. It’s… refreshing.
"This is nice," Stiles says without even meaning to, but next thing he knows,
his mouth is forming the words. "It's nice to be around you and not feel like
beating you up."
"That's your typical reaction to me then?"
"Oh, absolutely," Stiles nods. "You have a face that I just can't resist
wanting to punch. And when you start talking, that certainly doesn't help."
Peter nods indulgently, sliding a triangular piece of pancake around his plate
to mop up syrup. All of Peter's bites are in sharp shapes, cut into precise
angles, and he even holds his utensils the proper way. For whatever reason,
this feels like coveted information to know about Peter. Most people probably
don’t know how he cuts into his food.
"So you're not falling in love with me then?"
"Ha!" Stiles barks out loudly. "Is that something you deal with often? People
falling head over heels for you?"
Peter shrugs, an air of hauteur about his shoulders as he does so, like he
wouldn't be surprised if there were a handful of people out there pining over
his blue eyes and lean frame and devastatingly good looks right now, woefully
missing what could have been. "I'm a catch."
"Right." Stiles chuckles to his plate. "I will give you this, I kind of like
that I can add werewolf lover to my list of accomplishments."
"I'm your lover?"
Stiles sputters around his mouthful of food. As mortifying as it is, his
embarrassment around Peter usually can be sourced back to post-coital shame, so
it's rather nice to have it lead back to a simple conversation. That, or Stiles
is just in such a good mood that everything has a brighter light cast on it
today. He licks the excess syrup off his fork.
“Well, you sure love me good in them sheets,” Stiles says with a suggestive
dance of the eyebrows to tap it all off.
It sets Peter off into a fit of laughter that bursts out of his mouth like even
he wasn’t expecting the sound to come out of his throat, cheeks puffed before
the first derisive snort can weasel its way out. It gives Stiles a glance at
something he hasn’t seen on Peter before—tiny crow’s feet by his eyes. He had
been convinced that Peter had lived a life of grimness from the moment he was
born, one of those helpless cases born evil who had never known the pleasure of
laughter. Now, seeing the wrinkles born from time, Stiles sees that he’s wrong,
even if it still is fucking weird to picture Peter happy.
“Don’t ever talk like that again,” Peter says, wiping a tear of mirth from his
eye with his napkin. “That was horrendous.” He sets the napkin back down. “So
is that how you describe me to your friends? As your lover?”
“I don’t talk about you to my friends,” Stiles says, his entire face going
pink.
“Oh, you don’t?”
Peter gives him a curious look, his expression almost unreadable. It takes
Stiles a moment to recognize that he’s seen it before, and he’s pretty sure he
knows what it means now. He sets his utensils down, looking away as if it’ll
keep Peter from reading him like he’s a comic book sitting open on the coffee
table, the kind that’s so easy to understand it doesn’t even need words aside
from the odd onomatopoeia here and there.
“Don’t do that,” Stiles says. “Don’t sniff me, or however you go about figuring
out what I’m feeling. I know, I know, you can smell shame. I know what you’re
thinking too, pal. Stop being ashamed of me, Stiles.”
Peter smiles. “Actually, I was going to say that you seem quite…” He seems to
search for the right word and finds his vocabulary empty of what he's looking
for. He tuts, grabbing the syrup bottle to give his last bite one good drizzle.
“Let’s just say I think you’re wrong. You are definitely falling in love with
me.”
“Hell no,” Stiles says instantly. “No. No. Do I have to remind you of how much
I can’t stand you?”
“You might,” Peter says. His eyes are glued to Stiles’ as if stuck there, the
intensity of his eye contact almost unsettling. “I’m not convinced right now.”
“Not my problem," Stiles grits out even as he feels himself turning alarming
shades of red. He would totally give into the desire to chuck pancake bits at
Peter's pressed shirt if he didn't know that reeked of sixth-grade-crush
behavior, so he keeps his hands to himself. “Maybe you have some convincing of
your own to do. Folding up my clothes for me, that was pretty romantic.”
“Your standards for romance are dismal,” Peter deadpans. “And for the record,
Stiles, I never claimed to not be able to stand you.”
“What?”
“I like you just fine, Stiles.”
“You like me just fine?” Stiles asks, unable to do anything but parrot back
what he’s hearing in disbelief.
“Yes, just fine,” Peter says, the tone in his voice making it clear that he’s
not intent on paying Stiles any more flattery. He takes a moment to chew his
food before speaking again. “Are you looking for me to overwhelm you with
compliments? Perhaps proclaim my love?”
“Well, that’s exactly what you were wanting me to do, isn’t it?” Stiles points
out, feeling unexplainably sour. “Admit that I’m falling in love with you.”
“I never said you had to admit it, I was just saying that I knew.” Peter shoots
him a wink across the table that Stiles almost misses. “It’s understandable.
I’m very charismatic.”
“What you are is a giant pain in the ass,” Stiles says. “Metaphorically and
literally.”
“Are you asking me to be gentler with you?”
Peter arches across the table, a subtle whiff of his cologne drifting over to
Stiles’ side. Stiles doesn’t know a lot of people who wear cologne. His
grandfather, maybe, and with that connotation in mind, Stiles has no rational
explanation as to why he enjoys the scent.
“No,” Stiles says, heating up under the intensity Peter’s proximity. He looks
over his shoulder, convinced that the entire diner is watching them with
bulging eyes, just as painfully aware as Stiles is of the way his pants are
getting tight, but nobody’s paying them an ounce of attention.
“So you like it rough, then?” Peter whispers, and Stiles is grateful if nothing
else that Peter is keeping his voice down, even if his dick is currently paying
the price no matter the volume of the filth he’s saying.
“Dear god,” Stiles says, refusing to submit to this madness. “We’re having
breakfast, you pervert.”
Peter leans back into his seat, chuckling as he rearranges his napkin over his
lap and slides the last bite of his pancake into his mouth. His tongue flicks
out over his lower lip to catch a dribble of syrup, every movement he makes
exuding this graceful elegance and sophisticated sexual appeal that Stiles
finds himself nearly ogling, which is unfair, really, because why should bad
people get to look so good?
He quickly switches his train of thought.
"So I meant to ask,” Stiles says, pivoting to a slightly more PG topic of
choice, “why did you come yesterday?"
Peter regards him with a curious look as he dabs his napkin over his mouth,
wiping away the residual greasiness of the pancakes. Stiles thinks about the
last time he saw Peter with a napkin in his hand, how it had been a
handkerchief he was cleaning his release off of Stiles' face with, and promptly
goes warm under the ears. Apparently it doesn’t matter if Peter’s goading him
or not, his mind will always be stuck in that filthy place.
"Come on," Peter says, tossing the napkin onto the table.
"What?" Stiles asks, mouth still full of food. "Where are we going?"
"The zoo," Peter declares, like it's obvious. "To outrun the tigers."
Stiles chokes out a laugh around his stuffed mouth, taking care to chew and
swallow before he starts asking questions and gets a chocolate chip lodged in
his throat and Peter has to save his life in front of all of these people,
which in turn would force Stiles to pretend to be publicly grateful for his
heroic skills. The only thing Stiles is comfortable showing Peter gratitude for
is how well he gets Stiles off, since he does it like it's a delicate art he's
taken courses in.
Not that he should be thinking about that in this family establishment.
"You're kidding?" Stiles asks.
Peter shakes his head and slides out of the booth, fishing an extremely posh
leather wallet out of his pocket that could probably pay off enough plastic
surgery to make Stiles look like Leonardo DiCaprio. He pulls a few bills out,
tucking them under the napkin holder.
"Come on," Peter says, impatience already lurking in the twist of his mouth.
"I'm still eating!"
"Probably because you were too busy talking when you should've been enjoying
breakfast," Peter points out, a very acidic edge to his voice, and really, why
are they going on day trips together to coo at animals when it's clear that
Peter is just as annoyed by Stiles as Stiles is by Peter, no matter how
emphatically Peter claims to like Stiles just fine?
Stiles throws his napkin onto the table in defeat, although begrudgingly, and
gets to his feet.
“Okay,” he grumbles. “But we’re taking your car.”
--
As bad as he feels about it, Stiles isn’t sure how he can go back to his
rickety, gets-stuck-in-certain-gears Jeep after riding around in Peter’s
Corvette and sitting, literally, in the lap of luxury.
After day after day of sluggishly dragging himself over the earth, nursing
headaches and exhaustion, feeling drained to the very bone marrow and stressed
to the max, it feels almost like a dream to be sitting reclined in a leather
car seat while cool air conditioning tickles his face and the road whizzes by
as if he’s traveling on a cloud, the tires smooth and the acceleration quiet.
So this is the life of a loan shark, Stiles thinks as he closes his eyes and
listens for the barely audible sound of Peter speeding up, the engine not
struggling in the slightest like Stiles’ car always does when it ascends a
somewhat inclined hill. It feels a little hypocritical to be here enjoying the
spoils of Peter’s corrupt profession, Stiles remembering all too vividly how,
not too long ago, he had sneered in Peter’s face and threatened to turn him
into the police.
With a car like this, though, Stiles can’t imagine that the police would catch
him.
“Are you sleeping?” somebody snaps, and Stiles jerks his eyes back open to see
that the car’s been parked, Peter frowning at him from the driver’s seat.
“No. Just relaxing,” Stiles says. “This car’s so damn silent. It’s like being
rocked back and forth in a crib.”
Peter’s frown takes a u-turn at that into a smile, pleased at Stiles’ taste in
cars, or perhaps just preening at the compliment of his things and everything
his generous salary can afford. “The car speaks for the man,” he says, like
he’s imparting wise advice, then slides his hand over the gear shift like he’s
caressing a smooth leg, a caress so sensual Stiles has to look away, turning
firmly to the windshield. In front of him is a gargantuan building and a ticket
counter, an awning labeled with—
“Holy shit, you really did take me to the zoo,” Stiles says, unbuckling.
“Were you expecting me to drop you off in a field somewhere with a potato sack
over your head?”
“I wasn’t ruling it out,” Stiles says, and at Peter’s rolled eyes, he pauses.
“Why are you being so nice to me?”
“You mean why am I not taking you out into a field somewhere with a potato sack
over your head?” Peter shrugs, reaching for the car door. “Sounds like a lot of
work, frankly. I don’t buy a lot of potatoes either, so I don’t have a lot of
bags handy.”
He slides out of the car, heading straight for the entrance and leaving Stiles
to jog to catch up with him. By the time he does, Peter is already forking over
bills in exchange for entrance tickets, and the sight of it nearly makes Stiles
stop in his tracks. It's not that he wants to shell out his own money, and it's
definitely not that he thinks Peter doesn't deserve to pay whatever fare Stiles
racks up—and everybody else's at the zoo today too, really—but there's just
something about Peter unthinkingly paying for him without even the expected
snide comments about how he has no reason to cover Stiles' expenses and how
he's been keeping a mental tab on all the things Stiles owes him that feels
unsettlingly like he's being wooed. Or if nothing else, bought into
forgiveness. Or perhaps, if Peter is on a whole new level of fucked up, he's
unconsciously paying for Stiles' day off because he's feeling guilty underneath
that clawed armor and money is the only tool he knows how to wield to get what
he wants and he's not even aware of what he's really trying to do.
Needless to say, Stiles is having mixed emotions about the ticket being shoved
into his hand.
"Come on," Peter says suddenly, as if picking up on the fact that Stiles was
about to confront him on his unusually chivalrous behavior. "We don't have all
day."
"Yeah, yeah, chill for a second," Stiles says as he bumbles his way through the
turnstile. A kid who Stiles is fairly sure is a year younger than him and in
his gym class is standing on the other side in uniform waiting to tear Stiles'
ticket in half, and the familiar face almost has Stiles impulsively blurting
out that Peter is nobody more than his cranky over-the-hill uncle just in case
word gets around that Stiles is out and about with suspicious older gentlemen.
"Come on," Peter needles again when he takes too long, grabbing him sharply by
the wrist and leading him straight to the left and right past the giant map in
the center of the walkway. Like he's been here aplenty and knows his way
around. Stiles has no idea why that seems so charming.
They walk in relative silence as they stroll through the zoo. To Stiles'
surprise, they don't head straight for the tigers, instead working their way
through the snake habitat and the bird enclosures. It feels unbelievably
strange, taking their time wandering around and petting snakes, neither of them
mentioning how much this feels like two friends spending an afternoon together
for fun. They're even walking directly next to each other, like they're not
embarrassed to be seen in each other's company, but rather purposefully
affiliating with the other.
They're just passing the kangaroos when Stiles sees a cage up ahead with a few
massive tigers stretched out in the warm sun, one of them prowling about the
edges, its eyes lazy and coat brilliantly orange, unable to be overlooked.
Stiles nudges Peter with his elbow.
"Well. There they are. Your competitors."
Peter approaches the bars, curling one hand around them as his eyes flick out
over the lounging tigers, stretched out in sunbeams while they lazily lick over
their teeth, clearly freshly fed. Compared to their majestic limbs and shining
coats, Peter doesn't seem like a contender against them, but Stiles still
remembers the way he had gone from perfectly docile to clawed and roaring right
there in Stiles' bedroom. He sort of wants to see it again now that he's
prepared, take the time to really soak in all the details like the elongated
claws and the furry side burns.
Maybe not here at the zoo, though.
"Too bad the bars are separating you guys," Stiles says, stepping closer. "You
could've gone head to head."
Peter regards the cage. "I can yank these away," he says, drawing his hand up
and down the bar, checking for sturdiness. "We'd probably be banned from the
zoo, however. It would be a very quick confrontation." Peter looks at him. "Are
you ready to give up all your future zoo memories?"
Stiles watches him tighten his fist around the bar, almost like he's ready to
tug away the obstruction the second he's given word to, and Stiles lunges
forward to pull him back, tugging his hands away from the cage.
"You’re legitimately insane, you know that?” he says, even if there’s a part of
him genuinely curious to see how that showdown would’ve gone down. Plus, he
probably would’ve ended up in the paper. Area boy witnesses gruesome tiger
attack after middle-aged doofus jumps into cage, terror among zoo-goers.
“Afraid I was going to lose?”
“No.”
“Knew I was going to win?”
Stiles looks at the smirk reeking of arrogance on Peter’s face, biting down on
the smile creeping up his lips. “I’m so glad you’re not suffering from low
self-esteem,” he says dryly.
He steers him away from the tigers and other beasts of the animal kingdom then
just in case Peter decides to launch himself into the nearest cage and start
picking fights just to get the chance to peacock, grabbing Peter by the forearm
and yanking him to safer pastures. He thinks about what animals won't pose a
challenge to Peter, and the only real suggestion popping up in his head is that
the koi pond might be safe enough, so he weaves his way through running
children with the expectation that Peter's still following and not far behind.
Fish are harmless. Fish don't have the sort of expressions that goad one into a
fight.
"Is this really more exciting than watching me take on a tiger?" Peter asks
with a curled lip while Stiles fishes a quarter out of his pocket for the fish
food dispenser by the pond.
"Course not. But it's definitely less conducive to nightmares," Stiles mutters
as a handful of pellets lands in his palm. He leans over the railing, watching
the orange blobs floating underneath the surface, pops of color in the darkness
of the deep water.
"I'd be flattered to star in your nightmares, Stiles," Peter says. "Our dreams
say so much about us, you know."
Stiles can't help but think about the ones he's been having where his mother
dies on loop, how he reaches for her and cries for her and wakes up still
reaching, still crying, and never wants to sleep again. Dreaming of Peter
locked in the tiger cage might actually be a welcome change.
He wonders what Peter dreams about. It'd be too easy to say he dreams of
rolling in money and being crowned king of his own country. People never dream
of getting what they want, and if they do, they always wake up before they can
feel the happiness. At least, that's how it's always been for Stiles. And
Peter, he had told Stiles that he knows how it felt to lose something,
something profound and important, and Stiles can't imagine that not haunting
his nighttime if it still haunts his daytime. He wonders what it was he lost.
"So, uh," Stiles says, absent-mindlessly tossing pellets into the pond. "Why
are we here?"
"Well. I was going to duel the tigers, but someone got cold feet."
"I mean it. I'm not your favorite person in the world, but suddenly you're
treating me to days at the zoo." Stiles turns to him, the sun too bright,
climbing around Peter and splashing into his eyes, coloring them an electric
blue in the glow. "What gives?"
Peter doesn't look at him, too busy leaning over the edge of the railing to
watch the fish sway and twirl in the water. "You needed it."
"I needed a day at the zoo?"
"You needed a day off," he tells him. "From your own mind, coincidentally."
He's trying to do a nice thing, Stiles realizes slowly. This is Peter trying to
give Stiles a chance to recover after his health scare and his very real
fainting spell in his room yesterday, let him concentrate on loud animals and
nice weather for a fleeting moment. Basking in the warmth of the sun and
listening to the far-off noises of children delightfully shrieking, Stiles
thinks a day out of the four walls of his room wasn't actually a bad idea. To
think that he thought he was being seduced seems almost far-fetched now, and
Stiles is not going to give that jolt in his stomach enough of the time of day
to identify it as disappointment.
"I didn't know you cared about what I needed," Stiles murmurs.
"Hmm," Peter says in return. He's looking at the pond like he hasn't even
thought about that yet, what the implications his actions have as far as what
his emotions could be. "I might if I had it in me to do so."
"If you had it in you?"
Peter still isn't looking at him, eyes trained on the rippling water like he's
seeing things in the reflections, stories, people. "There are things people
like me just never learn," he says.
Stiles throws the entire remaining fistful of food in his hand into the water.
The fish swarm toward the surface in a blur of orange, scooping up every last
piece of food, leaving Stiles to feel oddly responsible that some got nothing
to eat all.
"People like you," he repeats. "You mean werewolves?"
"No. Just... people like me."
"Bad people, then?" Stiles suggests.
Peter guffaws at that for a moment, apparently amused by the title. "Yes, I
suppose that works."
He doesn't offer more explanation. For reasons Stiles wishes he could pin down
or at least sweep away, he feels oddly... rejected. Like he's here in a
capacity that seems like a date, and was sure Peter was here to charm and
dazzle him, but instead this is just Peter putting his feelers out as to
whether or not he's any good at cheering people up. And it's not like it's a
romantic boat ride and a candlelit dinner, but they've slept together, and that
automatically changes things, at least for Stiles. He has no idea how old hat
it is for Peter to peruse the neighborhood for people to coerce into having sex
with him. As far as Stiles is concerned, sex changes things like bantering over
pancakes or willingly spending time together at the zoo, especially if all
you're used to doing with someone is sex and blowjobs and getting naked
together, and suddenly clothes are on and there's actual hanging out coming
from out of the blue.
"I—but—that. All right," Stiles sighs, pushing away from the railing. He
doesn't like this feeling, how it almost felt like he was getting to know
Peter, see the person who hunkered underneath all of the cruel skins, touch the
real man there. He scrubs a hand over his face, walking away from the pond and
ignoring the way Peter seems to instantly fall into step beside him.
"For the record, Stiles," Peter says. "You aren't one of my least favorite
people."
Stiles scoffs, remembering how Peter had corrected him and said he liked him
just fine. Why wouldn't he? He's hilarious, he's smart, he's always up for a
good exchange of quick wit. He's also the boy always ready to give Peter sex,
no questions asked and no resistance to strain against, so as far as sticks go,
Peter's clearly drawn the long side. Meanwhile, Stiles is left with a side so
stubby he can't even get a good grasp on it, the side that involves servicing a
loan shark at his constant beck and call and dealing with an unbelievably
crowded brain at the same time too.
"Yeah, well, you're one of mine," Stiles grumbles. "You're fucking mean. You’re
a reprehensible human being. And I hate your goddamn wallet."
"You hate my wallet?"
"Yeah, cause it's so fucking nice," Stiles grinds out as they walk. "It's like
proof of how rich you are because of people like my dad who are in tight spots
and make bad decisions."
"So I'm a bad decision?"
"Dude, everything about you screams bad decision," Stiles says.
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"Of course you fucking do, cause your business is basically scaring the shit
out of people," Stiles says, finding it oddly refreshing that he can dig into
Peter and his flaws as much as he'd like here in public where he can't be
unceremoniously murdered without several people, zookeepers, and napping
animals also seeing. They curve their way along the path, Stiles stepping out
of the way from a rolling stroller.
"What can I say. Everybody has their calling," Peter offers as explanation.
"And this is it?" Stiles shakes his head. "Nobody sits around in kindergarten
thinking that they want to be loan sharks when they grow up. They want to be
astronauts or firefighters or chefs or doctors or something." Not that Stiles
can even really imagine Peter as a five year old. "If you wouldn't be a loan
shark, what would you be?"
"Real estate agent," Peter says instantly, apparently not even having to cobble
together some thoughts first. "I'd be extremely good at it. Magnificent, don't
you think?"
"I don't think you need me inflating your already staggeringly high opinion of
yourself, thanks."
"I meant the elephant, Stiles," Peyer says, pointing up at the behemoth of a
creature wandering around behind a large fence. "Magnificent," he repeats.
"Oh." Stiles watches the elephant swing its trunk back and forth as it moves
across the pasture at a truly glacial pace. Stiles wishes he could be that
relaxed, that calm, just inch along the world at his own speed and not worry
about a thing. Instead he has to be part of the most complicated species on the
planet. "Why real estate?"
"I have a nice smile," Peter says, voice idle, eyes distracted by the roaming
elephants. "I'm very good at charming strangers. Manipulating them, too, as
luck would have it."
"Don't I know it," Stiles mutters.
Peter chuckles. "That's cute," he murmurs. "But trust me, Stiles." He tilts
toward Stiles, close enough to leave him cross-eyed. "I didn't have to
manipulate you into anything."
"Really."
"Yes, really," Peter assures him, drawing Stiles' wrist up to his mouth to nip
at the inside, biting softly down on the vein running to his forearm. Stiles
snatches his arm away, but his defiance doesn’t seem to bother Peter, who turns
back to the elephants and sighs in delight at the sight. “I have a way with
people. You should’ve seen me in school—the effortless teacher’s pet. I would
be marvelous at selling property.”
“Is that so?” Stiles asks, not quite convinced. “I don’t know if anyone’s told
you this before, but you give off kind of a creepy vibe, pal.”
“When I want to,” Peter agrees. “I can be nice when I want to.”
Stiles snorts. “How come I never get to see that side of you?”
Peter turns to him, eyebrows knotted together with indignation. “Excuse me. Who
was it who bought you breakfast and a trip to the zoo? And who was it asking
only a few hours ago why I was being so nice to him with, I might add,
extremely unnecessary surprise and suspicion?”
“Yeah, but my standards are low,” Stiles says, ducking his head when he feels
his ears turn pink. “Pancakes don’t sell houses.”
“You realize I’m not actually in the real estate business, yes?”
“I just think you should be able to back up your words, buddy,” Stiles tells
him, prodding him in the chest with his index finger. “What are your tricks of
the trade for dazzling people?”
Peter smirks, then scoots a step closer, keeping just enough of a distance to
still be publicly acceptable.
“It’s the little things that make a difference,” he says. He slides his palm
down Stiles’ elbow, curving over to his forearm. “A friendly touch.” He
chuckles, the sound not quite as pure evil as Stiles is used to hearing. “A
soft laugh. People enjoy the subtleties.”
Stiles wants to mock him, but he’s right—there’s something mysteriously lulling
about the way Peter’s touching him, looking at him, and for a moment, it almost
feels like something that isn’t even an act, but rather a fleeting second of
candid emotion and a want to see that emotion be reflected back. It confuses
Stiles—just like this whole damn day has been confusing Stiles—and he twists
his elbow out of Peter’s grasp and looks pointedly over the fence to go back to
watching the animals.
The elephants lumber under the shade of a tree, moving with the comfort of
knowing that they have nowhere to rush to. It makes Stiles remember that he is,
actually, a prisoner of time, and shucks his sleeve up to glance at his watch.
If he’s not working late, his father will be home soon. He nudges Peter with
his arm.
“We gotta head back,” he tells him. “My dad’ll be home soon.”
Peter looks at his watch too, the kind of jewelry that could pay for a mansion
and a couple jet skis in Beverly Hills. Stiles looks away from it and the
virtual reminder it represents that he and Peter belong in different worlds,
not buddying up at the zoo.
"All right," Peter agrees. "Don't want your dear father catching on to our
secret rendezvous."
"Don't say it like that," Stiles says, pushing away from the fence. "It sounds
like we're hiding some forbidden love from the world."
"My, my."
"Just don't say rendezvous," Stiles demands.
"What will you give me if I agree to not?"
Stiles rolls his eyes, picking up his pace as they start heading back. He hates
how their feet fall into sync, legs walking to the same rhythm.
"Is everything about transactions with you?" Stiles asks. "Blackmail and
bribery and looking out for number one?"
"Yes," Peter says simply, not bothering to defend himself, and all Stiles can
think is then why did you spend your afternoon trying to make me happy?
He doesn't say it out loud. He doesn't need it verbally confirmed for him that
Peter somehow, someway, has ulterior motives, like this is secretly how he's
buttering Stiles up before he roasts him in the microwave. He keeps silent as
they push their way back out the turnstiles, spying Peter's car out where they
left it in the parking lot and hoping, silently, that someone's keyed it. And
if these are the thoughts of goodwill Stiles has about Peter, then there's no
real reason for him to be upset because Peter doesn't actually care about him
past the point of inconveniencing himself, now is there?
Stiles wheels around before they reach the car, turning in front of Peter. He
stuffs his hands into the back pockets of his jeans.
"Earlier when you said that you never learned how to... I don't know, care?"
"Yes?"
"Have you ever considered actually bothering to learn?" Stiles asks. "Or is
this an old dogs can't learn new tricks situation?"
Particularly apt, Stiles thinks, since Peter's in the dog family and certainly
a fair bit older than say, Stiles' spry and energetic teenage self. Not to
mention obstinate. Then Peter's crowding closer to him, something like unspoken
questions in his eyes.
"You want me to care about you."
"What? No. I didn't say that."
"You did."
It's not a question in Peter's gaze anymore, it's judgment, the certainty that
he knows best. Stiles wants to surge up onto the tips of his feet and tell him
off and to just shut up already, suddenly finding it all too easy to remember
who Peter is, what he's done and how little he thinks of Stiles, how he sees
him as something inconsequential, an object, a recyclable, disposable toy.
Stiles pushes himself up on his toes, finding it gratingly irritating that he
and Peter share heights, aligning their mouths to the same level just so that
even standing seems to encourage constant kisses, and shoves his nose into
Peter's face, trying to do his best to imitate the quiet intimidation men
larger and taller than Stiles exude wordlessly.
"I don't want you to care about me," he grinds out like he's spitting out
poison with every syllable.
Peter tilts his head a fraction to the left, clearly not feeling even slightly
menaced. "Is that so?"
"I don't want anything from you."
Peter smiles; it reminds him startlingly of the snakes he just saw in the
habitat. "You were singing a different tune the last time I had you stretched
out naked beneath me."
Stiles can't hold it together. He wants to stay mad and keep the anger captive
in his veins and use it against Peter—actually, what he really wants is to be
one of those people who can slap someone in public, stalk away with their nose
scraping the ceiling, and get away with it—but the laughter bubbles over before
he can help it, rolling him back onto the soles of his feet.
"I'm sorry," Stiles says, turning away as the snickers rip through his well-
sculpted sneer. "You can't just—that was like a slightly fancier version of not
what you said last night. Jesus fucking Christ."
"Well. I'm glad to see you're so amused."
"Oh, lighten up."
"No, really," Peter tells him. "All that anger isn't a good look on you. It
also isn't good for stress lines. You'll look like a senior citizen by the time
you're thirty if you aren't careful."
Stiles socks him in the arm, not as hard as he'd like, but hard enough to feel
slightly appeased afterwards.
“You never know when to shut up, do you?” Stiles asks, and Peter smugly shakes
his head.
He feels like he’s looking at a version of Peter typically hidden underneath
layers of intimidation and crisp suits, the man underneath the loan
shark—someone Stiles didn’t even know existed. It’s dim, faint, and there
aren’t all too many differences between the two, but Stiles sees something in
Peter’s shoulders that isn’t as taut, not as focused on showing off his
proverbial claws, probably because Stiles isn’t afraid. Hasn’t been all day. If
anything, he’s been surprisingly comfortable in Peter’s company. He wonders if
that’s an unintended side effect of seeing someone naked.
He wants to say thanks for not treating me like I’m made of sugar or thanks for
not pulling that entire tiger cage apart and vandalizing the zoo. Instead he
says, “Take me home now, would you?”
--
Stiles gets caught up at every single red light in Beacon Hills and still
manages to make it back home before his father, the sheriff’s car absent from
the driveway as Stiles rolls up. What is there, however, is Scott’s bike
propped up against the garage door.
"Where have you been all day?"
"Oh. Out." Stiles rubs a hand over his forehead. "Sorry. Did we have plans?"
"Yeah," Scott says. "I’ve been texting you.”
“My phone died. I was gonna charge it this morning, but I ended up going out
kind of unexpectedly.”
“Where’d you go?”
“I went to the zoo,” Stiles says, shrugging. “And, uh. Got some breakfast.”
“Who’d you go with?”
“No one,” Stiles says. He’s good at lying, he tells himself firmly, ignoring
the heat that runs up his back as he stares, poker-faced, into Scott’s trusting
eyes. He seems to believe him, and Stiles doesn’t know if that makes it better
or worse. “I just wanted to get some air. Plus I got good news today, and
there’s nothing quite like celebrating with the penguins.”
“You got good news?”
“Yeah,” he says. Stiles lifts his arms, biting the inside of his cheeks to
contain the grin. “I’m HIV free.”
Scott jumps to his feet, eyes instantly alight. “What? That’s great!” He pulls
Stiles into a hug, squeezing hard, and it takes Stiles a moment to realize that
this is the first time they’ve hugged in a while. “Do you want to go get some
food? Maybe celebrate with someone other than a penguin?”
“Actually, there’s something I, uh. Really want to do before my dad gets home,”
Stiles says, scratching the back of his neck. “Can we raincheck?”
“When you say raincheck—”
“I mean I really do want to celebrate with you,” Stiles says. Scott looks at
him warily, clearly unsure that Stiles isn’t going to back out on his word, and
it makes Stiles feel just as guilty as that hug did, like he’s been neglecting
important people because he thought the only way to cope was to do it alone. “I
promise.”
--
Stiles’ father keeps a drawer in his bedroom full of unsolved cold cases that
he likes to pore over on nights when he can’t sleep. Stiles has never
understood why he had it—as late night reading material, no less—or why he
would want to keep the guilt of his unfinished work haunting him just stored in
a corner a few feet away, but suddenly, Stiles gets it.
All of Peter's comments, deceptively innocent and easy to overlook, they're
eating at him. The hints that he's suffered loss. The allusions to a sordid
past. That he can somehow relate to Stiles and what he's going through, that
he's underwent the same hurricane in his life and struggled to make it out over
the waterline. Stiles doesn't know if Peter wants him to know and he's been
leaving purposeful breadcrumbs for Stiles to investigate or if this is a secret
Peter keeps tucked away, unwilling to share whatever lurks in his past, and
Stiles is prying into hot waters he shouldn't be, but now that he's here,
standing in front of the cabinet without a soul to stop him, he isn't
entertaining the idea of walking away.
He yanks open the first drawer, stacks of folders sitting inside it. The labels
are smudged, most of the letters smeared away over the wear and tear of time,
but Stiles can still make out the faded H on a file in the middle. He pulls it
out, finding it to be brimming with unsorted papers. The sight of it, and all
the other folders, makes Stiles’ heart ache. He’s finding it all too easy to
imagine his father laboring over each of these, wondering if he's lacking the
brain power or the deductive skills to peace it all together, thinking of all
the people awake night after night because it was their husband, wife, brother,
sister, mother, father, child, friend who's long gone and forgotten, their
criminal uncaught and their legacy neglected.
The first few cases are all wrong—hit and runs on the highway leaving a woman
with grievous injuries, a mugging at a gas station at the edge of town, a
murder of an old man downtown—which makes the outlook seem bleak for Stiles.
It’s completely possible that whatever’s happened to Peter wasn’t a crime, or
isn’t in his father’s stash of unsolved cases, which would leave him to either
snooping around his father's workspace to see if Peter's not the victim of a
cold case, just a regular old documented crime sitting in a computer somewhere,
or even a dead end. Maybe Peter's been lying to him all those times he spoke of
hardships and loss. It wouldn't be the first time Stiles suspected him of
dishonesty.
A thick wad of papers stapled together stops Stiles' negative train of
thoughts. All the pages are wrinkled and slightly yellowed, weathered with
times and hands holding it many a time, flipping through the pages over and
over. The top right has written on it in large black sharpie just two words:
HALE FIRE.
Stiles feels his heartbeat quicken when he realizes he's found what he was
looking for. He's frantic by the time he slips the cover page aside, desperate
for the details. He hadn't pegged Peter as much of a pyromaniac, but it's not
like he actually knows Peter, not really. His eyes hurry down the page, too
impatient to actually stop long enough to read a word until he gets to the case
description near the bottom.
Not enough evidence to be declared arson. Five confirmed dead. More unable to
be identified, possibly alive, possibly also dead. One hospitalized with major
burns. House deemed unsafe to reinhabit.
His father has scribbled all over it, penned words like kids can't even be
found and what am I missing here? like there's something off, like he thinks
there's more to this than what the report has written it off as.
He flips the page, looking for more. He finds countless forensics reports, all
claiming that there was a gas leak that nobody was responsible for and this was
nothing but a tragic accident. There are typed out interviews with the
survivors, all of them extremely short. He keeps going, reaching medical
reports that claim that a few of the survivors were briefly given oxygen but
seemed unscathed, but then he flips the page and comes across a much larger
report with photographs attached with a paper clip, all of them flash pictures
of a badly burned man in a hospital bed, some more gruesome than others, from
full-body shots to close-ups of seared flesh. Stiles recognizes the man
instantly.
He feels a little bit like someone's dumped a bucket of ice water down his
back. He had been convinced that if he found something in Peter's past, it
would be with him as the seed of trouble, whether it would be a ghastly murder
or a slew of kidnapping charges, something with him at the crux of things. He
hadn't been prepared for finding Peter at the receiving end of things, wrapped
up in sterile linens with half his body red and raw, a polar opposite from the
man he is now: iced over, smooth from head to toe, fearless. It's like the fire
has trickled inside him, burning him into a man of passion and vigor and
sizzling aggression, a flame kept alive in between his ribs even though his
skin has forgotten, not a scar remaining to tell his story.
But it's not just about the fire. He lost people in that house, nearly his
entire family save for a few survivors, and Stiles can only imagine how things
were before all that. Was he not as cunning? Was he not as hard around the
edges? Was he soft and indulgent and forgiving? Was he even a loan shark yet?
Just thinking about it gives Stiles a headache, a pain exacerbated by thoughts
of Peter seeing Stiles' grief and it bringing up old memories and bad tastes,
like the days when he sat aching, healing, roaring, lonely. Stiles hardly knows
which way is up and he only lost his mother. What if he had lost his father
too, and his house, and his health? What if he's actually sinking himself into
a hole dwelling on what he's lost and slowly but surely destining himself to be
as bitter and cold and uncaring as Peter?
He shuts the folder and jams it back into the drawer, not bothering to
alphabetize it into place. Stiles pulls out his phone before he can think the
better of it, acting on sheer reaction as he shoots a text to Peter.
IHOP tonight at nine? Need to talk.
--
By the time nine thirty rolls around, Stiles is pretty certain that Peter
either a) doesn't check his messages, b) doesn't bother to answer anybody's
demands when he's much too used to being the one making demands, or c) is
infatuated with the idea of standing Stiles up while Stiles waits, needy, for
Peter's arrival.
He sits outside the IHOP in the dark on a bench that isn't comfortable while
people drive into the lot and totter inside, usually in groups or at least
pairs, leaving Stiles to watch them and wonder what they'll be talking about
over pancakes tonight. He can hear nothing but the drum of voices from outside,
but when he cranes his head to look in the window, he sees emphatic faces and
mouths that talk even as they eat, and it leaves Stiles wondering if he looked
that comfortable, that alive when he was here with Peter.
It's nine forty three when he thinks about leaving. His phone is in his pocket
and it hasn't buzzed at all, not a single message from Peter declining his
invitation or letting him know he won't make it, and he thinks the silence
sends a clear message, louder than the day at the zoo or the laughter over
breakfast: Peter just doesn't give a damn about Stiles. Maybe he was trying it
on for size, seeing how it felt to make someone feel special or dare to care
about someone who isn't himself, but it clearly didn't work out for him. Stiles
isn't surprised.
It's nine fifty two when he considers going home. Three minutes later, a
familiar car comes roaring into the lot, and two minutes after that, a car door
shuts and Peter's face emerges from the shadows.
"I'm usually very punctual," Peter's saying as he approaches the bench. "But,
well." He seems almost surprised. "I didn't expect your message."
"You came," Stiles says, more pleased than he thought he would be, and suddenly
no longer angry that Peter's late. He gets up off of the bench, wishing he had
something to distract his hands with as he stands, unsure, in front of Peter.
"You asked," Peter replies. His eyes flick over to the nearest window and the
quiet swell of late night customers inside of it bathed in soft orange light.
"Hungry, are we?"
Stiles looks inside as well, momentarily distracted by the muffled sound of
chatter and the faces he was watching earlier. It would be easy, nodding and
having Peter follow and the two of them finishing off the day eating pancakes
together just like it began a few days back, pleasant bookends to round off the
week, and they’d talk and bicker and Stiles wouldn’t be tempted to bring up
anything as sensitive as Peter’s family when he’s sitting in a diner’s booth.
Maybe that would be best.
"No. I'm not,” he says instead.
"You aren't?"
“I just wanted to talk to you for a sec.”
Peter looks at him, his expression unreadable, stuck somewhere between
curiosity and confusion and a complete disinterest in talking to Stiles at all.
“All right,” he finally says.
“Well, I was going to go stop by your office,” Stiles says, stuffing his hands
into his pockets. “But I guess you guys don’t really rent permanent office
space, am I right?”
“We don’t exactly need one.”
“Right,” Stiles says, nodding. Peter’s still looking at him with scrutinizing
eyes, making him feel ridiculously out of place just by standing where he is,
rocking back and forth on the soles of his feet. “Listen, I just wanted to say
I’m sorry for sort of jumping the gun and accusing you of giving me HIV.” What
has his life become that this is a real sentence he’s saying out loud? “Jesus,
how fucking weird does that sound.”
Peter takes a slow step closer. His eyes are locked on Stiles like he’s the
most riveting thing in the world, mouth slightly parted, and Stiles feels
himself heat up under the intensity. “That’s all right,” he says. “You’re
allowed one mistake.”
“Oh, I’m allowed one mistake?” Stiles repeats, huffing. “What happens after the
one mistake?”
Peter stops right in front of Stiles’ nose, brushing his thumb down the line of
his jaw. It sucks that all it takes is one slightly suggestive touch to the
cheek and Stiles starts feeling telltale tingles in his bloodstream, like the
rumbling of a rocket right before it takes off. If anybody were to leave IHOP
right now they’d probably assume they’re two lovers having a special goodbye in
the parking lot.
“I find a way to punish you,” Peter drawls. His thumb slides all the way down
to his chin, at which point he grabs it to tilt Stiles’ face up, eyes drawn to
Stiles’ mouth, and there go the tingles, intensifying that much more.
It makes Stiles think of the conversation they had not even that long ago, how
Stiles had told him that whatever Peter wanted from Stiles, he couldn’t have it
anymore, that whatever messed up relationship they had thrown together was
over. How Peter had gotten just as angry, and that had been that. Not such a
clean break, but a break nonetheless.
“Didn’t we decide that this was over?” Stiles asks, his hand reaching up to
wrap around Peter’s wrist. It doesn’t seem to reinforce his point as well as he
had hoped.
“Do we want it to be?”
“I don’t know. What are we thinking?” Stiles asks, dropping his hand again. He
doesn’t even know what it is, but something about Peter pushes his buttons
within seconds, sometimes to the point of furious arousal and sometimes—most of
the time—to the point of wall-to-head smashing. Maybe it’s the way he never
quite answers a question, just skirting around the truth as smoothly as
possible, how he leaves Stiles hanging out on limbs while he’s standing on
comfortably solid ground.
Peter chuckles, dropping his own hand as well. “You’re angry,” he murmurs.
“Yeah, I am,” Stiles grumbles. He hates that Peter is laughing, like this is
funny, like any of this is funny. “Can you ever just answer a question?” He
rubs the bridge of his nose. “You could apologize, you know.”
“For what?”
“For making me feel like I was some streetwalker that owed you money,” Stiles
says, throwing his arms out. “What the fuck’s wrong with you? Does being a
werewolf take away any sense of like, human emotions?”
Peter’s still chuckling. It makes Stiles want to take a swing out of thin air
and smack him straight in the jaw. The fact that he has this urge at least
ninety percent of the time when he’s in Peter’s presence isn’t something that’s
flying over his head.
“I’m not much into apologies.”
“Of course not,” Stiles says to the parking lot at large. Of course Peter
thinks he’s too big and powerful and strong for petty little words like sorry.
Of course Peter doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with using Stiles’ body
like a disposable tissue. To think that Stiles actually came here with the pure
intentions of apologizing himself makes him feel like the biggest idiot in the
world. “You know, I could just punch you in the face right now.”
“I’d love that,” Peter says, sounding smugger than ever. “Here’s a tip, though.
Don’t announce your impending violence. It gives people a chance to prepare
themselves.”
He’s still laughing. “If you don’t stop laughing at me, I’m gonna hit you. I
swear to god.”
That sobers Peter up a little. “I’m not laughing at you, Stiles.”
Stiles isn’t stupid. At least, he isn’t as stupid as he was a couple of weeks
ago, and he’s learned how to read Peter, how to separate a well-crafted line
from an actual speckle of honesty, not that he’s had much experience in
actually seeing the latter in action. He folds his arms across his chest,
keeping a distance from Peter. He still wants to hit him, but the sad
inevitability is that Peter will always win what with Stiles being a tiny human
with slow reflexes and Peter being the big, bad monster that can dodge a fist
long before it ever reaches him.
“You said that you and I are alike, that you know what it’s like to lose
someone. And if you know that, you know what it’s like in my head. What the
freaking minefield that my brain is feels like,” Stiles says. He slants his
eyes upward to stave off the tears that are threatening to ruin the strong-
headed message he’s trying to send, eyes pivoted to the dark sky overhead.
“You’d think you’d be a bit more understanding.”
“You’d think,” Peter repeats, not bothering to agree.
Fine. If Peter wants to throw up the curtain that makes him look like an
emotionless robot, Stiles will test his armor out for what it’s worth. He was
going to be more delicate about this, casually mention it when the time was
right, but fuck it. Peter’s never bothered to be delicate with Stiles.
“I looked through your records,” Stiles blurts out. “I know what happened with
your family.”
“Oh, did you?” Peter says, his voice even as can be, but Stiles can see the
slightest hint of a warning in his eyes that comes and goes like a flash of
lightning. “I happened to do the same.”
Stiles swallows down on the sudden army of eels lodged in his throat. “You
did?”
“Yes. I figured I might as well when I was already going through the trouble to
intercept your blood results,” Peter says, shrugging. “What I found… it was an
interesting story.”
The want to give into that blind impulse of aggression is getting stronger and
stronger. Stiles clenches his fists by his side to keep it at bay, noticing how
Peter’s eyes flick down to his white knuckles. Stiles knows what happened to
him is public record—hell, the entire town seemed to know after Stiles told his
father—but he still carries it inside himself like a horrible secret, maybe in
the hopes that nobody will find out, that nobody will know, that nobody will
ask, but since when has Peter bothered to put Stiles’ feelings into
consideration? “What part of you thought it would be okay for you to look that
up?”
“Well, it’s not like I had to dig deep.”
“That wasn’t for you to snoop around and find and then flaunt in my face.” He’s
pretty sure he’s seeing red by now, nothing but visions of himself being
stronger and braver and more capable of beating someone in a fight than he
actually is. If only Peter had just fucking apologized, none of this
conversation would even be happening. “That was for me to tell if I ever felt
like it, and if I wanted to trust you with it.”
“Oh, you never would’ve trusted me.”
Stiles barrels his fist through the air without any intention of it making
contact with anything solid just to expel the rage running through him like a
marathon athlete. “You don’t fucking know that! You don’t know anything about
how I feel about you!”
He wishes Peter would get angry too, would blow up in Stiles’ face just so
Stiles can stop feeling like a child having a tantrum in front of an adult of
calm reason, like he’s being unreasonably loud, but Peter’s like a statue, the
curved smile etched immovably onto his mouth.
“All right. Then tell me.”
“You make me want to fight everything in sight! Like full out crazy murder
people, and hulk out, and take karate lessons just so I can split your balls in
half!” Stiles shouts, desperately wishing his voice was louder, stronger,
meaner. “And you’ve been such a complete shit to me, so I hate that I’m turned
on by your stupid face and that I like when you behave like a real fucking
human and stop trying to prove that you’re bigger and better than me! And I
hate that I’m even willing to wait for some tiny glimmer of empathy to show up
in you because it’s never going to happen, and I’m not stupid, but it’s like
you fucking made me dumb as a bag of rocks.”
He takes in a much-needed breath that feels like he’s inflating himself for
take-off, suddenly light-headed and ridiculously winded. Peter’s looking at him
like he’s an apparition that’s forgotten to fade away, that infuriating smirk
finally off his face, and Stiles just wants to steady his hands on his knees
and get enough oxygen in his lungs to walk away with dignity.
A part of him waits for that movie moment, for Peter to softly say Stiles' name
and finally just admit that he's sorry, just suck it up and apologize for being
an insensitive scarecrow, but it doesn't come, just the distant sound of
screeching tires and honking cars, and that's exactly what Stiles is talking
about—here he is, always waiting for that glimpse of someone who cares to
appear under that shell of a man Peter is, and always being disappointed in the
end for expecting anything in the first place. He straightens up.
"Don't say anything," Stiles says. "Please. Whatever smartass, unhelpful
comments you have waiting, don't say it. I don't need to hear it."
"I haven't said a word."
"Good, and don't," Stiles says. "Just—don't." He never should've looked for
Peter today. Better yet, he never should've said a word to him after that blow
up on the phone and told him to leave when he found him in his house. It's like
he doesn't know what's good for him, like he needs an unbiased judge to dictate
his life so he doesn't end up in positions like this with poisonous people like
Peter. "The longer I stand here talking to you the more I feel like an idiot."
Peter’s eyebrow moves a fraction, and Stiles gives him a grace period of two,
three, four seconds to step in and argue with Stiles, assure him that he’s not
ridiculous, actually form the word sorry with his lips, but Stiles shouldn’t
have bothered. Peter is just not a man of niceties.
“You should probably leave then,” Peter suggests, his voice low.
So that’s it. That’s Peter’s goodbye. Stiles feels his lips curl into something
angry, begging to retaliate, demand that Peter reciprocates the vulnerability
Stiles is letting out without bothering to hold back. He takes a breath,
surprised at how dry his mouth is, and leaves.
***** Chapter 7 *****
Chapter Notes
     As a warning, the start of this chapter deals with past sexual abuse.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Stiles is sixteen when he's sexually abused by his chemistry teacher Mr. Harris
for the better part of a semester, ultimately resulting in extreme trauma, a
long-suffering police investigation with Stiles repeating himself and his story
to officers more than he'd like to, and an entire month of strange looks from
rumor-churning students who pass him in the hall. It's the perfect send off to
his seventeenth year when his mother's illness takes a turn for the worse and
his entire life spirals completely out of control because of her death.
A lot of it, Stiles has repressed. He remembers everything in chunks, like a
damaged film reel, like being forced to stay after school for detentions that
turned into Stiles unwillingly performing sexual favors for a man who, at the
time, seemed to be someone who Stiles couldn't say no to. There had been levels
of shame Stiles had never experienced before afterwards, shame that a million
showers didn't seem to wash off of him, and an overwhelming feeling of no
longer being who he was, or who he even wanted to be.
Nothing they did was ever penetrative. Mr. Harris was more interested in the
hard and fast and wet pleasure, or perhaps he just liked seeing Stiles on his
knees, but Stiles himself was hardly ever touched. He was a receptacle, someone
sufficiently irritating to pleasure him, bring him to orgasm with a tongue and
an inexperienced mouth, and that was the extent of his role. It went on for
nearly a year, Stiles too embarrassed to admit to anybody that he was being
taken advantage of, and just like that, he stayed after school every day Harris
asked him to and let himself be manipulated if only to prove that he was strong
enough to handle it, especially since he didn't seem to be strong enough to
handle what was happening to his mother. To his family.
The shame was what made it hard to speak up for a long time, up until there
came a point when Stiles no longer could bottle it up. His father was his
weakness, specifically, the way his father stared at him with tired eyes that
seem to be open to listening to anything without ever prodding intrusively for
details. Stiles' story came spilling out in one long evening, and after that,
things moved very quickly: Harris was out of the school in a matter of days,
and Stiles went straight from police stations where he gave his statement to
therapy rooms where he retold his story yet again at the insistence of his
father. And then there was his mother, who, unable to properly console her son
with the confines of her illness, was never told a thing, and his father felt
it necessary for Stiles to unload his heart on someone even if it couldn't be
her. Stiles' other weakness was his mother; he couldn't break her heart even if
it killed him to lie to her.
It was an extremely trying year after that. It seemed like every day that
passed brought with it a new understanding of what had actually happened to
him, understanding that he had never fully processed when all of it was still
occurring. The fact that his mother was getting progressively worse and all of
his friends treated him like breakable glass didn't help, especially when
Stiles started noticing that his father wasn't the sturdy, unshaken hero he had
always envisioned him to be. Stiles noticed how he would crumble a little more
after each evening home from the hospital, how he tried to hide it from Stiles
but ultimately couldn't, and how Stiles felt as if someone had taken a hammer
to his life just for their own personal amusement to watch the repercussions,
and then there was Stiles, still feeling the aftershocks months after the first
wave of the earth shifting under his feet hit.
Everything was a shaky blur after that—right up until Peter.
Stiles can't explain why he wasn't repulsed by the idea of touching Peter,
especially as intimately as he demanded just a blink after their first meeting.
With the exception of only a handful of people, Harris had left him wary of
practically everybody's touches, whether it was as innocent as a pat on the
shoulder or a friend from school going in for a hug, and then, out of nowhere,
there came someone new and frightening and with the worst of intentions, and
Stiles wanted to be touched by him. Maybe it was because this was exactly what
he had been craving, more than therapy, more than the delicate treatment his
friends insisted on using on him, more than the complete resistance of anyone's
touch.
It was like he had finally found his outlet, something to make him feel alive
again for the first time in a long time, something to wipe away the last
memories of Harris' touch, something to reawaken the sexual drive teenage boys
are notorious for. And there was Peter, a real life sledgehammer—dangerous by
nature, practically evil by occupation—and Stiles felt drawn to the temptation
of a bad decision he offered.
And fuck, was he a bad decision.
Outside his firmly shut window, a nighttime bird calls through the crisp.
Stiles has been very nocturnal lately what with the constant insomnia, and
tonight is no exception. He's staring, limbs tense and brain too busy to even
entertain the idea of sleep, at the notches in his ceiling he's become oh-so
familiar with ever since his mother died and sleep became a luxury of the past.
Stiles expects—and wants, really—to be angrier now that the events of the
evening are actually being digested by his body, but he's frustratingly calm.
He'd prefer to be boiling over because of how Peter's treated him, and more
importantly, how he's abused Stiles' privacy by delving into his records,
pacing the room and throwing anything that'll shatter when it hits the wall.
Lying in bed, restless and tired and perfectly collected, is much worse than
the temper tantrum that would probably clear his emotional sinuses.
He has every right to be pissed off at Peter. Peter, who was single-handedly
responsible for the web of lies both Stiles and his father had to weave for
each other's sake. Peter, who treated Stiles like his own personal play toy.
Peter, who was too damn proud to apologize for any of it, and instead snooped
uninvited through Stiles' records until he found the dirt on the sexual assault
charges.
And Peter, who could've commiserated and been honest and told Stiles what had
left him fucked up and broken too. Peter, who was apparently the victim of
severe burns and fiery nightmares and losing his family, and to top it all off,
a cold case as to who was responsible for it all. Peter, who had experienced
all the things Stiles was going through—is going through—and kept dropping
involuntary breadcrumbs that Stiles should've picked up on, like all the times
he had told Stiles that he was a cautionary tale. And all along, Stiles had no
idea that there were so many unbelievably tragic layers to him, from the layer
that was scorched to the layer that healed to the layer that iced over.
Stiles heaves a sigh, draping his forearm over his eyes to force his lids to
close. His body feels like a whirring machine, the cogs spinning and the gears
grinding, unable to fully screech to a halt. It isn't passing over him that the
only nights he's slept well in months have included Peter pressed up against
his side lulling him to a blissfully dreamless slumber, which is incredible,
really, considering how much stress Peter induces in the daytime, but now
Stiles is back to his old habits of sleeping alone with his eyes glued to the
ceiling and his feet restless and his dysfunctional mind refusing to shut down
for the night. He peels his arm off his face, eyes blinking back open.
He can't see himself getting a good night's rest tonight. All he sees are long,
dark hours ahead where Stiles rolls endlessly about on the bed trying to feel
better about being alone and being angry and being awake. He drags the alarm
clock closer to get a glimpse of the time and wonders if, with this much of the
night still to come, he should rope some company into this misery.
He gropes blindly on the nightstand until he finds the rectangular outline of
his phone, looking for an acceptable person to bother at this hour in his
contacts. He smooths his thumb over the fuzzy screen, thinking of Scott without
even meaning to, like the fact that the middle of the night might be a good a
time as any to sit down with him and reveal all of his horrid secrets. It might
even make him feel better. Unloaded, maybe, of all of these untold stories he's
keeping locked away.
He finds him on speed dial and waits through the first set of rings, hanging up
when voicemail pops on and calling again straight away. He repeats the process
a couple more times, fairly certain that it'll take a couple rounds of buzzes
to wake Scott from the coma-worthy sleep he's probably enjoying right now, and
it's right at the fourth go around when Scott picks up. Or at least, the
ringing stops.
"Hello?" Stiles says tentatively.
There are some unclear sounds. Sheets rustling, limbs shifting, phone
readjusting. Then, "Stiles?"
"Hey. Were you asleep?" Stiles asks, not needing the answer.
"Yeah," Scott admits. He sounds groggy and half dead, still drifting near some
leftover wisps of his dream. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah. Ish. There's no immediate danger. I'm not being sacrificed anywhere."
"Then do you know what time it is?"
“As the proud owner of a clock, I do,” Stiles says, then realizes that that
type of sarcasm might not be appreciated in the middle of the night. “Listen,
I’m sorry to wake you. But do you think we could take a hike through the woods?
Drink some Jack Daniels, share our woes? I can't sleep."
There’s a long silence on the other end, so long that Stiles starts wondering
if Scott’s fallen straight back asleep again. Then Scott’s clearing his throat
and probably rubbing his eyes and orienting himself of the living world around
him, and he says, “Fine.”
--
Driving to the preserve in the middle of the night is oddly calming. There’s
not a single other car on the road and not a single light glowing from
anybody’s window, the only sign of life visible the traffic lights that shine
brightly onto the damp streets. It must’ve been raining earlier and Stiles
hadn’t even noticed.
He takes his time, fairly certain that by the time he arrives Scott’s still
going to be picking bleary-eyed through the clothes on his floor for something
to throw on aside from just his pajamas, and he’s right, because by the time he
pulls into the parking lot, the entire area is quiet. He thinks about staying
in the warmth of his car a little while longer, but the air smells fresh and
cool outside, so he locks his car behind himself and wanders up to the start of
a dirt path. The trees are dark where they’re touching the sky, their black
branches eerie at this time of night, but the sound of the wind whispering
between them puts Stiles at ease.
Seven long minutes later where Stiles thinks about calling Scott a few more
times just to jolt him back awake, the rumble of tires and the incoming
brightness of headlights signals Scott’s arrival in his mother’s car. Stiles
checks his watch and realizes it’s past two a.m. She probably won’t be missing
it.
"Hey," Scott says. He looks about half asleep with his hands stuffed in his
hoodie and his disheveled hair. "Are you okay?"
“Sure,” Stiles says easily. “So you know all those questions you had after you
came with me to the hospital?"
"Yeah?"
Stiles takes the Jack Daniels bottle out from behind his back like an artist
revealing a masterpiece. He probably shouldn't have any considering what
happened last time—drunkenly texting Peter comes to mind—but he wants to feel
that weightless haze that comes with alcohol, and this time, with company, not
when it's just him sitting alone getting sadder and sadder. Besides, if he's
going to tell Scott everything, which he really wants to, he's going to need to
not be sober.
"I'm ready for them. All of them. Any questions you have," Stiles says with a
heavy sigh, and with that, he unscrews the cap and takes a long swig from the
bottle.
He sputters attractively a little afterward, half of the whiskey going down the
wrong way, and thinks that this is a fitting start to unloading this fucked up
story. He wipes his mouth clean on his sleeve and cocks his head into the
woods. Scott looks at him suspiciously like he has half a mind to call the
sheriff and have him pick them both up instead of drinking liquor on a freezing
winter's night, but then he shoves his hands deeper into his pockets and
follows Stiles along the path.
"You sure you're ready to talk?" Scott asks gently, falling into step with
Stiles.
Stiles takes another gulp of whiskey. "I'm getting there," he says, shaking the
bottle. "Give me the best you've got."
"Okay." Scott seems to think for a while, as if trying to find a starting
point. "Why did you think you have HIV?"
He's trying to be delicate about this, Stiles realizes. Asking the easier
questions, ones that give Stiles easy outs and the chance to beat around the
bush, but Stiles doesn't want to be fragile with himself. He's here to let it
all out, to breathe again, to be unthinkingly honest.
He takes another long pull from the bottle. He feels considerably braver
afterwards. "A loan shark my dad's been doing business with has been fucking me
in exchange for lowering our debt," he says, spitting it all out in one go,
like a Christmas cracker that explodes on both ends and goods fly every which
way all at once. He emphasizes it with a couple crude gestures, and then says,
"Anally."
Scott tumbles over a tree root and Stiles fails to catch him by the elbow in
time, watching him elegantly land face-first into the dirt. Stiles takes that
as their cue to sit down and take a moment to process all of this without
navigating through obstacle-ridden terrain and takes a seat down next to where
Scott’s picking himself up off the dirt. There’s a twig in his hair that forces
Stiles to bite the inside of his cheeks.
“You're—you're—”
"Having sex with a loan shark that's terrorizing my dad and quite a bit older
than me, yeah," Stiles says, and it's not until he hears the words leave his
mouth that he realizes just how scandalous it actually sounds. "And the only
reason I didn't tell you is because I didn't want you getting involved in
something you didn't need to. And, well. I was also pretty damn ashamed, so
there's that too."
Scott seems to have been rendered speechless.
“And I thought he gave me HIV,” Stiles says, heaving a sigh. He sneaks a glance
at Scott’s catatonic face and thinks that maybe he ought to shelf the werewolf
revelation for now. “But he, uh. Didn’t. And it’s not like he forced me into
anything, I actually really wanted the… release, I guess, he just didn’t use a
goddamn condom, and for what it’s worth, I’m pretty sure it’s over.”
Scott still can’t seem to put words together. Stiles can’t blame him for
needing a couple minutes—maybe hours, who knows—to properly digest this
complete concussion of news. He probably thought Stiles was dealing with his
mother’s death with silence and solitude, drawing into himself and spending
evening after evening holed up in his room shutting out the world and would
reach out for help when he was ready, not that he was sleeping with a loan
shark to stir up a couple of sparks through his misery.
Scott takes the bottle from him and takes a few chugs. After he resurfaces for
air, he looks at Stiles like he’s quietly waiting for the bark of laughter and
jazz hands and the just kidding!
“I’m totally serious, by the way,” Stiles says. He reaches out, fingers
grabbing at the air. “Give me the bottle.”
Scott hands it to him, albeit slowly, as if in a daze. Stiles sighs because he
gets it, and he knew from the beginning that nobody would understand, which is
why he had promised himself to never tell a single soul, and yet here he is,
telling a soul, and the worst part is considering how it’ll be like this every
time he shares this story with varying levels of shock, disgust, and denial. He
takes his own long swig from the bottle, the burn of the alcohol on his tongue
not quite yet numbing the stupidity of his decisions.
“So is it like.” Scott blinks a few times. “Is it a real relationship?”
Stiles pinches his face together, scrunching it up. “No. Really, no.” He rubs
his palm down his cheek, dragging his nose and his eyelids along as he goes. “I
have no idea, Scott. It’s a huge mess. And I don't even really know how it
happened."
"How did it happen?"
Stiles takes another long gulp. This liquor is not having the soothing effect
on his brain he was hoping it would, namely: erasing his embarrassment at
having to tell this story out loud.
"He came to my house and bribed me with lowering my dad's debt and next thing I
knew it was a thing, and we were having sex all over the place, and then I
thought he gave me HIV, and every single moment was so damn stressful and I
thought I was in it all alone."
“Stiles.”
“And it’s not your fault because it’s not like I told anybody. I just had it in
my head that this was how I could prove to myself after—after everything with
Harris that I was strong. Plus my dad, he doesn’t need all the stress. You
should see him. He’s drinking so often.” Stiles looks surreptitiously down at
the bottle in his hand and doesn’t want to address the hypocrisy. “I just
wanted to help him, and then Peter showed up and it felt like I had the
opportunity I needed.”
“Peter?”
“Oh, yeah. That’s his name.” Stiles puts the bottle down, nestling it in the
dirt. “I know it sounds crazy when I summarize it like this. And really fucking
stupid. I hardly get why I did it and I’m the brain behind all this madness.”
“It’s not stupid,” Scott says gently. “I mean, I can barely believe that this
actually happened, but… people do weird things when they’re hurting.” He
touches Stiles’ shoulder. “Remember when my dad left?”
“Yeah. You set your living room curtains on fire because you wanted to play
with matches.” Stiles still doesn’t think that’s worse than what he did going
to a loan shark for sex, but he appreciates the attempt to sympathize
nonetheless. “I guess I’m being hard on myself because I… liked it so much.”
“You liked sleeping with him?”
“Well, yeah. But I liked other stuff too.” Stiles thinks of pancakes and
sleeping well and feeding fish at the zoo. “But we had this big fight because
he's emotionally constipated and makes me feel like a prostitute most of the
time," he continues in one angry breath, then slowly gives himself a moment to
inhale. "And the rest of the time, he makes me feel... pretty damn good."
A dry laugh makes its way up his throat at the ludicrousness of the situation.
Some people—luckier people—meet someone at school and they pass notes and hold
hands at lunch and decide they unanimously like each other, and Stiles doesn't
know where his life has gone wrong that this is the wild path he's somehow
wandered down instead.
"He does?"
Stiles pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes; he can't look at
Scott while he says this. "I guess I'm just really conflicted. I don't know
what I'm feeling. This just isn't... what I expected a relationship to be
like."
He pries his eyes open just enough to see Scott slowly nod, apparently taking
all of this in without so much as a repulsed shudder or comment about how
deeply disturbing all of this has been to hear. It makes Stiles wonder why on
earth he waited this long to tell Scott the truth, why he didn't have him along
for the ride since the beginning. It was like he was sure that all of this was
his cross to bear alone, solemnly, silently. He should've known better.
"Well… I think everybody experiences relationships in different ways," Scott
points out. "And it's okay if you don't know how you feel about him. You can
miss him and be mad at him at the same time. You can be full of multitudes, is
what I'm saying."
Now Stiles is really wondering what took him this long to talk to Scott. He's
dispensing all of this wisdom that probably would've saved Stiles from a lot of
tortured nights because his brain was running races over and over about what to
do, what to feel, what to think. He eyes the bottle suspiciously just in case
he's drunkenly imagining this entire conversation, and finds that it's still
pretty full, too full to give him hallucinations of Scott handing him all the
pragmatic answers he's never thought of.
"Yeah," Stiles agrees, nodding. "And... I mean, not every relationship is full
of candy and dolphins and fireworks, right?" He pauses, considering. "To be
fair, our relationship has none of those things."
"...That's okay. Not everything is going to end up like you expected it to."
Scott can say that again. Stiles lays onto the dirt, staring into the black
blanket of the sky until his eyes adjust and the stars start poking out,
feeling much more sober than he'd like right now. If he could go back in time
to tell his girl-hungry, carefree, gangly eight year old self that all his
fantasies of high school girlfriends hanging off his arm and finally growing
into his muscles and being a rowdy, popular, experienced teenager will never
ever see the light, he'd crush his own heart. He wishes he could make that
boy's hopes come true, keep him from feeling all the hurt and the rejection and
the disappointment to come, but it will come, and he'll get older even though
he doesn't want to, and he'll get sadder without meaning to, and then people
like Peter will slam into his life and hold him upside down by the ankles until
it's hard to even focus on the sadness anymore.
And wanting to keep him around, that's crazy, but some people are just destined
for that, Stiles thinks. It's like that moment in a storm when all the lights
zap out and secretly, he enjoys the thrill of the darkness and being lost in
his own living room and weathering out the storm besides a shrinking candle.
It's frightening and disorienting and it doesn't make sense to enjoy it, but
Stiles does anyway, and all of it is just like Peter. Peter's that moment when
the lights die and the fear oozes in, the part where the storm is too harsh to
be anything but obeyed, and there's Stiles, fishing around under the sofa for
board games, secretly loving it. He certainly never planned any of this to
happen this way, but Peter probably didn't either. Peter saw Stiles as handy
leverage in a fortuitous situation, a kid in the right place at the right time,
a spot of luck dropping in his lap to entertain him for a spell, a superficial
thing, quite the same way Stiles saw Peter as a vicious, irreparable monster of
a man he only reluctantly worked with. And then things... changed. Slowly.
At least for Stiles.
"Here's the problem, Scott," Stiles says to the stars, trying to focus in on
just one. "I don't know how he feels about me at all. I know how I feel. I
don't know about him."
"He probably feels the same way you do."
Stiles shuts his eyes, blocking out the twinkling sky for a second. "I can't
just assume that."
"Why not?"
"We're not exactly from the same world," Stiles says. Much, much too sober. He
reaches out blindly for the bottle, clawing through the air, and can't find it.
"He's bad at... people. Or at least. Being real with people. And then there’s
my dad, too.” He body is cooling down with the cold earth underneath him,
leaving him to wrap his arms around himself to stay warm. He tilts his head
over to glance at Scott. “What do you think I should do?”
Scott breathes out through his mouth. It’s a hard question, so Stiles
understands the blank he’s probably drawing, but Stiles needs another opinion.
"Stiles, you gotta tell your dad. I mean, it wasn’t so scary when you told me,
right?”
“Yeah, but you’re my best friend. It doesn’t scar you to hear about all the
filthy sex I’ve been having.”
“Oh, it does.”
Stiles sits up. “Hey!”
They look at each other, Scott shrugs, and Stiles feels the pout fall off of
his face with the force of his laugh. It’s funny in seconds, the fact that the
two of them are sitting on the cold dirt at two a.m. talking about Stiles’
extremely salacious trysts with a criminal, tipsy and freezing. Stiles wipes
his hands down his face as the laughter subsides, Scott joining in.
“It feels really good to tell you this, man,” Stiles admits. “I don’t think
I’ll be keeping humongous secrets from you anymore. For my own mental health.
Seriously.”
“Good. But I want some warning next time.”
“I just hope there won’t be a next time this damn big,” Stiles says, hopelessly
praying that this is the craziest, wildest, worst thing to ever happen to him
if only for his blood pressure. “But you’re right. My dad should know.”
Scott nods. “I could come along if you want.”
“Dear god, no. We can’t ambush him with this kind of information. I'll go
tomorrow and just... get it over with."
Scott nods again. It's genuinely baffling to Stiles how calm he's being about
all of this, to say nothing of how understanding he's being. Stiles reaches out
to fiddle with the cap on the bottle, feeling pleasantly buzzed and just mildly
drunk enough to be glad he spilled the beans but not inebriated enough to start
hurling his dinner over his shoes. Probably a good place to end the evening,
Stiles thinks.
“So what do you say?” Stiles asks, slapping his hand on Scott’s thigh. “Shall
we drive back home before we get hypothermia?”
“Sounds good,” Scott agrees. “Want me to sleep over tonight?”
It’s been months since they’ve had an honest to god sleepover. It’s almost like
one of those far off, vintage, flickering memories by now, the way Scott would
hoard the snacks and sleep on the floor even though he wanted the bed, and the
two of them would stay up playing video games until they both fell asleep mid-
battle.
“That would be awesome,” Stiles says, and they pick themselves up off the
ground.
--
Talking and thinking about confessing the sordid affairs of his life to his
father is a lot easier than actually confessing to his father. Stiles finds
this out as he sits in the police station parking lot, slowly but surely
wasting away all of his father’s lunch break battling himself in his own head
with swords and logic. What if none of it works out? What if his father doesn’t
want to even look him in the eye anymore after what he’s done? They’re the same
thoughts Stiles has had running on repeat through his head ever since he first
considered being honest with the man he used to share everything with,
treacherous ones that make him doubt himself and retreat back into his shell.
His shell has gotten cold and lonely. He doesn’t want to go back there.
With that courageous thought in mind, Stiles charges out of his car before he
can convince himself back into believing his qualms. His hands are sweating and
it feels like his heart is about to leap out of his chest through his throat to
go find a calmer body to live in, but Scott was right: he has to tell his dad.
Thanks to his dawdling, his dad's lunch break is over in eight minutes, which
might be a blessing in disguise. The less time he has to spill the beans, the
less time he has to sit around and watch his father's potentially volcanic
reaction.
By the time he gets inside, the entire station bustling, Stiles realizes that
his father might actually be working through lunch. He has a sandwich that's
spilling cold cuts over onto his desk in one hand and a pen in the other, and
everything about his father spells stressed and frazzled. Stiles feels those
familiar frissons of panic manifesting as doubts inside of himself that he
hastily shoves aside. He has wanted to tell someone this for weeks, and hasn't
up until yesterday, and now he's gotten a taste of what true unbidden candor
feels like and he's slightly addicted to how refreshing it is, so he can't stop
now.
"Stiles," his father says when he notices that there's someone actually
standing by his desk. "I didn't know you were showing up today."
"I wanted to catch you during your lunch break."
"Well, you almost missed it," his father says, glancing at the clock. He's
probably going to try and needle Stiles into picking up this conversation in
the evening when he's not working, but what if he works late and Stiles sits
marinating in his nervous sweat all night long? What if he finally gets to a
point in life where he can stop what-iffing every little thing if he just
fucking speaks up now?
He takes a breath.
"Dad, I have to tell you something."
"Is there any chance it could wait until tonight?" he asks, as expected, his
hands flying over file after file piled together on his desk. "Not that I don't
want to listen to you, Stiles, I'm just a little swamped right now."
"Yeah, right, and this won't take long," Stiles begs. "I just really have to
get something off my chest."
His father stops what he's doing to look at Stiles, giving Stiles a front seat
view at the deep crease between his eyebrows and the stress stretched over his
face. He hates to do this, and his first reaction is the one he's been
listening to for months, to back away and give him space and not pile more
drama on his plate but deal with it himself instead, but he has to do this.
This conversation is already so overdue, and he knows that the nerve he needs
to actually go through with it could slip away any second.
"This is serious?" the sheriff asks. Stiles nods instantly. It's so serious he
would advise his father to sit down and brace himself, really. "Okay. Tell me
what's up."
Stiles nods again. Every part of his body is nervous now, hands sweating where
they're knotted together behind his back, but he can't back out now. He just
has to say it.
"I know about the loan sharks."
It almost feels like the world stills with the exception of the ringing phones
and the distant chatter around them, reminding Stiles to keep breathing. His
father freezes, everything but his eyes caught in surprise. He slowly lowers
himself back down into his chair, gripping the armrests as if on trial.
“What do you know?”
“I know that you made a deal,” Stiles says. “And that you tried to hide it from
me. And owe a shit ton of money to some really powerful criminals.”
His father stares at the surface of his desk for a long time like it’ll give
him all the right responses and answers to Stiles’ accusations if he focuses
hard enough. He swallows, his mouth so dry that the sound is audible.
“Stiles,” he finally says. “You shouldn’t get involved in police cases. And
something like this, it can be dangerous. Have you interacted with these
people?”
“I’m sorry—cases? Police case?”
“Yes, case. As in, non-civilian involvement would be preferred.”
“But—but I’ve overheard phone calls. You owe these people money. Like, lots of
money.”
The sheriff exhales through his nose. There’s a look on his face that Stiles
realizes he’s seen in the mirror before—poorly hidden shame.
“Okay, Stiles, you’re right. I made a deal, and I didn’t tell you about it. But
our financial situation shouldn’t be your problem.”
Stiles feels as if not even tearing his hair off his head and taking his scalp
along with it would properly convey the emotions he’s feeling right now. “They
came by our house, dad!” he screeches. “They’re not—they’re not Girl Scouts
selling cookies, they’re people who knock down your door and strip you dry just
to get their money’s worth, of course it’s going to be my problem too!”
He’s revealed more than he’s wanted to in one fell swoop when he sees that his
father’s entire face darkens. “They came to the house? Did they see you?”
“They—they.” Stiles scratches his forehead, desperately trying to figure out
the best way to approach the situation without making things irreparably worse.
He doesn’t want to lie, the whole point of coming here and confessing was to
stop the guilt eroding his insides because he’s constantly deceiving his
father, not spin more elaborate stories. “It doesn’t matter. I’m fine.”
“See, this is what I mean, Stiles. It’s just not a good idea to have you
involved.”
“That’s—that’s what I’m here to tell you, dad. I already am involved.”
“No, Stiles. Not anymore.” His father says, using a voice that Stiles knows not
to question. “Yeah, I made a bad decision and made a deal with a loan shark,
but I’m not doing business with them anymore.” He gives Stiles a pointed look
like Stiles should take this as his cue to bow out of whatever meddling he’s
seen fit to orchestrate. “I have it under control. What they’re doing is
illegal, and we’re gathering enough evidence on the entire family to lock them
up. We’re even closing in on one guy.”
“You’re closing in on someone,” Stiles repeats, his voice feeling a little
hollow. “Who is it?”
“Stiles, I really can’t—”
“Please, dad,” Stiles asks. “I just want a name.”
His father gives him a long look. For whatever reason, Stiles feels as if he's
teetering on a crumbling cliff, and his ears are ringing, and even though it
wasn't even that long ago when he told Peter to fuck off and Peter let him walk
away, he feels stunned and lost and like he's losing something he only wanted
to temporarily take a breath from. He finds himself thinking about all the
times he's weaseled police information out of his father and how if he could,
he'd go back in time and stop himself from repeatedly squeezing his father for
case details just to hear a single name come out of his mouth now.
He's fairly certain he's about to be denied and sent home to do his homework
when his father starts rifling through papers by his keyboard, but then he's
holding out a thin folder for Stiles to take.
"Tell me if he's the guy you saw come by the house," his dad says, gesturing to
the folder.
Stiles opens it. He doesn't have to look far before the name HALE, PETER on the
top of the page catches his eye, a slightly fuzzy, poor quality candid picture
of him stapled underneath. Stiles can't believe that Peter's been a loan shark
for quite awhile, made quite the lucrative career out of it, yet he waited
until Stiles came into his life and started horrifically caring about him to
get himself in hot water with the law. That just seems to be the endless cycle
of Stiles' life. Love, then lose, then repeat.
Not that Stiles is in love.
"I know he's got an entire family around him doing just as much damage," his
father is saying, his floodgates of sharing confidential details apparently
open and flowing now that Stiles' hearing feels as if it's been interrupted by
a long and piercing buzzing. "Nieces, nephews, brothers. From the looks of it,
he might be the head honcho."
The bottom of the file reads: **directly involved in fire from a few years
back, recheck file cabinet in storage. It feels, suddenly, as if every organ in
his body is sinking, like someone’s taken shards of glass and distributed them
in his bloodstream. He flips the page, finding papers upon papers of his
father’s scribbles documenting Peter’s locations, where he was seen, where he’s
been sighted. It’s like he’s been tracking Peter for weeks.
His father seems to notice what part of the file Stiles is looking over,
recognizing the scrawled notes. “We’ve been keeping an eye on him for a while.
We keep hoping he’s going to lead us back to their headquarters, maybe help
find some of the others, but we haven’t had any luck yet. He’s careful, that’s
for sure.”
He’s smart, Stiles thinks. He’s always a few steps ahead, but this time—Stiles
can’t imagine that he even knows the police are on his tail, let alone closing
in on him. That's his damn problem, he thinks he's invincible. That's what
happened to him with that fire and what's going to happen when he gets thrown
in jail.
“We think we’re just going to move in on him,” the sheriff says. “We can’t wait
forever. He’ll catch on sooner rather than later, and we’d like to have him
locked up before the month is over. It would be nicer if they had a main base
they operated from, but it doesn’t seem like they have one.”
“They don’t,” Stiles says, shaking his head. He remembers the conversation
clearly, something about werewolves not needing office space.
“Sorry?”
“Never mind,” Stiles says, shutting the file. He feels as if his tongue is
receding into the back of his throat. He had come here with a clear goal: tell
his father everything, everything and ride out the waves of the aftermath at
Scott’s house if need be, and now he feels as if he’s been put into a corner
where honesty seems almost laughable, or at least completely useless.
What is he supposed to say now that his father’s basically told Stiles that his
lover on the down low is wanted, tracked, highly sought after by the police and
will possibly be shut away from society for the next thirty years? What even is
the point of telling his father anything if Peter will be gone soon? It strikes
Stiles then that none of this was ever about coming clean for the sake of
honesty, it was about breaking the news that Stiles was very much into what he
had going with Peter and still is, horrifyingly enough, and does any of that
even matter if Peter’s about to be incarcerated?
Abruptly, the file is seized out of his hands, his father back on his feet.
“I’ve said enough about this,” he says. “And just to be clear, Stiles, none of
this was me asking you to help us track him down. You’re already involved
enough in this mess, you don’t have to now that we’re getting into rougher
waters.”
God, like there's any way Stiles can just detach himself now, after everything.
His father has no clue how "involved" Stiles actually is, not that his mouth
feels like it could form the words to tell him now that it all seems...
useless.
"Rougher waters?" Stiles repeats.
"The finale," his father says grimly. "If this guy is putting up a fight, I
don't want you around."
Putting up a fight. If Peter is the type to resist arrest, Stiles only hopes he
doesn't resort to bringing out the lycanthropic accessories that would easily
get him out of such a jam, and in a flash of horror, Stiles pictures a
veritable massacre of bloodied police officers on the end of a few claws
because Peter isn't the type to go down easily.
"Just promise me, Stiles."
"Huh?" Stiles says, shaking the macabre thoughts out of his brain.
"That you won't get involved. Step back." His father closes the file, shuts it
away in a drawer like he hopes this is an out-of-sight-out-of-mind situation
for Stiles as far as the temptation to interfere goes, and sighs slowly.
"Listen. I think it's really nice that you worried about me. About us. Our
family."
Stiles looks at his feet. A couple of weeks ago he would've said what family?
because of how quickly everything had unraveled after his mother's passing. The
way he and his father stopped communicating, the way his father stopped
listening, the way Stiles stopped sharing. Stiles hadn't even noticed, but
things have changed. He wants to take those steps to build a tight-knit team
with his dad again, not just brood over the fact that they aren't one anymore.
He wants to spend evenings talking and ranting and laughing and venting
together again. He wants to find a way to be a real family again. Pick up the
pieces and make his mother proud.
"Of course I was worried," Stiles says. "You were keeping secrets and drinking
all the time and... wouldn't talk to me." He looks up from his shoes to find
that father looks almost shocked to hear the words Stiles is saying. "I just
wanted things to be easier for you."
So I made a deal with the loan shark you're about to arrest and we started
getting naked on the reg, Stiles' brain adds for him, so he rolls his lips into
his mouth.
"I didn't know you felt that way," his father says in a soft voice, the kind
that Stiles knows to mean he's punishing himself for missing out on details
that a good cop would've noticed, which is exactly the kind of self-effacing
reaction Stiles wanted to avoid this whole time.
"Dad, don't feel bad," Stiles says quickly. "It was my fault too. You're not a
mind reader."
"Maybe not, but you're my son. I should've—"
"Tried harder, yeah. But it's done now, so why don't we just..." Stiles throws
a hand in the air, "...start new. As a family."
A new family, Stiles thinks. Maybe not better than the one they were before as
the three of them, but certainly not worse. They can do it if they try. If his
father shelves the alcohol and Stiles stops lying so much all the damn time.
His father looks up at him. "Yeah. We should," he says, then smiles, and it
feels genuine and real and like an affirmation of the fact that they can do
this. Be new. "And it's starting right here and now with this criminal being
thrown behind bars."
The smile slips off of Stiles' face. Right, there's still one very large secret
Stiles is keeping under wraps which he has no idea how to uncover. He doesn't
want it to be like this, where it feels like there are directions he's being
tugged toward, one path full of the promise of reconnecting with his father and
being part of a family again after being so, so cripplingly lonely, and the
other one a road where he doesn't give up on Peter and they see what happens
when they talk and listen and try to figure out the potential of what they
have, and Stiles can only pick one and subsequently give up the other. Even
when his father was a cop and Peter was a loan shark, Stiles thought it could
work, it could with the right finagling and persuading and attitude adjustments
and possibly a career change, but Stiles doesn't see how it possibly could
anymore when Peter's being targeted and hunted and marked for jail.
Stiles doesn't want to know what happens if he can only choose one and lets the
other go. Is that what adulthood is? Wanting something with all your effort and
conviction and still not getting a chance at it, and then, at the end of the
day, being okay with that?
"Right," Stiles says. "Listen, dad. I should go."
“You should?” his father repeats, apparently puzzled. He holds out a hand to
stop Stiles from leaving right away. “Stiles, just promise me that you’re going
to try your best to be safe. Don’t get involved. Go home and don’t answer the
door.”
“Dad, relax,” Stiles says. He feels like the longer he stands here, the more
his dad can pick up on the fact that he’s completely unraveling at a time when
he really should be rejoicing because hey, dangerous men are being cleaned off
the streets! Time to fucking party! “I’m not completely helpless.”
“I know you’re not.”
They look at each other for a moment and Stiles sees a certain weariness in his
father’s eyes he hasn’t seen before, one that seems regretful and absolutely
terrified of losing Stiles when he still hasn’t recovered from losing his wife.
Stiles wants to tell him that these aren’t the people he should be afraid of
when it comes to hurting Stiles, that he’s spending his energy going after the
wrong sort, but then again, Peter’s hurt Stiles so many times he can hardly
count it all together on his fingers. It should count for something, it should
warn Stiles away, but all he really knows is that in the end, Peter’s given him
that distraction he wanted in the first place and made him somehow resiliently
stronger and Stiles wants him around. He just doesn’t know how to explain that
out loud.
He wishes his father a good rest of the day and leaves before he blurts it out
in the worst of ways and can’t take it back. It doesn’t matter what he wanted
when he came into the station, it doesn’t even matter what he was going to do.
It isn’t going to work.
He doesn't stop until he's scrambling into his car, every part of his body
buzzing with a restlessness he can't shake. A couple days ago, hell, just one
night ago when he and Scott were drinking in the woods, Stiles thought he knew
what he wanted, and that was letting Peter go and doing the smart thing for
once in his life after a line of bad decisions recently piled up, and yet here
he is presented with that outcome not as an option but an inevitability and
Stiles feels hollow inside. It tells him more about his own feelings than he'd
honestly like to know.
He grabs his phone and calls the one person who he knows will understand, who's
been saddled with Stiles' utmost honesty.
"Scott," he says, tipping his head back into the headrest when he picks up. He
doesn't bother to preface the story, diving straight into it. "I told him."
Not that he needs to, since Scott picks up instantly on what he's talking
about. "You did? How'd he take it?"
"Pretty well, considering I never got the chance to tell him the whole story."
"What? What do you mean?"
Stiles takes in another big breath, this one seeming to rattle his rib cage.
"He beat me to the punch. By telling me that he was working on arresting
Peter."
"Shit," Scott breathes, which pretty much sums up how Stiles feels about the
situation too. "So you didn't tell him about you two?"
"I couldn't! It was one thing when he was the loan shark my dad was making
corrupt deals with, it's another when he's about to become a fucking inmate."
"When?"
"Soon," Stiles says. "And I don't know what to do. I'm caught between warning
Peter about what's coming and warning my dad about what I know about Peter, and
it just fucking sucks that my loyalties are at these... crossroads."
"You're thinking about warning Peter?"
"Yeah. No. Shit, I don't know. A month ago I would've said hell yes and put it
in skywriting." Stiles pinches the bridge of his nose. "I don't know what I
want. And I don't know what Peter wants, so I shouldn't put myself out on a
limb for him."
"You think he knows?"
"What, that the police are closing in on him?" Stiles thinks instantly of his
cocky smirk and arrogant one-liners. "There's no way. He's gonna be
blindsided." He looks up at the upholstery, the tear by the dashboard window.
“I think there’s no other option at this point but to… let him go.”
"Is that—" Scott stops himself. The unspoken what you want to finish his
question seems heavily implied even without being spoken aloud. "What are you
going to do?"
"Nothing," Stiles says. He knows he's already too late. It's not like he can
convince his father to close the case when there are other officers involved
and when Stiles doesn't even have a good reason as to why he wants it all
forgotten, which means he's past the point of picking sides, able to do nothing
more than watch the wreckage as it storms in.
"Is there anything I can do?"
Stiles shakes his head. "Nothing," he says again. His chest is already tight
with disappointment, and Stiles hasn't even figured out yet how to deal with
that, but from here on out it's only going to get worse. He wonders if it ever
gets easier with age—saying goodbye, leaving too soon, being left behind. "It's
fine. He—you know, he's fast. Peter could leave town and they might not even
catch him."
It's honestly a comforting thought. Knowing Peter's here but locked up and
unreachable, that's got to be worse than thinking Peter's out there somewhere
on some indistinguishable spot on a map, leaving Stiles' imagination to fill in
the gaps however he'd like. If he's thrown in prison, the gaps have been filled
for him.
"Yeah, maybe."
"I think I'm gonna go," Stiles says. "I need to—I should go home."
"Should I come over?"
"No. No, I'm fine," Stiles says, and he says the last part so emphatically it
sounds like he's trying to convince himself more than Scott. "I'll talk to you
later."
He hangs up before Scott can disagree with him about how fine he actually is,
and then finds himself staring at his phone, transfixed by thought, until the
screen dims. Peter is fast and probably could evade the police, and he's smart
and conniving and always a step ahead, but it wouldn't hurt to send Peter a
warning. A hint that he should look out if he isn't already being cautious.
He opens up his text messages and lets himself, against his better judgment and
his father's clear orders, send one to Peter. It says be careful and nothing
else.
--
Stiles doesn’t get a text back, and the implications disturb Stiles more than
they should. It’s possible he’s just ignoring Stiles, or misread his message as
a looming threat, or is already in custody and hasn’t seen his phone ever since
it was confiscated, which would boil trouble for Stiles in too many ways he can
mentally handle. Or maybe he’s caught wind of the fact that he’s being targeted
and has changed his number, or maybe he thinks Stiles ratted him out, which
would be appropriate considering Stiles had dangled the idea in front of
Peter’s nose before in an effort to gain the upper hand. The weirdest part is
that not that long ago, Stiles would’ve ratted Peter out, no guilty conscience,
no regret, and now here he is, a million miles from where he started, nauseous
and uneasy at the idea of all of it. Most specifically, at the inevitability of
all of it.
He just keeps thinking: what if he was wrong? What if Stiles has never been
this wrong about a person in his entire life? He keeps thinking about that
night outside IHOP, and most importantly, how differently Stiles should've
played it, and how quickly it all went downhill. He wanted to talk to Peter
about the fire, about all the people he lost, about sitting in the hospital
maybe even around the same time Stiles' mother started being admitted, and
suddenly it had become a showdown, a cruel opportunity to break each other
down. Stiles can't stop wondering if there's someone there underneath whatever
the fire left behind, if there's a gaping ache Stiles has never thought to look
for before, has never imagined filling before.
He wants to keep texting, but he feels too much like he's slipping into
dangerous territory. He doesn't know where Peter is, or his phone, or even if
Peter wants to hear from him, but it's eating Stiles up inside to not know.
And then, four days later, his father comes home and Stiles knows everything he
needs to.
"Well," the sheriff says, toeing off his shoes. He's home early. He's never
home early these days. "We caught the guy."
Stiles is speechless for a few long moments. Even with his worry, there was a
part of him that was perfectly convinced that Peter would run long before he'd
be found, that Peter would be faster. And here he is, being proven wrong, and
all he can think about is Peter sitting on his bed after raiding his father's
liquor cabinet, offering to stay the night. Stiles had said no and the only
thing running through his mind now is why why why.
"You—who did you catch?" Stiles asks. He needs to hear the specifics now more
than ever.
"Our slippery friend, the loan shark," he says. His words are a blend of
complete exhaustion and muted pride. "Peter Hale. Don't think he even knew we
were on to him."
Swiftly, Stiles' brain switches tracks over to a litany of curse words. Why
didn't Peter take his text seriously? Why was he careless when Stiles had
fucking warned him to keep an eye out? Did he think he was just teasing, just
having a spot of fun at his expense?
"I—wow, dad. That's." Great? Perfect timing? Inconvenient? Paralyzing?
"It's been a long day, I can tell you that much. A good day, obviously, but
long." The sheriff drops himself into a chair at the dining table, rubbing at
his eyes with the heels of his hands.
Stiles can barely breathe; he thinks of his inhaler far away in his room
upstairs. His heart is like rapid gunfire.
"What did you charge him for?"
"Well, he's an unlicensed moneylender," his father answers. "So there's that.
And personally, I'm going to root around in his records and see if we can dig
up any dirt on him. I have the feeling he might not be above other petty
crimes."
Stiles can only agree. With Peter's inflated ego, who knows what he thought he
was above as far as the law goes. All Stiles is really getting from this is
that everything from getting a parking ticket to littering on the side of the
road is going to be dug up against Peter to send him to jail for the longest
amount of time possible, turn his prison sentence into a lobster trap that's
inescapable, and the thing is, it might even be good for the town for Peter to
be off the streets and safely incarcerated, but Stiles never wanted this. At
least, he doesn't now.
"Where is he?" Stiles asks. He opens the refrigerator with tingling arms and
grabs the nearest thing, a bottle of water sitting in the door, and unscrews it
and drinks until the condensation makes his grip too slippery.
"Holding cell at the station," the sheriff says. “He’ll be moved somewhere
permanent sooner rather than later, but right now it’s not a bad idea to keep
him close. See if he says anything self-incriminating on accident.”
“Oh.” Stiles knows he won’t say anything. Except for maybe did you know I’m
sleeping with your son? as a last ditch effort to bewilder and blindside. “So
how long do he think he’ll be locked away for?”
His father looks at him and must completely misread the ashen, speechless look
on his face, because he says, “Don’t worry, Stiles. A long time. He’s not going
to be wandering the streets looking for you anytime soon.”
Stiles doesn’t even know what to say. He knows how he’s expected to react, how
he should let out sighs of relief and hug his father in thanks and feel calmed,
reassured, comforted, but he can’t bring his face to pretend any of it is what
he’s thinking right now. He looks away, unwilling to let his father see how
panicked he is when he shouldn’t be. He has to pull himself together. He has to
calm down.
"I'm going to get the mail," Stiles says abruptly, shutting the fridge door.
"You okay?"
"I'm fine," Stiles says, and he hates this, hates that this was supposed to fix
everything but has fixed nothing, hates that he has to lie to his father's face
after wanting to stop, hates that of all people, Stiles had to start caring
about a man setting himself up to be locked away for eternity.
It's cold when he makes it outside, and it seems to fit Stiles' mood. He
doesn't know what's wrong with him, but he feels like a goddamn poem from the
1800s come to life, full of sorrow and anger and heartbreak and a real ache
that's pulsing through him. This is unfair. This hurts more than Stiles wanted
it to, and he can't turn off the switch that controls his overflowing emotions.
The bottom line is that he shouldn't care, or at least work on turning a cold
shoulder that's learning not to care at the situation, because there's no
guarantee that Peter cares about him the way Stiles is realizing he cares about
Peter. There's a fully logical chance that Peter wants nothing to do with
Stiles after his father got him arrested, and directly after that fight they
had in the parking lot at that. Stiles wishes he could talk to him, explain,
tell him how absolutely idiotic he is, but he's no longer reachable. He has his
one call from jail, and he used it elsewhere. Probably telling a relative to
hide and stash all the cash before the police came for it. Rapacious to the
end.
He’s nearly breaking the key in the mail box before he realizes it, jamming it
in the wrong way around and hardly noticing. He shakes the fog out of his head
and unlocks it, pulling out a handful of envelopes—a water bill, a
supermarket’s magazine, a dentist appointment reminder, and one that’s…
stampless.
Stiles stuffs everything else in his back pocket. All it has on it is Stiles,
nothing else, no address, no postage stamp, no return address. It’s undoubtedly
Peter’s work, a repeat performance of a trick he pulled on Stiles weeks ago,
although at the time, it was much to Stiles’ displeasure.
He can't even be angry that Peter's ignored his demands to stop using
communication as blatant as stampless notes in his mailbox, not when he's
suddenly numbingly happy just to hear from him, even if the means he used to
even bring Stiles mail when he’s locked in jail are puzzling. He unfolds it,
the brevity of it familiar, but the handwriting slightly different from what
Stiles remembers of Peter.
The alleyway behind the skating rink. 8:30 tonight.
It makes no sense that Peter would be out of jail right after Stiles has it on
good authority that he’s been locked up, and not just that, but wandering
around Beacon Hills completely invisible to all cops most likely on the lookout
for the escaped criminal if he has actually managed to break himself out of
prison like a complete maniac. The handwriting doesn’t even seem right, the
letters slanted and choppier, not as smooth as Peter’s usual script, but who
else would talk in threatening fragments and know about the alley where they
meet up for sexual favors, for god’s sakes? Who else would even care to lure
Stiles out of his house after dark to a desolate location?
Stiles looks at it for a long time, waiting for more words to appear, for his
questions about the note’s origins to be answered, but all it does is stare
back at him unblinkingly. He can’t riddle out any of the questions it brings
with it, and a smarter man would know that this sounds like all sorts of
sketchy, but that’s what Peter is, and Stiles isn’t scared of him.
He keeps inspecting it like there’s any chance of him not actually going. He
keeps up the charade for at least another two minutes in which, just to see
what it feels like, he pretends to be the kind of person who isn’t in obedience
of all of their curiosity-driven impulses, and then he stuffs the letter in the
pocket of his sweatshirt and starts thinking up excuses as to the why, where,
and who of his leaving the house tonight.
--
He comes early and sits hunched in the driver’s seat keeping his eyes on the
parking lot for a couple of minutes. There’s nobody there except for an old
hatchback that’s seen better centuries and a black Camaro that’s admittedly
right in Peter’s price range but, as Stiles recalls, not actually Peter’s car,
and other than that, nothing but a long stretch of an empty lot.
He’s fucking insane for coming here. Peter’s not here. There’s no way for Peter
to be here. Stiles should’ve stayed home, just like he probably should’ve
stayed home weeks ago the first time Peter lured him here, but he knows that no
matter how much his gut tells him he’s doing the dangerous, stupid thing his
father told him to avoid, he’s not going to turn back around. He’s too damn
curious for his own good.
He gets out of the car after a couple more minutes of useless deliberating, but
before he heads for the back of the skating rink, he stops at the Camaro,
arching close to the hood. It’s a nice car. As a matter of fact, it seems to be
in pristine condition, and with the exception of an empty water bottle sitting
in the cup holder, the car doesn’t seem to have a single personal touch to it,
not even balled up trash in the backseat or a bumper stick on the trunk. Like
the kind of car someone might hotwire for the hell of it after escaping jail.
Stiles narrows his eyes at it suspiciously.
Someone’s waiting for him in that alley, Stiles is sure of it by now. He
doesn’t know who, or how, or why they called Stiles out here, but if it does
happen to be the very type of shenanigans his father was advising him to avoid,
Stiles has a car key in his grip he can possibly do some damage with and legs
that’ll run like hell.
But he has a feeling this won’t be like that.
He stuffs his hands into his pockets and takes care to be as quiet as possible
as he rounds the corner behind the rink, watching where he’s stepping, keeping
the crunch of gravel to a minimum. It’s dark back here, the streetlights too
far off to illuminate the alley, and Stiles feels that same sinister tingle run
down his shoulders that he felt the first time he showed up here without
knowing what to expect. It’s almost like déjà vu, except that this time it’s
so, so different, and Stiles knows no one’s going to be sucked off against a
brick wall this time around. This is new.
The alley is covered in shadows. It’s so dark, so unendingly black, it almost
reminds Stiles of his dreams where he reaches and stretches and aches for his
mother, and he’s about to pinch himself awake just so he can go back to being
sweaty in his sheets when he hears a noise come from the gloom, like a footstep
adjusting on the ground.
"Peter?" Stiles says into the shadows. He knows it doesn't make sense for him
to be here, it would defy all logic of how jail works, but Peter's not logical,
and being a werewolf certainly doesn't make sense, so—
"No," an unfamiliar voice says, and then an even more unfamiliar frame steps
into the dim moonlight. Stiles hasn't seen him before, but a few of his
features make it seem like Stiles has, like the sharp jaw or the broad
shoulders. "Peter's in jail."
"I know that," Stiles says. "Who are you? Did you leave me that note?"
"I'm Derek," the man says. "Peter's nephew. And yes, I did."
He doesn't extend his hand for a friendly shake—then again, nothing about Derek
looks particularly friendly, what with the leather jacket he's stuffed his
hands into and his narrowed gaze and slanted eyebrows. Stiles can only assume
that the family relation and the general I Will Roast Your Skin Over Barbecue
Sauce look on his face means he's also involved in the loan shark business, and
if he isn't, he really ought to be. A threatening face like that shouldn't be
wasted.
For one extremely uncomfortable second, Stiles thinks the worst. What if
Derek's here to pick up where Peter left off, determined to cash in on the
Stilinski debt and this time, get a little bit of the action for himself? For
all Stiles knows, Peter felt perfectly comfortable bragging to his family about
the boy doing all of his sexual bidding for the better part of a month, and now
Derek's here to see what the hype is all about and grab himself a piece of the
pie.
"Relax, I'm not here to hurt you," Derek says, as if picking up on his
emotions, which must mean—
"Shit. You're a werewolf too, aren't you?" Stiles breathes out. "I almost
forgot that you guys are a whole—a whole family of money hungry werewolves."
"A pack," Derek tells him. "And only most of us are werewolves."
Is that what this is, a vocab lesson on all things lycanthropy? Stiles doesn't
have time for this. He's tired and restless and back to feeling like an
incurable insomniac, and yet he's standing here in a dark alley staring into
the cold eyes of Peter's nephew like he has nothing better to do. He scrubs his
hands through his hair.
"What do you want from me?" Stiles asks. He can't imagine that Peter's sending
Derek to finish the job he left uncompleted and collect the money he left
unsettled, but hell, what does he even know about Peter? Just because it feels
like his organs are rusting inside of himself right now because Peter isn't
here with him anymore, an aggressively grounding anchor in the storm he's been
battered by ever since his mother became terminally ill, that doesn't mean they
actually know anything about each other.
Except, well. What their mouths moan when they come and how their bodies move
with the force of their orgasms.
And how they cut into pancakes.
"Nothing, actually," Derek says. He steps closer. "More like the other way
around."
Stiles takes a large step back, enlarging the gap Derek just whittled away
between them. "Hey, I don't want anything from you, pal."
Derek grins like he knows more about life than Stiles does. It's Peter's smile,
except slightly less nefarious, less crooked.
"It's not from me," Derek says. "It's from Peter."
"Peter," Stiles repeats carefully. "Peter's in jail."
"It's a message," Derek tells him. He takes a deep breath, like he almost can't
believe what he's about to say out loud. "He wants to you know that you're
entirely absolved of your debt."
A ringing silence seems to vibrate in the air after Derek's done talking.
Absolved of debt. Entirely. Everything is taken care of. Every single dollar
used against him, to manhandle his free will, to intimidate his father, to
torment his nights, it's gone.
Stiles swallows, suddenly finding his voice missing from his mouth. "Just. Just
like that?"
"Just like that."
Stiles can't believe it, it just doesn't make any sense. That debt wasn't just
pocket change. That was the brunt of Peter's income, and Peter's a man of
business, and his business is money, and Peter always made Stiles work for any
cut-backs on what he owes. To take every penny off of Stiles' shoulders, just
for him— "Why?"
"I don't know," Derek says, shrugging, like he hasn't just shaken up everything
Stiles thinks he understands about the world. He pulls something out of the
inner pocket of his jacket, handing it to Stiles. It's an envelope, and Stiles
instantly hopes it's a message Peter's managed to write after smuggling pencils
into his cell. "Here."
Stiles rips it open, but there's no letter. No message at all, actually. Just
bills. Cash.
"What—" Stiles pulls a few out; they're all hundreds. He feels like he really
needs to sit down. "What the hell is this?"
Derek's hands are back in his pockets. He shrugs again, but these details are
important to Stiles. "A gift from Peter."
Stiles grabs an entire handful of bills—all crisp, all fresh, all still
smelling of a wallet well stuffed—and flaps them under Derek's nose in case
he's unaware exactly what Peter's "gift" entails. It's one thing to wipe the
slate clean of Stiles' debt, it's another to physically hand him cash, and God,
Stiles hopes this isn't Peter paying his whore or something equally unsavory
because he'd rather not be made to feel like a low-class hooker right now.
Derek's eyes flick briefly to the wad of cash.
"A gift? A gift? A gift is a cup of coffee or a cool hat or baseball tickets,
not a buttload of cash!" Stiles cries. "Is this counterfeit? Is he bringing me
down with him? What the fuck is this?"
Derek grits his teeth. "I told you. A gift."
A gift from the king, maybe, not a loan shark whose biggest joy is separating
people from large sums of cash. Stiles doesn't know what to think, what it
means, if it means anything at all. He's never gotten anything from Peter for
free. He's a little numb.
He spends too much time staring at the bills in awe, apparently, because Derek
starts turning away, uninterested in humoring Stiles' shock now that he's
delivered the message he was asked to. Stiles lunges for his sleeve to stop
him, grabbing him by the arm. Derek stares at the hand touching him like Stiles
would be well advised to remove all limbs he wants to keep off of him
immediately but stops walking away nonetheless.
"Wait," Stiles says. "You have to tell me why he did this. You know, don't you?
Anything at all?"
Derek stares at him for awhile, and for a moment, Stiles wonders if he's as
clueless as Stiles. He shakes off Stiles' grip and says, "You should be able to
figure it out."
Stiles thinks he can too, but this isn't a time to be presumptuous. Is it for
him? Is it all for him? Is it the apology Peter never said out loud? Is it
Peter’s fucked up, unspoken way of asking for Stiles’ forgiveness? He can't
assume. He can't follow Scott's advice and just presume that he and Peter feel
the same way about each other. He needs real answers, real straightforward
honesty, something Peter's been pretty good at providing him.
Stiles reaches out again to grab Derek by the sleeve just as his shoe crunches
against the gravel, ready to turn away again, this time getting an exasperated
grumble out of him. Stiles doesn’t care. Right now everything about him is
zeroed in on the weight of what’s in his hand, what it means, what he’s
supposed to infer from it.
“Hey,” Stiles says, looking up at Derek. “Can you drive me to the police
station?”
Derek’s mouth tilts.
Chapter End Notes
     So months ago when I realized that I wanted this story to have an
     ending other than Stiles plotting to get Peter imprisoned and then
     cackling about it for years and years to come, I was brainstorming
     ideas on the phone with my sister, who inspired me to do something I
     absolutely could not resist: Pride and Prejudice this sucker and give
     Peter the glory of Mr. Darcy saving the reputation of Elizabeth's
     family by helping out Stiles with all the pocket change he needs to
     go to therapy and pay off all his bills and get himself as many
     smoothies as he wants (something I desperately wished canon!Stiles
     had). If there's anything you need to know about me, it's my unending
     love for P&P, so you can imagine how thrilled I was when I found a
     way to incorporate aspects of it into a Peter/Stiles story.
***** Chapter 8 *****
Chapter Notes
     Months ago I heard Locked Away on the radio for the first time and
     instantly thought: is R. City hacking into my files and reading this
     story? Is that what's going on here?
     Other songs that motivated me to keep writing this monster: 1D's
     Temporary Fix, Siren's I Think I Like You, Maps' Adjusted to the
     Darkness, and Tegan and Sara's Drove Me Wild.
     PS: We are now in the homestretch. All that angst is in the rearview
     mirror.
The most terrifying moment of Stiles’ life was when he told his father about
Mr. Harris abusing him.
It wasn’t a good day. Before, as bad as it was, everything was contained. It
was Stiles’ problem, and Stiles’ story, and he knew that by the end of the
night, it would be everybody’s. An entire police station would know what
happened. People he was waving to in the station would suddenly start giving
him sad little smiles that reeked of sympathy. His father would go from looking
at Stiles as his carefree son to looking at him as a helpless victim.
Everything would change.
Even just relaying the story out loud was frightening. Stiles didn’t know if he
was going to be believed, or scrutinized, or what would happen next, or how
many times he’d have to tell it. He knew his father took care of people who
came to the police for help. Stiles just never knew he would be one of those
people.
He begged his father not to tell his mother. She was too sick by then for
Stiles to imagine her battling illness along with Stiles’ trouble, and Stiles
didn’t want to make it worse. As a matter of fact, what he had gone through
seemed paler and smaller in comparison to what his mother was fighting every
time he saw her bundled up in hospital sheets, skin too white to be healthy.
What he had gone through was over, could be combatted, but there wasn’t an
ending in sight for her. At least, not a very optimistic one.
Still, keeping what had happened to him a secret from his mother wasn’t easy.
He was used to telling her everything. He was used to telling everyone
everything. Suddenly, without his approval, he was carrying around secrets he
didn’t want but couldn’t bear to share, and it felt as if no one knew anyone
about him. He was just a ghost, something fleeting and unnecessary, and if
nothing else, Stiles hoped that that feeling would go away when he finally told
his story. It didn’t.
He remembers how it felt to walk down the station hall, hearing nothing but his
own racing heart. He remembers his father asking what was wrong when he stood
by his desk, shaken, and how he had blurted out the answer. He remembers his
father looking as if he had seen a ghost. He remembers feeling, in nothing more
than one second, like he had let the entire world down.
More than a year later, Stiles decides that this is actually the most
terrifying moment of his life.
Sitting in a Camaro worth more than Stiles' entire expected college tuition
that's cruising down a dark road at illegal speeds with a man with a face like
an angry mountain behind the wheel while Stiles tries to figure out how he’s
going to proclaim his love to a loan shark is not exactly what Stiles expected
of his evening.
He touches the sleek leather by his knee, anything to distract himself from the
vomiting butterflies in his stomach or the way Derek’s barreling down the road,
and finds it's like butter under his hand. Everything in this car is like
butter, to think of it, from the black speakers to the wax job on the paint.
The spoils of being a loan shark, Stiles supposes, just like in Peter's car,
the only difference being that Peter doesn't drive like he's trying to go fast
enough to time travel.
Derek takes a curve like he’s on a racetrack going for gold and Stiles feels
his stomach crawl into his throat. He probably should’ve swallowed down his
nerves and taken his own car and risked the car crash that he was going to
probably cause due to his jittery hands and speeding brain, but how was he
supposed to know at the time that Derek would be just as liable to create a
multi-car pile up?
“You know,” Derek says, “you could’ve taken your own car.”
He looks at Stiles like he can pick up on the way his heartbeat spikes every
time Derek nearly barrels over into the wrong lane.
“I needed to give myself a moment,” Stiles says.
“To count the money?”
“What? No.” Stiles isn’t sure any person in this family has ever actually
learned manners. “I’m just—I’m just trying to figure out what I’m going to say
to him.”
Faintly, he wonders if what he's doing is a little crazy. He's sitting in a car
waiting for the point when he can unbuckle himself, sneak into the station, and
thank Peter. To be fair, that last bit is up for remodeling, not because Stiles
has specific things he'd like to say to him outside of gratitude, but rather
because he knows that he'll lose complete control of his mouth once he sees
Peter. Maybe he should've gone home first, stewed in the recent events, counted
the bills, plan out his words, but no, Stiles is all about rash decisions and
bad ideas. Derek takes a sharp turn that has Stiles gripping the car door for
his life, pretty much confirming his thoughts.
"You and Peter," Stiles says, feeling the need to get a grasp on more
information before they arrive and Stiles charges in like a badly-aimed
missile. "Do you talk a lot?"
"You could say that," Derek says.
"Does he ever talk about me?"
Derek's eye twitches. "You could say that."
Stiles stares at him, passing headlights briefly illuminating slits of that
hard-boiled, chiseled face. He waits for more, a slightly longer answer, and
realizes Derek has no intention of carrying on a meatier conversation in which
he divulges information and gossips his heart out, let alone anything above a
monosyllabic chat.
"You're a real chatterbox, you know that?" Stiles says dryly.
Derek exhales through his nostrils, leaning back into the headrest. "Why don't
you ask me what you really want to know, Stiles?"
Stiles huffs. Derek has the extremely pompous air of knowing everything but
refusing to share anything. Peter carries the same self-assurance of believing
his knowledge is omniscient, but he has the actually preferable habit of always
rubbing in Stiles' face exactly what he knows—Derek just lets Stiles stew in
the fact that he is uniformed and clueless. He was hoping to be diplomatic
about this, but fine, if Derek only works on bluntness and candor, Stiles can
give him what he wants, no matter the humiliation he might suffer because of
it. This is definitely a desperate times situation he's okay being embarrassed
for.
"Fine," Stiles says. "Does Peter like me?"
Derek doesn't say anything for a while, nothing but the smooth purring of the
car's engine responding to Stiles' question. Either he never intended to
indulge in Stiles' curiosity in the first place or he's carefully constructing
his answer, and when Stiles looks over and sees Derek's pinched brow, he thinks
the latter might actually be true.
"Stiles," Derek starts slowly, fingers flexing on the steering wheel. "I've
known Peter my whole life. He's been doing this job for as long as I can
remember. He likes doing it."
"Uh huh."
"Money is the bottom line for him. That, and power. To have money is to have
power."
"Capitalism, sure, sure," Stiles murmurs under his breath. He looks over at
Derek and sees he's being glared down with the irritation of five hundred
disturbed wasps for interrupting. "Sorry. Keep going."
"Anyway," Derek continues. "Never have I seen him turn down a job, or fail to
complete one." He slows down for a traffic light, taking the chance to catch
Stiles' eyes in the scarlet glow of the light. "To see him give up money, dig
into his own pockets, remove a debt. That's... something I never thought Peter
would even consider."
The intensity of Derek's stare is almost laser-like, and Stiles finds that if
he was confused before, the sheer meaning behind Derek's eyes is making it
impossible to be unsure of the message he's trying to send now. He turns away,
cheeks red in a way the traffic light isn't responsible for, and focuses on the
quiet road, the bumps in the illuminated asphalt. Stiles has always figured
that money was the end-all, be-all for Peter, but to hear it said plainly that
Peter's essentially chosen him over his job, over his power, is making him a
little light-headed. He grips the car door again.
"I can't go in the station," he says, feeling suddenly as if the world is
liquefying under his feet. "I can't see him."
Stiles would appreciate some compassion, maybe a soothing hand between the
shoulders after stopping the car on the side of the street, but Derek is either
as emotionally stunted as Peter or just severely uninterested in catering to
Stiles' neuroses and offering him attention. He hardly spares him a look while
Stiles tries to remember how to breathe air.
"Why not?" Derek asks skeptically. "You like him too, don't you?"
Well, there's that indirect confirmation that's making the world spin: Peter
likes Stiles. Peter is giving up his love of material things for Stiles. Peter
is behaving like a good person. This is too much for Stiles to handle.
"Of course I like him, that's the problem!" Stiles cries out, helplessly
feeling his poise slip away and wave from the growing distance. "What the fuck
do I do with that? I'm not supposed to like him, he's a complete dickwad. What
am I even supposed to say to him?"
"Complete dickwad?" Derek repeats. The way he says it sounds like he's more
amused than he is disagreeing.
"He—he blackmailed me with sex and he terrorized my father and he made the last
few weeks so, so hard." Stiles ducks his head between his legs, cradling his
scalp. Something about the position reminds him of sitting in a hospital
waiting room, half paralyzed that he had HIV while he waited for Scott. The
utter relief that followed when he found out he was clean, and that night he
then spent with Peter being honest and sleeping well for the first time in
ages. The way Peter held him when he woke up from nightmares, how his shirt
felt soft against Stiles' cheek even as he restrained him and his stress-driven
temper. The day at the zoo where everything had almost felt... normal.
It's a good step back to put things in perspective, that's for sure. Stiles
can't deny that he's been through a hell of a lot recently, but if he's being
honest with himself, Peter hasn't been making any of it worse. If anything,
he's been consistently trying to make things better, even if he didn't always
approach the situations with finesse. Stiles can't ask too much of him, he's a
fucking werewolf loan shark. And all things considered, what with the death and
the abuse and the general self-loathing he's been through, Peter's ultimately
made a lot of his struggles better by giving him his money—and then some—back.
And sex, too, of course.
And sarcasm. And IHOP pancakes. And a complete refusal to treat Stiles
delicately like everybody else. Peter's absolutely terrible at things like
showing he cares or being kind or prioritizing others over himself all in fear
of being perceived as weak, but Stiles is pretty sure that Peter's been trying.
Or at least inadvertently learning to do so. Maybe all that old dogs can't
learn new tricks really is bullshit.
"Are you breathing again?" Derek pipes up. He doesn't sound all too concerned,
but Stiles appreciates the question nonetheless. He picks his head up from
between his knees, feeling the rush of blood in his neck like adrenaline. The
car has stopped moving, and when Stiles looks over, he sees that they've
already arrived at the station.
"I'm fine. I'm really fine." Stiles takes in a deep breath. Maybe it's good to
let everything erupt out of him now and again, if only to come out of the
tantrum picking out silver linings. Yes, Peter's done some fucked up things,
and no, a wad of cash doesn't make up for all of it, but there's a very strong
part of himself that knows that Peter's trying to be a good man for Stiles, or
at least a better version of himself, and Stiles wants to let him. Everything
else, all the edges that need smoothing out, can come later.
"I know you've been through a lot," Derek says, face pinched. "And I know Peter
probably hasn't helped—"
"I've been through so, so, so much worse than Peter Hale," Stiles says, that
much he's sure of. He smiles at his knees. "And I could do much worse than
Peter Hale."
From the look on Derek's face, he's probably not about to jump in and support
Stiles' claim with evidence of Peter's Good Moments, but that's okay. Stiles is
pretty sure that Derek isn't all that familiar with some of the other sides of
Peter that Stiles has caught glimpses of, like that man who empathized with
Stiles when he cried over his losses, or the man who stuffed an entire envelope
full of cash just to see Stiles' burden of worries lessen. That quiet, softer
man exists underneath all of the hard edges, and Stiles sort of likes the rocky
combination he makes together with the man the world sees, not to mention how
almost flattering it is that Stiles is one of the few people on this earth to
even see his gentler corners and validate their existences.
"All right," Derek says. "Then are you going inside?" He cocks his head to the
station.
"You think I can do this?" Stiles asks, more so out of curiosity than an actual
need for a reassuring pep talk.
"I've known you for about fifteen minutes."
He would take that as a no if he wasn't so freshly pumped with his second wind
of good vibes and stupid bravery. He looks over at the station again, at the
dimly lit lights outside of it and the quiet, nearly empty parking lot. Not too
many people to sneak by, then.
“Okay. I’m going in.” Stiles opens the car door, and has one foot out when he
turns back to Derek and asks, “You’re going to wait for me, right?”
“You have fifteen minutes,” Derek says. “And I don’t want to know what you’re
doing in there.”
“Come on, there are gonna be bars between us, I highly doubt we can even do
anything even slightly—”
“Nothing, Stiles. I want to know nothing.”
He fixes Stiles with a deadly serious look that would frost over deserts if he
ever discovered the truly lethal powers he probably has buried dormant in his
retinas, and Stiles decides to value his life and take heed. He nods at Derek
and gets out of the car, closing the door behind himself and waiting out a two
second window just in case Derek decides to burn rubber and peel out of the
parking lot to leave Stiles to fend for himself. He doesn’t; the car idles in
place.
The spare station key stolen from his father Stiles swiped from the glove
compartment of the Jeep before slipping into Derek's car is his only way in as
far as Stiles is concerned, because he's fairly certain his flushed, fidgety
self isn't going to successfully squeeze past the night guard if he uses the
front door. He looks briefly down at his shaking hands and thinks that if the
rest of him looks just as nervous, he might pass as high, wasted, or a man who
has, for the first time, experienced the horrific thrill of murdering a live
being. He's sticking with the key to the side entrance.
The good news is that he won't be bumbling around the entire station like a
tourist in New York; he knows where the holding cells are, and as long as no
one's eyes are currently glued to the security tapes, he should be able to
squeeze by any guards for at least ten minutes, which is certainly long enough
to hash out whatever Stiles needs to.
He thinks. He's not entirely sure how this conversation will play out. Lately,
everything he does is unplanned, built on instinct and impulse, and when it is
planned, it's badly so, the edges taped together and the seams splitting with
all the details he's missing. He's not even sure if that's Peter rubbing off on
him or his mother's death taking its toll on his typically orderly life,
forcing him to live spontaneously, in the moment, even if that moment is a
horrible, downright dumb, absurd decision in the making, but in this situation,
he should at least have something cobbled together. A mental list of things he
has to get off his chest. A set of rules as to how to treat Peter. A collection
of conversation starters. But his mind is blank. Running completely empty.
He can't panic now. He already had a nervous breakdown in Derek's car, he can't
very well have another in the police station when there's no one around to
offer friendly motivational advice, not that Derek was handing out any of those
earlier. Still. He's come this far, and he has to resolve something. He has to.
His entire life has been nothing but problems lacking solutions for much too
long, Stiles just helplessly waiting to wake up and things to be better.
Magically. No effort required. His insomnia, his father's dishonesty, his own
dishonesty, his mother's passing, his relationship with Peter, they're all
things he has swimming around in his brain, tormenting him like jellyfish that
give him a sting every time he stops worrying for a solid minute, things he
didn't bother to actually confront. And now he's here, in the police station,
the door shutting behind him, and it would be nothing but a cowardly step back
to leave now.
So he doesn't. He poises his face into something confident and certain of
himself and his whereabouts, striding down the hall and staying on the soft
soles of his sneakers to be as quiet as possible. Evenings at the station can
range from anywhere to bustling with activity to silent as church, but if it is
busy tonight, everybody's crowded together a few halls down by their desks,
filing paperwork and grabbing late night snacks from the vending machine, which
makes for an uninterrupted strut through the path to the cells.
Stiles breaks into a jog when he can't handle the suspense anymore, whispering
assurances to himself all the while that this is exactly what he needs and will
give him the answers he wants, so he pushes open the last door without
hesitation and ends up where the holding cells are. Where he knows Peter is.
He can do this. He can go through with this.
He’s perfectly collected. Right up until he catches a glimpse of Peter leaning
against his cell wall, one foot propped up, just like he always stood against
the brick wall in that decrepit alley waiting for Stiles to show, and like a
furious switch flicking in his body, Stiles is suddenly, irrationally, terribly
upset and can’t keep it inside anymore.
"I can't fucking believe you," Stiles says, thundering toward the cell,
instantaneously nothing but rage and eruptions because Peter is so cryptic and
careless and got himself arrested. "I can't!"
He wants to say it a few more times, but Peter's already straightening up and
probably ready to ruin the entire speech Stiles has uselessly prepared in his
head by saying something offensive and unnecessary, so Stiles saves his breath
in the interest of prioritizing, and pushes himself against the bars until he
can grab Peter's shirt through them and pull him into a kiss.
It's not a very good kiss, all the romance Stiles expected replaced by
mindless, unthinking rage and befuddlement, their mouths off-center and Stiles'
teeth actually hurting from how hard they push into Peter's. It all seems to
actually surprise Peter, like he was more prepared for uncoordinated punching
or other outward aggression, but all Stiles wants is to get his hands on him, a
plan Peter gets on board with very quickly what with how he snakes his tongue
around Stiles' and leans into his kiss, returning the fervor Stiles is putting
on the table. Then it starts getting a little good.
It feels like a very long time after that, nothing but a good twenty minutes of
breathless kissing and biting and fighting for dominance and no one relenting,
Stiles finding comfort and solace and solidity in Peter's fist wrapped around
the fabric of his shirt that's near his stomach. He wants to stay angry, angry
because Peter's landed himself in jail of all places, angry because he's
sending family members to gift Stiles his own sentiments, and he wants to
convey how upset he is with the way his teeth bite down on Peter's lip, but the
kisses dissolve into something softer quickly without Stiles being able to stop
it. He can't believe that he misses this man and wants him home, wants to hear
him crawl in through the window and creak it shut behind himself and then
threaten to break open zoo cages to show off his strength.
When they pull apart, it feels like Stiles just threw himself headfirst into a
tornado. He tilts his forehead against Peter's, needing a moment to collect
himself.
"You're a sight for sore eyes," Peter says with a grin.
"This is coming from the man soon to be in prison garb," Stiles says dryly.
Peter's thumb slides under Stiles' eye, rubbing his cheek. "Red-rimmed eyes.
You haven't been sleeping."
"I've been worried about you being thrown in jail, asshole," Stiles grumbles,
then kisses him again.
They carry on for a little while longer. Peter keeps making these soft, sinful
sounds every time Stiles tries to pull away, so he stays close and keeps his
lips aligned with Peter's, reveling in the familiarity. It should be funny,
really, because it wasn't that long ago when Peter was a threat, a bother, a
loan shark who harassed him and his father, and now he's this person, Stiles'
person, that he feels almost... protective of.
"I can't believe you," Stiles says again on the slickness of Peter's mouth. He
honestly can't say it enough. "I saw Derek. I want explanations."
"I'd need all day to explain Derek."
Stiles grabs Peter by fistfuls of his shirt, pulling him closer to the bars. "I
mean it," he says. "Everything you did. All that money."
Peter tilts his head and smiles gently. "Stiles," he says, and it takes Stiles
a moment to realize that he sounds almost bashful. "Surely you don't need
explanations."
"You're wrong. I do." Stiles needs to hear the words leave Peter's mouth. He
unhands him, determined to keep somewhat of a distance until he gets what he
wants. Peter's not good at apologies, at genuinely saying he's sorry—or
pretending to be sorry, really—but Stiles is giving him the opportunity here
and now to grow up.
Peter sighs, clearly off-put by the fact that he and Stiles are no longer
touching. "You had bills. I had money. What do you need explained?"
He says it like it's just that simple. Stiles knows it can't be. It's
incredibly jarring to realize that the world he's painted around himself might
not be the world that actually exists, that the universe isn't as he was sure
it must be, that even the worst people can be warm and kind in the right
moments. What if it really is that simple? What if Peter really does care about
Stiles' happiness, and everything from that point on is easy? What if no one's
pretending or obliging or just doing what's expected of them? What if
everything's simpler than what Stiles has been making it all out to be?
"I was so sure you're just a bad guy," Stiles says, feeling as if someone's run
a vacuum through his lungs. "I thought that's all you were.” All he could be.
"Well, that's all true."
"Peter," Stiles says, reaching through the bars again, suddenly needing to feel
his wrist or his hand or his elbow in his fingers. "Be serious."
Peter looks at the ceiling, huffing. "I'm in jail. I'm taking things perfectly
seriously."
“Just be real with me for a second," Stiles begs of him. He doesn’t know how
long he has in here before the guards make their rounds or an officer pokes
their head in the hall, and he certainly didn’t monitor his time when he was
making out with Peter—not that he regrets that—and probably has less time than
preferable to get to the bottom of what he needs to riddle out. “Was it really
for me?"
Peter fixes him with an unamused look of impatience, like Stiles should know
all of this without having to ask by now. But he needs to. He can’t scent the
air and he can’t puzzle out Peter’s enigmatic expression, and he needs to hear
him use his words. "Come on, Stiles. You're clever."
"Just tell me. Is this your apology?"
Peter's eyes shift to the floor. There's a smile on his face, almost hidden
from Stiles' view save the happy lines by his eyes. "No. I'm not sorry in the
least." He looks back up again. "I like you, Stiles. And why would I be sorry
for fucking you over a table that day we met if that's what put you in my
life?"
"Don't, don't even," Stiles says, holding up a hand to put a stop to that
particular derailing of the conversation. If this is Peter’s attempt at
throwing out a romantic comment, he definitely needs to spend some time
workshopping. "Just tell me about how much you like me."
A hand snakes through the bars again, finding Stiles' collarbone. Peter plays
with the fabric there, almost as if fascinated by the fact that Stiles is here,
sneaking in just to see him, just to feel him, even after everything he's done
to mess things up.
"Very much," Peter murmurs—quietly, as if sharing a surprise.
Stiles slowly feels an exhale leave him. He doesn't need to hear any more
explanations. He's pretty sure he gets it. Peter likes him; Peter wants to make
his world a better place. Peter wants to see him improve from the shell of a
person he was not too long ago. Stiles sighs, covering the hand on his shoulder
with his own. The world is upside down and he's feeling a little dizzy because
of it.
"What are you thinking about?" Peter asks.
Stiles smiles. "All the things I'd like to do to you if there weren't bars
between us." Peter's eyes flash, a dangerously icy blue—Stiles doesn't think
he's ever going to get used to that—and from the look in his eyes, he seems to
be thinking about the fastest way to break out of the cell with bare hands
alone. "No. Hold that thought. There's something else I'm thinking about."
“What’s that?”
“That I should probably have a talk with my father,” Stiles says. “And that
Derek is waiting for me in a stalling car outside the station.”
Peter’s eyebrows disappear into his hairline. “Derek? He drove you here?”
“Yeah. I was, uh. Feeling a little wild. And thought it would probably be a
good idea to not be behind the wheel.”
“Derek’s a terrible driver,” Peter says. “You would’ve been better off on your
own.”
“Yeah, I kind of noticed that,” Stiles chuckles. “That Camaro really gets to
your head, huh? A real I-own-the-whole-road perspective.” He checks his
wristwatch, realizing he's been in here much longer than Derek's patience
probably allows. "I should go before he leaves without me."
He leans in to kiss Peter goodbye only to have Peter grab him fiercely by the
wrists when he pulls away, keeping him close.
"Are you coming back?" Peter asks.
He’s trying to say it as though he’ll be fine if Stiles’ doesn’t, but he isn’t
quite succeeding in being all that convincing about it. It occurs to Stiles
then that for the first time since he met Peter, he's actually in charge of a
situation. Someone's fate, an outcome bigger than him alone, is in his hands.
This entire time, it's been Peter cleaning up Stiles' messes, dealing with
Stiles' baggage, bargaining over Stiles' debt, and suddenly it's Stiles
exerting a little responsibility, if not control, over Peter, and not just his
penis. It's refreshing, this feeling of having the upper hand. A part of him
wants to cherish it, keep Peter in here a little longer, let him twiddle his
thumbs in his cell, but another part, the one that's undoubtedly more mature,
wants to have Peter out if only to have a proper conversation and get started
on this for real, whatever this between them that they've both fucked up and
then struggled to reclaim actually is.
"Yes," Stiles promises. "And if I'm lucky, I'm getting you out of here too."
He gives Peter another quick kiss through the bars, a sampling of what's to be
picked back up later, but Peter doesn't seem to be done just yet. He holds onto
Stiles' wrist with a tight grip.
"Is that a promise?" he asks, voice low and smile intimate, so much so that it
almost makes Stiles feel like he's laying in bed naked with Peter stretched out
on top of him.
"I don't want to eat my words," Stiles says warily. "Of all the kids to screw,
you just had to pick the sheriff's kid. So honestly, I have absolutely no
guarantee."
He pulls his wrist free with a happy shrug. He's still thrumming with a strong,
overwhelming, frightening adrenaline that's been running through him the second
he saw Peter, or rather, the second he decided to hitch a ride with Derek and
spent the entire time cradling an envelope full of a veritable king's ransom
worth of money, and it's making him feel sure and certain and stupidly
optimistic about things he most probably can't promise anything about.
But he'll try.
--
The Camaro is still idling by the curb when Stiles comes back out, Derek as
steely as ever behind the steering wheel. Stiles is oddly touched that he
hasn’t left already, and it makes him wonder if this is how Hale men show
kindness—not with a sentimental word, but with a subtle gesture, like not
stranding someone at a police station or delivering them a truckload of
probably illegally obtained money. The little things.
He slips back into the passenger seat, and his chuffed expression and ruffled
clothing must give away the story well enough on its own, as Derek instantly
says, “Nothing.”
Stiles catches his reflection in the car door window and sees nothing too
indicative of a good time except for his pinked lips and slightly haphazard
hair, but that seems to be enough for Derek to draw conclusions. The tires
squeal against the pavement as Derek takes off again, jaw set. Stiles dimly
considers that perhaps Derek can smell exactly what happened better than
anything else if Stiles’ giddy arousal or Peter's touch is still lurking on his
skin. It makes Stiles smile. There's something extremely satisfying about
giving off the air of sexually-charged delight.
“It went well,” Stiles says, buckling up.
“I figured as much,” Derek grits out, then repeats his favorite word a few more
times. “Nothing. I said nothing.”
“No, I mean. It went really well.” Stiles takes in a deep breath. “I’m telling
my dad.”
“Peter will be thrilled.”
“No, I’m telling him everything, and—well,” he pauses, suddenly aware of how
easily Derek could hide his body parts under the driver’s seat. “I’m only
telling you because I’m thinking it’ll affect you too.”
Derek’s face barely shows an inkling of a response, but Stiles catalogues a
slight thinning of his lips. “You mean our business.”
“Yeah.” Stiles waits the mandatory five seconds for a slightly bigger response,
because based on the flaring of Derek’s nostrils, he looks like he’s due for a
diatribe any second now. When he stays quiet, Stiles continues. “Look. I know
you’re probably imagining all the ways you can hide my body without a trace
because hey, I’m intruding on your turf and I’m basically trying to bulldoze it
down, but—and at the risk of sounding a little Shakespeare—there is no fucking
way I can be with him unless he’s not a real life loan shark.”
Derek’s face doesn’t seem to be at all interested in conveying a single
reactionary emotion. Instead, his shoulders gently deflate as he lets out a
silent breath. Then his eyebrows quirk a centimeter upwards.
“You want to be with him?” he asks, sounding almost curious. “My uncle?”
Stiles fidgets on the seat. “Well, I’d like. I’d like to try. I don’t know if
we even have a chance—he drives me fucking insane—but it’d feel like a lot of
really good wasted sex if we didn’t give it a go.” Stiles rubs a hand over his
face, faintly aware that he probably shouldn’t start pandering about topics of
how good the sex is with Peter’s nephew. To be fair, he didn't have a chance to
prepare for this conversation. “Ignore that last bit.”
“I will.”
It sounds like he’s pardoning Stiles his life. Stiles takes heed of the tone of
Derek’s voice and keeps going, careful to leave out any sexually explicit
comments.
"I mean. You gotta give stuff a chance sometimes, right?" he says.
"So it's about the sex?" Derek cuts in. The line of his jaw alone looks like it
could cut diamonds from the way it's carved into disgruntlement.
"Well." He fidgets again. To be fair, Stiles isn't really all too okay having
this conversation either. He tries to not get into in-depth discussions about
his sexual endeavors with people that could flatten him like a crepe, but.
"There's other stuff too. I mean, this is pretty nice."
Stiles holds up the envelope. Derek looks right just long enough to narrow his
eyes a fraction at it.
"So it's about the money?"
"I thought you didn't want to talk about this," Stiles says, uncomfortably warm
all over. Derek says nothing, which in its own way, says plenty. "Okay, fine.
There's other stuff too. I don't know. It's like there's another side of him
that actually knows how to care about people." Stiles puts the envelope back in
his lap, staring at the way the passing headlights leave blurs of light on his
jeans and the edges of the bills as Derek drives. "He took me to get pancakes
once."
Stiles doesn't realize until he hears the soft way the words leave his mouth
that that might've actually meant a lot to him, that it still does. It sounds
unremarkable to everybody else, or at least, he was ready to assume so—up until
he sneaks a glance at Derek and finds that his eyebrows are higher than before.
"He did," Derek says flatly. It sounds like it was supposed to be a question,
something drenched in disbelief that needs confirmation.
"Yeah." The car takes a slow turn around the bend of a quiet road. "I think
we're off topic. I—want to take a chance on your totally batshit uncle. And
it's going to have consequences no matter what."
Derek doesn't say a word. His silence reeks of quiet resignation that this is
the end of the line for what Stiles is sure has been a very lucrative career
that's funded very lavish living. He almost feels bad for a moment.
“Maybe this could be a good thing. Maybe this is a chance for your family to do
something other than threaten people out of their hard-earned money.” Derek
looks at him in a way that seems to say strike two. “Maybe you always wanted to
go to Cordon Bleu and build up a bakery. Or maybe you always wanted to read to
the elderly. I don’t know, Derek. You tell me.”
“Stop talking,” Derek says. “You can tell your father whatever you want.”
“I—what? Really?”
“I don’t care, and I doubt anybody else in my family will either,” Derek says.
“You do realize we don’t all sit in a hole counting our money, right? This job
isn’t our entire lives.”
“Well, yeah. But… money’s kind of essential. To, you know. Living.”
“There are plenty of other ways we can make our money aside from—how did you
put it? Threatening people out of their hard-earned money.”
The smile he gives Stiles looks scarily like the type of well-mannered grin a
politician gives a competitor right before wrecking them on social media
outlets, all bared teeth and false courtesy. Then the car suddenly screeches to
a halt, Stiles nearly catapulted into the windshield—he’d bet hard money that
that particular move was on purpose—right before he notices that they’re back
by the old skating rink, familiar flickering streetlights overheard and Stiles’
Jeep parked a few feet away.
“All right. Cue taken,” Stiles says, unbuckling and opening the car door. He
has one leg out when he looks over his shoulder just to confirm that he really
won’t wake up in a body bag tomorrow because he’s about to single-handedly—with
permission, admittedly, but still—take out the Hale loan sharks. “So you’re
sure?”
“Get out, Stiles,” Derek says, revving the engine like he’s ready to drive off
with or without Stiles’ limbs entirely removed from the vehicle. “And don’t
forget this.”
He holds out the envelope of cash for Stiles to take, almost forgotten in the
cup holder. Stiles turns pink, takes it, and steps out of the car just in time
for it to zoom away.
--
The adrenaline that Stiles had been fueled on just a few hours before
diminishes a little by the time he comes home to a dark, empty house, mostly
because the reality of what's about to happen starts creeping in around him.
His father's not there, which means he can't launch headfirst into the point-
of-no-return cliff drop just yet and just rip the bandaid off, so instead, he
gets to sit and stew and worry over exactly how smart what he's doing is while
he waits for his father to come back and just gets to daydream about tearing
the bandaid off and all the pain it will cause.
The bottom line is that once his father walks through that door, he can't go
back out until he understands. Until everything is okay, or forgiven, or even
just reluctantly accepted. He never wanted to keep this many secrets in the
first place, and now's a good a time as any, and he just has to keep telling
himself that his father loves him, and even underhandedly sleeping with a
conniving loan shark can't change that.
He hopes.
The door creaks open right as he's considering worst case scenario number six:
his father cannot bear to look Stiles in the eye again, demands he move out,
Peter is forever stuck in jail, and Stiles will be forced to bunk in Scott's
basement while trying to persuade Derek to share the piles of money he wanted
to essentially close the incoming tap to in his free time. It's a great thought
to be wallowing in right when his father finally comes home, well past
midnight, but Stiles can't let cowardice grab a hold of him now. He's been
trying to protect his dad and keep all the hurtful things hidden from him for
far too long, so convinced that the secrets were necessary requirements for his
father's happiness, and it's just now occurring to Stiles that he never once
really put his own happiness into consideration. Maybe there's even a world
where both of them can be happy simultaneously, and that's exactly why Stiles
can't chicken out now and run upstairs.
"Hey," the sheriff says, his keys clinking as he puts them down. "You're still
up?"
"I have to talk to you," Stiles says.
His father looks at the clock. It's definitely a bad time, but as far as Stiles
is concerned, there's just not a good time to share news like this.
"Now? I was hoping to go to bed."
"Now. It has to be now," Stiles persists, hands sweaty where they're resting on
the table. He gets up, wiping them down on his pants. "I never got the chance
to finish talking to you at the station the other day."
"You had more to say?"
More to confess, is more like it. Not for the first time tonight, Stiles
wonders if what he's doing is actually a good idea, and like the rest of the
night, he goes with his gut and barrels right over what is probably the
smarter, better decision.
"Yeah, I did. I do. Can you come on over here?"
The sheriff shrugs, hanging his jacket over the staircase bannister before he
comes closer. Standing in front of him, excruciatingly face to face, Stiles
isn't even sure to begin. He makes the snap decision to let something else do
the talking, slipping the envelope out of where he's kept it tucked against his
back with help from the waistband of his pants. He holds it out in front of him
like an expensive dessert on a silver platter as his father sits down by the
table.
“What’s this?”
“Open it,” Stiles says.
He watches, mouth as dry as dust, as his father picks up the envelope and folds
it open, the moment of truth approaching as he takes out the wad of bills. The
sheriff stares at the stack for a long time, as if almost paralyzed, Stiles’
knuckles white where they’re wrapped around his fingers behind his back. This
is the tensest moment of his life, not a sound to be heard, and briefly, he
wonders why the hell he thought the quick-like-a-bandage method would be the
best with spilling his most dastardly secrets.
“Stiles,” his father says, his voice extremely level. “What the hell is this?”
“Money, dad.”
“I know that,” he says quickly. “Why do you have it?”
“It was given to me,” Stiles says. He sways back and forth on the balls of his
feet in the desperate hope that it’ll calm him down. Here comes the plot twist
that will probably have him waving smelling salts under his father’s nose. “By
the loan shark who I’ve been sleeping with in exchange for him lowering your
debt.”
He roll his lips into his mouth and squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for the
feeling of a thousand trains barreling into his gut to pass. He opens his eyes
just enough to peek at a sliver of the world and sees his father, eyes wide and
mouth dropped open right before he gets to his feet like this is a conversation
much too serious for him to be leisurely sitting.
“Stiles, tell me you’re kidding.”
“I’m not,” Stiles says. “Kinda wish I was, now that I actually hear it out
loud. And how totally terrible it sounds.”
Instantly, his father sinks back down into his chair, changing his mind about
standing on two unsteady feet. Probably a good call, Stiles thinks, since his
skin has faded to a startlingly ghost-like white.
“You—you and the loan shark I’ve been dealing with. You’re sleeping with him?
For money? Stiles, what the hell were you thinking?”
“I was thinking about you!” Stiles cries. “You never told me anything. I didn’t
know if we were going to lose the house. I just didn’t want you to worry
anymore. I wanted to make things easier, okay?”
He waits for his father to keep yelling, for that distressed line between his
eyes to grow deeper, but he doesn't. He looks, if anything, extremely dejected.
"I get it," Stiles pipes up. "You're disappointed in me. I can see it all over
your face. That's okay."
And Stiles really does get it. He's not exactly proud of himself either. He's
been selling his body to settle a debt and he's been enjoying himself and yes,
he's ashamed and a little disgusted by his own morals, or complete lack
thereof. His father finding it hard to look him in the eye when he probably
can't stop picturing all the various filth Stiles underwent in the quest to
earn a lesser debt is understandable.
"I'm not disappointed in you, Stiles," his father says after a heavy sigh. "I'm
disappointed in myself. I shouldn't have let any of this happen." He pushes
himself back up to his feet, sliding around the table to approach Stiles. "The
things you went through because of me. Well, I could just kick myself,
honestly."
"No. No, hey," Stiles says. It feels like they're finally having the
conversation Stiles waited an endless stretch of months to have, the one where
they tell each other that things are okay. "Things were tough. You had just
lost mom."
"You lost her too," the sheriff says. He puts a hand on Stiles' shoulder. "I
should've been there for you, and I wasn't. You shouldn't have to feel
responsible for my messes."
"Dad, we're a team," Stiles tells him. "I wanted to make things easier for you,
so I just—just took some of the load off your plate."
He bites the inside of his cheeks as he waits for his father to address the
elephant in the room, namely the fact that Stiles has been thoroughly
deflowered over this very table they're standing by. His father's hand squeezes
his shoulder, the turmoil clear in his eyes, which is exactly what Stiles has
been trying to avoid all this time, but then again, there is no non-traumatic
way to tell someone that their son has been selling their body to the sleaziest
of people. Some turmoil is to be expected.
"Why you felt you had to do that, Stiles..." he trails off, clearly dumbfounded
by the lengths Stiles went to on his behalf. "That son of a bitch is going to
be in jail for the rest of his sorry life, that's for sure."
Well, shit. "Wait, dad. You don't have to do that.”
“Stiles, he molested you. I’m pretty sure jail is the nicest punishment he
could receive from me.”
“Dad, he didn’t—” Stiles stops himself, because honestly, this is probably
worse than anything else he’s admitted so far. “He didn’t do anything I didn’t
want him to.” He scratches his chin, looking at the fascinating carpet under
his feet. “It wasn’t like that.”
“…it wasn’t?”
“No.” God, this is as embarrassing as it gets. Stiles can feel his father’s
eyes boring into his head, trying to see if there's a gun held behind it
forcing him to tell this tall tale or see the cogs of insanity twirling away in
his brain, so he switches tactics and arches across the table to seize the
envelope again, reminding his father of its presence. “This is something he did
for us.”
He’s not sure he can quite explain it—Peter really loves money but gave it away
anyway, he’s probably never done anything nice for anyone in his entire life,
this is his way of telling Stiles he cares and doesn’t want to see him
suffer—so he lets the money talk for itself. He shakes it until his father
takes it from him, opening the envelope again to stare at the mass of bills
gathered there. He stares for a long time, Stiles completely clueless as to
what his thoughts could be.
“So I’m supposed to forgive him,” his father begins, voice heavy with doubt,
“for what he’s done for you because he’s trying to generously pay us off?”
All right, so he’s not getting it just yet. Maybe Stiles really just has to rip
off the bandage already. “I really like him,” he says, the words spilling out
like his mouth’s a sewage drain. “And he likes me too. And it would be really
cool if you’d be okay with that.”
His father looks at him like he’s just asked him an impossible favor.
"And for the record, I'm aware of how insane this sounds. I'm not, like. Under
the impression that any of this is normal."
Or maybe he's just catatonic. Stiles rolls his tongue in his mouth to silence
himself, slightly concerned when his father still can't seem to dredge up a
single word, let alone move a single muscle in response to Stiles' confession.
Maybe he just needs a few seconds to digest. It isn't every day that the
sheriff hears things like I'm sleeping with the criminal you've been trying to
apprehend and I'm also at a point where I'm emotionally invested in him,
usually nothing more intense than an off-handed I drank all of the milk you
wanted today or looks like my grades aren't going to be as stellar as promised
coming out of Stiles' mouth.
"Let me get this straight," his father finally says, closing his eyes like he's
hoping the world behind his eyelids will make more sense than the one in front
of him. "You're asking for permission to date the man I, not even forty-eight
hours ago, arrested?"
"Date seems like kind of a loaded word, but all right."
"A loaded word?" his father repeats, sounding more scandalized by the second.
"What word would do a better job? Permission to sleep with?"
Well, he's already been doing that much without permission, also, his father's
face is currently morphed into something resembling an angry tomato, so maybe
Stiles ought to backtrack to date and leave well enough alone.
"Listen," Stiles begins. "I know this is weird, especially for you, because
this probably goes against your grain. He's a bad guy who's done bad things and
so you locked him up and now here I am asking you to let him go. And it's not
like I can tell you that he's been nothing but good to me, because he's been a
total nightmare a lot of the time, but I just can't explain it."
The sheriff holds the envelope into the air like an accusation. "Is this why?"
"No," Stiles says. “That just made me realize that he likes me too.”
His father hangs his head, eyes trained on the thick wad of bills all peeking
out of the envelope’s fold, his thumb briefly brushing over the corner of the
stack.
“You like him?” he asks. Stiles thinks about how it sounds just like when Derek
asked him the same thing just a few hours ago, that same disbelief poking out
underneath the words. “And he likes you?”
He looks back down at the money again, this time leafing through some of the
bills to add up the numbers. Stiles wishes he would have to more to say in
terms of a persuasive argument, some definitive reasons as to why letting
Stiles be in a relationship with the greedy, much older loan shark is a good
idea, but he’s fairly sure he’s said everything he can and just has to let the
chips fall where they may now.
He thinks about how Peter had pushed their foreheads together in between the
bars, how he had regarded Stiles with poorly hidden wonderment at the fact that
he had even shown up for Peter, how… nice it all had been.
“This is more than I ever paid him,” his dad says at one point before he drops
the envelope back onto the table. “Did he do that for you?”
“For us, really,” Stiles says. “For all the bills and therapy and, you know. If
we wanted to buy a small island to wind down on, too.”
His father lets out a quick laugh that Stiles takes as a good sign that things
are going well.
“Okay, Stiles,” he says. “Tomorrow, I’m going to the station and I’m going to
talk to him.”
“You are?”
“Yeah. And I’m going to see if his story matches yours, and if he’s serious
about… the two of you,” he says, and he seems to have some trouble forming the
last few words, like swallowing a piece of food a bit too large for the throat.
“And if he is, I’ll talk to him about… plea deals that might keep him out of
prison.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously, Stiles,” his father says with a heavy nod.
Stiles surges forward to pull his father into a hug, suddenly inexplicably
overwhelmed with gratitude at how simple this all ended up being. His father
could’ve pitched a fit, grabbed a bottle of whiskey and shut himself into his
room to drink away the memory of his son sexually servicing older men, or left
the house and driven away without a word to leave Stiles to brood in regret,
but here he is, trying to make things as good for Stiles as they can be. His
dad hugs him back, and it feels so unbelievably warm and good to be embraced by
him that it’s almost like the last few months haven’t even happened, and
there’s nothing separating them from sharing and talking and being a family
again, and the fact that Peter’s the one ultimately responsible for this makes
Stiles want to beat himself up a little bit.
“This is—wow. I didn’t expect you to actually agree to this.”
“We’ll see how tomorrow goes,” his father says, pulling back from their hug to
clap Stiles on the shoulder.
Stiles thinks about Peter counting notches in the ceiling and probably
entertaining the idea of ripping the bars apart with some effortless werewolf
strength and falters. He bites into his bottom lip and briefly wonders if he’s
looking a gift horse in the mouth. He grins at his father.
"Uh, tomorrow? Cause he's sort of stewing in a five by five cell right now."
Definitely looking a gift horse in the mouth. His dad gives him two seconds
worth of incredulous dismissal and says, “Tomorrow, Stiles."
Stiles takes the hint. Besides, Peter can stand one night on a cot. He actually
deserves it. “Yeah, yeah. Tomorrow’s fine.”
***** Chapter 9 *****
Chapter Notes
     I call this one the Mega Chapter because it came out to be a whopping
     19k words. Oooops.
     Only one left after this! Thank you guys for your amazing comments
     and encouragement along the way, it never goes unnoticed!
Starting the very day the doctor took Stiles and his father aside with the news
that his mother wasn't going to make it to the next new year, much less to
Stiles' prom or his graduation or the rest of his entire life, Stiles and sleep
stopped getting along.
It was a real shame too, since they had always been buddies. At first it was
just spending a few hours awake after falling into bed, unable to stop the
endless screaming of his thoughts. Stiles remembers the first night he couldn't
sleep clearly, having spent most of it peeking out the window and watching the
trees shake left and right in the soft wind. The moon was particularly bright
that night, unfiltered by the clouds, each detail of its surface illuminated.
It kept reminding Stiles of how desperately he had wanted to be an astronaut as
a child. The idea of soaring away from the world, rocket or not, seemed so
cathartic, especially returning to a hero's welcome and a barrage of hugs. The
fact that he was needed on earth didn't soothe him.
Things got worse gradually, glacially enough that Stiles hardly noticed he had
become an insomniac until he spent well over a month's worth of nights staring,
sleepless, fitful, open-eyed at the ceiling waiting for his brain to shut down.
He became so tired, exhausted to the point of no longer being able to focus on
homework, or being interested in the things that used to make him smile, but
his body refused to sleep more than a couple of hours each night, desperate to
cling to wakefulness, and when he did sleep, the time was spent reliving his
mother's funeral, sitting in the hospital room, listening to the beeping of her
heart fade off, over and over and over in his nightmares.
It didn't improve. It became habit for him to watch the sky morph from black to
gray to red and orange and softly blue, the sunrise and the colors mollifying
even to Stiles' enervated body. He would sit at the window sill with the
blankets wrapped around his shoulders like a weary king, wondering if a wall
away, his father was also awake, also tormented. He never checked.
For months, he balanced fatigue and insomnia, two things that shouldn't work
together but did all for the purpose of torturing Stiles to his breaking point,
fraying the seams of the threads of his sanity. He found ways to both fear
sleep and yearn for it, aching to hear his mother's voice, which was
threatening to slip from his memory every single day, and dreading having to
watch her live and die in dreams that never made it to reality. It was a never-
ending dichotomy.
Until, just as gradually, Stiles started sleeping again. It began the night of
his HIV scare and Peter's unveiling of his furry secret, the medley of
overwrought emotions draining his body enough to get him to sleep without fuss,
and what he had been sure was nothing more than just a fluke became the first
night of many where Stiles could sleep, truly sleep, and wake up feeling as if
he had slipped into a newer, fresher, cleaner skin.
And then, the day when it counts most, Stiles sleeps so well that he does the
unthinkable: he over sleeps.
The first thing he sees when his eyes blearily blink open is his clock, glaring
at him accusingly, the red numbers like the eyes of a disappointed bull. It
takes a little bit for the world to trickle back into Stiles' brain, and then
he remembers all the dreadful details—shit.
9:41 a.m.. His father left for the station more than an hour ago to speak with
Peter, and Stiles had every intention of being there as well. His dad made it
emphatically clear that Stiles didn't need to be there, really shouldn't be
there, but Stiles will be damned if he won't show up and listen in to exactly
what conversation is transpiring between his dad and his loan shark lover. The
best he'll get if he doesn't go is a half-hearted summary from his father, and
this one heart-to-heart between two people with unlikely chances of getting
along is crucial to what happens next. And fuck, Stiles needs to know what
happens next.
He throws on the first clothing he finds, frantic as he pulls on socks with the
seams in all the wrong places and wrangles shirts over his head with the tags
in the front. He manages to invert everything as he stumbles down the stairs,
foregoing the trivialities like teeth brushing and breakfast, instead snagging
his keys off the hook and sprinting to his car.
The rest is a blur up until Stiles reaches the parking lot, the entire drive
happening purely on muscle memory and autopilot—he's pretty sure there was a
road, other cars, and traffic lights, but that's about all he remembers—and he
sprints to the front doors like he's hiding from invading zombies.
He spots a friendly face once he's inside behind the desk. She's an officer
Stiles has said hello to in the past, sometimes offered the mints at the bottom
of his fast food bags to, but he's not sure a handful of candies were ever
enough of a bribe to grant him passage here and now.
But it's not an option. He has to get down to the interrogation rooms. He has
to.
“Hi—hey,” Stiles says, skidding to a stop at the desk. “Hi, Rhonda. How are you
doing? How are the kids?”
“Your father’s busy, Stiles,” she says, not even bothering to look up from her
computer. “He’s working.”
“I know. He’s down by the interrogation rooms and I really need to be there
too,” Stiles asks, twining his hands together to beg. This woman is someone who
Stiles has dropped two dollars on before just to give her dog a Christmas
present, and now she isn’t willing to do Stiles, good old Stiles, a small
favor. He’s about to bring this up along with the generosity he's shared with
her regarding his complimentary mints when she sighs, hands stilling on the
keyboard.
“Fine. But don’t disturb him.”
“I won’t. He won’t even know I’m there.”
He gives her a wide smile and a cheery salute before she can retract her
lenience and decide to check in with the sheriff before letting Stiles wander
about first, all but throwing himself around the desk and sprinting down the
hall. His sneakers nearly slip on the floor a couple of times in his haste, his
quick legs thankfully saving him from a few face-to-tile disasters, but he
refuses to slow down, not when every minute he wastes being careful will cost
him valuable eavesdropping time.
Stiles screeches to a halt as he makes it to the interrogation rooms, spying
two familiar faces through the glass of one of them. Thank god for one-way
windows, Stiles thinks in relief as he approaches with his heart in his throat.
Everybody's still in one solid piece and there isn't any blood to be seen
splattered on the walls, so Stiles takes that for what it's worth. He has to
admit that this is unbelievably mature of his father. The deep lines on his
face make it clear precisely how he feels about sitting here talking civilly
with Peter when he should, by all means, be discussing terms of his
imprisonment and delighting in the reversal of power with the sheriff now
firmly holding onto the upper hand Peter was gleefully gripping just a few
weeks ago. He must really love his son is all Stiles can come up with to
explain it.
He starts toying with the hem of his worn tee, pulling threads loose with
fidgety hands as he waits for someone, anyone behind the glass to say
something. How long have they been in there? Have they come to any kind of
conclusion? Has anybody even said a single word yet?
His father shifts forward in his seat. Every minute movement seems to be
causing him extreme pain. Stiles knows from personal experience that sitting in
a room with Peter for too long will do that to you. Across the table, Peter is
sitting all too comfortably in his own chair.
"You realize that it was only out of the goodness of my heart and," the sheriff
pauses, tilts his head, and looks as if he's digesting a rather old piece of
fermented fish, "and the extreme goodness of Stiles' heart," he clears his
throat, "that you're not in a cell right now."
"I figured as much, yes."
The sheriff sighs, getting out of his chair to turn around and rub his
forehead, like looking at Peter gives him a headache. Stiles realizes that he
must be ignoring every single piece of cop instinct he has right now to not be
throwing Peter in the slammer for years, no more negotiating, no more niceties,
and that he's doing all this for Stiles. It feels nice, the way the people
around him are doing their best to show Stiles how much they care even when
their words fail them. Maybe words aren't that important when he gets right
down to it.
"I can't ignore that you've done a hell of a lot for us. That was a lot of cash
in that envelope." He twists back around to gauge Peter's reaction, which is to
do not much more than slowly roll his shoulders into a shrug.
"Consider it a gift for what Stiles has endured on my behalf."
"And that's another thing," the sheriff says, firmly putting his hands flat on
the table. "Don't think I don't know all about that too. I should honestly be
castrating you right now."
Peter's eyebrows arch up to his forehead. "I'm shaking in my boots," he says,
smiling up at Stiles' father almost as if he's indulging in his threats. Stiles
is about ready to stomp in there and grab Peter by the hair and tell him to
behave, and goddamn, if lording over Peter and giving him orders doesn't sound
tempting, he's not sure what does.
"The sarcasm isn't appreciated, you know," the sheriff says shortly.
"Just a little lightening of the mood," Peter says, smile cheeky as ever.
"Speaking of Stiles, sheriff. You might want to invite him in, considering he's
listening at the window."
Well, fuck. Stiles twirls uselessly around as if to appear that he totally has
a reason to be in this hallway other than listening in to what his father has
repeatedly drilled into his head is a private matter of police work, finding
absolutely nothing of use to busy himself with as the door opens and his father
pokes his head out. Stiles feels a red warmth take hostage of his face. He had
forgotten about the paranormally charged werewolf ears.
"Stiles," his father says slowly, like he isn't surprised to see him here but
is going to pretend he is anyway. "What're you doing here?"
"Oh, y'know. Just making rounds. Saying hello." Stiles wishes that there could
at least be another person around—an officer, a janitor, hell, an inmate—to
appear to be deeply occupied with, but no, the hallway is deserted and the man
he literally begged to be let out of jail is a supernaturally gifted werewolf
with enormously enhanced senses who is happy to expose his eavesdropping to his
father.
His father sighs very heavily. Then he opens the door for Stiles to slip
inside. "Come on. You might as well."
"You sure?"
"Just get in already."
He lets go of the door, leaving Stiles to catch it before it shuts and squeeze
in. The conversation looks completely different on this side of the window, no
longer like he's watching a boxing match from the stands. Peter smiles at him
in greeting. Stiles wants to tell him that even so much as an upward quirk of
the mouth shot at him is forbidden until his father is either a) not present,
b) unconscious, or c) mentally stable enough with whatever's between them to
handle any and all interactions and all the implications they bring with them.
"All right. Let's get back on track, shall we?" the sheriff says, getting back
in his seat. Stiles notices that there's an untouched folder in front of him on
the table, and he recognizes it instantly: all of Peter's records and the
scribbled notes of his whereabouts are inside. It seems to be here on the table
just for show, his father completely uninterested in rehashing all of the
criminal ongoings reported inside the folder now that he's considering letting
Peter off the hook. Again, Stiles feels a squeeze on his heart that feels like
a hug. "Most people like you don't get a second chance like this. Or in your
case, third chance." He softens his voice. "I remember the fire from years
ago."
"It wasn't the highlight of my life, that's for sure," Peter says.
"What was? Becoming a loan shark?"
Peter lowers his chin, smiling gently at the table. He seems to understand that
even if he's snagged himself a get out of jail card, the sheriff has no
intention of making it easy for him.
"It's quite all right if you don't like me, sheriff," he says. "Stiles likes me
just fine, and, well. That's more important to me than if you do."
Stiles would like to be kept out of this, already putting a safe distance
between himself and the table like he's nothing more than a supervising
witness, but Peter is not enough of a gentleman to pass up the opportunity of
taking people down with him. Stiles isn't sure if not being here would actually
be better than being here for this, and if sleeping in was perhaps a message
from overhead to stay in his warm bed instead of entangled in this mess.
"Okay. We can bring Stiles into this if you'd like," his dad says.
"No. No, no. Let's not bring Stiles into this," Stiles says helplessly.
Not that his wishes are going to be taken into consideration, though, as his
father keeps talking. "Stiles tells me you care about him. Do you want to tell
me what you think about that?"
Peter glances at Stiles, the brief silence in which he seems to be thinking
about his answer loaded with suspense Stiles didn't think he'd be feeling at
this point.
"He's right," Peter answers. "He's... a very special person."
That sounds more like a back-handed insult to Stiles than anything else, but it
works on his father, who stares at Peter unblinkingly for five long seconds,
waiting for any unseen lies to emerge, before he begrudgingly nods his head in
something that looks an awful lot like approval.
"He is. And Stiles seems terribly crazy about you."
"Dad!"
"So much so that he wants me to let you out of your jail sentence," the sheriff
continues like Stiles isn't even in the room. "But you realize that I can't do
that without proper reason."
"I figured as much," Peter says.
"Let me be frank. The only way I'm letting you out of here is if you can do me
one better than locking you up. This is a plea deal, and you better have good
names to spare. People who run the operation, people who you've reported to,
who roped you into this in the first place."
Stiles closes his eyes and thinks about Derek sitting in a car with Stiles
telling him that he's okay with being thrown under the bus and suddenly feels
very, very wrong about swapping Peter for his family. All of them and their
stupid sport cars deserve second chances. Derek can't attend cooking school in
prison.
Peter huffs. "Sheriff. Do I look like the kind of man who reports to a
superior?" He takes a moment to examine his nail beds, his expression like a
poker player's, every ounce of conflicting emotion smoothed away. "I work
alone."
"But," Stiles says in spite of himself. "Your family—"
"Are their own people and have no involvement in my business," Peter
interjects. He's an amazing liar, good enough that Stiles has to consider if he
wasn't wrong when he told Stiles that he had a certain je ne sais quois with
people that might actually translate into the real estate business. "I do have
names, though. Other groups I've stumbled upon who are in my line of work. More
powerful than I am, frankly."
"You do?"
"I do," Peter says firmly. His mouth stretches into a smile. "They'd look
lovely behind your cell bars, sheriff."
"Not as lovely as you, I'm sure," the sheriff grumbles, and there seems to be a
part of him still just on the edge, close to forgetting this entire
conversation and sending Peter back to his cell. Whatever urge is tempting him
to do so, however, seems to pass. "We'll need everything you know about these
people. Names, physical descriptions, known locations."
"Of course."
“As for you two.” The sheriff takes a deep breath in, fixing them both with
looks that are probably supposed to be stern but are coming off a little
clueless as to what to say next. Stiles expects the worst: you know I can’t
allow this to continue, there’s no way I’m not throwing you in jail if you
touch my son again, by the way, the only way I’ll let you stay out of prison is
to leave Stiles alone for good.
Before he can open his mouth to release whatever parental, non-negotiable
decision he’s about to inflict on the two of them, the door opens and Deputy
Parrish sticks his head in the door.
"Sheriff, there's a few files we really need you to look over by noon today,
plus there's a call in for you."
"Oh." Stiles' father's eyes briefly flit over Peter and Stiles, still a very
conservative distance apart, a distance that can potentially be quickly
whittled down, before he gets to his feet. "I'll be right there."
Stiles watches as he practically shuffles backward out the door, eyes trained
on Peter. Cops' instinct, it seems, and as grateful as Stiles is, he can handle
this one. Or maybe, his brain adds belatedly as a mortifying option, this isn't
even his father's police reflexes flaring up, but his paternal duty to
intimidate and dissect possibly long-term boyfriends. In this case, slightly
off kilter loan shark boyfriends, so maybe the extra scrutiny is warranted.
Stiles shoots him a thumbs up on his way out.
Finally, the door closes behind him with a loud snick, and Stiles goes from
comfortably leaning against the cool window to being extremely aware that he
isn't the only set of molecules taking up space in this tiny room.
For a long minute, there's nothing but silence between the two of them. Stiles
feels as if his face will heat up and go pink just by looking Peter in the
eyes, probably because things have changed since last time, and he's half
tempted to not even count their conversation through the barrier of the jail
cell since every word out of his mouth that night was fueled by adrenaline and
snap decisions. The time before that was full of impulses and rage and sudden
revelations, and Stiles wants to start afresh as much as he wants to address
every single thing Peter's gone and done because... it matters to him and it's
important if Peter's going to stick around, and Stiles wouldn't mind if he did.
Stiles just doesn't know where to start.
He listens to the steady, reassuring sound of the ticking clock on the wall
overhead, then the faster, purposeful noise of Peter clicking his tongue.
Stiles ignores him, letting the silence stretch and giving his brain a chance
to come up with the right words he wants to say. Hey, he has time, especial
considering that Peter's not going anywhere in this interrogation cell.
"I'm still angry at you, you know," Stiles says softly after a few more quiet
minutes.
"Are you, now?" Peter asks, rapping his fingertips on the table. "You seemed
fairly warm towards me the last time we spoke."
Yes, there comes the burning blush high on his cheekbones Stiles has been
hoping to avoid. His lips seem to burn just at the memory. "I know," he says.
"But that doesn't mean I'm not angry." He sighs when he realizes preparation
isn't helping his words, leaning his head back until he can stare at the tiled
ceiling. "Or at least, I'm trying really hard to be."
Stiles can see Peter's smile in his peripherals without even having to look. He
hopes Peter's proud that he has this unfair, unimaginable hold on Stiles'
usually rather sound logic that makes him think in nothing but raw emotions and
what he wants buried underneath all of the pretenses and the lesser thoughts,
because he sure isn't proud of himself. Even standing near Peter makes him feel
sometimes like he's willingly hanging himself upside down by his underwear, and
he's here voluntarily. He's here because he asked his father to make it
possible to have Peter next to him instead of safely locked up. He's insane.
"What are you mad about?" Peter asks indulgently.
"The invasion of my privacy comes to mind. Not trusting me to trust you. Just
being a general dickwad," Stiles says. "Kind of also mad that I'm still
enjoying hanging around you."
He probably shouldn't have divulged that last bit. Peter's smiling at his lap
now, probably satisfied that he has this unshakable, frustrating effect on
Stiles. Stiles wants to punch him. He always wants to punch him.
"You know that ninety percent of the time, I want to punch you?" Stiles says,
just to share, not even to try on off-handed threats for size.
"You do?" Peter asks. "Would it make you feel better to do so?"
Stiles thinks about it. Every time he's tried so far, Peter's always been too
fast for him, reflexes too sharp, arm too strong. It might be nice to actually
make contact and watch Peter bleed for approximately two seconds before his
bones slot back into place. Damn werewolves.
"I think it really would."
"I could make that happen for you," Peter offers. "If it would make you happy.
Fulfill some primal need to take your aggression out on me."
This might be how Peter works, Stiles thinks. Absolutely incapable of saying
the important things out loud but perfectly happy—perhaps not even aware that
he's doing so—letting his actions speak for him. Peter gives out envelopes of
cash and lets Stiles beat him up and that's all his way of saying he's sorry,
and maybe that's all right. Maybe things not turning out as he expects them to
is all right.
"You know that you can't just let me punch you in the face every time you piss
me off."
"Who says I can't?"
Stiles rolls his eyes. It's like teaching a toddler basic life skills. Then
again, Peter's a werewolf who grew into a greedy, money-hungry business
learning how to flex his claws and murder his way through his problems, so
maybe he's a work-in-progress Stiles essentially signed on to help with.
"This isn't fucking 10 Things I Hate About You and you're not Heath Ledger
giving me guitars every time you fuck up. Using your words would be nice. You
know, putting the alphabet together in ways other than to threaten people and
burn them with sarcasm. Amazing what you can do with just twenty-six letters."
He's cut off very abruptly when, with nothing but a scraping chair leg to warn
him, Peter's standing up and right in front of him, grabbing his chin and
kissing him. Stiles flails the appropriate amount because they're in a police
station and there's a very good chance that people are watching on the other
side of that goddamn mystery glass, but then Peter's tongue swipes out over the
parting of Stiles' lips and his reasonable objections fly out the window. He
reaches up to touch Peter's hair, the softness of it by his ear, hands
fluttering in graceless caresses on his neck, and chases his mouth when he
eases away.
"I am sorry," Peter murmurs, breath hot on Stiles' mouth as he speaks, every
word his lips form brushing them together in barely there kisses. "And thank
you for getting me out of jail."
Stiles feels momentarily frozen, like he ought to be giving this moment the
pause it deserves just in case it all poofs away like some extremely vivid
hallucination. He wants to tease Peter, ask him to repeat himself, really make
this hard for him, but he has the sneaking suspicion that what he's done has
already been plenty hard for him.
"It was no problem," Stiles whispers.
"I'm sure it was. Your father looks at me like he's daydreaming about using my
intestines as a jump rope."
Stiles squeezes his eyes shut. "Can we not talk about my dad right now? Or
intestines, for that matter?"
"Faint of heart," Peter says like he means it to be an insult, but it's coming
out much too softly. "Not a good trait."
"Oh, just shut up already."
Stiles tugs him back in by the ear, slipping his hands to the nape of Peter's
neck to hold him in place while he slots their mouths back together, kissing
away all of the smartass comments cooking away on the roof of Peter's mouth.
Peter doesn't seem to mind, all of these low, pleased noises leaking out of his
mouth and into Stiles', and it briefly crosses Stiles' mind that this is one of
the nicest, softest, gentlest kisses they've ever had. He's not sure who's
toning it down for whom, but then there's a new silence stretched between them
lacking all of the discomfort present before, their mouths meeting over and
over, and it doesn't seem to matter.
He pulls back, his lips already starting to feel slightly plumper. "The people
you're turning in," Stiles says. "Won't they take that personally?"
"Probably," Peter agrees. "They do deserve it, though, the rats. Very high
strung, dramatic group—all Alphas, if you can believe that inferiority complex
disaster—I'm sure prison will give them a chance to wind down." He sighs. "If
they get out of jail at one point, that is something I'll have to look out
for."
"But you'd do that for me," Stiles says, seeking confirmation. "You'd risk all
that?"
"Well, also to get out of jail." Peter taps his fingers against Stiles' scalp.
"Someone's getting a large head, aren't we?"
Stiles snags Peter's hand around the wrist, pulling it away from his head. If
Stiles' ego is inflating, he learned from the best. "You're serious about
this?" This, this, whatever this even is, or more accurately, has evolved into.
"About me. Past the point of me being a convenient lay and easy to bribe."
It's probably a little bit absurd that these are serious words coming out of
Stiles' mouth. A few weeks ago, Stiles never would've considered Peter as
somebody worth coming clean for. He would've celebrated the news of his
incarceration and felt freed of a shackle. He wouldn't have looked at him and
felt an inexplicable pull to keep him nearby, keep him his, because in his own
way, Peter is special and valuable and has to be Stiles' own.
Everything is different now. Even Stiles is different now, his priorities and
reflexes and entire life a new and changed thing for him to rediscover. It hits
Stiles then just how much he wants him, and how much he can only hope that
Peter wants him too, covets him, cares for him.
He waits a beat, then another, fixedly examining the scuffed floor under his
shoes until he can't handle the silence anymore. Peter's unmoving mouth reeks
of rejection, that the money had been nothing more than a gesture of peace and
that Stiles had been nothing more than a sexual plaything to puppeteer around,
and that this is the end of the road for them, but truly, it's been a nice
ride. Stiles' patience breaks.
"Are you ever going to say anything?" he demands.
"I am," Peter says. "Just waiting to see if you're going to eat all of your
words in shame and walk away again first."
Stiles' head snaps up. "What?"
Peter's already steering Stiles into his father's vacated seat, pushing him
into it, grabbing the armrests of the chair, and jerking it closer with a sharp
screech against the floor, swiveling it in his direction until he's close
enough to count every single one of Stiles' eyelashes.
"I would've told you right there in the IHOP parking lot if you hadn't thrown a
tantrum," Peter tells him.
"Jesus Christ. I didn't throw a tantrum! You were being a dick."
"Do you know how many ways I can describe to someone how I could go about
killing them?" Peter says, throwing in a non sequitur Stiles really isn't
prepared for. He'd be fairly sure he's being threatened if it wasn't for the
idle tone in Peter's voice, making his words sound deceptively like they're
doing little more than chatting about tomorrow's weather. "The possibilities
are endless. I'm really quite good at it."
"That's nice," Stiles says, much in the same way tornadoes and car crashes and
brutal penis injuries are nice. "Was there a point to sharing that or was this
just totally irrelevant?"
"The point, Stiles," Peter says, sounding extremely exasperated, "is that no
matter how good I am at detailing grotesque murders—"
"This is just lovely."
"—I will never be good at telling you what I need you to know and what you want
to hear," Peter says, eyes wild. "Do you understand that?"
Oh. Suddenly it doesn't seem so hard to riddle out Peter's frustration—it's
directed at himself, at his inability to be genuine with words and use them in
the right ways. Peter's the kind of person that Stiles always assumed, from his
air of presenting himself alone, is good at everything, but here he is, failing
at one very important part of human interaction: actual intimacy, or at least,
being able to put it into sentences without putting on a mask, without acting,
without purposefully deceiving. He seems extremely wound up, like an animal
unable to understand a trick its owner is trying endlessly to teach it, angry
and infuriated and impeded. Stiles knows he's very good at
pretending—pretending he loves, pretending he cares, pretending to be
interested—but there's a new level that comes with actually meaning something
and trusting your mouth to blurt it out correctly.
It makes Stiles think about how completely out of depth he felt with Peter
weeks ago when he was faced down by a powerful man who drove hard bargains and
left with Stiles' virginity that day, and how now, the tables have turned, and
here's Peter having a crisis over how out of depth he is with matters of real
feelings and then expressing said feelings. If he's feeling even a fraction of
the tsunami of emotions Stiles was feeling that day they met, Stiles has a
pretty solid understanding of the vulnerability and discomfort and general fear
Peter's saddled with right now, and chances are, those are sensations that are
pretty new to him.
"Listen," Stiles says. "Not that you need the ego boost, but you're not as
hopeless as you think you are." At Peter's furrowed eyebrows, Stiles continues.
"I don't need you to write fucking sonnets or go by the book here. The two of
us are going so far off the book we've probably never stepped foot in a
library." Peter's mouth tilts into half a smile; Stiles must be saying
something right here. "I don't care about any of that. Sometimes it's the
little stuff that tells you what you need to know, like have a good day, or
don't forget your lunch, or here's a shit ton of cash to cover all your bills."
Peter smirks at that. "That last one's a classic."
"It really isn't," Stiles cuts in. "Look. I don't need to hear anything from
you." He's actually pretty sure that hearing anything remotely romantic come
out of Peter's mouth might trigger his gag reflex. Some things just don't go
together: Montagues and Capulets, super glue and toilet seats, pizza and ice
cream, Peter's face and sweet nothings coming out of it. "Except for, well. If
you want to be with me."
He feels himself go a little red at the last bit, but Stiles figures that
directness is the only way to approach this situation. If he's going to date an
emotionally hopeless werewolf, he might as well go all the way and just fucking
own it, weirdness and all.
Peter's finger taps Stiles' chin. "You want to be with me."
It isn't a question, but Stiles still feels obligated to answer. It feels like
he’s been hearing this from people for ages, all in tones of skepticism, but
Peter sounds pleasantly surprised. "Yes. Don't ask me why."
"I really want to," Peter says, and yeah, if the tables were turned, Stiles
would love to sit here for a few hours just listening to Peter count the ways
he enjoys Stiles' company and is truly enchanted by his humor and finds him to
be devastatingly handsome, but Stiles isn't willing to grant Peter the
satisfaction of having his ego stroked right now when he's in the middle of
baring his heart. "You know that I will most probably drive you crazy?"
Stiles nods. "Yeah. Kind of hard not to come to that conclusion."
"This relationship probably won't make it past a week."
"Then let's try and make it through the week." Stiles doesn't know how else he
can make it clear that he's stupidly, ill-advisedly, unbelievably all in. "Will
you answer my goddamn question already?"
“Yes,” Peter says. He’s been getting closer and closer to Stiles but it’s not
until he feels their noses brush that Stiles picks up on it. “I want to be with
you.” He reaches out to slide two fingers over Stiles’ chin. “Is that enough?
Or do you need me to change my Facebook relationship status for you to
understand that you’re mine?”
"I’m yours?" Stiles rewinds a bit further. "You have a Facebook?"
“That’s enough, Stiles,” Peter says, hauling Stiles closer by his shirt,
clawing his fingers into his hair, and kissing him so soundly that Stiles feels
his retorts and one-liners leave for a coffee break.
It isn't until the irked sound of someone loudly clearing their throat like an
angry library custodian makes it to Stiles' ears and processes as someone being
in the room with them that Stiles pulls away from Peter's mouth, the urge to
hide his swollen lips and guilty smile irrepressible when he sees that his
father is the one standing by the door, looking deeply disturbed.
"Guess I should be getting used to that," he mutters, then raises his eyebrows
at them both in a question of confirmation.
Peter's hand finds Stiles' knee under the table as he settles back into his
seat, doing nothing to tame his disheveled hair that practically still has
imprints of Stiles' hands on it. "That, or Stiles starts locking doors before
coming onto me," Peter says, rolling his eyes with a rather cheeky smile.
"Insatiable, he is."
There's that familiar urge to punch him again, coming back to Stiles like an
old friend. He smacks Peter's hand off his knee.
"Sorry, dad."
"All right," the sheriff says, not bothering to accept Stiles' apology. There's
still a very deep crease between his eyes that makes it clear that he's not
happy about—nor does he really understand—what's going on in front of him, but
Stiles knows that he'll make the effort, no matter how hard, to let Stiles
figure out his life and what he wants and who he likes without interfering.
"I'm actually here to let you know that you're officially free to leave, with
some limitations. You're to stay in Beacon Hills in sight of the police and
cooperate fully with them as we dive into the nitty gritty of this case."
Peter nods. "I'll be of assistance."
"And us here at the station, me especially, will all be keeping a close eye on
you, so if you try to run—"
Peter glances at Stiles, lowering his voice to a pitch only he can hear. "I
would be able to. I'm very fast."
"—we will prosecute to the fullest extent and you won't be leaving a cell so
quickly again for the next century."
"Yes, well," Peter says, sighing. "I'll be on my best behavior. A model
citizen."
The sheriff's eyes narrow. "That sarcasm isn't getting you anywhere, you know."
Before Peter can come to his own rescue, he's holding up a hand to stop him
from even bothering to open his mouth. "We want everything you know about the
others in this business before five o'clock today and—" He fixes him with a
stern glance. "—you will leave Stiles alone."
Stiles goes to say something, but his father's raised hand slides over to him,
keeping Stiles quiet as well.
"For today," he concludes with a tired exhale, like he's just sealed his own
doom by resigning himself to this madness. "Let him be for at least today."
"Midnight it is," Peter agrees. He holds out a cordial hand to shake on it,
but—
"Just so we're clear," the sheriff says slowly. "I don't answer the door if
someone's knocking at midnight. Just in case you're thinking..." Like usual,
loophole-seeking, crazy, creepy ass Peter. "...outside the box."
"No knocking," Peter agrees, rolling his eyes. "Honestly, sheriff. I'm not a
caveman."
Stiles' dad reaches out to shake Peter's outstretched palm, doing so with a tad
more gusto than probably necessary. Stiles watches their hands tightly squeeze
the life out of the other's fingers and thinks, optimistically, that this is
the start of a beautiful cooperation.
--
"So Stiles," says the sheriff, "maybe we should continue that conversation I
wanted to have with you and Peter.
Stiles shakes his head, determined that this conversation can be backburnered.
Forever.
He's sitting in his father's car as they drive home, Stiles pretending that the
lumpy passenger seat is as nice as any of the Hale family luxury automobiles as
they roll through the dimming evening darkness. His Jeep is still sitting
lonesome in the police station parking lot, and if this is his father's attempt
at being subtle, Stiles is seeing right through it. Stay away from Peter for
one day. Less than twenty four hours. Give his dad the peace of mind of knowing
that at least tonight, his son is safe.
Taking away his mode of transportation was definitely overkill, though, Stiles
thinks.
"Listen. I'm not going to try and stop this. If I forbid you from seeing each
other, I know you'll probably just start doing it in secret."
Stiles shrugs. It had been a thought he had been tentatively considering when
he first told his father about the two of them, and weirdly enough, the idea of
sneaking around behind bushes and seeing each other in motels dressed up in
Carmen San Diego coats is a little thrilling. Hell, they might as well do that
anyway.
"But it's not all just about me and if I feel... uncomfortable here," his dad
hedges. "The law cares too. So here's the deal." He rolls to a stop at a red
light and turns to look at him. "Nothing you wouldn't do in front of your
grandma until you're eighteen."
Stiles is vaguely aware of his jaw unhinging and hitting his lap. He doesn't
know if he's embarrassed or mortified or just plane itchy to be even picturing
the idea of getting so much as a professional handshake from Peter in front of
his grandmother, but he's not liking this conversation so far.
"Dad."
"I'm serious," his father says firmly. "You could both be in hot water for
that. I know things haven't been exactly... G-rated with the two of you so far,
but that can't go on. Not until you're a legal adult."
"Dad!"
"You can still hang out with him. Just no funny business."
"Dad, please stop talking. And dear god, never say funny business again,
please."
"Funny business? Why?"
"Just—no," Stiles feels his face shrivel up into something sad and disturbed,
wishing it would be practical to yank open the car door and roll out into the
street just to cartwheel his way out of this discussion. "Anyway, I can control
myself," he lies. "It's not like I'm an animal."
Well. Peter is. Stiles sneaks a glance at his father's face through the passing
headlights and thinks he's swallowed enough heavy-hitting news in one day.
Maybe he'll ease him into the werewolf revelation in the weekend. Some other
time when his father isn't handling heavy machinery and juggling both their
lives in his hands via the steering wheel and the gas pedal.
"I know," his father says, then looks at him knowingly. Too knowingly. "But
you're also a teenage guy."
Stiles waves him off with a casual hand as the car rolls up into the driveway,
headlights bright on the rising garage door. "C'mon, dad. I'm practically an
adult."
"Right," his father says before killing the engine. "But until you
are—nothing."
Stiles mimes locking a key near an invisible chastity belt near his groin, then
throws it over his shoulder into the backseat. Then he crosses his fingers
behind his back and hopes that, if worst comes to worst, Peter is really as
fast running away from angry fathers as he claims he is.
--
Stiles is in the middle of a deep, refreshing sleep when something disruptive
in the quiet night pulls him awake. His eyes snap open.
His TV is still on, noiselessly in the middle of a late night infomercial
that's buzzing into white noise, but it's not responsible for jerking Stiles
awake. His phone isn't gently buzzing on the night stand either, and his alarm
isn't ringing yet. No, the noise to blame is coming from the soft, unnerving
squeaking sound coming from—
“Oh my god,” Stiles says, clutching his heart. “Can’t you ever just enter a
house through a front door, like a normal person?”
It's Peter, who's been prying the creaky window open from the outside like a
lurking thief. He's on his feet in seconds, much too gracefully to be fair, not
bothering to shut the window behind himself. Stiles checks the clock on his
nightstand, 2:11 a.m., and yeah, there’s nothing creepy about a tall, shadowy
figure scaling a house in a respectable neighborhood in the middle of the
night. Stiles can only hope that no one’s still up and about and currently in
the process of calling the police about suspicious burglar-like activity in the
area.
“You were sleeping,” Peter observes.
“Well, yeah.” Stiles twists the clock around so Peter can see the numbers too.
“It’s the middle of the night. That’s what people do at night. Are you sure
werewolves even need to sleep? Because I’m getting a lot of evidence to the
contrary.”
Peter steps closer to the bed, his hand idly sliding over Stiles’ calf over the
sheets. “Last I recall, you were having issues sleeping.”
“Oh, yeah,” Stiles says. He looks down at the hand on his leg for a moment,
wondering if it's a precursor for what they're about to spend the next few
hours doing. The prospect does perk him up a little. “It’s getting better.”
“Good,” Peter says. “Now get up.”
He pats Stiles’ knee and backs up, giving Stiles the room to spring to his feet
and prepare for an adventure like he’d be ready for anything no matter the time
of night or day, officially putting a lid on his previous assumption that the
rest of the night is going to be spent pantsless. Stiles sputters, laughing.
“What?”
“Get up,” Peter repeats, more slowly this time just in case Stiles needs to
hear each word being carefully enunciated. “I promised you that you could punch
me, remember?”
“Now?”
Peter looks at him like he can't very well cater to Stiles' high-maintenance,
diva-like commands and personal schedule. "Take it or leave it, Stiles. I can’t
be available for fist fights twenty four seven.”
“Of course,” Stiles mumbles, but he’s getting up anyway. He slides his feet to
the floor and reluctantly throws his warm covers off of himself, stifling a
large yawn threatening to lure him back to his pillow. The things he does just
for Peter.
A pair of pants are thrown at his head just as he gets up, followed by a t-
shirt aimed at his chest. He fumbles to catch them, then looks down at his
perfectly good sleepwear ensemble and wonders if he really has to dress to
impress when he’s beating somebody up, and what the merits of jeans are when
he’s already fully clothed as far as he’s concerned.
“Where exactly are we going?” Stiles asks, rubbing his eyes. “Is formal dress
necessary?”
“No,” Peter says, mouth twitching.
“Okay. Then I’m staying in these guys,” Stiles says, pulling at the sides of
his plaid pajama pants. They’re comfortable, they’re stretchy, and they’re
ideal for hunching into a predatory stance and taking Peter down. He throws a
hoodie over his head and toes his way into his sneakers, ready for the showdown
coming his way. Or at least, he will be once his limbs get the memo that he's
awake and will be for the next few hours.
"Come on," Peter says, reaching for Stiles' bedroom door.
Stiles grabs him by the forearm before he can slip into the hallway. "Wait.
Can't you go out the window? My dad's going to kill me if he sees us."
"He won't," Peter assures him, petting the hand by his elbow. He taps his wrist
where a watch would sit. "It's after midnight. Our day of staying clear of each
other is over."
"I'm sure he sees it the same way."
“I’m glad you see reason,” Peter says, grinning, and disappears into the
hallway.
--
While a twenty four gym, Peter's apartment, or even somewhere with
qualifications as small as just being indoor would've been Stiles' first
choices for settings where he gets to pick a fight he's guaranteed to dominate,
the quiet, overgrown field of grassy land out by the woods is where Peter's car
comes to a stop.
Stiles takes back quiet as a descriptor the second he opens the car door and is
met by a croaking, screeching, humming symphony of nighttime critters. The
weeds are up to his knees and god knows what's sleeping under blades of grass
and piles of leaves—snakes is Stiles' bet, but he also wouldn't be surprised by
tarantulas, raccoons, or Bigfoot poking out of the earth—but Stiles can see why
Peter might've chosen it as a prime spot for a midnight hash out. It's in the
middle of nowhere.
He shuts the car door behind himself. He hadn't noticed until now, but spring
is coming. It's not bitterly cold out anymore, nothing more than a breeze in
the air and a nighttime nip to accompany it, reminding Stiles that winter is in
the rearview mirror. He feels like the life-starting-anew-in-spring metaphor is
much too cliché for him to actually acknowledge its relation to his life, but
he feels like it's true. Like he's starting anew. Like this is the beginning of
a long journey back home, stronger and better and still blissfully HIV free.
Plus one ex-loan shark.
“All right, Stiles. Take your best shot.”
Peter stands in front of him, arms outstretched, awaiting his blow in silence
after wading through the tall grass. He doesn’t seem to be particularly
terrified of what’s coming, which Stiles definitely takes a little offense to.
There’s just enough light in the sky that Stiles can make out an outline of his
features, the relaxed line of his shoulders, the arch of his nose, the curve of
his waist, none of it too on guard or petrified in the fear of Stiles'
imminent, violent wrath. Stiles takes a deep breath.
He takes his stance while insects make themselves at home in the warmth of his
pant legs. The last time he's hit anything, it was his own head, which he
accidentally clobbered with a Wii remote during a particularly aggressive game
of Wii bowling. He doesn't even remember the last time he's hit somebody else,
and in the face, no less. He’s hoping that there’s no actual way to mess this
up as long as he avoids breaking his thumbs and actually hits the target, so he
might as well just do it.
“And you really won’t move out of the way?” Stiles asks, fists wavering.
“No.”
“And you won’t punch me back?”
He huffs. “Stiles.”
“Fine!”
He raises his fists again, tightening them until his fingernails are digging
into his palms. He looks at Peter’s face, that unbending smirk on his mouth,
and finds, funnily enough, that this is one of the few moments that he’s known
Peter where Stiles doesn’t feel like barreling his fist into his face.
But he’s going to anyway.
The punch is pretty glorious when it happens. Stiles would’ve preferred seeing
it in slow motion, the way his arm arced through the air and his fist made
contact right with Peter’s nose with a loud smack that, to be honest, probably
hurt his knuckles more than it did Peter’s face. He’s pretty sure Peter plays
up the histrionics for Stiles’ sake after it's done, groaning at the impact and
cupping his nose as Stiles’ fist retreats like he’s been horribly wounded. It’s
sort of sweet, Peter being theatrical on Stiles’ behalf so he doesn’t feel bad
about his boxing skills, or lack thereof. The rolling to the ground is a little
much, though.
“Okay,” Stiles says, lowering to his knees beside Peter on the soft earth. “You
can stop pretending now.”
Peter freezes, sighs, then turns around and reveals himself once more, the
painted-on grimace of pain gone. There’s a smear of blood coming out of his
nose, but the swelling redness on his cheek is already fading, healing back
into smooth skin. Stiles thinks seeing an angry purple bruise budding under
Peter’s eye would’ve been even more cathartic, but the punch has sated his urge
to give Peter a good clocking. For now.
“It wasn’t bad,” Peter says, wiping the blood off his upper lip with his thumb.
“What, the punch or the pain?”
“Both,” Peter says. “You could do better, though. You just need practice.”
Stiles settles onto the grass, the soil cold underneath him, and crosses his
legs. He nudges Peter with his elbow. “Are you offering yourself up as my
permanent punching bag?”
“No,” Peter says dryly.
Stiles laughs at that, and something about the sound prompts Peter to laugh as
well, like Stiles’ genuine happiness is infectious to even the iciest of
hearts. Then again, Peter might not be so icy after all. Or, if nothing else,
there’s a tiny ball of warmth inside him swimming to the surface and breaking
through his hard exterior, leaving marks of tension where it might, one day,
trickle out in more than just carefully rationed doses. Stiles is okay if this
is the warmest Peter will ever be, though. He doesn’t mind the cold.
He looks down at his knuckles, still feeling a little raw. He flexes his hand,
wincing at the sting of dull pain lingering under the skin. He’s not sure he’s
going to ever punch someone in the face again if he has to suffer the
aftermaths like this too. How do head-butts even successfully work?
“You have a really tough nose,” Stiles observes, continuing to stretch out his
hand. “I don’t think I was prepared.”
“Hmm,” Peter hums, not sounding sympathetic in the least, but he does grab
Stiles’ hand to inspect his knuckles, fingertips tracing the bones. “You’ll
survive.”
He doesn’t let Stiles’ hand go, instead threading his fingers through Stiles’
and holding on. He doesn’t say a thing, staring fixedly ahead at where the sun
will rise over the gray sky in just a few hours, only a few faraway roofs
blocking the view of the horizon. Stiles looks down at their intertwined hands
resting on Peter’s knee and wonders if Peter’s ever done this with someone
before. Held their hand just to hold it.
It makes him think back to the last time he had Peter’s hand in his. It had
been the sealing of a mutual promise to trust each other with secrets if they
ever both wanted to. Stiles remembers how at the time, swaddled with
sleepiness, he had wanted to trust Peter then and there.
“Hey,” Stiles says, giving Peter’s hand a squeeze. “Do you think you trust me?”
Peter turns to look at him, eyebrows knitted together. “I just let you punch me
in the face.”
“I didn’t ask if you trusted me with your body.”
“Is there a difference?”
“Well, yeah.” Stiles reaches up without thinking about it, brushing aside the
last of the blood by Peter’s nose with the pad of his index finger. “Bodies
heal. Skin doesn’t stay swollen forever.” He pauses, making room for a slightly
lewd snicker. “Besides, I let you do all sorts of things to my body before I
trusted you.”
Something in Peter’s expression changes, his head arching up. “You trust me
now?”
“Oh, well,” Stiles says under his breath. Peter watches him, waiting for an
answer. Stiles does. Or, he does enough to share.
He thinks about what he’s about to do, and if he’s comfortable doing it, or if
he’s really just slowly losing his sense of what is a good idea. Then, in one
tired flop, he lies back on the grass, eyes trained on trying to pick out stars
in the dark sky overhead, his hand still firm in Peter’s. “So a few years ago I
had this teacher who couldn’t stand me. I thought he was just a massive dick,
but turns out he was a little bit worse than that, but—well. You saw the
reports. You don’t need the details.”
He closes his eyes, the air suddenly too warm even with the cool earth beneath
him. He’s never said this story out loud to anyone who wasn’t a policeman
writing down his side of the case. He told Scott the short version back when he
wanted him to know but didn’t want to physically have to tell him. He told his
father everything he could stomach. It feels different now, less like an
obligation and more like a conscious decision to share for the sake of sharing,
not the short version, not the technical version, just the truth.
Next to him, he can feel Peter joining him on the grass, stretching out beside
him and drawing their joined hands up to rest on his chest. Stiles can feel the
steady rise and fall of Peter’s heart against the back of his hand, and the
evenness of it relaxes him.
"It went on for a few months before I told anybody. He never actually fucked
me, but I don’t really think that mattered. It still felt like I was being
fucked, if that makes any sense.” Stiles draws in a breath and opens his eyes
again, finding it all too easy to remember what it felt like to be in that
classroom at the mercy of Harris’ hands with his eyes shut. “And then I had to
tell everyone about it, except for my mom, because I didn’t want to worry her
and she was getting sicker, and then that whole thing with her was happening
and it was almost a good distraction because in the end it didn't give me any
free headspace, so I never really had time to deal with the whole… sexual abuse
thing.”
“You should,” Peter says. “It’ll come out of you eventually.”
“Well, maybe I would’ve after her death if it hadn’t been for the whole money
shit and loan shark drama, Peter,” Stiles snaps, then regrets it. He inhales
gently. He’s just not good at talking about this, and doesn't expect to ever
be. “Sorry.”
“I’m not upset.”
Stiles nods, glad that he isn't. Now that he's begun, he doesn't want to stop
just yet. He wants to keep going and see what will happen.
“It kind of sucked. I was fifteen and was excited about sex and all of a
sudden, I wasn’t anymore. And it’s not even that I thought I deserved it or
anything. I just didn’t know what to do about it. The whole thing made me feel…
I don’t know, small.”
“Out of control,” Peter adds for him. “Powerless.”
“Yeah.”
When he summarizes it up like this, the entire ordeal seems almost simple, not
nearly as complicated as his brain has made it out to be in the past. Stiles
thinks this is a good segue if there ever could be one and decides to snap it
up before it slips away. He shifts his eyes over to Peter. “So how was it for
you?”
“You mean how did my particular tragedy affect me?” Peter asks.
“Yeah.”
“Tragically.”
Stiles smacks him in the ribs with his free hand. This isn’t a one-man-show,
this is honesty hour, this is sharing and caring. Mutual trust.
“Come on,” he coaxes. “I’m not looking for a huge novel. Just something real.”
“Something real,” Peter repeats, seeming to roll the words around in his head
for a while. “All right. It was painful. It was the most exhausting period of
my life. I suffered severe burns for a long time, and I did things I’m not
proud of to heal, but…” He shakes his head. “That’s a story for another time.”
"I got most of that from the reports."
Peter's quiet again for a moment, pulling thoughts together. Then he says, "I
was unbelievably angry. We were targeted because of what we were. What we
typically are are strong and powerful creatures, but that wasn't enough anymore
when the fire spread." Peter tilts his head to Stiles, blades of grass brushing
his cheek, and gives him a look that seems raw. Real. Sad. "Amazing how fast
you can go from thinking you're invincible to being wheelchair bound."
Their stories are hardly the same, but Stiles still gets it on a visceral
level, the way you can blink and all the things you were sure you had control
of in your life fall apart at the seams no matter how hard you try to hold it
together. Harris. His mother. His father. Himself. Peter's felt it all too,
just with different people and different scenarios and a different situation.
They have another thing in common too. They both made it through eventually.
"The second I was in control of my body again, I wanted to reclaim all that
power I'd lost. I had become accustomed to it, and having it ripped away...
didn't settle well with me," Peter continues. "Being a werewolf wasn't enough
anymore. It didn't give me the strength I wanted. And that's when the loan
shark idea was born."
It makes sense. Stiles can hardly believe he's even thinking this, but Stiles
can see how the dots connect. Peter needed power to make him happy, so he found
a way to make that happen for himself. Admittedly more ambitious than most
people Stiles knows, not to mention enterprising. Conniving and corrupt and
diabolical too, of course, but at least there's a source to the madness, a
reason Stiles can hunker down next to that sheds light on why anyone would ever
willingly—and aggressively—separate people from their money in their darkest of
times.
"Plus I love money," Peter adds. "And spending it. Truly. I have expensive
taste."
Stiles socks Peter in the arm. "Not anymore you can't, fella. That income was
cut off today."
"Right," Peter says, nodding. "The things I do for you."
"I was just thinking that earlier. When you woke me up and lugged me out of my
warm bed."
"To punch me in the face."
Stiles shrugs, intent on making it seem like walloping Peter straight in the
nose with his knuckles wasn't the highlight of his week. Possibly month. He's
sure Peter would be able to smell his smugness from the moon, but he might as
well pretend still snoring in his bed deep in sleep would've been a welcome
alternative to using Peter as a punching bag.
"Next time I'm mad," Stiles muses aloud, "I'm thinking one of those... hit a
target and dunk someone in a pool of icy water contraptions. That would be
worth leaving my bed for."
"Oh, and tonight wasn't?"
Stiles shrugs again. "I think you're worth a lot," he says, not meaning for it
to sound so... soft. The last thing Peter needs is a bigger head; he'll never
find hats that fit these days. He shuts his eyes. "Wow, ignore that. I just
made the evening into a cheesy rom-com. Which is especially ridiculous
considering we began on a Rocky Balboa note."
To be far, the fact that they're stretched out under the stars is adding to the
romantic ambience. Stiles looks around the area just to make sure this isn't
actually a Hallmark movie set and there aren't cameraman lurking nearby, but
Peter's usually sharp as cheddar comeback reflexes don't seem to be kicking in.
He's quiet as can be, eyes on the sky, hand still warm in Stiles'.
Stiles wonders if he's flattered, or maybe if he's never heard anyone say kind
things about him before. Maybe it just now hit him how nice it is to have
someone reaffirm what he's so confidently preached about himself. Maybe he's
still trying to get used to the idea of someone finding worth and possibility
and chance in him.
"Stiles," Peter murmurs, grabbing his attention once again.
Stiles looks over at him, at the sharp way the moonlight curves against his
cheekbone like a high contrast photograph, at the clear cut line of his facial
hair, at the small curve of his eyelashes, all details Stiles has seen before
but suddenly seem as if pasted onto a different person, someone Stiles feels
comfortable laying side by side with and, sometimes, hitting him in the face.
Peter pulls their joined hands up to his lips, pressing them against Stiles'
aching knuckles in a surprisingly soft kiss.
"I feel," Peter says on his skin, "very protective of you."
He says it as if sharing a great secret, a shameful thing he's hidden under his
tongue for weeks and hardly daring to believe himself. It feels like it might
just be the very first nice thing Peter has ever confessed to anybody,
something that might even have been harder for him to share than even the story
of his family. His lips, warm and careful, feel like a million hey, I love you,
don't tell anybodys on the back of Stiles' hand.
For once in his overly verbose and quick-to-speak life, Stiles doesn't think he
has anything to say. He rolls closer, leaning his temple against Peter's
shoulder, and considers the practicality of spending the rest of the night here
stretched out on the grass when he has a comfortable bed waiting for him at
home. He’s about to bring up the idea when Peter moves their joint hands,
twisting Stiles’ wrist up to his mouth.
“We could have you turned,” Peter offers, like this is even remotely related to
what they were talking about. His breath fans over Stiles’ wrist as he speaks.
“If you’d like.”
“Uh.”
“Derek would have to do it,” Peter says. “It needs to be an Alpha.”
“Have me turned,” Stiles repeats, still trying to process what’s being
suggested to him as conversationally as if it were something as inconsequential
as what to eat for lunch. “Into. Into a werewolf?”
“Yes. A werewolf.” Peter raises his eyebrows in question. “Do you want to be
one?”
Well, his father would kill him. Stiles can’t imagine there being a cool, calm
and collected way to let his dad know that he’s now a beast of the night. That
just might be the cherry on the cake of news he’s been hearing over the last
year that started with your wife is dying and ended with your son is sleeping
with that loan shark you’re trying to imprison.
“I’m good, thanks,” Stiles squeaks. “Why? Is that the only way you feel you can
protect me?”
“No,” Peter says, his eyes still trained on Stiles’ wrist, possibly considering
the way it would look with Derek’s bite engrained into the skin. “But it would
help.”
Stiles watches his eyes rake over the pale skin of his forearm in quiet
reverence for a moment before he realizes what’s happening—this is Peter,
classic Peter, more comfortable in proposing Stiles take on the responsibility
of lycanthropy than he is in admitting that he wants Stiles to be as safe as he
can be. It’s going to take some time getting used to figuring out what Peter’s
trying to say, what context lies under the sometimes crass way he speaks, but
this one seems pretty simple.
He pulls his hand out of Peter’s in one economical movement, rolling on top of
him and off of the cold earth. “Hey,” he says. “I don't need protection. Just
cleaned your clock, didn't I?" At Peter's snort, Stiles continues. "And I think
it's nice you care."
Peter's expression softens a fraction.
"And I want to have sex with you again," Stiles says, taking a deep breath.
Maybe Peter was right and an honesty-only philosophy would save him a lot of
time as far as his conversations go. "When no one's in charge or earning money
or turning it into a sales tactic. Just sex. With you. And I'd like to be there
too."
"That can be arranged."
Peter's hands start sliding up Stiles' ass, palming him through his pajamas,
much thinner than any jeans he could've been touched through and amplifying the
electric feeling of Peter touching him again. Stiles almost lets himself
succumb to it, arch down and kiss him within an inch of his life, before he
scans their surroundings and considers the true agony that would come with
grass stains and bug bites in unmentionable places. He puts a halting hand on
Peter's chest at that.
"Not out here," he says. "There's gotta be somewhere better than this mosquito
buffet for you to fuck me."
"My apartment," Peter offers, not finding it necessary to stop kneading Stiles'
ass. "There are lots of places I could fuck you on there."
"You'd be okay taking me to your—could you stop that for like, two seconds?"
Stiles swats at the palms squeezing his ass until they relent. "You'd really
take me to your apartment?"
"Why not?"
"I don't know. I thought it was your private lair or something." Stiles throws
his hands up, realizing how ridiculous he sounds. "What if I'm bugged and I'm
leading the police to your home to have you arrested?"
"Well, then, the first hiccup in your plan was probably getting me out of
jail."
Stiles gets to his feet, brushing the grass off his pants and the dirt off his
knees, suddenly unable to think about anything other than what Peter's
apartment looks like and more importantly, how Peter looks inside Peter's
apartment. He's not sure why, but his brain never sculpted Peter surrounded by
an apartment or even just a residence at all, let alone with furniture. Like he
just prowled the sewers and the unsuspecting beds of insomniac teenagers at
night and terrorized people by the masses during the day. Stiles shakes those
images from his head.
"This is neat," Stiles admits. "I feel like it's the equivalent of asking me to
prom as far as commitment goes."
"I'm not asking you to prom."
“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles says, heading back to Peter’s car. “Where’s my corsage,
you bastard?”
--
Stiles was wrong. Nobody ever spends as much money on prom as Peter clearly has
on his apartment.
For starters, it’s one of the unbelievably overpriced skyscraper apartments in
downtown Beacon Hills with views that seem to stretch all the way to the
coastline. Secondly, there’s a man at the front door on the ground floor in a
three-piece suit who seems to have no purpose other than nodding at incoming
residents and offering to carry their three hundred bags for them. Thirdly, the
elevator plays soft music as they ride up to the eighth floor, Peter’s floor,
and Stiles experiences brief flashes of what he’s pretty sure is a parallel
universe in which he’s a rich aristocrat who watches over his subjects from the
peak of the city in the lap of luxury. Then Peter unlocks the door to his
apartment and Stiles tries to figure out exactly how much outrageous square
footage he’s looking at.
"Well. Wow."
This is probably where the president goes to relax and here's Peter, secretly
house-sitting to seem infinitely cooler and richer. Stiles watches as Peter
flicks a switch and the lights start filtering on throughout the apartment,
revealing white walls and clean floors and shiny furniture.
"Do you like it?" Peter asks, stroking a hand over the back of the leather
couch.
"Um. It's amazing."
And pricy. And extravagant. And luxurious in a way only money can buy. It's
undeniably nice, but it doesn't take very long for Stiles to look around and
see nothing but other people's paychecks and repo'd valuables lurking under the
skin of Peter's expensive taste in decor. Must be nice, milking people for all
their money and then spending it on useless gadgets like leather sofas and
what's probably an entire SkyMall catalogue. Stiles wanders into the bedroom,
sticking his head in and almost expecting the sheets to be interspersed with
piles of bills to be rolled on while cackling in glee. Turns out to be just
satin, but you can never be sure enough. He steps back out into the living room
with his mouth agape.
"What's wrong?"
Stiles looks at him, shaking his head. "Just realizing that this is the result
of loan sharkery. It's kind of harshing my boner vibe."
"You're telling me you wouldn't spend money if you had it?"
"That's not really it. Just that the way you got that money was by being a
conniving, greedy bastard."
Peter walks up to him, a curiously focused look in his eye, like all he's
really noticing through all the opulence is Stiles. It's the kind of look that
has Stiles thinking that he's about to be on the receiving end of some
aggressive piece-of-mind sharing, but then Peter's letting out the kind of sigh
one might breathe out after getting into a warm bath. He strokes the hair by
Stiles' ear.
"There it is. Something I love dearly about you," he murmurs.
"I'm sorry?"
"The way you speak your mind. Talk back, really." He chuckles. "I think I
managed to terrify you for one whole day. Then you were all snark and sarcasm
and cussing in my face."
Stiles feels his cheeks burn fiercely.
"I don't have a lot of people who stand up to me in this profession. Not that
this means that I'm always going to listen to you, but. I admire your...
audacity. Fearlessness, if you will."
Stiles smiles despite himself. "Are you trying to distract me with compliments,
you dog?"
"No. Is it working anyway?"
"Absolutely not."
"All right. How about this then?"
Peter steps closer and leans in to suck gently on Stiles' neck, right where
Stiles likes it best, and he's unconsciously threading a hand into Peter's hair
and leaning into the mouth warm on his skin in a matter of seconds. He has to
admit, this tactic is pretty damn strong as far as distractions go, but Stiles
is determined.
He points in the corner. "That waterfall has to go," he demands., unreasonably
proud of how his voice doesn't waver even with Peter's tongue starting to do
that thing on his neck. "And that flatscreen TV is obscene. And how many
leather recliners do you even need?"
"So many."
Stiles challenges himself to concentrate, concentrate, concentrate like this is
fucking SAT day and he's about to tackle the inscrutable science portion. "They
should be gifts, really. You can send them anonymously to—oh—the houses of the
people you stole from." Peter's tongue flutters over his pulse points and then
drags up to his ear. "Oh god, right there."
"Stole is such a dirty word."
"Yeah, well. You're a dirty man," Stiles accuses, wishing he wouldn't be able
to turn himself on so damn easily.
Peter pulls back from his neck, Stiles ignoring his slick lips and hooded eyes
and the pink tongue that slips out to lick over the corner of his mouth. This
conversation better reach a satisfying conclusion in the next fifteen seconds,
because Stiles' rope of patience—and hormones—is growing thinner. Distantly, he
internally apologizes to his dad for just how bad he is at keeping promises. Or
at least, sexy promises.
"I'm not giving up the motorcycle, the bidet, or the chocolate fountain," he
says grimly.
"Chocolate fountain?!"
Peter growls, the hands wrapped around Stiles' sides flexing in frustration.
"We're finishing this later. Now, we're fucking."
He kisses away any possible complaints Stiles may've had—not that there were
dozens upon dozens—and does so with no small amount of ferocity, his teeth and
tongue instantly involved as he pulls Stiles flush against his chest and pushes
their mouths together. Stiles feels like a country being plundered of its
wealth with every second of savage, earth-spinning making out that goes by,
except for the fact that he's loving it and never wants it to stop and wants to
remember every second of what's about to happen.
Right up until Peter's hands slide over the back of his thighs to hoist him up,
something about being carried like a small dog not all that arousing. Stiles
yelps and pounds on Peter's shoulders, pulling back from the kiss indignantly.
"Let me down," he says, horrified, and squeezes his legs around Peter's hips as
hard as he can to constrict his movements, but Peter still manages to walk them
both without problem through the living room and the kitchen and straight into
the bedroom, hands firm around Stiles' ass to keep him in place.
“Shhh,” Peter says, digging his fingernails into the fabric of Stiles’ jeans.
“Just shh.”
“Rude,” Stiles says, and then gets cut off when Peter claims his mouth with his
own, teeth teasing Stiles’ lower lip and then actually tugging it into his
mouth, which is an unfair tactic in getting Stiles to shut up if there ever was
one, as Stiles has no choice but to respond and wrap himself around Peter.
He’s not sure for how long they’re stumbling around the apartment, Stiles’
hands fisted in Peter’s hair and Peter’s mouth practically welded to his, but
behind his eyelids, things get darker, and it takes Stiles a moment to pull
back and realize they’ve retreated to Peter’s bedroom. The details of it are
just as nice as the rest of his place from what Stiles can make out in the
shadows, made more pronounced once Peter flicks on the light switch.
Stiles pulls away from the kiss to take in the new surroundings, the crisp gray
paint, the shoe rack hanging on the closet door full of Louboutins, the clean
hardwood floors underneath him. He’s lowered to his feet a moment later,
Peter’s hands sliding from his ass to his hips to his waist to his lower back
and leaving him unjustly breathless much too quickly. Peter pushes him on the
bed, not bothering to be gentle, and instantly, silk-like sheets come up to
meet him, bouncing alongside him like a velvety hug from a cloud.
"I feel like if I were to get dropped into heaven, this is what it would feel
like," Stiles breathes. "If you fall on my bed it just sort of... sort of
croaks. Like old frogs. A choir of elderly frogs."
"Shut up, Stiles," Peter says just as he takes off his jacket, Stiles only
slightly disappointed that he doesn't rip it off himself and confirm that
Stiles is in indeed in heaven, Peter pulling aside Stiles’ knees to crawl
between his legs.
Then Peter's tongue licks up the underside of his chin right before he nips his
way back down Stiles' throat, lips hot on his skin, and okay, Stiles can shut
up if this is his reward. Peter's teeth scrape his pulse point and bite down on
the wide expanse of his neck, pulling needy moans from Stiles' mouth at a truly
embarrassing rate.
There's a part of Stiles that desperately wants to get this right, to make this
time different if even only in the most inscrutable of ways, to pull tonight
apart from all those other nights where Stiles came apart under Peter's touch.
It means something now, it meant something onward from the second Stiles seized
Peter through the bars of his holding cell and kissed him thoughtlessly, and
now they're having sex in a new bed and a new room and practically with new
hands and new bodies, ones that are no longer taut with distrust. And the thing
is, he knows it's already different because of that alone, because he's here in
Peter's house and Peter trusts him to analyze his wallpaper and his bedsheets
and where he keeps his coffee mugs when morning comes and Stiles will rummage
through the cupboards for caffeine. He reaches for Peter's jaw, touching the
soft stubble there, and taps his cheek until Peter pulls away from the line of
Stiles' throat he's claiming as his own for the world to see.
"Hey," Stiles says, suddenly finding it important to say so, "Thanks for
bringing me here."
Peter lets out a breathless sound. His lips are pinker than before. "Thank you
for coming."
"In more ways than one?" Stiles asks, unable to resist, and wraps his legs
around Peter's hips to arch up and against his hardness.
"I can guarantee it," Peter says, his voice taking on an almost predatory
rumble near the end there, reminding Stiles of oh yes, he's a werewolf. He
likes the idea of stoking Peter's wild side, luring out the part of him that
loses control and lets the growls come out and grips Stiles by the hair and the
wrists and pins him in place while he gets to work reducing Stiles to an
overstimulated mess, so he moves his hips again, rolling them upwards into
Peter's.
“Take your shirt off,” Stiles mumbles onto his mouth. He tries to go for just
on the sexual side of dominant but ends up falling somewhere around hopelessly
aroused, hands furling around the hem of Peter’s tee.
Peter doesn’t seem to mind taking orders, at least not this one. He sits up,
straddling Stiles’ hips and keeping him locked in place underneath him as he
takes off his shirt. Slowly. Torturously slowly. Purposefully slowly. Stiles
groans, covering his eyes with his forearm to spare his eyesight from the
striptease Peter’s trying to entice him with.
“Get on with it, old man,” he whines, trying to push his hips up into Peter’s
groin to get him spurred on, but Peter’s weight on top of him is too strong.
“That’s not very nice,” Peter admonishes, and as if this could go any slower,
his hands stop right around his armpits, only half his abdomen revealed.
“Fine,” Stiles says. “Would you please get undressed so you can fuck me
already? Is that nice enough for you?”
It seems to be, because Peter finishes beating around the bush and pulls his
shirt over his head the rest of the way, throwing it aside. It’s an example
Stiles wants to follow, doing his best to take his sweatshirt and tee off as
well, Peter’s impatient hands helping speed the process along. He yanks him
straight back down by the nape of his neck once he’s done, Peter slipping
between his legs like he just fits there and Stiles hitching his feet over
Peter’s hips, keeping every possible inch of them connected while Peter leaves
his mark on Stiles’ neck.
“Stop it,” Stiles says, scrunching his nose, then lies and says, “I’m not a fan
of that. I can’t walk around with hickeys all day every day.”
“You can,” Peter murmurs on his collarbone.
“This is some territory thing, isn’t it? Find some other place to stake your
claim on me, would you?”
“Or maybe,” Peter says, licking a wet stripe up Stiles’ neck that has Stiles
unconsciously tilting his chin aside to give him more room. “I just can’t get
enough of how you taste.”
Peter leans in to kiss him and Stiles takes the moment for what it's worth and
flips them over, rolling them on the heavenly bed until he's on top and Peter's
pulling away from his mouth with a surprised, displeased noise at being
manhandled into being on the bottom. Stiles' attempt is promptly usurped as
Peter effortlessly flips them back over again, until it feels like they're kids
wrestling in the sandbox, limbs tangled and bodies pushed together, the tug-o-
war of who's on top more fun than Stiles' would've thought.
“You know, it’s kind of crazy how addictive doing this with you is,” Stiles
says, laughing and not even entirely sure why he’s laughing, just unable to
hold it in.
Peter seizes his wrists and guides them over his head, pressing them into
captivity on the pillow. "Trying to get me underneath you?"
"Sure, that. But I meant this," Stiles says, arching up to push their noses
together, lips briefly touching before another giggle rolls through him.
Peter doesn't seem sated by Stiles' quick kiss; he ducks down and tugs Stiles'
bottom lip into his mouth, biting, sucking, pulling all the air from his lungs
and making Stiles' back curve off the bed in need. He's breathless quickly,
hands helplessly curling and uncurling where they're held in place with Peter's
firm grip, his pants getting painfully tight every time he so much as shifts
his legs and they slide against Peter's.
Stiles groans, the sound falling into the air when Peter slides away from the
slickness of Stiles' swollen mouth to move southward, tongue paying worshipful
attention to Stiles' exposed neck, recreating every single lost bruise Stiles
had watched fade in the mirror. Then his mouth moves lower still, wrapping
around Stiles' nipple, turning Stiles' quiet whines into loud, unabashed
begging.
"Jesus fucking Christ," Stiles groans, hips jerking upward and head falling
backward. "Pants off. Fuck, I need pants off. I needed them off yesterday."
Everything feels much too hot much too quickly. Just a little bit ago, Stiles
was out in the cold keeping the white ghosts of his breath warm in the collar
of his sweatshirt, and now he's completely burning up under Peter's unforgiving
body. He struggles against the hold on his wrists, desperate to take off his
fucking pants already, and by some miracle, Peter releases him and gets on his
knees to unbutton his jeans and give Stiles the room to do the same, granted,
after he stops ogling Peter's rolling abdominal muscles as he shimmies his
pants down. Then he gets straight back to business, ignoring his watering
mouth.
Stiles is done first, bouncing up to his knees to match Peter's height,
underwear gone too in a swift, proactive decision of thinking ahead. Peter
looks at him just as he gets done sliding his boxers away, all his glory for
the world to see. Or just Stiles, which is admittedly better.
"Socks on?" Peter asks quizzically.
Stiles looks at his socked feet, pinking in the cheeks. "What? I once read that
you're more likely to orgasm if your feet are warm," he says.
"Trust me, sweetheart," Peter drawls. "I will make you come socks on or off."
It sounds like a promise, the kind Stiles wants to keep and tuck away in his
pocket to redeem whenever he wants, and he gives into his urges with no more
dallying, grabbing Peter's cock in his fist and stroking it, entranced by how
it slides through his fingers, how Peter shudders under him. Stiles scoots
closer on his knees and arches into Peter's body, mouth latching onto the
stubbly line of his jaw and softly suckling.
It's almost jarring how nicely they feed off of each other, how they fit.
Peter's hands slip around the small of Stiles' back as Stiles unhurriedly pumps
his length, inching lower and lower until his nails are digging into Stiles'
ass cheeks, hands squeezing the highly sensitive flesh there.
"How about," Peter murmurs, voice like a fondue fountain at the edge of a
party, Stiles itching to edge closer and run his tongue all over it, his entire
body tingling, "you sit on my cock and ride me this time?"
"God yes," Stiles croaks, not even having to think about it. That's a gimme
question.
He bucks his ass into Peter's hands, letting it reply for him. His behind seems
to speak a language Peter's fluent in, because his palm slaps down on the left
cheek right before he taps Stiles' side and grins against his shoulder, leaving
Stiles to always know what it feels like to have Peter's mouth twist into a
smile against his skin. The tapping gets him to pull back from Peter's neck,
stilling the hand on his length.
"Be a doll and lean back to the bedside table on the right," Peter says.
"Second drawer."
"What I hope is in there better be there," Stiles warns, then twists around to
go see.
He yanks open the drawer, revealing his answered prayers in the form of a tube
of lube. The lack of outlandish dildos is slightly disappointing, but the fact
that the lube is slightly used makes up for it, making way for countless images
of Peter sometimes indulging in fingering himself against his expensive sheets
right before he comes all over them. Stiles snatches up the tube and returns to
business, slapping it into Peter's palm and closing his fingers around it with
urgency.
"Where are all your weird sex toys?" Stiles asks.
"Weird sex toys?" Peter repeats, eyebrows cocked. "Is that a letdown for you?"
"What would you do if I said yes?"
"Show you my illicit sex dungeon after being done with you here, of course."
"You have one of those?"
"I'm sure I could finance building one."
Stiles shakes his head. "You're out of income, remember? And jobless. You
should probably start saving money, not building sex dungeons."
Peter rolls his eyes, the movement reeking of impatience, especially when he
hauls Stiles into his arms and yanks him closer, dropping the lube on the
mattress after squeezing a few drops out onto his finger. "You need to work on
your dirty talk," he scolds, his finger already trailing circles over Stiles'
hole, obviously as interested in cutting back on dawdling as Stiles is. "This
isn't doing it for me."
Well, it's doing it for Stiles, that much is for sure. He stutters back into
the light touches near his entrance, eager for more, his brain overrun with the
prospect of riding Peter, teasing him with a pace as slow as he'd like, being
in charge and rocking down onto Peter's dick, controlling the pace and the
force and, the best of all, getting a front row seat to Peter's expressions
through all of it.
It just hits him how different this is this time around. He's here because he
wants to be, and he wants to come, and he wants to be satisfied afterwards and
fall into a long, fucked-out coma of a sleep afterwards and let Peter listen to
him snore without regret. This time it's sex, not a transaction, not a service-
for-money exchange. It's also a completely illegal way to spend his night, as
his father was so happy to point out.
"By the way," Stiles says, aiming for casual but ending up gasping, voice
breaking near the end and throat swallowing the ay when Peter takes that moment
to slide a finger inside him. He loses his train of thought momentarily.
"Yes?"
He picks the thought back up again, albeit with much less concentration. "We've
been strictly forbidden from doing this," he says.
"By whom?"
"The law."
"Right. Of course. I'm a devout believer of the rules," Peter drawls, then
arches his finger inside Stiles. "Do you want us to stop?"
"If you stop I'll cut your penis off and wear it as a fucking bow tie."
Peter laughs, the sound low and intimate and actually making Stiles harder, and
leans in to nibble on the shell of Stiles' ear, mouth hot. "What about daddy's
orders?"
"Bow tie. I fucking mean it, Peter. It'll be the cheapest vasectomy in the
world."
“Oh, all right, then,” Peter says, then twists a second finger into Stiles just
as he’s biting down on the lobe of his ear.
It feels like they’re already fucking, honestly. Stiles hardly remembers to
physically breathe, Peter assaulting his senses from every which way and
working his fingers inside him, hard and hot, bursts of pleasure jerking
Stiles’ hips down onto the pushes of his fingers. It's almost unfair that
Peter's so good at this.
“Another,” Stiles says hoarsely.
“You sure?”
“Yes, I’m fucking sure, and I know you are too, so stop teasing, you fucking
old tease,” Stiles growls, feeling his patience thinning. He doesn’t know how
much longer he can stand not being fucked, what with Peter’s fingers crooking
inside him and opening him up, and then, as promised, a third finger slips in
and Stiles can’t handle this all that much more.
Peter’s tempo speeds up quickly. He goes from slowly stretching Stiles open to
fucking him on his fingers, massaging his prostate and leaving Stiles’ cock
aching, every part of him already spun up to come, which can’t happen yet. Not
yet. He pushes at Peter’s shoulders until he pulls his fingers free and Stiles
can reorient himself, squeezing Peter’s arms.
"Get on the bed. On your back," Stiles orders. It feels like caffeine running
through his system, being in charge, and fine, maybe he gets why Peter likes
being the top dog so much.
Especially when Peter actually listens and lays down on the bed, spread out in
all his proud, nude splendor, hands folded behind his head and erection curling
toward his stomach, the head just tantalizingly pink enough that Stiles
considers briefly digressing and sucking Peter's cock as an interlude for a
little while first. If his own dick wasn't hopping for attention and his
asshole wasn't generously slicked up by Peter's preparation, he might be more
inclined to take his time with Peter, but as it stands, he desperately wants to
ride Peter until they're both suffering memory loss from the force of their
orgasms. Later, he thinks. He'll have plenty of time to blow Peter until he's
incoherent later.
Instead he focuses on the task at hand, seizing the lube and liberally slicking
up Peter's cock. It's incredibly warm under his grip, begging to be touched,
really, and the pre-come dotting the tip is really making it hard for Stiles
not to duck down and suckle him into his mouth, but he reins in the urges to
store in his body to revisit another time. Soon.
"You're practically drooling, Stiles," Peter drawls, canting his hips up in
invitation.
"No," Stiles says instantly. "Stop breaking my concentration, dammit. Do you
want to fuck me or have me blow you or what?"
"I feel as if I've been given an impossible decision."
"You're fucking me," Stiles says firmly, making the choice for him. "Now."
He wipes the excess lube off his hands on the sheets, ignoring Peter's tut of
affront, settling onto his legs. He lifts up, aligning Peter's dick with his
entrance until just the head is nudging his hole, the sudden understanding that
he's about to have sex and it won't be for money or because someone else wants
to or to fulfill an obligation, but because it means something and he wants to,
flooding him and leaving his mouth dry. He licks his lips and lowers his hips.
He eases down on Peter and it feels very much like that moment in old movies
where two lovers come together in a moment of passion deemed wildly
inappropriate for audiences, so the screen cuts to opera singing and trains
colliding and steam whistles shrieking. Too good for anyone but himself and
Peter to enjoy. His hands flex on Peter's chest, taut under his palms, and when
he opens his eyes, Peter's teeth—nay, fangs—are dug into his bottom lip, eyes
hooded and the veins in his neck sharp where they're tensed into visibility.
Somewhere, deep inside that insatiable part of himself that can't let a good
joke go, Stiles finds the ability to speak.
"You look like a twelve year old boy trying not to come the first time he jerks
himself off," Stiles says, even though he's not sure he looks much better
himself. Peter's inside him and it somehow feels new and intimate like they're
doing it with different bodies, fresher skin that hasn't touched yet.
"What can I say, Stiles," Peter rumbles. "You make me feel young again."
"Forgot you were geriatric."
"Stiles," Peter warns, fingertips digging into Stiles' hips. "Not now."
"Right."
Stiles pushes all remaining one-liners back into his brain to be pulled out
later after they're done here—more specifically, after Peter's dick is no
longer sliding into Stiles. It takes him a moment to realize that he's very
nearly entirely inched in by now, leaving Stiles full and aching and so
incredibly ready to be fucked. He groans, his sexual equivalent of a green
light, and starts up the show, easing his way off Peter's cock only to rock
back down onto it.
It sinks in that Peter's inside him and they're having sex and Stiles is
actually on top, and for a moment, it almost feels like he's a kid just like
everybody else who sneaked out to have sex and is now creating the teenage
memory of his life, all the other shit pushed aside for now. The drag of Peter
inside him, the way Peter's hissing with every move of Stiles' hips, they're
all indicators of how real this is right here and now. Stiles has this
ludicrous urge to make this perfect, the right pace, the right moves, the right
tempo, and then Peter's thumb reaches out to brush over his chin and grab a
hold of it, distracting him.
"Look at me," Peter murmurs, all the teasing from just a minute ago gone.
Stiles looks at him. His thighs are shaking, and his entire body is burning up,
but Peter looks to be undergoing the same experiences, eyes dark and fingers
tight in the sheets. He's probably using every inch of self-restraint to not
thrust up into Stiles without abandon right now, instead staying still for
Stiles to set the stage himself, his show, his rules, an effort that Stiles
definitely appreciates. It's almost disorienting to think that just a few days
ago, Peter was in jail and Stiles was sure this was the absolute end of the
line, and yet, somehow, it wasn't.
"That's it, just like that," Peter murmurs just as Stiles rolls his hips,
shifting atop Peter's length. "That's perfect, my dear boy."
"What are you smelling on me?" Stiles asks. He takes the control Peter's given
him and gently eases off of Peter's cock before sliding back down harder than
before, riding him as he speaks.
"I thought you didn't like me doing that."
"Just tell me," Stiles demands, and punctuates that by rolling his hips down
again, and again, picking up the pace. The effect is instantaneous, Peter's
mouth falling open and a low groan slipping out.
"Arousal. Sex. Affection." Peter closes his eyes and twists his mouth like he's
tuning into the finer emotions Stiles is emitting. "Softness. Insecurity." His
eyes snap back open. "You're doing wonderfully. Don't question it."
And don't ruin it, Stiles' brain adds, so he does the only logical thing and
shuts his mouth and lets his body follow its instincts. He rises up, the slick
pull of Peter's dick inside him almost intoxicating, and right as he lifts up
to his knees, Peter pushes his hips up and meets his downward thrust halfway,
jerking a strangled groan from Stiles' mouth. Peter's cock nudges his prostate,
a teasing touch that has Stiles' pace already stuttering, and then Peter's
wrapping his hand around Stiles' dick and Stiles hates him just a little bit
for being able to multitask right now.
So he ups his game.
He wants to see Peter incoherent, and if that makes him a little sadistic, he
can handle that about himself. He lifts back up again, thighs only getting
shakier and shakier, and swivels his hips, trying something new and feeling
reckless and brave. You're doing wonderfully, Peter had said. He might as well
try and shoot for earth-shattering, and the circling of the hips seems to be a
good step. He tries it again, and once more, right up until the rubber band of
Peter's restraint snaps and he seizes Stiles' waist, pistioning up into him,
snarling, forcing a cry out of Stiles' mouth. The world speckles black for a
breathless second.
"Fuck," Stiles breathes. He feels he's just on the edge of babbling filth and
being completely unable to hold it back thanks to the way Peter's slamming
upwards into each of Stiles' pushes downward. "God, you're good at this."
Peter chuckles, and Stiles takes solace in the fact that he also sounds
breathless. His free hand skirts up the sensitive skin of Stiles' side just as
his other squeezes Stiles' cock. "You want me to come inside you?"
"Yes."
He drives back down onto Peter's length, his back arching in a way that makes
things even better, and oh, this isn't going to last much longer. He clenches
down on Peter's dick, his body getting desperate and hungry with every passing
second, especially when Peter growls in response and hammers up into him that
much harder, stroking his dick that much faster. He might be on top this time,
but he's definitely not the only one being taken for a ride, eruptions of want
and helpless moans and spasming need taking hostage of his body as he sinks
down again and again on Peter's hot, slick cock, matching each of his thrusts
with his own.
“But first,” Peter says, rubbing his thumb over the pre-come leaking on the
head of Stiles’ cock, “you’re going to come for me.”
“Fuck yes,” Stiles gasps. “Just like—jesus christ, Peter, just like that.
More.”
Peter doesn’t fail to deliver. For a blissful handful of minutes, their bodies
are completely in sync, operating under the same rhythm, meeting each other’s
movements almost effortlessly, Peter thrusting up and Stiles sinking down and
yes yes yes. His body seizes up, every muscle taut, all of it suddenly too much
and too hot and too strong, the pleasure pushing his body and building,
building, building—
Screw the mattress, now Stiles is on a cloud. He didn't think not being
fatigued, depressed, stressed, and hassled would make such a difference as far
as the enjoyment of sex and orgasms go, but here's Stiles' body proving him
wrong, rocketing him off the planet as wave after wave of otherworldly bliss
sweeps over him and the room spins and Stiles has to fight not to moan his
pleasure, fingertips digging into Peter's chest as his thighs quake and he
comes. Everything burns for a second, a white hot stream of pleasure bursting
up Stiles' spine as his release lands on Peter's chest, the hollow of his
neck—God, that's hot—and Stiles' chin drops, head suddenly too heavy.
He tries to lift his hips to sink down onto Peter again, but his energy seems
to have been drained into that out-of-body experience he just underwent, every
inch of himself trembling. He hardly notices the warm hands flexing on his
hips, followed shortly by the squeezing of his waist, and suddenly he's on his
back, Peter's cock slipping out of him and the bed bouncing with the force of
Peter's manhandling of him. His eyes flutter open, heart still beating
furiously, legs still shaking hard, but Peter seems intent of finishing this
properly—together—and pushes up Stiles' knees and instantly slides back into
him.
It's unbelievably intense after that. Peter's fingers are holding him in place
hard enough to bruise and the headboard seems to be shifting with the
animalistic force of his thrusts, and Stiles can't do much but groan and
whimper as Peter fucks him in earnest. The pace he's keeping up is practically
savage, cock driving into Stiles without abandon, praise falling effortlessly
off Stiles' tongue. He convinces his spent body to react, clenching around
Peter's length and reaching out to touch his chest, Stiles' come still on it,
rocking back into Peter's movements as best he can when he's as fucked out and
sated as he is.
"Come in me," Stiles coaxes breathlessly, whining, groaning, sobbing with the
need to feel it, Peter filling him up. "Come on, Peter, fuck. Fuck yes."
Stiles' wrecked, helpless babbling seems to work on Peter like a charm. He
growls, fingernails sharp on Stiles' thigh and face beautifully flushed, and
drives into him with an ardency so clear, so fervent, that Stiles feels
infinitely wanted. He'll never feel this wanted again, this needed, he’s sure
of it. Rushes of breath escape his lips, leaving Stiles light-headed, the slick
push and pull and drag of Peter's dick inside him intoxicating.
"Please," Stiles gasps, begging, pleading. He reaches out blindly and finds
Peter's shoulder. "Peter, please. Oh my god, please."
Peter answers him, a low, rumbling noise of deep fulfillment vibrating all the
way through his body into Stiles' and then he's coming and everything goes
warm, Peter's orgasm opening his mouth and shutting his eyes and painting the
most erotic masturbatory aid in the world for Stiles to feast on right before
he's arching over Stiles to bite his throat, a final, last ditch effort to have
Stiles writhing beneath him under his hot pants of breath fanning over his
shoulder.
They lay like that for a few undisturbed seconds, Stiles' palm sliding to the
sweaty spot on the nape of Peter's neck and Peter breathing heavily onto
Stiles' pulse points, bodies hot and damp against each other, Peter still
inside him and pulling slow, satisfied twitches from Stiles' muscles. He knows
that staying like this forever, curved together and breathing in and out in the
same rhythm, is unrealistic, but fuck if it doesn't sound tempting.
"Stay," Peter murmurs firmly into Stiles' ear, emphasizing his words with a
soft nip on the lobe, then peels himself off of Stiles' body and eases out of
him, Stiles whining at the loss, the feeling almost foreign after reveling in
the intimacy of being so close, so locked together.
Peter slips off the bed with unfairly sturdy feet, legs not showing any signs
of weakness like Stiles' shuddering knees that will probably need to relearn
walking when morning comes like a baby deer toddling along the forest floor.
It's all too easy for Stiles to obey the order as Peter disappears into the
bathroom, the muffled sounds of softy running water identifiable as Stiles
stretches out on the gigantic bed.
"Peter," he slurs after what feels like too long. "'M getting cold."
Peter chuckles, the sound echoing in the bathroom, and then the water turns off
and Peter returns to the bed, sliding onto it and pulling the sheets up around
Stiles' waist as he goes. His chest is clean, wiped of Stiles' come, leaving
Stiles only slightly salty that Peter didn't extend the cleanliness to Stiles'
hole where it's still wet from Peter's come. He probably likes the statement it
makes, how it's irrefutable proof that Stiles has been well fucked by him.
Which he has, Stiles thinks with a dazed smile.
He opens his eyes, still gently descending back to earth, and looks over at
Peter to see if he also seems to have just seen through space and time only to
find Peter watching him with curiously furrowed eyebrows. Not exactly the
expression of utterly fucked out ecstasy, although his heaving chest and sweaty
shoulders would imply otherwise.
"What?" Stiles asks, a part of him still remembering how to form words after
the English language was almost sexed out of his brain.
"Hmm," Peter says. "Just noticing that the honestly acidic scent of shame isn't
joining us this time."
Stiles snorts. "Acidic? Are you fucking kidding me?" He lifts his head only to
flop down onto the pillow again, letting the soft pillowcase tickle his ears.
"What's next, are you going to tell me that you can see colors that humans
can't? That you can sprout wings even without Redbull?"
"Without what?"
"Redbull." Stiles half-heartedly mimes drinking from a can. "You know, the
commercials with the—the—oh, fuck off."
"Why isn't it there?" Peter asks, not bothering to waste any more time on
Stiles' off-topic comments. His fingertips touch Stiles' chest, raking up and
down where the sheet isn't draped over him. "The shame. I'd gotten quite
familiar to it ruining our post-coital haze."
"You were in a haze, huh?" Stiles asks, the grin that spreads his face so
insistent that it almost hurts his cheeks. He'll properly pat himself on the
back for that later. "I don't know. Not feeling like I was just some sleazy
rent boy having sex for money probably helped. This just felt more... real, I
guess?"
Peter huffs, pushing himself up on his elbow and reaching out to toy with the
hair right by Stiles' ear as if the contact soothes him, like even with the sex
over he still isn't done touching, exploring. "It was always real, Stiles."
Stiles elbows him. "I meant emotionally, you robot."
He looks at Peter, waiting for him to finally grasp the concept of Stiles not
feeling swell about his body essentially being on the meat market and how it
might not be fun for some people to give away orgasms for money, and is swept
abruptly off guard when Peter rolls on top of him and looks him dead in the
eyes, his weight heavy on Stiles' hips.
"I don't know how to make it clear to you that it was never about the money,"
Peter says, sounding a little clipped. "I was so sure you were smart."
"What?" Stiles struggles with his knees to get Peter's substantial weight to
roll away again. "Okay, you can get off of me now, thanks."
Peter ignores him, grabbing his cheek a little more forcefully than necessary.
"I wanted you the second I saw you," he says, and from anybody else, it would
sound like a greasy line, but the way Peter's saying it, all rough around the
edges and frustratingly honest, the way it sounds like he's never said words
like these before in his life, makes Stiles feel dizzy in the head. "The money
was just... convenient."
"You mean a convenient bribing technique?"
"Yes."
Stiles feels as if he ought to be a bit more unnerved that handy dandy
opportunities fall in the lap of a person as bad as Peter like they do, and
also a little like the wool's been pulled over his eyes without him even
feeling the scratch of it on his eyebrows. He frowns.
"I feel oddly disappointed in myself for basically fulfilling your plan of
getting me. I think I should've made it a bit harder for you."
Peter scoffs. He's back to touching Stiles again, one hand absently petting
Stiles' hip through the sheet. "It's not like you made it easy. I can't have
you laboring under the delusion that you've made anything at all easy for me."
"Right, okay. And you were a complete bed of roses to work with," Stiles
accuses. "Things became a walk in the park when you showed up."
"Keep the sarcasm up and you can find your bed on the couch."
Stiles lifts his head off the pillow, arching it over Peter's shoulder to try
and see into the dark depths of the other rooms. "I'll take that. I bet the
couch is like sitting on an angel's lap."
Peter rolls off of him again at that but slips one arm under Stiles' neck to
stay close, the protective curve of it all the way around to Stiles’ shoulder
like a silent request for Stiles to stay here, tucked against Peter's chest on
his soft bed. He lets out a long sigh and gives in, tucking himself into
Peter's side.
"Your father is not going to be pleased with me," Peter says, head briefly
arcing up over Stiles shoulder to check the clock on the wall. "Keeping you
here so late. In the arms of a criminal, no less."
"Blegh, in the arms," Stiles groans. "Get out of here, Danielle Steel." He sits
up momentarily, also taking a look at the clock. It's almost morning, nearly
reaching that time when the sun will trickle into the sky and his father will
heave himself out of bed to grab the paper and get the coffee machine gurgling.
"It'll be fine. If you can shimmy me up the drainpipe—you know, spider monkey
style—straight into my room before noon, he might not even notice."
He can't believe he's nearly been up the whole night. He's slept maybe a total
of three hours, then had a brawl with a werewolf in an empty field, then went
home with said werewolf to bone him, and amazingly enough, isn't all that
tired. Usually he's up this late—or this early, technically—because his
insomnia or his nightmares or his sleeplessness is keeping him from falling
into an undisturbed slumber. This is a welcome change. All of it is, really.
"He'll notice," Peter says, hands sliding up and down Stiles' shoulder when he
settles back down into Peter's grip again. "He cares for you very much."
"I know." Stiles pokes Peter in the shoulder, digging his finger in like an
accusation. He bites the inside of his cheeks. "You do too."
"Hm," Peter says. "I suppose I do."
***** Chapter 10 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The day of the trial approached very quickly.
It seemed like after everything was out in the open, time no longer felt
obligated to crawl, and Stiles only blinked and spring arrived and Peter's loan
shark fall-backs were found and everything slotted into place. It would have
been overwhelming if Stiles wasn't too busy soaking in every ounce of feeling
good and happy and untroubled for the first time in weeks to worry about much
else.
They spent an entire hour finding Peter a presentable suit to wear in court
since Peter, as it unshockingly turned out, was not the type to throw together
an outfit carelessly, but rather labor over the complementary colors of a
pocket square and set Stiles to work shining his shoes for twenty minutes.
Stiles let it pass considering the circumstances, the circumstances being a
court date with the law to try and avoid jail and push a few others under the
bus to help the process along. Stiles was a bit nervous himself.
And then, without nearly enough time to mentally prepare, Peter's very own
personal judgment day arrived.
"Well, don't you look sharp."
"I do. Thank you for pointing it out, Stiles."
Peter held out one blazer-clad elbow to be held onto, Stiles taking the
opportunity and looping his arm through as they walked up the courthouse steps
together. He really did look nice—tailored pants, glistening shoes, sunglasses
that made Peter look like an extremely classy member of the FBI. Stiles
probably could've sprung for something nicer than the worn what can't sporks
do?! t-shirt he sometimes slept in.
Stiles didn't actually go and watch the trial—even when interesting, they were
boring, a very best-of-the-worst situation—but he watched the judge file in and
the witnesses and even the loan shark kingpins Peter had described as "high-
strung" and "dramatic" that were taking the brunt of the fall for Peter’s plea
deal. After seeing them strut their way in, Stiles would've gone more with
words like "bulldozing" and "terrifying." Stiles was fairly certain that he
lived a better life just by barely having spoken to any of them, excluding that
terrifying moment where they approached Peter before court began and Stiles was
there slicking Peter's hair back with his thumb when his father wasn't looking.
They were flanked by guards and practically handcuffed to them, but somehow
still looked as if they were in charge and dragging around their own personal
bodyguards, especially the man at the cusp of the group, a slightly older man
with dark sunglasses and an Englishman's tongue.
"Why am I not surprised that you bit the hand that fed you, Peter," he said in
a voice like displeased gravel.
"As if I would ever eat anything you offered me," Peter responded, quick as a
whip, half his body reflexively sliding in front of Stiles. If the man noticed
the protective gesture, Stiles couldn't tell thanks to his black sunglasses. "I
may've learned a few tricks of the trade from you, but make no mistake. I was
never on your side."
"That much is most certainly clear," the man murmured. His fingers were curled
around a silver cane, which helped the pieces slip into place for Stiles. He
was never this frightened of a blind man before, for Christ’s sake, but
something about the way this guy regarded the general air around him almost
made it seem like he could still see.
"I'm glad it is."
"You'll regret this," the man said, and he said it almost pleasantly, smoothly,
like he was deceptively wrapping his promise for revenge in a nice bow. "Jail
is better at holding some people than others." He tipped an eyebrow up, but
Peter didn't take the bait. The most frightening part of the entire
conversation was that everyone was smiling; from a distance it might have even
seemed like they were all just friendly acquaintances conversing, and Stiles
was sufficiently terrified at this smokescreen of niceties everybody was
prowling around behind. "I suppose I should've expected it. Just like a snake,
you are. Always have been."
"More like a wolf," Peter said. "But you'd know all about that, wouldn't you,
Deucalion?"
Stiles felt faint. He swayed a bit on the spot—was everybody around here a
werewolf?!—and the entire group seemed to smell out his weakness. The woman
standing directly behind Shades—Deucalion, was it—shot Stiles a look like she
was trying to decipher Stiles' role in Peter's life and if he'd be worth
kidnapping as revenge, but before she could come to any conclusions, Deucalion
spoke up.
"What a lovely case of Stockholm Syndrome," he murmured, and it took a moment
for Stiles to realize that behind those pitch black eyeglasses, Deucalion was
looking at him.
A flare of indignant outrage prickled up Stiles’ hackles. He was pretty sure he
would have a good comeback at the ready if he wasn't so much out of his element
right now, torn between amazement and fear and a twisted sense of suicidal
curiosity, but as it stood, he could do nothing but gape and say, very
eloquently, “Excuse me. The sex is amazing.”
If nothing else, it stunned them all into silence. Deucalion’s eyebrows climbed
up into his hairline and Stiles proceeded to break into a sputtering, hacking
coughing fit at his own complete lack of a brain.
“Is that so?” Deucalion said, having regained his composure in mere seconds.
“Then I must’ve misunderstood your little… arrangement.”
“It’s not an arrangement,” Peter cut in sharply, and he had a rebuttal for
Deucalion's leveled smirk: a gunmetal smile that left cold breezes wafting
about. “Not that I’d expect you to understand.”
“Ah,” Deucalion said. It was amazing how much condescension could be condensed
into a monosyllabic sound. “The heartless have grown hearts. How charming.”
He smiled at the pair of them, all teeth, and held out a bent arm that the
woman next to him immediately grabbed, guiding him and all of the obediently
following ducklings that made up the rest of the pack along, and with that, the
showdown dispersed.
“That was fucking bizarre,” Stiles said to Peter as he watched their retreating
backs. The only thing to top the bizarreness of the encounter would be if they
all walked in step and had a special pack handshake that they separated with.
“I have the chills.”
“It wasn’t that odd,” Peter threw in, shrugging. “Not for werewolves.” He
turned to Stiles, a growing smirk on his face. “For future reference,
sweetheart, a little bit of warning before you mention our sex life would be
appreciated.”
Stiles thought of all of the crazy things Stiles had endured for Peter, most
pointedly: werewolves. “No,” he said, because if he found something that pushed
Peter’s buttons, he was not letting go. “And what did you just call me?”
Before Peter could answer, people started shuffling toward the courthouse door,
signaling the start of the trial, and the sweet nicknames conversation was
shelved. Hopefully forever.
Three hours later and an unpleasant blend of hungry, bored, and overheated,
Stiles rejoices as the courthouse doors break open and people start filing out
into the heat, Peter's head recognizable among the rest. Stiles shoots to his
feet and waves with both arms.
"Finally," he bemoans when Peter approaches him. "What took so fucking long in
there?"
"The law moves at its own speed," Peter says, pulling his sunglasses out of his
pocket and pushing them onto his nose. "I'm surprised you waited."
"I shouldn't have. It's too goddamn hot out here for me to hanging around like
I'm waiting for all the hot divorced dads to show up." Peter raises an eyebrow
that clearly says oh, is that what you're doing here? that Stiles moves along
quickly. "Where's my dad?"
"Making friends with the judge. You want to go find him?"
"Actually, I want three cheeseburgers," Stiles grumbles. Now that he no longer
has to worry about the trial and picture scenarios where Peter lets out a
dollop of snark at the wrong time, is held in contempt of the court, and gets
thrown in jail, he's focused on his hunger. Peter wouldn't survive jail; Stiles
is sure of it. He craves coffee and Egyptian sheets too much. "Do you want to
get some lunch? My therapist is out of town, which means I'm free this
afternoon and hungry as fuck."
That's another thing that's been different about his life recently: therapy.
Actually getting to thoroughly talk about his life and his mother and his
father without feeling like he's wringing his emotional baggage over someone's
uninterested head. It's nice, getting to sit down a few times a week and just
talk. Have someone tell him that what he's feeling is okay, and that letting it
all out is okay too.
"Sure," Peter says, nudging his sunglasses further up his nose. "But I have a
showing at one thirty today."
"Fast food, then," Stiles suggests.
"Absolutely not," Peter dismisses. "We'll make a lasagna at the house I'm
showing off. The smell of it should lure people in. Remind them of cooking at
home."
As much as he hates to admit it, Peter really is as good as promised with real
estate. The idea of smelling sweet tomato sauce and bubbling cheese when
walking into a clean property sounds downright delightful, a confession Stiles
absolutely refuses to say out loud as they drive over to the nearest
supermarket and Stiles juggles grocery items while Peter throws lasagna
ingredients into the cart.
“That trial went pretty well,” Stiles says absently as he tries to add a fourth
apple into the mix of his juggling act. “Except for that creepy part at the
beginning with the goddamn Addams Family.” An apple drops out of his grip and
lands on the floor, breaking up the fluency of his rhythm. “Actually, no. The
actual Addams Family was a good group of people. I take that back.”
His clumsiness flares up as he feels two more apples fall out of sync of his
hands, and Peter, laser sharp reflexes for once coming in handy, snatches them
both up before they reach the floor to join their bruised Granny Smith brother.
“I assure you that you won’t see them again,” Peter says, putting the apples
back where they came from and putting an official end to Stiles’ circus
talents.
He veers the cart down the aisle to the vegetables, Stiles hastening to keep
up.
"You should've told me they're werewolves."
Peter shrugs as he tosses a bag of garlic in the shopping cart like it's really
no big deal that the people he's thrown under the bus to save his own hide are
a group of powerful, hungry, and now vengeful werewolves. How good are cells at
keeping werewolves contained anyway?
"I thought I did," Peter murmurs. "No matter, though."
"They could've ripped the entire police force apart when they came to bust
them," Stiles reminds him. "Including my dad."
"Oh, that wouldn't have happened." He steers the car around the aisle's corner.
"I had Derek tail them."
"You did?"
“I highly doubted they would be violent. Werewolves don’t exactly like drawing
attention to their bloody massacres unless it’s to make a point, and murdering
an entire police force is not what I would call a smart—or subtle—scheme.” He
shrugs. “But I had Derek go anyway, just in case.”
“That’s surprisingly considerate.”
“It’s considerate that I didn’t let your father be killed?” Peter murmurs,
distracted by two different brands of tomato paste he’s comparing critically.
“From you, yeah.” Stiles pokes him in the side and grins. “I have low
standards.”
“I beg your pardon,” Peter says. He straightens out his shoulders. “I am a
gem.”
“Sure,” Stiles says, seeing no point in arguing. “But your romantic gestures
leave a lot to be desired.”
Peter makes a soft noise of irritation at not being whole-heartedly valued at
every moment of the day. Stiles turns away from him, staring instead at the
shelves of cans. So many brands. So many different decisions. Peter grabs one
of tomato sauce with the sort of confidence only a well-accomplished cook can
have. It makes Stiles realize that Peter might actually have a lot of skills
Stiles has yet to find out about. He’s looking forward to getting to know all
of them.
"Listen, I just wanted to tell you," Stiles says to the cans of tomato sauce
he's absent-mindedly reading the labels of. "Remember all that stuff I told you
about what happened to me with my teacher?"
In his peripherals, Stiles can see Peter's hands visibly tighten on the cart.
"How could I forget," he says.
"I don't know if this is even something you've been thinking about, but. It was
never the same with you," Stiles says, turning as red as the canned tomatoes
he's pretending to be thoroughly examining. "I always wanted it, even if I
totally hated myself for it. And I thought I never would want to do any of that
again, but then you were there and I... just wanted to."
"It's not like I was giving you a choice."
Stiles grabs Peter's wrist, pulling his attention up from the jars he's
grinding his teeth at. "You were. I could've said no. I definitely didn't have
to take my pants off and let you fuck me."
Peter's quiet for a moment, but if the nearly unnoticeable relaxation in his
clenched jaw is any sign, he seems to be agreeing.
"But you did," Peter says, "because you wanted me."
"Don't make this about you, you bastard," Stiles says the second he sees a
smile start to creep up on Peter's face. "Why does everything go back to you
and your ego? Isn't it big enough?"
"He's in jail, isn't he?"
"...what?" Stiles asks, thrown by the non sequitur. Not that he's surprised
that Peter's avoiding a question that leads back to his blatant narcissism.
"Your teacher," Peter says, his voice deceptively cool. It sounds like a serial
killer trying to keep that deadly edge out of his voice while talking to the
unsuspecting neighbors and failing miserably.
"Uh. Yeah. My dad arrested him. Why?"
"I'm good with these," Peter says, and it takes Stiles a second to realize that
Peter's hand, furled around a jar of peeled tomatoes, is freshly clawed.
Stiles' eyes widen to beach ball proportions.
"What the fuck?" Stiles says, twirling urgently around to see if there are any
stunned, pointing onlookers nearby. "Could you try to act like a normal human
for just like. Five seconds?! Please?!"
Stiles watches as the claws slowly but surely retract into rounded human nails
and refuses to admit that that is the coolest thing he's ever seen in his
entire life. He nudges two knuckles gently against Peter's wrist, hoping the
touch might ground him a little. At least enough that he doesn't wolf out here
in the preserved vegetables aisle and scar some unsuspecting fellow customers
for life.
"Okay," Peter finally says with an exaggerated sigh. "But only for five
seconds."
Stiles wonders if this is him trying to brighten the mood, making up for all
the humor that Stiles is usually bringing to the table but is currently
swapping out for some rare seriousness. Maybe Peter's idea of humor is
terrifying the fuck out of everybody.
"It was different with you," Stiles says under his breath, going red. "It was
like... a nice distraction." Peter's eyes narrow the barest of centimeters,
probably because he wasn't just described as the lover to end all future sex
endeavors because what's the point and takes offense at a word as meek as a
"distraction." "The point is that it wasn't some horrible non-consensual
thing."
Peter nods slowly. If he's been concerned about any of that, he's never brought
it up, but Stiles is fairly certain there's a smidgen of relief in his body
language right about now. Neither of them planned for the other to play
permanent roles in each other's lives, but that's where they're at now, and
it's somewhat nice to know that it didn't start as a complete nightmare. They
definitely haven't done any of this conventionally, but if it ain’t broke, why
fix it.
"And I'm sorry," Stiles says, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He dumps the cans
in his hands in the cart already, unable to look at them anymore. "It was a
little hypocritical of me to get mad because you looked up my file when I
looked up yours too. I think I was just embarrassed about mine."
"Nothing to be embarrassed about," Peter says, and it sounds like he's making
an extremely conscious effort to keep his voice pleasantly gentle, a direct
contrast to the white knuckles wrapped around the shopping cart's handle. "And
I accept your much, much belated apology."
"Dude."
"What? Would you prefer I refuse to accept it and make you grovel?"
“I would prefer you smashing a jar of tomatoes over your head.”
“Really now?” Peter glances down at the jar in his hand and seems to consider
its potential for pain, or possibly just how long he’d have to wash crushed
tomatoes out of his precious shirt. Then he holds it out for Stiles to take.
“Wouldn’t it be more satisfying if you did the honors?”
Stiles snatches it from him and shoves it back into the shelf. Honestly, he
doesn’t want to have to deal with the embarrassment of walking around with
someone wearing tomatoes like a hat, but that doesn’t mean he appreciates Peter
calling his bluff.
“You know you're kind of a bastard, right?"
--
Peter makes the lasagna while Stiles pretends to help making the lasagna,
instead staying busy fishing al dente noodles out of the pot and licking the
béchamel spoon clean. It appears that Peter's not a bad cook, and the heavenly
wafts coming from the oven seem to back up that statement. It only gets better
as he pulls the dish out of the oven with oven mitts that have tiny snowmen on
them.
"Try it," Peter says, holding a fork he's hovering a palm under in front of
Stiles' face. There are strings of delectably melted cheese hanging from the
prongs and from this distance the smell is strong enough to make him salivate.
"Did anybody hear Pavlov ring a bell by chance?" Stiles quips, licking his
lips. "I'm about to drool. Give me the good stuff."
Peter nudges the fork forward into Stiles' mouth, an explosion of fresh
tomatoes and sharp pepper and mozzarella cheese and soft pasta and creamy sauce
assaulting him like a punch to the face, the kind of punch probably delivered
by a celebrity or the pope that Stiles would beg to feel hit him again. Peter
pulls the fork back out, Stiles licking it clean before it goes.
"How'd you learn to do this?" Stiles asks, because this adds a whole new
dimension to Peter that he hadn't been prepared for. "Was this what you were
doing after we met up in alleys for sex? Putting on aprons and preparing for
the next Iron Chef? Because it kind of ruins my image of you."
"What do you think? Do you like it?"
"I love it," Stiles says honestly. "I really, really love it." I love you. I'm
in love with you too. More than the lasagna. "Give me another bite."
He grabs the fork from Peter and goes to dive back into the lasagna dish for a
larger, cheesier bite, but Peter abruptly yanks the dish away before Stiles can
make contact.
“No,” Peter says. “Let it cool down.”
It sounds like I care about you. Like one of the many fucking ways someone who
doesn’t know how to say I love you, who treats it like a foreign word they
can’t really pronounce or understand, says it anyway. Stiles smiles at his lap,
thinking of how long it took them to get there, and how absolutely, completely,
unbelievably worth it it actually was.
“Hey,” Stiles says, putting his fork down in resignation. “Can we go to your
place later? Take off our pants?”
Peter looks a tad sheepish. "It's a bit of a mess," he hedges.
"Oh, what the fuck ever. The place looked like a model home the last time I was
there."
Peter looks at him for a few moments, then grabs a knife from the cupboard by
the fridge and slices into the lasagna, and Stiles’ eyes nearly flutter closed
at the way the cheese clutches to the knife and a fresh wave of tomatoes wafts
up his nose.
“Fine,” Peter agrees. “After I’m done with work.”
“A working man,” Stiles says, smiling. “A legally working man. Doesn’t the
sound of that turn you on?”
“No,” Peter deadpans, and hands him a plate. “Shut up and eat.”
--
"So how are we celebrating the trial being over?" Stiles asks as Peter unlocks
the front door. "How about you suck me off while I raid your fridge?"
He reaches for Peter's annoyingly hot workplace attire tie and wraps it around
his hand, pulling Peter in for a quick erotic nibble to the lower lip.
Something about the tie makes him feel like a cowboy gripping a wild horse's
reins as he rides off into a dusty desert at dawn.
"How are you still hungry?" Peter asks on his mouth.
"I'm a teenage boy," Stiles says, tilting his head for a proper kiss before
Peter pushes the door open, a subtle request for Stiles to bring his sexy ass
inside or he's about to be ravished in a hallway—at least, that's what Stiles
likes to imagine is Peter's thought process.
"That you are," Peter says as he slides inside and holds the door open for
Stiles to follow, sounding rather appreciative.
Stiles is just about to show him exactly all the things a teenage boy can be
hungry for when he steps into the apartment and stumbles to a halt, noticing a
familiar hard-boiled face glaring at him from the dining room table. "Oh. Hi."
He twists around, glaring at Peter. "You said your place was a mess. Not that
you had your family here."
"He is a mess," Peter says, shrugging. "Stiles, you know Derek."
And now Derek knows a little too much about Stiles' sexual endeavors for the
evening—a steely voice repeatedly saying nothing, Stiles! Tell me nothing!
flits through his brain—and Stiles is going to have to sweep all plans of lazy
blowjobs out of his mind unless he's okay with Derek castrating him out of
spite. Stiles waves at him, Derek reciprocating with a short jerk of the head.
"I sure do," Stiles says. "What's going on here?"
"Derek's just staying for a few days while he looks for a place to stay."
"Oh. You guys are pretty close then, I guess?"
"With Peter, it's not being close," Derek huffs, "it's being in striking
range.”
"Oh my god," Stiles mutters, the consternation building up in his stomach as he
starts putting a few unfortunate dots together. "Is it because you're broke? Is
it because I robbed you of your income and forced you to sell your mansion?"
"Mansion?"
"Stiles," Peter says, sliding his palm over Stiles' shoulder. "Derek's looking
for a spot on campus so he can be closer to school."
"He—really?" Stiles realizes then that the table Derek's sitting at is covered
in notebooks and a half-open laptop, a pen slotted between his fingers. "You're
going back to school? Hey, so I wasn't too off with Cordon Bleu, huh?"
"What."
"And it was almost a good thing then, right? Me ending your lucrative career
was a chance for you to continue your education," Stiles says, beaming at
Derek's impassive block of a face.
"Stop talking," Derek says, slamming the textbook open in front of him closed.
"I can get out of your hair for the evening if you need... some time."
"That's not necessary, really," Stiles says, just as Peter pipes in with:
"Wonderful."
"You can stay," Stiles says out of some helpless reflex to be nice even though
all he'd really like is for Derek to make a timely exit so Stiles can take his
clothes off and get sucked off. "We could get to know each other. Break out a
friendly game of Uno."
There's no such thing as a friendly game of Uno as far as Stiles' experience
goes, but he feels obligated to make the effort to befriend Peter's family much
in the same way Peter's befriended his father. By which he means generally
staying out of his dad's hair and having Stiles pass along the cordial "Peter
says hi" message to him now and again to slowly dismantle the Horrible Loan
Shark image the sheriff's used to and replacing it with the Reputable Boyfriend
image Stiles is striving for.
And somehow, even with all of those flaming rings to jump through just to get
the two of them to the point where they can have a pleasant conversation,
Stiles thinks it might actually be harder for him to successfully reach out to
Derek.
"Another time," Derek says in a voice that makes it clear that such a time will
never exist. "I have a lot of studying to do."
"I'm sure we can find other games to play without you, Derek," Peter says
cheekily as he sidles up to Stiles' backside and drapes his arms over Stiles'
shoulders, keeping him close.
"I'm sure you can," Derek replies rather dryly. He stuffs his books into a
backpack slung over his chair and gets to his feet with the hastiness of
someone convinced that clothes are about to be coming off and it's only a
matter of counting down the seconds until that happens, thundering his way over
to the door. "I'll be back later. Much later."
The door slams. Stiles can't say he's too sorry to see him go, especially not
with Peter starting to nibble on his neck and his hands tracing his chest
through his shirt, but he really does think the two of them should give hanging
out a try as long as Derek agrees to leave that sour patch expression off his
face and his ice sculpture exterior at home.
"Derek doesn't like me, does he?"
Peter hums on his neck. "I wouldn't say that. He's just heard me talking about
you more than he'd like to know."
"Right. Derek told me that you talk about me to him."
"He did?"
"He did," Stiles says, beaming. He curls his hands around Peter's wrists where
his hands are flat on his chest, roaming. "What have you said to him? That I'm
the best lover you've ever had? That when I'm not around, you sniff out my
scent in the air and cry a little? Maybe you listen to Elton John songs and
pretend I wrote them for you?"
"Do you want to stand here and talk about Elton John," Peter offers, and
suddenly his hands aren't flat on Stiles' chest anymore, they're wandering down
to his thighs and—oh. "Or do you want to have me fuck you over the nearest flat
surface?"
"Done. Sold." Stiles whips around in Peter's arms, pressing himself close. They
can talk about Elton John later.
--
Stiles ends up choosing the second option. He pretty much chooses it for
majority of the night, actually, and it takes a while for him to tire out,
probably because he's sleeping with a werewolf with infinitely more strength
than him no matter how long they roll around in the sheets. It isn't long
before Stiles only vaguely recalls conking out and falling into a very sound,
very sweaty sleep, awoken only by the eleven o'clock sun the next day. Stiles
can't even begin to put into words how nice it feels to successfully sleep in
again.
"You know what would be incredibly arousing," Peter purrs, dragging his
fingertips up and down Stiles' bare thigh while he enjoys the pleasures of
waking up naked in a sunlit, skyscraper apartment swaddled in expensive sheets.
"What?"
"If you made me a cup of coffee."
"What?"
And there's the end of the idea that Stiles is about to spend the next hour or
so being teased by a dexterous tongue. He throws Peter's hand off of him but
still reluctantly sits up, grabbing blearily for his socks and his pajama
pants, mostly because he wants the reputation of being the kind of person who
will both be previous night's dessert and offer to help with the next morning's
beverages.
It takes him a while to figure out how to use Peter's robot of a coffee
machine. He stands there, refusing to admit defeat and call for Peter's help,
while he experimentally presses buttons and waits for caffeine to be dispensed.
He raids Peter's kitchen cabinets in the meantime and finds they are dreadfully
dull as far as creativity goes—even his mugs, which have the opportunity of
being exciting colors and wearing amusing puns or sentiments, are white and
elegant.
Eventually, the machine starts whirring like it's finally obeying Stiles'
attempts to produce results for all his efforts, and Stiles lets it do its
magic while he impatiently circles the kitchen. Now that the fascination of
Peter's magazine-worthy luxury apartment and furniture has worn off, Stiles is
noticing how boring all of it really is. Everything is the same color, all
neutral shades. Everything is white and gray and beige. Everything has a sharp
angle. Nothing has a personal touch. All that is there, incidentally, are
pieces of glamour that remind Stiles, even long after all of it is over,
exactly what horrible profession Peter was in. The spoils of his work are all
over.
Stiles remembers stumbling in here with Peter after that night sparring in the
field. At the time, he had been impressed and aroused and too fucking mind
blown that they had pulled off getting Peter legally out of jail, and his mind
was on celebrating all this with a party of the nude variety, but now he's
clear-headed and remembers also how he had asked Peter to remove all of the
glamorous luxury items and Peter, as he should have expected, didn't comply.
"I realize I didn't specify, but I also would've appreciated you bringing me
the coffee," Peter says, abruptly there behind Stiles and pulling a topped off
mug of coffee out from underneath the machine.
"I'm not actually a butler, you know that, right?"
Stiles turns around from where he's staring out over the disappointment of
Peter's unfulfilled promise. Peter's in nothing but snug boxers and is pulling
a second mug from his cupboard to make Stiles his own cup, and it bothers
Stiles more than it should that it's another stark white mug without a hint of
character.
"You haven't gotten rid of any of your old things,” Stiles says, and his voice
sounds more disappointed than he thought he would be.
Peter turns around where he’s working the coffee machine, following Stiles’
gaze to some of the luxury furniture still around the apartment. He pushes a
mug, freshly full with steaming coffee, into Stiles’ hands.
“They’re just a few things,” Peter says with a lofty wave of his hand.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
Stiles points a finger at him, setting the mug down. “Use your real estate
voice on me. Like I’m a client you just have to manipulate into agreeing with
you.”
He looks away; it’s fundamentally unfair that they’re having this conversation
while Peter’s half naked, dressed in nothing but low-hanging boxers that beg
for Stiles’ attention. He distracts himself by opening a few kitchen cupboards,
busying himself with the contents. The fondue fountain, a piece Stiles had been
sure Peter was just teasing him about, stands tall and proud on the top shelf.
“Like this,” Stiles says, hauling the fountain down from its perch. “What do
you need this for?”
“Soirees.”
“Soirees? Are you fucking kidding me?” Stiles holds the fountain to his chest
like he refuses to let Peter make a grab for it, a part of him wondering
exactly how much trouble he’d be in if he threw it out the nearest window. “Is
it really that hard for you to let all this shit go?”
“What does it even matter, Stiles?”
“It matters! It matters because all these things," Stiles begins, looking down
at the ridiculously shiny fountain in his arms, the metal cool against his
skin, "are souvenirs from my least favorite part of you."
"Your least favorite part of me?"
"The part of you that thinks it's okay to cheat people out of their cash and
then use said cash to decorate your place into Hugh Hefner's summer house."
Stiles looks around, realizing he could point anywhere in this apartment and
end up on something unnecessary, expensive, and proof of Peter's crooked
career. He sighs. "The loan shark part of you."
"I'm not a loan shark anymore, Stiles."
"Yeah. Because I made you give it up! Because you'd be in jail otherwise!" he
yells. "If I wasn't here, if you had never gotten caught, you'd still be out
there harassing people for money. Admit it!"
"I would."
"See?!" he wails. "That's already bad enough. Why the fuck do I need proof of
how much of a shitty person you can be all around me?"
Stiles slams the fountain down on the kitchen counter. It feels absurd to be
holding it like ammunition, like it's done Stiles some inconsolable wrong, and
it clatters loudly on the marble countertop. Marble, of course.
The fight seems to have flatlined, leaving nothing but what's nearly a loud
dial tone in Stiles' ears behind. He supports himself on the counter, laying
one palm flat on the cool surface and trying not to look at that damn fountain.
"You don't have to be here," Peter says, taking a step closer, "if you don't
want to see any of it."
His voice seems completely wooden, void of emotion. It's the same voice he used
when Stiles confronted him outside the IHOP and demanded answers, and the only
answer Peter could give him was to coolly tell him to leave. It seems to be his
one and only move, suggesting that people walk away.
"So that's how this goes? You tell me to go?" Stiles asks, staring fixedly at
the floor.
"Well, you just called me a shitty person. I think I have the right."
Stiles' head snaps up. "I didn't say that. I said you can be a shitty person."
"That's who I am, then," Peter says, taking another step closer. "And you know
that."
"Maybe I was dumb enough to think you had the capacity to change."
Peter smiles. It isn't a time for smiling, and an urge is incoming that Stiles
hasn't felt in a shockingly long while: the urge to lash out and punch Peter
straight in the nose like a shark getting a little too close.
"You were," Peter says. "And if my furniture is the tip of the iceberg for you,
I doubt you can handle whatever it is we have coming for us in the future."
"Oh, fuck you, asshole."
Stiles is just about done; he's been called dumb and cowardly all in under
thirty seconds and here's his chance to prove himself, basically, since someone
even only questionably smart has enough common sense to get out now instead of
wait for yet more jibes and insults. He turns around, pushing away from that
drab white counter and abandoning his drab black coffee in a drab colorless
mug, heading straight back into the bedroom to scoop up his wrinkled clothes
off the floor. He spares the messy bed a look of disdain considering that if he
had just stayed in bed, none of this ludicrous fight would've happened. At
least not so soon.
"Where exactly are you going?" Peter asks as Stiles storms back out, clothes in
hand. He sounds bored.
"Home," Stiles says, hating that Peter knows where that is, can find him there
if he likes. To try and ensure that he doesn't, he says again, "You’re an
asshole.”
--
Stiles doesn’t go home. It feels frustratingly predictable, not to mention that
Stiles is honestly much too used to feeling miserable in his room. Those times
are behind him, and he doesn’t want to relive them, especially not by hunkering
down under his sheets in the middle of the day and waiting for the insomnia to
come back to him because his tinman boyfriend never grew a heart.
Instead he stops to get himself frozen yogurt and makes plans with Scott to
watch Buffy tonight while he eats, doing his best to not wait for text messages
from Peter to come in. It's not that he expects anything to chime in from him,
but he also knows that Peter, if anything, is good for taking people by
surprise.
After a little while, he goes and buys himself that new CD he's been wanting
and spends some times jamming out to it in his car to cheer himself up, driving
without a goal around Beacon Hills until he comes up with a marvelous plan for
his afternoon, something he hasn't done in a while: go visit his mother.
The cemetery is quiet by the time Stiles shows up, not even a flower-bearing
widow around to keep Stiles company as he parks his car in the empty lot, and
he finds that the silence is strangely soothing. He walks around for a while,
reading graves and waving at them like they have the capability of waving back,
before he comes to a stop in front of a familiar tombstone. It hits him then
just how long it's been since he's seen it, the fact that the ground's no
longer covered in crisp orange leaves giving him the opportunity to figure out
exactly how long.
His mother's grave looks completely different in the summer than it does in the
winter. The green grass really makes it stand out, to say nothing of the
flourishing flowers surrounding it, growing unprompted, unplanted, a sight
that's a total juxtaposition to the cold, barren blanket of ice that surrounded
it just a few months ago.
Stiles thinks he's come a long way. It used to be agonizing just to hear
someone mention his mother, pure torture to see a picture of her. He once spent
an entire afternoon hiding every photograph of her he could find in a box to
shove into the basement just to save himself the crushing pain of accidentally
catching her two-dimensional gaze from a frame across the room. He thinks that
it's about time he unearthed that box and put those pictures back where they
belong, and while he's at it, fix that frame his father broke.
"So mom," Stiles says to the stone in front of him. "I think you'd be really
proud of me. Me and dad, actually. We're doing okay."
He looks at the stone, the Claudia Stilinski etched into it, and feels like
she's listening. It reminds him of a time not too long ago when he clung onto
even his nightmares because it let him see her face again, alive and well. She
really would be proud of him.
"We really struggled a lot after you left. It felt like there was this—it was
like someone had taken a cookie cutter to my heart, basically. It fucking
sucked." He smiles, pausing, remembering his manners. "Sorry. I know you hate
it when I cuss."
He can almost hear her retort, a very sharp well, you do what you want with the
alphabet, but I definitely don't like it.
"I'm getting better," Stiles continues. "And with other stuff too. Like coming
to terms with the fact that you're not here every day." His eyes stray to a
bright tulip growing nearby, arching toward the sun. "It's okay. I mean, no one
can ever replace you, but I'm not alone. I thought I was alone for a long time.
I'm not, though. I still have dad, who's doing better. And Scott, who was by my
side every single time I asked him to be there, as corny as that sounds. And
even some wild cards who I didn't even expect, like Peter, who—who's coming
right at us right now. Yeah, that's definitely him."
Stiles gets to his feet, brushing grass off his jeans as Peter comes closer,
weaving through the headstones.
“The stalking isn’t cute, by the way,” Stiles hollers in his direction.
Peter approaches him, stopping only when they’re nose to nose. He silences
Stiles with a kiss, his lips twisted into a smirk where they’re aligned against
Stiles’, and Stiles gives into it before he even remembers that he's supposed
to be upset with him.
“Shh,” Peter murmurs when he feels Stiles stiffen, replacing his mouth with his
index finger. “Don’t yell in a cemetery. People are trying to mourn.”
“Yeah, me,” Stiles says, pointing to the headstone. “I’m in the middle of a
conversation here.”
Peter follows his gaze to the grave, falling silent. It almost feels like
Peter’s staring at Stiles’ mother, and she’s staring back, as if meeting each
other in life. Then he slips his hand to the small of Stiles’ back, the palm of
it through his coat feeling like a silent reassurance that it’s okay and it's
all right to miss her.
“Me too, actually,” Peter says. He points down the cemetery to where a cluster
of graves sit closely together, tall, magnificent stones amidst the grass. “A
couple of family members."
"Oh really? So this isn't you searching me out to apologize?"
Something he says makes Peter smile. "Cockiness is very becoming on you," Peter
tells him. "I believe I've been rubbing off on you."
"In more ways than one," Stiles says, unable to resist.
Peter arches a brow. "Still? Even after this morning?"
"Shut up," Stiles says, more out of habit than actual vehemence. He fidgets
with the short strands of hair by his ear, trying to smooth them back. "I was
angry. I wasn't breaking up with you." He frowns. "Why? Replace me yet?"
Peter's eyebrow lowers again, but his eyes slide upwards instead, a slow roll
of the eyes that Stiles is not amused by. Some horribly attached reflex tells
Stiles to tug on Peter's sleeve until he answers, and he ignores the ridiculous
instinct.
"Come on," Peter says, ignoring his question altogether and reaching for his
wrist, pulling it into his grip and using it to tug Stiles through the
headstones, leading him straight to the collection of graves he had pointed at
earlier. Mostly all of them have Hale engraved on them somewhere. Stiles falls
silent at the sight.
He knows from the police reports that after the fire was over, a lot of bodies
couldn't even be identified, too charred, too mangled. It makes Stiles wonder
if a lot of the graves here are empty, put up just in spirit. It also makes him
wonder if Peter comes here a lot, or maybe just has recently with the extra
time on his hands. If Peter sometimes goes home too, or if that's all burned to
the ground by now.
"I believe in ghosts," Stiles blurts out. How can he not be thinking about it
when the very engravings of these stones seem to be pulling him in by the
nostrils just to get a good look at him. "I think my great uncle haunts my
house. Sometimes I can smell this really awful cigar smoke in there. It smells
so bad, but I almost like it when it shows up. It's like I can imagine him
sitting on the couch making smoke rings just to impress me just like he used
to."
He doesn't know why he shared that. Oddly enough, it just felt like the thing
to say. Stiles highly doubts that Peter's fancy modern apartment has any
deceased spirits roaming about, but you never know. Stranger fucking things
have happened.
“Hmm,” Peter murmurs. “I don’t think I believe in ghosts.”
“Yeah? Why not?”
Peter cocks his head to the graves beneath them and settles down on the grass.
“Because if they existed, these motherfuckers would be all over me,” he says,
patting the spot beside him in invitation.
Stiles wonders if he’s kidding, and when he realizes he isn’t, he can’t help
it: he laughs. He follows Peter’s example and sits down next to him, stretching
his legs out in front of himself.
“Exactly how many people have you fucked over?”
“Oh, countless,” Peter murmurs, shaking his head. Then he looks over at Stiles
with an expression Stiles can’t entirely read, like he’s waiting for Stiles to
tell him what emotion would be appropriate for the conversation, if he’s still
in the doghouse or not. “You included?”
Stiles is momentarily amazed, not that he intends to let it show. He thinks
this is probably the closest he’ll ever get to hearing Peter admit that he’s
done something wrong, that he might even regret the way he started things with
Stiles, that his actions have real life repercussions on people.
“Nah,” Stiles says, carefully keeping his voice level. He squeezes the
nonexistent muscle on his bicep, flexing his arm. “I have tough skin.”
Peter doesn’t even seem to bother hiding his snort of derision. “I see.”
“And do you really think I would have stuck around if I was all that mad?”
Stiles says. Peter’s eye twitches, like he has let the thoughts of revenge is a
dish best served cold and keep your enemies closer marinate in his brain a few
times when looking at Stiles, not that he’d speak his doubts out loud. Stiles
is actually a little glad he has doubts, if only to prove that even Peter
doesn’t always have complete control over his life and the people in it and the
emotions crashing over him, but experiences regret and uncertainty just like
everybody else bumbling around the world. “I’m not out to get you.”
“I’m so very glad,” Peter says dryly.
“Be serious for a second,” Stiles snaps, and Peter actually shuts up. “I have
to thank you, I think," he continues, his hands occupied on the soft, cool
brush of the grass against his hands. "I'm not used to it."
"Me neither. You're usually blaming me for things."
"Well, you're usually to blame for things," Stiles says, chuckling. "I'm
serious, though." He reaches over the ground, hand damp from the grass's dew,
and curls his fingers around Peter's where they're resting on his knee. "You
know, it wasn't even that long ago when it felt like... like my life wasn't
even my own anymore. Like someone was up there just throwing as many wrenches
into my plans as possible."
Peter hums, eyes directed straight ahead at the family of graves sitting around
them, as if listening, as if sitting around a campfire sharing stories and old
woes. "And what did your plans include?" he asks.
"My mom," Stiles tells him. "There was more, but that was the most important
part. It’s like I could see my whole life in my head, and she was always there
too. My graduation. My first job. Being fired from my first job. My whole life
coming together. And then, all of a sudden, all that stuff just... wasn't
possible anymore. And it didn't matter that I had pictured it all a certain
way." He looks at Peter. "And I know you know what that's like."
Peter hums again, this time in quiet agreement. The stones all around them are
proof enough. It doesn't matter who Peter lost or how he lost them or how much
he misses them every day, Stiles gets it. A loss is a loss. Stiles squeezes the
curve of Peter's knuckles in his hand.
"And then you showed up," Stiles says. "And you were rude and rough and in my
face and, well. You were in other places too."
"Stiles."
"But the point is that you made me feel things again. For the first time in
forever. I feel crazy even saying any of this, but it was like I was—I was. I
was finally alive again. I mean, you were sucking me off in public
restaurants." Stiles takes in a long breath, mildly aware that Peter's gaze has
moved from the stones to Stiles, listening carefully. "And you went about it
all wrong, yeah. But I'm going to say thank you anyway."
Peter leans in, and suddenly his hand is curled around Stiles' temple, pulling
him in until his lips are pushing against Stiles' chin in a firm kiss.
Everything Peter does is rough, unrefined, like he doesn't know how to be
gentle or empathic or something Stiles can love, but Stiles doesn't mind. If
Peter had been the opposite of all those things, he'd never be sitting here
thanking him at all.
"You're welcome," Peter murmurs on his jaw.
"Sure," Stiles says, smiling, feeling refreshingly lighter. "You know, I don't
dream about her anymore." He turns to Peter, shrugging. "I miss her, but I'm
glad I don't.
He's forgotten they're fighting at this point. Or were. All Stiles knows of
fighting is throwing playground dirt at each other, stomping off for a few
hours, complaining to his dad, and inevitably meeting up for snacks later—a
foolproof tactic he and Scott have been recycling since kindergarten—and he
hasn't even considered until now that might not be how adults in relationships
work.
Relationships. Dear god, Stiles is in a real relationship with this fuck up of
a man beside him.
"I want to show you something," Peter says, getting to his feet and brushing
stray pieces of grass off himself. Stiles belatedly realizes it isn't his suit,
but his day clothes, almost like he took a day off work to go find Stiles and
talk to him.
"What is it?"
"Just come on," Peter says, grabbing Stiles’ wrist again to use as his own
personal leash.
“I’m not sure I like being pulled around like a misbehaving dog,” Stiles says,
yanked unceremoniously to his feet with the strength of Peter’s tugging.
Peter looks down at where his fingers are wrapped around Stiles’ wrist like a
handcuff and seems to agree that the sight of it is rather undignified. His
hand slides lower until it’s folded against Stiles’, almost like a proper
couple properly holding hands. A tiny, nearly embarrassing head rush hits
Stiles like he's back in elementary school making mud pies with someone he's
nursing a crush for.
“Is this better?” Peter asks.
“Yes,” Stiles admits, flexing his fingers experimentally in Peter’s hold.
“Good,” Peter says, and goes back to pulling Stiles out of the cemetery.
--
Their destination is Peter’s apartment. Stiles is nearly positive this is just
an obvious attempt to find a place for them to have sex, but nobody’s clothes
are torn off the second they’re behind closed doors, so Stiles is forced to
rethink that assumption. There’s also not a giant pinball machine or bubbling
hot tub sitting in the middle of the apartment as Stiles’ apology gift and
Peter’s peace offering for being a massive douchebag, so Stiles is wondering
exactly what there was to urgently show him here.
"So I thought we could make this a grab bag situation," Peter says, hanging up
his key. "Take whatever you'd like."
"What?"
"And whatever you don't like, we can drive to the Grand Canyon and throw it off
the edge if it's so damn important to you. It might be nice to watch everything
crash and break," Peter suggests, shrugging. "But I do admit, there's something
very... alluring about the idea of giving it all away to charity. I'm very
altruistic, you know."
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
Peter turns around from where he's gesturing at large to the entire apartment,
throwing an unimpressed, arched brow at Stiles. "Altruistic, sweetheart," he
says slowly. "Means I'm a selfless, kind, all-around wonderful—"
"Shut up, Peter, I'm talking about whatever it is you're trying to say here,"
Stiles says. He sweeps his eyes over the wide range Peter gesticulated to a few
moments ago and all of the luxury furniture and glamorous knickknacks in it.
"Are you getting rid of your things?"
Peter takes a rather stiff breath in. "I'm offering it, yes."
"And—and you want to throw everything you own over the Grand Canyon?" Stiles
asks, still trying to make sense of all this. "What?"
"Well, not everything."
Peter's serious. It takes Stiles a couple of long blinks in his direction to
realize it, but he's serious. For whatever unknown, possibly sinister reason,
Peter's abandoned all of his materialistic attachments, and Stiles is
completely lost. He's serious.
"Why exactly are you doing this?"
"Because," Peter says, sounding frustrated, like he's getting annoyed with the
alphabet, with the restrictions of his own words, with his attempt to share his
thoughts and it not working out. "I'm trying to make things right for you."
“Oh.”
Stiles has to admit, he didn’t see this coming. He was pretty much convinced
that Peter was just too attached to his material gain to give it up, especially
after their argument, and it didn’t matter who was asking him to value a person
over an object.
The thing is, Stiles is starting to realize that it never really was about the
stuff. Stuff doesn’t make a person. If it did, it would be way too easy to
judge Stiles based on that snowboarder decal on his wall. And it’s not exactly
fair for Stiles to try and force Peter to give up his things like a nun heading
to a convent just because Stiles has it in his head that one day Peter will
look at Stiles and realize he’s not enough and go back to loan sharking and
sleeping with agile boys and never look back.
Stiles sighs. This is probably why seventeen year olds should not be
relationships. They are immature, selfish, impulsive people who can give their
insane, criminal, self-absorbed boyfriends a run for their money. He walks over
to Peter’s nice couch and touches it, feels the smoothness of the fabric under
his touch, and grazes by it to the espresso-colored bookshelf with the
pretentiously obscure books Stiles is willing to bet not even Peter’s read, and
ends up lingering by the glass desk with the mint condition computer.
It’d be easy for him to give in and be jealous and angry and leave. Leaving is
easy. Giving into rage is easy. Stiles can do better than easy.
He looks away from the ridiculously shiny computer and realizes then that right
next to it is a leather-bound agenda folded open and heavily notated with blue
ink. Stiles recognizes the handwriting as Peter’s and arches closer to the desk
to read some of the marks.
The seventh is circled with pick up Stiles' b-day present, and the eleventh
says lunch with Derek (ask Stiles to come too or risk nepoticide), and the
twentieth has REALLY pick up Stiles’ present if forgotten/procrastinated. It
looks like Stiles is everywhere. In Peter’s calendar, in Peter’s head, in
Peter’s thoughts. It seems almost silly to even entertain the idea that any day
Stiles is going to be booted out because Peter might miss loan sharkery. And
maybe he will one day—but Stiles is going to take a mindless leap of faith and
assume that Peter will let that urge pass when it comes.
"I was wrong," Stiles blurts out. He feels like a bit of a fool, but what else
is new.
"Pardon?"
"Don't. I'm not saying it again," Stiles says firmly, pointing his index finger
at Peter like he's demanding it. "But I was. I shouldn't have asked you to give
away all your shit. It's your shit."
"Oh, it's hardly shit."
"I guess I was just worried that it was a one or the other thing. Like having
all of this meant you didn't need me." Stiles rubs his eyes, unable to actually
look another human being in the eye as he admits this. "Which is stupid. People
and things—they're not. It's not a tit-for-tat situation."
"It absolutely isn't."
"I know!" Stiles shakes his head. "I have no excuse for even thinking of except
that I'm a kid. And this is... new for me." He shrugs. "And you too, I guess."
Peter tuts loudly. "I'll have you know that I was quite popular back in high
school. This isn't new."
"Could you not gloat and just shut up for five seconds?" Stiles asks, feeling a
vein tick in his temple. "What I'm trying to say, I guess," he starts, "is that
it doesn't matter that you have nice stuff. I know that I still matter."
"And what made you come to this mature conclusion?"
Stiles looks down at the agenda by his hand. He looks back up. "My infinite
wisdom."
“I see.”
“And honestly, I don’t want to fight with you. We’ve done enough of that.
Seriously.”
“This was a fight?” Peter asks, tapping his fingers on the back of the couch.
“I didn’t realize.”
“When someone storms out, it’s a fight.”
“I’m thrilled to hear it,” Peter says, slipping around the couch. “Because then
it would only be appropriate to fuck and make up.”
“Oh my god.”
“What?” Peter hooks two fingers under his own shirt and gently pulls upward,
like he’s slowly exposing a tasty dish. “You’re not interested?
“You're insane," Stiles says, folding his arms over his chest. "I'm going
home."
"What?" Peter whines, actually whines. "Stiles. I already know you're easy.
What's the point in pretending you're not?"
"Because you get too much of what you want," Stiles says. "Scratch that, you
get everything you want. And I want you to taste the cold bitterness of pining
for someone too busy having a kickass time with his best friend to think about
you."
"You're cruel," Peter says, but his mouth is slanted upwards with affection.
"I'm impressed."
"You should be," Stiles says, zipping up his hoodie with finality. He's halfway
to the door when he can't resist. "Oh, and. If you need ideas—I'm really into
hats this year as far as birthday presents go."
--
The stuff stays, for the most part. Stiles notices a few extravagant pieces
mysteriously disappearing in the next few weeks, but he doesn’t comment on the
subtle vanishing acts just in case Peter’s dignity stands to be wounded.
Peter’s made more sacrifices for Stiles than he can count, including but not
limited to actually making it through Stiles’ birthday without smugly
mentioning to the sheriff that not even the law can stand between Stiles’ dick
and his own anymore. To be fair to his father’s intelligence, though, Stiles is
pretty sure that the sheriff knew shenanigans were going on under his nose long
before Stiles’ birthday of legal freedom.
Needless to say, Stiles appreciates Peter’s martyrdom, even if it manifests in
tiny ways like selling his motorcycle on Craigslist. And even if Stiles
actually found the motorcycle kind of sexy.
He doesn’t really want to treat Peter like a dog slowly learning the tricks
Stiles is trying to condition him into learning by feeding him strategic
treats, but Stiles can’t really resist a couple weeks after his birthday when
he decides Peter deserves a reward for all of his sacrificial attempts to
better himself.
"Here."
"What's this?"
"A gift, you complete idiot, just open it."
Peter sends him A Look but doesn't bother contesting the fact that he is, in
fact, an idiot, instead focusing on tearing the wrapping paper Stiles worked
very hard on to keep neat and adequately taped into unsalvageable shreds. A box
is in his hands when he's done, and at Stiles' eagerly jumping eyebrows, he
opens that too. He pulls a mug out from its depths.
"I noticed you have no fun mugs," Stiles says, scratching behind his ear. "And
that's kind of a must for every kitchen. Mugs tell a lot about a person, you
know."
"Aha," Peter says skeptically. "And what does this say about me?"
He swivels it around in his hand so Stiles can admire his craftsmanship. It's a
bright yellow mug, the kind of obnoxious New York taxi cab yellow that makes
you want to go color blind, with the words I was a loan shark and all I got was
this lousy boyfriend painted on the side in black capitals.
"I'm pretty sure it speaks for itself," Stiles says. He has to admit, it's
feeling a little more juvenile than he remembers when he first thought of the
idea, but he's also thinking what the hell because he is juvenile and blunt and
fucking hilarious while he's at it.
"Where did you even get this?"
"As you can imagine, it isn't the most relatable mug in the world. A bit of a
niche market, really." He shrugs. He's not going to speak for all of the former
loan sharks out there who would gobble up this sort of item. "I made it
myself."
"Oh, did you?"
"Yeah."
Peter turns it in his hands until the words are facing him again, and he
brushes his thumb down the bumps on the letters where the paint is thicker than
in other places. It shows the sloppiness of Stiles’ inexperience with crafts,
but he’d like to believe that his A+ humor makes up for that. From the look on
Peter’s face, he’s either about to ask Stiles what the hell is wrong with him
or is desperately wracking his brain as to what on earth to say in response to
such a kind-hearted gift.
“It’s not exactly accurate,” Peter says, still tracing the letters. His
eyebrows are furrowed. “You’re not a lousy boyfriend.”
“I—what?”
“You’re not a lousy boyfriend,” Peter repeats, slowly this time.
Stiles feels a smile start to tickle him. “Mediocre?”
“Possibly better than that.”
“Adequate? Satisfactory?”
“Stop fishing,” Peter demands. He quiets, exhales, steps one foot closer with
one hand still firm around the mug, and says, “You are everything I didn’t know
I wanted.”
Stiles does everything he can to still keep the smile back, from biting the
inside of his cheeks to reminding himself about just how serious this actually
is, but nothing can keep the magnitude of his grin at bay when he realizes that
this might just be the sweetest thing Peter’s ever said to him.
“Is it a mood-ruiner to say that you’re everything I absolutely didn’t need?”
“It is.”
Stiles grabs Peter by the front of his shirt, wrinkling it up in his fist to
keep him close. “But I’m glad you’re here anyway.” He shakes him by the fabric.
“How’s that?”
Peter smirks. “It’s all right.”
Chapter End Notes
     I want to give one last hearty thank you to everybody who commented
     and left kudos and was supported this story, especially those who
     helped me work through it during its inception when most of it was
     still just an idea in my head without any real structure yet. I'm
     glad you all enjoyed this story even when it's darker than what I
     normally write (although by now it does feel a bit like a
     schmoopfest, does it not) and I can guarantee you that what I'm
     writing next for these two will be significantly cheerier.
     You all are the BEST!
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