Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/820526.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Peter_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Peter_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski, Scott_McCall, Derek_Hale, Alan_Deaton,
      Isaac_Lahey, Sheriff_Stilinski, Aiden_(Teen_Wolf), Ethan_(Teen_Wolf)
  Additional Tags:
      Post-Season_2, Humor, Love_Potion/Spell, Magic_Gone_Wrong, implied_Sterek
      if_you_squint, Frottage, Blow_Jobs, Angst, Dubious_Consent, discussion_of
      Dubious_Consent, Canon-Typical_Violence, bits_of_unabashed_fluff
  Series:
      Part 1 of for_want_of_a_nail
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-05-28 Completed: 2013-07-07 Chapters: 9/9 Words: 23734
****** just like the ocean under the moon ******
by rain_of_stars
Summary
     When they find the alpha pack, Stiles is calling first dibs. Because
     trying to kill them all is one thing, but making Peter follow him
     around like a creepy undead puppy is unforgivable.
Notes
     First attempt at Teen Wolf fanfic because this plot would not leave
     me alone. Apologies for any clunkiness, as I have not written fic for
     several years and never for this series or pairing. Most chapters
     will be Teen, but there will eventually be some Explicit dubcon. Just
     so you know.
***** Chapter 1 *****
“Remind me again why we’re breaking into Derek’s place with cleaning products?”
Stiles asks, squinting up at the loft through the hot June sun. “Not that
trespassing and dusting aren’t two of my favorite activities, but you could’ve
picked a less homicidal subject. Y’know, someone who might actually appreciate
what we’re doing.”
Scott sighs. “Because I thought it would be a nice apology for using him to get
to Gerard,” he explains as he opens the door, making way for Stiles with his
armful of sprays, sponges, and paper towels. “He still kinda resents me for
that. Plus it’s a good thing to do in general, to show we appreciate him and
stuff.”
“Since when has Derek needed appreciation for anything?” Stiles asks,
manhandling a broom through the door. He’s pretty sure that they have enough
cleaning supplies to disinfect an entire neighborhood. Then again, if this
place is anything like the Hale house, they may need them. “Maybe you could
just get him a gift basket. Full of raw deer. And hair gel.”
“Maybe that’s where we’ve been tripping up,” Scott says, shutting the door and
taking a few items from Stiles’ overburdened arms. “I mean, he’s saved us as
much as we’ve saved him. And we’ve never thanked him.”
“Yeah, thanks for switching sides at a moment’s notice and trying to kill
everything,” Stiles mutters.
“And-” Scott goes on, “it’s not breaking in if we have a key!” He digs a hand
into his pocket and waves the item in question.
Stiles pauses on the steps. “Wait, Derek gave you a key?” he asks. As far as he
knows, Derek and Scott have barely talked since that night in the warehouse.
Scott deflates a little. “Well, no,” he admits. “I kinda took it from Isaac’s
bag the last time he stayed over.”
An automatic twinge of jealousy goes through Stiles at the mention of Isaac. He
knows it’s not unreasonable for Scott to be excited about having a new friend –
especially another werewolf – but he’d gotten used to having a monopoly on
whatever free time Scott didn’t spend with Allison. Stiles squashes down the
feeling and gives Scott a Look. “You just want to scope out Derek’s new place,”
he accuses.
Scott shrugs helplessly and gives him an appealing glance. “Don’t you?”
Stiles makes a heroic effort to resist both Scott’s puppy eyes and his natural
curiosity.
It lasts all of two seconds.
“Hell yes!”
----
The loft is huge and airy and disappointingly sparse. Stiles is momentarily
gleeful over the conspicuously-placed, sumptuous-looking queen bed, but Scott
says the only scent he can find on it is Derek’s. There’s a tiny kitchen beyond
a torn-out wall with an outdated stove and refrigerator, a bathroom nestled up
to an inside wall, and two bedrooms near the ancient elevator. They don’t even
have a TV. After a brief argument in which Scott points out the flatscreen TV
Stiles still hasn’t returned and Stiles adamantly refuses to extend their
crimes to breaking and decorating, they set to work cleaning up the most
obvious areas.
Stiles is spraying a swathe of Scrubbing Bubbles over an unidentified stain on
the metal table and hoping it’s just food when he notices that the sound of
Scott sweeping has stopped. He looks up to find Scott staring in the direction
of the stairs, the broom and dustpan forgotten in his hands. After a moment he
sets down both items and pads down to the door. Stiles follows.
Scott opens the door just as the delivery man outside it is about to ring the
doorbell. The guy looks flustered for a second but recovers quickly. “Great
timing,” he says. “You the owner?”
“We’re his friends,” Stiles interjects as Scott plainly contemplates how to
answer that question with anything other than ‘it’s complicated’. “Totally
trustworthy, really close friends.”
“Right…” the delivery guy says uncertainly, looking from one to the other.
Scott has switched over to his enthusiastic idiot smile. The guy shrugs and
apparently decides questioning them further will take too much time. “I’ll just
leave this with you then. Take care!”
Scott accepts the package and thanks him briefly before closing the door.
Stiles laughs as Scott climbs back up to the loft. “Dude, I thought only dogs
did that!”
“Did what?” Scott asks absently, not looking away from the package.
"The whole anticipating-the-mailman thing. How did you even know he was there?
How did you know it wasn’t Derek?”
“Didn’t smell like Derek,” Scott says. “And his steps sounded different.” He’s
still frowning at the package, and Stiles takes a moment to look at it. It’s a
brown, paper-covered box, about the size of a vertical shoebox. There’s a label
addressed to “the owner of this residence” and no return label.
“Who sent this?” Scott asks, rubbing a thumb over where the return label should
be. “The only reason I know anyone’s living here is because Isaac told me.”
“Junk mail?” Stiles offers. “Some kind of automatic promotion thing? Buy a
loft, get a free inflatable chair to fill up the utter emptiness of the place?”
“Junk mail’s usually mail. Like, letters,” Scott says. “Besides, if it was a
company, why wouldn’t they put their name on it?”
“Maybe it’s on the inside,” Stiles says. “Anyways, it’s Derek’s problem now.”
He motions for Scott to put the package down on the clean side of the table and
picks up his sponge. All the Scrubbing Bubbles have popped, which Stiles
figures is his cue to resume cleaning.
“This is weird,” Scott argues, unwilling to drop the subject. “We should at
least try to figure out what this is.” He brings the package up to his nose and
sniffs deeply.
“Anything interesting?” Stiles asks.
Scott makes a disappointed face. “No,” he says. “The delivery guy, and the
paper. Whoever sent it in the first place is too hard to make out. The thing
inside-” Scott takes another sniff. “It smells like clay, and-” He freezes.
Stiles pauses, unnerved. “What?”
“Blood,” Scott says. He looks at the package in his hands like it has
transformed into a ticking bomb. “It smells like old blood.”
Stiles swallows, his mouth gone dry. The package draws his eyes like a magnet.
Visions of dead birds, severed fingers, and Laura Hale’s halved body flash
through his mind. “As in… dead things?”
Scott frowns and takes another experimental sniff. “No,” he says. “There’s no
flesh. Just blood. Like when I nick myself on my razor and forget to wash it.”
“Yeah, well, an unlabeled package delivered to a house full of werewolves is
hardly going to smell like blood by accident,” Stiles snaps. He’s shaky with
nerves and hates it, hates the way that even a small incident can send him into
full-on panic mode months after the kanima is gone. Then a memory of the horse
head scene from The Godfather surfaces and he pales. “Do you think it’s from
the alpha pack?”
“It could be,” Scott says. He sets the package down. He pauses for a second,
looking at it, then with grim determination begins to peel off the outer
wrapping.
“Dude, what are you doing?” Stiles drops the sponge and hurries over to Scott.
“If this is from the alpha pack, it’s better that we find it and tell Derek
about it,” Scott says, peeling off long strips of paper. “He can yell at us
later. This could be the only lead we have.”
The uncovered box is a smooth, pale white with a tabbed lid. It looks innocuous
enough, considering what Scott could smell in it. Stiles trades glances with
Scott and slowly eases back the lid.
“What are you two doing?”
Stiles whirls around to see Derek standing in the doorway, looking murderous.
Peter is right behind him, looking only mildly amused. It’s a step down from
his usual air of snarky condescension, but it doesn’t help the situation.
“Okay, see, this? This is not our fault,” Stiles starts, waving his arms to
take in the scene.
“Really,” Derek says, striding towards them. Even his boots sound pissed. “You
guys breaking into my house is not your fault.”
“It’s not breaking in if you have a key!” Stiles protests. “And then this weird
package came, and Scott could smell blood on it but we didn’t know where it
came from, and it could be anything, like a finger or a razorblade or a-”
Scott is carefully lifting something out of the box. It’s still covered by a
layer of tissue paper, so Stiles can’t see what it is exactly, but it looks
like nothing so much as a-
“Vase?” Scott wonders, turning the thing around in his hands.
“You’re kidding me,” Stiles says, grabbing at the strangely-shaped object and
taking off the last layer. Underneath it, the vase is unglazed ceramic, green
with brown designs painted on it. The designs are strange, alternately curly
and spiky, with spirals here and there on the body. Stiles rubs at them with a
finger and blinks as a few of them smear, leaving a brownish-red thumbprint in
their place. Should’ve dried my hands, he thinks guiltily, followed by Wait.
Brown- is that blood?
“I don’t care what it is, put it down and get out of my house,” Derek is
saying. He reaches for the vase just as Peter’s eyes widen in realization.
Derek’s fingers brush the lip of the vase.
Several things happen at once. Stiles hears the vrrum of something starting up.
Peter, faster than he thought possible, shoves Derek into the wall. The runes
under his hands start to glow. Peter grabs the vase. Scott starts to yell. A
pressure like a great hand clamps down around them.
Then a thunderclap of force blasts him backwards into a support pillar and he
blacks out.
----
When Stiles comes to, everyone is yelling. At least he thinks they’re yelling
until he realizes that his ears are ringing too loudly to make out what’s
actually going on. He can vaguely hear Derek swearing at Peter and magic and
the world in general, and Scott is groaning somewhere outside of his field of
vision.
What is in his field of vision is the vase. It somehow didn’t break when it was
dropped, landing on the layers of tissue paper pulled from the box. The designs
– runes, Stiles realizes – are glowing orange like embers, and the main body of
the vase is black and charred-looking. Even as he watches, the vase crumbles
into ash.
We’re going to have to pay for that, he thinks. Even though it’s Derek’s
vase.The image of Derek arranging fresh-cut flowers in a vase strikes him as
hilarious and he starts to laugh, then winces as the movement jars his head.
Ow.
“Why would you even open it?” Derek is yelling at Scott. “Did it never occur to
you that this could be a trap?”
“You’re the one that set it off!” Scott yells back. “We were just trying to
protect you!”
“Protect? Is this what you call protection?” Derek gestures angrily at the pile
of ash that used to be a vase and at least one splintered chair. Apparently
being thrown into furniture hurts the furniture more than the werewolves.
Peter has staggered upright now and shakes his head as if trying to clear it.
“If you two could save the arguing, we should-” he tries to say, but Derek and
Scott yell right over him.
“Hey,” Stiles says weakly. The noise is making his head pound, and he thinks
that they should have more consideration for only person in the room who can’t
instantly heal from a concussion. “Hey,” he says a little louder. “Can someone
help me up?”
Scott breaks off arguing and hurries over to help him, a mixture of guilt and
concern crossing his features. Stiles thinks he sees a flicker of worry on
Derek’s face as well, but it’s gone before he can make it out. “You okay?”
Scott asks. Whatever he sees in Stiles’ face worries him, because he puts one
hand on Stiles’ shoulder and the other in front of his eyes. “How many fingers
am I holding up?”
Stiles is about to say “Dude, I’m not that brain-damaged,” when a strong hand
grips his and pulls him to his feet. Peter is staring at him with just as much
intensity as Scott had, and as much as Stiles likes being the center of
attention on occasion, he’d rather it didn’t come with undead werewolves in his
personal space. “Uh, thanks,” he says, trying to back away as much as possible
considering that Peter’s arm is the only thing preventing him from falling on
his ass again. “You think you could just-”
“You have beautiful eyes,” Peter murmurs, and kisses him full on the mouth.
There is a long moment of silence, in which Scott gapes, Derek looks like he’s
swallowed a fish whole, and Stiles’ still-recovering brain gives up processing
entirely. Peter breaks the kiss and gives him a tender smile. Then he looks at
Scott and Derek and says, “I was about to say that I’m fairly sure the vase was
a spell of some kind. And it worked.”
“Dude, what the hell?!” Scott says, looking horrified. Derek growls, “Deaton.
We have to go find Deaton.”
Peter sighs and leans into Stiles.
Stiles freaks out.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
     In which I use Deaton to explain everything. I just really like the
     mechanics of magic. Next chapter is practically all Peter/Stiles.
Somehow, Scott and Derek keep Stiles from flailing and sputtering in disbelief
long enough to get him in the back of Derek’s Camaro, which he only agrees to
as long as Peter sits up front and as far away from him as possible. It’s still
way closer than Stiles wants, and Peter keeps staring at him in the rearview
mirror, smiling whenever Stiles catches his eye. It’s driving him crazy.

“Would you stop,” he explodes after about the fiftieth glance-smile. “I get it,
you’re attracted to my animal magnetism or whatever, just freaking stop with
the staring.”

“But it’s fun,” Peter protests mildly.

“It’s driving me up the wall!” Stiles yells.

“That’s the fun part,” Peter explains, and Stiles can’t figure out if it’s the
spell talking or just Peter being perverse.

“Just leave him alone,” Scott says, and Peter transfers his gaze to Scott with
an added layer of sarcasm. Scott attempts to glare back, but ends up having to
dart glances down to the box in his lap, where he shoveled in the ash of the
former vase. Derek’s speed and utter disregard for road signs mean that the box
is under constant threat of spilling its cargo all over the floor of the car.

“Both of you shut up,” Derek growls, eyes firmly on the road. Stiles can hear
leather creak as Derek’s grip tightens on the steering wheel.

“He started it!” Stiles says.

“Actually-” Peter starts.
“Shut up, Peter!” Derek and Scott chorus. Derek adds, “Now everybody keep quiet
or so help me, I will turn this car around!”
In the silence that follows, Stiles whispers to Scott, “He does know that’s not
going to help, right?”
Peter rolls his eyes.
----
“Tell me you’ve got some good news,” Stiles pleads.
The group managed to reach the veterinary clinic without further incident, but
promptly fell apart as they got inside. Scott disappeared to find Deaton,
leaving Derek to watch Peter and Stiles. Which he is apparently not very good
at. Peter kept finding ways to drift closer to Stiles and play with his foot or
let a hand brush Stiles’ arm or breathe on the back of his neck in a way that
made his skin tingle. Every time he yelped and scrambled to the other side of
Derek, and by the time Derek looked at Peter, he was standing there as though
perfectly innocent. The last fragile thread of Stiles’ sanity was about to snap
when Deaton came out to examine them.
The first thing he did was check on Stiles to make sure he didn’t have a
concussion, raising him several places higher on Stiles’ list of People That
Actually Care About My Wellbeing. (It was a depressingly short list.) Deaton
confirmed that while Stiles would have a headache for a while and a pretty big
goose-egg, most of the impact had gone to his shoulders, and he should be fine
with a cold pack or two. Scott went off to get a cold pack while Deaton
interrogated the rest of them about what the vase had looked like before it
self-destructed. Derek was practically useless, having only gotten in a brief
glance before he set the thing off. Stiles drew out what he could remember,
including roughly the location where he’d smudged the runes. Deaton had an
extended conversation with Peter, who had actually dragged his focus away from
Stiles long enough to stop bothering him. They moved off to the side and talked
in low voices while Deaton performed several chemical reactions on the ash of
the vase. From the way Deaton’s normally smooth brow furrowed at Peter’s words
and the bubbling and popping of the chemicals, Stiles figured it couldn’t be
anything good.
Still, he had to hope that something would get Peter off his back.
Deaton sighs and rubs his forehead. “Yes and no,” he admits. “I’ve pretty much
figured out the original nature of the spell. But it will take some time to
dismantle and neutralize. You may have to live with it for a few days.”
“A few days?!” Stiles asks in horror. He shoots a glare at Peter, who is
lounging against the wall. “Can’t we just dust him in mountain ash or something
and be done with it?”
“It’s not that simple,” Deaton says. “Unfortunately. And you yourself have made
it more complicated.”
“Why?” Scott asks. “What did he do?”
Stiles gestures to Scott in gratitude for saying exactly what he was thinking.
Deaton hesitates and scans their faces.
“The spell was sent as a weapon,” he says. “It was meant to react to the touch
of an alpha, which explains why it didn’t work for you, Stiles. From what I can
make out, the spell would have rewired Derek’s brain and sent him-” He glances
at Derek. “Into heat.”
Stiles blinks. Scott blanches. “You mean that’s actually a thing?” Stiles asks,
twisting around to get a look at the other werewolves. Derek is impassive,
though a muscle in his jaw twitches. Peter looks unusually solemn. “I thought
it was just part of the full moon madness.”
“The full moon amplifies aggression,” Deaton corrects. “Some of that may be
sexual. Heat, in a werewolf, floods their senses and better judgment until
they’re left with little more than instinct. It happens far less often with
werewolves than with actual wolves, and it’s far more dangerous. The spell was
made to induce heat and keep Derek in that condition until a counterspell could
be performed.”
“But why would they do that? Why not just-” Scott shrugs. “Make an instant-
death spell or something?”
Derek sends Scott a dirty look. “Thanks, McCall.”
“I’m just saying,” Scott says.
“The alpha pack isn’t trying to kill Derek,” Deaton says. “At least not yet. He
still has some of his pack, which gives him strength and makes him harder to
defeat. Ways to kill werewolves by magic are hard to come by and involve a lot
of effort. Instead, this spell would have made him try to mate with or kill
anything in sight.” Deaton locks eyes with Derek. “The people closest to him
would be in the most danger. Even if they managed to find the counterspell and
got it to affect him, they would still carry the memories of what he attempted
to do to them. And so would Derek.” Deaton looks back at Scott and Stiles. “It
was a spell designed to break the trust of Derek’s pack and the faith he had in
himself.”
Stiles swallows. The thought of a violent, out-of-control Derek makes him break
out in a cold sweat. Or maybe that’s the cold pack dripping down his back.
“But Peter’s not trying to do any of that,” Scott points out. He glances back
to Peter. “I think.”
“If I wanted to kill you, Scott, you’d know,” Peter says in a tone that was
probably meant to be reassuring but comes off as a veiled threat.
“That’s the good news,” Deaton says. “The spell had two components: emotional
and physical. By sheer luck, Stiles managed to rub out the runes controlling
the physical aspect, leaving the emotional side, which was also lessened by the
removal of the runes. Instead of lust, I’d say what Peter is experiencing now
is something between a pack-bond and love for a partner; infatuation, if you
will.”
Stiles connects the dots first and points threateningly back at the other
three. “If anyone so much as thinks the words ‘puppy love’, I will kill you in
your sleep and let Peter eat the body.”
Peter looks like he agrees.
Deaton clears his throat. “The bad news is that, in leaving your fingerprint
behind, you also restricted Peter’s bond to you specifically. And those runes
weren’t enough to short-circuit the whole spell.”
“Obviously,” Derek says under his breath.
“The spell was designed to be complex and long-lasting. It is also incredibly
intricate. Trying to neutralize it is essentially like trying to defuse a bomb
when part of it has already exploded and left the rest unstable.” Deaton levels
his gaze on Peter. “We’re lucky in that Peter has retained full control over
himself save for his emotions. His cooperation will make it far easier to study
the spell and break it. However, it may take a few days. And until then-” His
gaze switches to Stiles. “The safest thing to do is to simply put up with it.”
Stiles groans and puts his head in his hands. “Can you at least stop him from
hanging all over me?” he asks, muffled.
“As a matter of fact,” Deaton says, turning around to grab one of several cups
off the counter, “I can. This should help dull the effects of the spell for a
while so it’s not overwhelming.”
He offers the cup to Peter, who accepts it with a touch of eagerness. Despite
himself, Stiles scowls. Way to boost the old self-esteem.
“I’ll take him back to the loft,” Derek says. “Scott, Stiles, I’ll drop you off
wherever you want.”
“But what about our stuff-” Scott starts, then quails at the glare Derek gives
him. “Okay, point taken.”
As they file out of the room, Deaton draws Stiles aside. “I didn’t mention this
before because I don’t want to alarm you,” he says.
“And that’s totally the most chill, non-alarming way to start a conversation,”
Stiles says as his heart starts beating faster. Of course there’s worse.
There’s always worse.
“Be careful around Peter. More careful than usual,” Deaton says. “You may have
changed the spell, but it was done unintentionally, and the emotional bond is
strong but unstable. If you make him angry or completely reject him – anything
that connects to the strong negative emotions the spell was intended to affect
- there’s a chance that the spell could reset to its original purpose.”
Stiles swallows, tastes acid. “You mean I can’t say no to him?”
“Saying no to him is fine. Screaming insults and slamming the door in his face
is ill-advised.” Deaton sighs, and for a moment Stiles can see how worried he
is. “I’ll do everything in my power to fix this. I promise. Just watch what you
say and do. Peter may have gone back to being a beta, but he’s still one of the
most dangerous werewolves in Beacon Hills.”
“Except for the alpha pack,” Stiles says, trying to break the tension.
Deaton looks out the doorway to where the little group is heading towards
Derek’s Camaro. “Maybe,” he says in a low voice.
Stiles gets about half a second to panic before Scott calls out, “Stiles! You
coming? I promise I’ll kick Peter’s seat if he starts acting up!”
Peter says something too low to make out and Scott snaps back. Stiles swallows
down the panic and heads out to join them. “Thanks for the tip,” he says to
Deaton on his way past.
“Good luck, Stiles,” Deaton says, and Stiles wishes his voice didn’t sound so
sincere.
As though he thinks Stiles is going to need it.
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Notes
     Sorry this took so long, it's about twice the size of the other ones.
     Thanks for all the lovely reviews!
There are plenty of memories Stiles associates with Peter that regularly come
up in his dreams. Hell, Stiles could label an entire subsection “Things About
Peter Hale That Terrify Me.” They range from huge, wolflike creatures on fire
and glaring at him to running in fear through the dark halls of the school to
Lydia’s blood dripping down Peter’s chin. After the day he’s had, he expects
that one or more of those memories will make an appearance.
So it doesn’t quite make sense that what Stiles dreams about is standing in a
deserted parking garage, holding a golden apple. Its perfect shine captivates
him, and he can almost smell how ripe and juicy it is. Can almost taste the
sweet-tart crunch in his mouth. A serpentine body is coiled around his hips,
his shoulders, his neck. A low, seductive voice whispers in his ear: “Do you
want the bite?”
Then he feels pressure on his jaw, two fingers on the soft underside hard
enough to bruise, but where are the claws, there should be claws, and he is
forced to lift his gaze and it’s not a parking garage, it’s a warehouse, and
the thing around his neck becomes a tail that tightens as something hisses
behind him. Blue eyes tinged with red stare into his and claws pierce the thing
on his back, but it’s not helping, the tail tightens, the thing screeches and
he can’t fucking breathe-
Stiles wakes up gasping, sheets thrown off and soaked in sweat. He scrabbles
for the inhaler he keeps nearby in case of night terrors or panic attacks.
They’ve come back with a vengeance ever since he got involved in the
supernatural.
A few puffs get him through the worst of it. Stiles forces himself to lean
against the bedhead and relax. He closes his eyes and lets the breeze cool his
body.
Breeze?
Stiles looks over at the window and frowns. His curtains flutter in the cooler
air. He was pretty certain he’d shut the window before he went to bed – they
still haven’t replaced the screen and he doesn’t want to wake up to a room full
of mosquitoes.
He gets out of bed and shuts the window, casting a cautious glance around to
see if anything had changed. It would be just like Derek to be lurking
somewhere in the shadows. He was practically born to lurk. If there was a
nationwide lurking competition, he’d be the champion. Or at least in the top
10.
But the shadows stay where they are, and the only things that appear to have
moved are some papers on his desk stirred by the breeze. Stiles pads back to
his bed and gets in, settling down for sleep that hopefully won’t involve
nightmares.
Before he falls asleep, he makes sure his lacrosse stick is propped against the
bed.
Just in case.
----
Stiles half-wakes again sometime in the early morning, surfacing from murky
dreams of blood and ash and howling. He whimpers unconsciously. He feels
something like hands drifting lightly through his hair, and it soothes him back
to sleep.
----
The chirping of the birds has given way to the buzz of cicadas by the time
Stiles opens his eyes in the morning. He lays there for a few minutes, savoring
the slow drift of his consciousness from dreams to reality. Yesterday was…
weird, no doubt about it, but not catastrophically weird. Not “your best friend
is now a werewolf” weird or “there is a murderous lizard-person on the loose”
weird. Nothing really bad or life-changing had happened, even though it had the
potential to.
You got your first kiss, his brain reminds him, and Stiles has to stop himself
from tracing his lips. He shoves that thought away. Everyone knows that magic-
induced kisses don’t count.
In any case, Deaton was working on a cure and Derek was minding Peter. So there
was no reason he shouldn’t enjoy this perfect summer day.
With this thought in mind, Stiles throws off the covers, stretches, yawns, gets
up-
And sees Peter at his dresser, sorting through his clothes with a mildly
disappointed look on his face.
“Oh my God,” Stiles yells by reflex.
Peter doesn’t even look up. “Do you have any shirts that aren’t t-shirts?” he
asks, holding up a particularly glaring orange-and-blue striped example.
Stiles refuses to respond to this attack on his fashion sense, being too busy
pointing a shaking finger at the undead werewolf who is not supposed to be in
his room, dammit. “What are you doing here? How are you here? I thought Derek
was locking you up until this was over!”
“Fortunately, I am very good at being where people don’t expect me to be,”
Peter says, examining a ratty t-shirt that might at some point have been
colored but was now just gray. “You might not want to shout, by the way.”
“Wh-” Stiles starts, then hears his dad call out, “Stiles? Everything okay in
there?”
Stiles’ stomach takes an express ride to his feet, and he calls back,
“Everything’s fine! I just… uh…” He shoots a glance at Peter, who is looking at
a pair of his jeans. “I lost a game on the computer!”
“Oh. Well…” His father hasn’t played a computer game in his life and is clearly
at a loss as to advice. “That’s fine. Just… keep it down a little.”
“Thanks, will do,” Stiles says. He turns from his door to find Peter right in
his face. His heart stutters a little.
Peter gives him a slight smile. “Excuse me,” he says, and moves around Stiles
to bend down and get something beneath Stiles’ desk. His shoes, Stiles
realizes, at the same moment noticing that Peter is barefoot.
Maybe he’s planning to leave, Stiles thinks in relief. He sits down on his bed
and starts texting Derek while pulling on his clothes. Facing Peter in boxers
is not helping him feel any safer.
Stiles: why is peter in my room? thought u had him on lockdown
Derek’s text comes back as Stiles is pulling his shirt over his head.
Derek: GODDAMMIT
Derek: STAY THERE I’LL GET HIM
Derek: TELL HIM I’M GOING TO KILL HIM
Stiles smirks and turns to relay the message to Peter, only to have another
mini-heart attack as he sees Peter reading over his shoulder. “Dude, personal
space!” he snaps, scooting away.
“It’s always hard to tell when he’s exaggerating,” Peter comments. “Especially
about things he’s already done. So, are you ready?”
Stiles looks at Peter uncomprehendingly. “To have you out of here? Absolutely.”
Peter smirks. “Oh, you’re coming too. I promise you’ll enjoy it.”
Stiles crosses his arms. “I’m staying right here.”
Peter’s smile has a hard edge to it now. “Please, Stiles.”
“Or you’ll what?” Stiles says.
Peter narrows his eyes and Stiles has a moment to regret his tendency to push
things just a bit farther than is good for him. “Or I’ll walk down past your
father for some breakfast and leave you to explain why I came out of your
room,” Peter says lightly.
Stiles’ mouth drops open.
----
Five minutes later they are both sitting in Stiles’ Jeep, Stiles trying hard
not to remember the last time they were sitting here together. He was surprised
to not see Peter’s car sitting in the driveway. He knew the car Peter had
driven before had been towed and impounded, but Peter had since gotten a
reliable Accord that looked outclassed next to Derek’s Camaro.
“How did you get here?” Stiles asks once they’re underway.
“I ran,” Peter replies simply.
Stiles is slightly taken aback. The loft isn’t that close to his house. Peter
must have run ten miles, depending on his route. Then the image of Peter
running werewolf-style comes into his mind and he snickers. Peter looks at him
curiously. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. Just a little – nothing,” Stiles says hastily. He casts around for
something to change the subject. “So, was that why you took your shoes off?”
Peter sits back. “I took them off to get comfortable. I was there for a while.”
Something in his voice makes Stiles look back at him. “Wait, for how long? When
did you-”
“Road,” Peter says urgently, grabbing the steering wheel. Stiles swerves out of
the way of an oncoming pickup truck that’s straddling the double yellow,
leaving a string of honks and swearing behind him. Stiles swears himself and
grimly wonders if he should start taking his dad’s heart medication,
considering how often his heart seems to stop on any given day.
Peter never gives him an answer.
----
If Stiles had been asked two days ago why Peter Hale might want to drag him off
somewhere, “to go clothes shopping” would not have been on the list. Stiles
stares at the growing pile of clothes next to him, most of which cost more than
his latest car payment. Each. Peter is in his element, strolling from rack to
rack and picking out items with precision. He darts occasional glances back to
Stiles for reference, but mostly doesn’t bother. Stiles wonders if he should be
worried that Peter apparently knows his measurements to within half an inch.
His phone dings with a text. Stiles pulls it out and glances at the screen.
It’s from Derek.
Derek: Where are you?! Nobody at house
Stiles looks up. Peter has wandered off to look at ties. Stiles quickly taps
out a message back.
Stiles: at Nordstrom’s. I think Peter is picking out an outfit to kill me in.
Or eat me in.
Stiles: omg that came out wrong
Derek: WHY ARE YOU
Derek: on my way. Keep him distracted. DON’T MOVE
"There’s a dressing room free.”
Stiles looks up to see Peter with the latest collared shirt in his hands and
grimaces. “Dude, there is no way I’m wearing that.”
“Why not?”
“Because dress shirts have pins in the collars and they’re stiff and you have
to iron them! The last time I used an iron, I nearly set the sofa on fire!”
Stiles waves his hands to emphasize the enormity of his dislike for formal
clothing.
“So you prefer comfort over style,” Peter says, raising his eyebrows.
“Yes!”
“And you only wear clothes like these to fancy events.”
“Yes!”
“Like the Winter Formal, which was the only time Lydia Martin looked twice at
you.”
“Y-” Stiles pauses and scowls. He points at Peter and opens his mouth. Closes
it again. Sighs and grabs the pile of clothes on the bench.
“If any of these make me look like Jackson, I am throwing them out,” he warns
as he heads to the dressing rooms.
Peter smirks. “Trust me. I picked these out especially for you.”
----
As much as it galls him to admit it, Peter’s fashion sense is actually pretty
spectacular. After a lot of trying things on and a few disputes with Peter,
Stiles ends up with a deep blue button-down that shines subtly in the light, a
plaid shirt, two vests, a pair of dark slacks, and a pair of red skinny jeans
that make his ass look fantastic. Peter’s eyes had glinted when he tried those
on, and Stiles retreated to the dressing room as fast as possible. Still, he
secretly agrees that they’re awesome. He can’t wait to wear them back to
school.
The price that the cashier rings up is in four figures. Stiles gapes and
hastily trashes the fantasy of getting compliments on his new look. There’s no
way he can pay for all of that.
Peter, though, is drawing out a card from his wallet and handing it to the
cashier. Stiles grabs his arm. “What are you doing?” he hisses. “I can’t pay
you back for that!”
Peter stares at him. “I wasn’t intending that you would,” he says.
Stiles blinks. “You’re not-” His eyes harden and his mouth goes thin. “I’m not
accepting charity,” he says. “Or bribes. I’m not some gold-digger looking to be
taken care of.”
Peter sighs in exasperation. “Stiles, I’m not going to demand anything of you
that you don’t want,” he says. “I’m doing this because I can, and I want to.
And because you seem to have no idea of what looking good can do for your self-
esteem.” His mouth quirks up. “Besides, I’ve collected quite a lot of life
insurance for my own death. Might as well use it.”
Stiles has no answer for that. Peter accepts his card back from the bemused
cashier and takes the bags. “All right, but I’m paying my own way from now on,”
Stiles says, taking one of the bags away from Peter. His dad had taught him
better than to be dependent on other people.
Peter shrugs. “Fine. What do you suggest?”
Stiles’ gurgling stomach answers that for him.
----
They end up at Toby’s Burgers down the street. Stiles takes great pleasure in
ordering the biggest size of curly fries they have, while Peter sticks with a
burger and a soda. He watches as Stiles demolishes his meal, a faint smile
crossing his lips between bites.
“Seriously, what’s with the staring?” Stiles demands as his immediate hunger is
dealt with and he slows down enough to keep up a conversation. “Is it a part of
the spell that you can’t stop looking at me?”
“Not particularly,” Peter says. His gaze drifts off into the distance. “I feel
happier when I’m near you, and also when I look at you. It’s not a constant
thing, though. It comes in waves. I’ll suddenly feel a rush of emotion for no
reason.” He refocuses and smiles at Stiles. “It’s a little like being a
teenager again. All hormones and crushes.”
Stiles sips at his drink, unable to hold Peter’s gaze. He feels uncomfortable
but it’s tinged with a warm glow of pride. It’s flattering to hear that just
looking at him can make someone happy. Even if it is a serial killing werewolf.
His phone dings again, and Stiles switches it off. He’s less afraid that Peter
will snap and claw his face off or molest him now. “It still feels kind of
weird,” he tells Peter. “I’d rather not see you watching me all the time. It
gets creepy.”
“Do you have a better idea?” Peter asks.
----
And that’s how Stiles ends up watching Iron Man 3 with Peter Hale.
Stiles realizes it’s a bad idea almost as soon as the lights dim. Not only is
this more of a date than anything he’s done in the past ten years, but he’s
sitting less than a foot from Peter in a dark theater. Peter restrained himself
in public, but who knows what he might do here? It’ll be like Deaton’s waiting
room all over again.
But to his surprise, Peter doesn’t bother Stiles at all. Not even the clichéd
moves like slinging his arm around Stiles’ shoulders or laying a hand on
Stiles’ thigh. Stiles darts a glance at Peter during the few times he can tear
his eyes away from the screen, but Peter is completely engrossed in the movie.
Maybe that stuff Deaton gave him hasn’t worn off, Stiles thinks.
They stay till the end, and the teaser after the end. Peter complains mildly
that he hadn’t understood half the references, since he’d missed Iron Man 1 and
2 while he was in a coma. Stiles launches into a wild and enthusiastic
description of what Peter should know about the movies, including The Avengers
for good measure. They are debating whether it’s plausible that Bruce Banner
could somehow control his Hulk powers and the merits of comics Extremis vs.
movie Extremis when a dark figure steps out in front of them. Stiles looks up
to see Derek, fuming.
“Oh, crap,” he mutters.
“Do you know how hard it was to find you?” Derek yells. “Why the hell did you
turn your phone off?! I thought you’d been-” He cuts off and looks away, jaw
working.
Stiles feels himself shrink an inch or two. He hadn’t considered that radio
silence might be worse than texting their back-and-forth location. “It was a
movie,” he says lamely. “You kind of have to…” He trails off.
Derek glares at him, eyes blazing. “You’re really going to try that excuse?” he
asks.
Stiles bristles and feels himself getting defensive, but then feels a hand on
his shoulder. “Ah, so you found us,” Peter says. “I was wondering how long it
would take you after I turned off his phone. Seems to be a decent handicap.
You’re two hours later than I expected.”
Stiles looks at Peter in amazement, about to protest, but Peter squeezes his
shoulder in warning.
Derek lets out his breath in an angry whuff. “Deaton needs to get some readings
from you,” he tells Peter. “Get in the car. Now.”
Peter’s hand slips off Stiles’ shoulder as he obeys Derek. The two of them
stalk towards the car. Both Peter and Derek look at him before they go – Peter
with a sad smile and a shrug, almost as if he’s apologizing; Derek with an
angry and wounded glare. Then they drive off, leaving Stiles standing alone on
the sidewalk.
----
“So Peter shows up in your room and you two spend the whole day at the mall?”
This is at least the third time Scott has asked that question, giving it
slightly different phrasing each time, like maybe the answer will fit into his
brain if he just turns it around enough. Stiles rolls his eyes and shoots down
another nameless enemy soldier. “It wasn’t the mall, exactly. It was a bunch of
different stuff. And we got burgers, so it wasn’t a total waste.” Not to
mention the bags of clothes in his trunk that were probably worth more than his
actual Jeep at this point, but he wasn’t going to mention those.
“Why did you even go with him, though? He’s, like – the guy they tell you not
to take candy from, even on Halloween!” Scott says, jerking his controller up
and to the right. Scott is one of those players who believe that moving the
controller will actually make a difference in what his character does onscreen.
Stiles doesn’t mind that usually – like he has any room to talk – but he also
usually sits far enough away from Scott to avoid an errant flying elbow. He
hadn’t expected Isaac to answer the door when he came over to play some Call of
Duty after his (outing? Shopping trip? Date?) was cut short. Now all three of
them are seated on the McCall’s couch with Stiles sandwiched in the middle, and
he’s feeling a bit cramped.
“You weren’t there,” Stiles says, leaning away from Scott’s enthusiastic
gestures. “He was… it was…” Except he can’t really explain it to himself after
the fact, the way that he had gone along with Peter’s plan. Why he hadn’t
sneaked away in Nordstrom or called Scott for backup or run for his stash of
mountain ash. Hell, why he’d stopped letting Derek know where they were. Stiles
waves his free hand loosely, hoping to conjure up something better than
‘because’. “He’s really persuasive. Like, it’s scary how persuasive he is.”
“I get that,” Isaac says sympathetically, leaning over to grab some more chips
with an impossibly long arm. “He keeps talking Derek into stuff we don’t
actually need. Like a pool table. Or he’ll turn your argument around so that
you’re actually on his side without realizing it.”
“Yeah, see? What he sa-” Stiles turns to look at Isaac. “You have a pool
table?”
“We will,” Isaac says gloomily.
“Yeah, but…” Scott puts his controller in his lap and looks at Stiles. “Why
didn’t you call me?”
Stiles swallows and looks away. Scott’s gaze is hurt and confused, like a dog
after you’d taken it to the vet. Logically, he had no reason not to call Scott.
Logically, he had no reason to do just about anything he’d done that day. But
he hadn’t felt as terrified of Peter as he thought he would. He didn’t know if
it was the spell or something else, but the usual panic and fight-or-flight
responses had slowly drained away.
He’d felt… safe.
Stiles shrugs. Scott sighs and picks up his controller again. “Just… let me
know if you get into any trouble with him. Text me. Or just yell, my hearing’s
pretty good these days. I’ll be there for you.”
“He’s good at that,” Isaac confirms, and he and Scott share a glance over
Stiles’ head that’s full of some inside joke. Stiles used to be the one who
knew all the inside jokes with Scott, and it was safe and cozy inside their
friendship. He’s spent so much time at Scott’s house that it became like a
second home. Now Scott’s world has expanded, and Stiles is struggling to see it
as an addition and not a replacement. He’s right next to Scott, but suddenly he
feels more like an outsider than ever.
----
Sheriff Stilinski eyes his son on his way out the door. “You sure you’re
feeling okay?”
"Dad, I’m fine,” Stiles says, attempting to make his father believe it. “I just
didn’t get enough sleep last night. Too much Minecraft, you know? That game is
addictive.”
Sheriff Stilinski shakes his head. “Just be sure to go to bed early tonight,
then. Meatloaf’s in the oven. I’ll be back tomorrow morning.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles says. “Bye, dad.”
The sheriff takes one last look at Stiles and walks out off the porch. Stiles
waves goodbye. Then he heads into the kitchen to get some dinner.
The last light is fading from the sky half an hour later when Stiles hears a
knock at the door. He shoves his chair back and walks over, hesitating for a
brief moment with his hand above the doorknob. He takes a breath and opens the
door.
Peter is standing there, examining the collection of old boots next to the
door. When he hears the click of the lock, he looks up and smiles.
For a split second, Stiles understands why Derek keeps trusting Peter even when
he’s sure the man is secretly plotting to kill them. Derek can’t forget the old
Peter, the uncle he used to know before fire and years of pain stripped him of
his kindness and left a revenge-driven monster in his place. Derek knew someone
who laughed and joked with his family, who always had the right answers or at
least interesting questions, who for all Stiles knew drove Derek to Little
League games and ruffled his hair before going onto the field. Now, in the
fading light, with nothing but genuine happiness in the smile that takes years
off of Peter’s face, Stiles thinks he can see that same person.
Then the moment is gone and Peter is a werewolf standing on his front porch,
looking hopefully at him as though he expects a treat.
Stiles sighs and stands aside. “Come on in,” he says, and closes the door
behind Peter.
***** Chapter 4 *****
Chapter Notes
     You will notice that the rating of this fic has changed to Explicit.
     If you don't want to read that level, I highly recommend stopping
     after the first scene. Otherwise, enjoy!
Two hours later, Stiles is regretting his offer.
Dinner wasn’t so bad. Peter had some of the meatloaf, told Stiles about
Deaton’s progress with the spell (he’d isolated several components and was
gathering ingredients for a counterspell), and even helped wash the dishes. It
was slightly surreal to see the former evil alpha with his sleeves rolled up
and elbow-deep in sudsy water. He’d been perfectly civil all evening.
Then he’d decided he wanted dessert.
Stiles grits his teeth and keeps his eyes firmly on his laptop screen. He tries
not to glare. Or drool.
The way Peter Hale eats strawberries should be illegal.
Stiles knows that Peter is sitting in the chair across the room, reading a book
and occasionally dipping his hand into a bowl of fresh-picked strawberries. He
can picture very clearly the way Peter’s hand caresses each berry, apparently
searching for the right one, before making his selection and bringing it to his
lips. The way Peter’s tongue darts out to lick the excess moisture off before
bringing it to his lips and taking a leisurely bite. The way his lips curl
around the stem, searching for one last bit of sweetness. All the while not
taking his eyes off the page in front of him.
Stiles had learned very quickly to be grateful for that last point as he gazed
openmouthed at the process the first time it happened. It wasn’t until Peter
had dropped the stem into a trash can that he’d become aware of what he was
doing and furiously busied himself with research, ignoring the tightness in his
pants. He hadn’t dared look away since, although he’d read that last paragraph
three times without absorbing any of it. He was too distracted by the soft
sounds of strawberry debauchery happening behind him and the occasional low
chuckle at something Peter had read.
Speaking of which, what was Peter reading? He hadn’t brought anything with him
as far as Stiles could tell. He’d hung up his coat in the hall and kicked his
shoes somewhere under Stiles’ desk (and Stiles was definitely not thinking
about the strange intimacy of Peter being barefoot in his room twice in one
day). Maybe he’d had a paperback tucked in one of his coat pockets?
Stiles carefully sneaks a glance over his shoulder at the book Peter is
holding. Not a paperback. A much bigger book, almost a tome. The cover is green
with purple lettering, one of the letters in the title looking almost like a
lightning bolt-
“Dude, are you reading Harry Potter?”
Stiles looks at his bookshelf for confirmation. Yep, his copy of Half-Blood
Prince is missing. Peter looks up and follows his gaze.
“Sorry for borrowing this,” he says, holding up the book. “I never got to
finish it. I was reading it to-” His jaw tightens briefly and he drops his
gaze. “I was reading it before the fire,” he says instead.
Stiles wants to ask, but he isn’t sure how fresh those wounds still are. It’s
been six years since the fire, but Peter’s been in a coma for most of that
time, and for him it might have happened a few months ago. The thought sobers
Stiles, and he searches for another topic of conversation. “Are you going back
to the loft tonight?” he asks.
Peter’s smile returns and he shakes his head. “I’d just end up back here.”
“Why?”
“I hear you, in your sleep,” Peter says, like he’s informing Stiles that he
snores. “It’s hard to stay away.”
Stiles gapes. “What the hell do you mean, you hear me? Am I sending out some
kind of psychic signal?” A new thought occurs that fills him with dread. “Oh
god, can you hear what I’m thinking?”
“No, nothing like that,” Peter reassures him. “It’s just a sense of how you’re
doing. What you need. It’s stronger when you sleep.”
“Better, but still creepy,” Stiles replies. As Peter protests that it’s not
exactly his choice about what to feel right now, Stiles sighs and pulls out his
cell phone. “I’d better let Derek know I’m okay with you staying here, then.
But seriously, you’re sleeping on the couch.”
“My nephew worries about you, you know,” Peter says after a short silence
broken only by the tapping of cell phone keys. “He doesn’t know how to show it,
but he does care.”
Stiles blinks and looks at Peter, who is watching him with a curious
expression. “Really?” He looks down at his phone, where Derek has texted him in
no uncertain terms that he’s a suicidal idiot for letting Peter stay and if his
head gets ripped off during the night it won’t be Derek’s fault. “Because if
so, wow, he has some serious communication issues.”
Peter tips his head back and laughs, a low, throaty chuckle. “He does find it
easier to be angry than sentimental,” Peter agrees. “And he’s probably
justified in being suspicious of me.”
“Why?” Stiles asks, throat inexplicably dry. He swallows to try to relieve it
and asks, “What does he think you’ll do to me?”
Peter smiles as he gets up to head into the living room, and there’s a glint of
fang in that smile. “Ruin you.”
----
Hands. They’re the first thing Stiles feels, brushing over his skin, nails
leaving light tracks (but he knows they’ll draw blood if he wants, grip hard
enough to bruise, push and pull and knead his flesh). They’re not as soft as he
was expecting, or as small. The fingers are long and the palms broad, like his
own. But he finds he likes them this way. There’s a strength in them that
leaves fire in his veins.
Lips find their way to him, brushing against his cheeks, pressing down hungrily
on his mouth. A tongue that traces the contours of his collarbone. A smooth,
muscled chest that meets his own, hips that grind into his pelvis, and oh yes,
Stiles is definitely interested. Every part of his body is awake and alive.
Except for his eyes. Why can’t he open his eyes?
The mouth pulls back, draws close to his ear. Stubble rasps against his cheek
as a voice whispers, “Stiles. Wake up.”
"Wake up.”
He tries to obey.
He can’t tell if he has succeeded at first. Reality and the dream are still
muddled. Then he realizes that part of this is because he’s still being
touched. Everywhere.
Peter is hovering above him, body in line with his own, hair mussed and eyes
slightly wild. He leans forward to kiss Stiles again just as Stiles jumps up,
resulting in a painful collision.
“Wh- wh-” Stiles pants, scooting up to the headboard and rubbing his forehead.
He’s still obviously aroused, a fact he tries to conceal by dragging his sheets
across his lap. Except that means getting his hand between Peter’s body and
his, and Peter is – fuck – just as turned on as he is. Stiles leaves the sheets
where they are.
Peter is shaking his head and wincing. A hand creeps up to Stiles’ shoulder
almost of its own volition and Stiles slaps it away. “What the fuck is going on
here?” Stiles asks, finding his voice at last. “What are you- get the hell out
of my room!”
“Can’t,” Peter says shortly. “Not yet, at least.”
“What do you-” Stiles starts, then notices Peter’s other hand gripping the bed
sheets, the tense lines of his body. Like he’s fighting something. “The spell?”
he asks, and Peter nods.
“You needed me,” he says. “I can’t- not respond.”
“I’m seriously starting to wonder about this whole self-control thing,” Stiles
says to cover his panic. At least he tells himself that’s why his heart is
beating so fast. “You don’t do anything all day and then you leap all over me.”
Peter laughs harshly. “It’s a bit like being drunk,” he says. “No impulse
control. Everything is a good idea. When you’re awake, you distrust me enough
to keep me sober. When you’re asleep…”
“I thought werewolves couldn’t get drunk,” Stiles responds, trying to shift
away a bit more. No good. Peter has him pinned in place, and Stiles doesn’t
want to give him incentive to move.
“Oh, we can,” Peter assures him. “It just takes a far higher concentration to
overwhelm the liver’s natural healing process. Ever drunk vodka straight out of
the bottle?”
“No, and I plan to keep it that way,” Stiles says, watching Peter. Peter can’t
meet his eyes. His breathing is harsh and shallow, and his body is stiff. Every
so often his hips shudder as if they want to jerk forward. “This isn’t helping,
is it,” Stiles says softly. A statement, not a question.
Peter shakes his head.
Stiles swallows and tries to put his thoughts in order. This is Peter Hale,
there’s no way he could… that goddamned spell. He can’t risk… but what if
denying it is worse? What if that snaps him back the way Deaton said? He
doesn’t want this. He does want this. He can’t… how could he live with himself
in the morning? But what if saying no means he doesn’t live at all?
Peter’s holding back. It’s costing him a lot of effort, but he’s holding back.
He won’t let it get too bad.
This is a bad idea.
Midnight was made for bad ideas.
Stiles takes a deep breath and lets it out shakily. “Okay,” he whispers. He
wraps his arms around Peter’s torso. Peter is startled enough to look at him
again. His pupils are wide and there’s a hint of fangs in his teeth.
“Okay,” Stiles repeats, his heart pounding so loud it must drown out his words
in Peter’s ears. “Just- let it happen. I’m good.” He lets out a nervous laugh.
“Be careful with the teeth, though.”
“Stiles,” Peter says, shaking his head. He’s trying to draw back, stopped by
Stiles’ arms, more so by his own body.
“Hey,” Stiles says firmly, annoyed that Peter is trying to deny the decision he
just agonized over. “I’m saying yes, okay?” And before he can chicken out,
Stiles props himself up and kisses Peter.
It’s nothing like the kiss back in the loft. As momentous as that one seemed,
it was relatively chaste, affectionate even. Now Stiles is using every trick
he’s heard about but never had the chance to practice. Wish Scott had let me
practice while we had the chance, he thinks wildly, thrusting his tongue
clumsily into Peter’s mouth. It would be easier if Peter responded at all. It
feels like he’s kissing someone in a coma – and that was wildly inappropriate.
Okay, time to shut my brain off for the night.
But in the next moment Peter melts and moans into his mouth. The angle of their
lips changes and it’s intoxicating, wet and warm and oh so good. They make out
for a good two minutes, Peter’s tongue guiding his and a hand combing through
his hair, before Stiles remembers the need to breathe and breaks the kiss,
gasping for air.
Peter strokes his cheek, staring at him. “You really do have beautiful eyes,”
he murmurs. Stiles swallows down the burst of emotions those words call up, and
Peter dives into another kiss.
All Stiles can think is that he’s going to have one hell of a stubble burn
tomorrow, and he’s pretty sure he doesn’t have enough Chapstick to fix it. The
rest of him is taken up with processing all the sensations that come with
another man grinding down on him, and he moans embarrassingly loud. Thank god
my dad has the night shift, he thinks, then gasps as Peter moves from his lips
to his neck, nipping at the skin and then sucking at it, creating dark, blood-
filled hickeys. Stiles’ back arches involuntarily and he moans again.
Peter smiles into his neck and moves down to his chest, taking his time with
every inch of Stiles and paying extra attention to his nipples. Stiles paws at
Peter’s sides, feeling the muscles shift in his abdomen, gasping with every new
touch. His noises seem to amuse Peter, who darts back up for a kiss, then
continues to work his way down.
Stiles feels a tremor run through him as he realizes where this is going and
has a momentary crisis of faith as Peter reaches the waistband of his boxers.
Is he really going to do this? It’s not exactly the way he pictured losing his
virginity…
Then Peter looks up at him, breath ghosting over Stiles’ still-clothed dick and
making him shudder. His expression asks, Is this really what you want?
Fuck it. Stiles jerks his head yes.
In one swift movement, Peter pulls down his boxers and lets his erection spring
free. He rubs some of the pre-come beading at the tip down Stiles’ length and
swallows him down.
Stiles arches almost completely off the bed, the pleasure hitting him like a
shot to the gut. Peter rolls with it, letting his lips slide up and down and
employing his tongue to great effect. “Oh god,” Stiles moans. Watching porn had
in no way prepared him for this. He doesn’t have any practical experience to
compare it to, but he gets the feeling that Peter is really good at blowjobs.
If the way Stiles’ brain practically ceases to function when Peter tongues at
his slit is any indication, he may even be excellent at blowjobs.
It gives him an unexpected jolt of pleasure to watch Peter doing it. He’d been
trying not to think about it, but Peter is very good-looking for a guy his age,
and to see him sweaty and disheveled while working away at Stiles’ dick gives
him an extra thrill. Stiles realizes he’s probably not going to last very long
between this and Peter’s mouth.
Then Peter starts humming, a low noise of satisfaction that Stiles can feel
through his dick, and he’s not going to last at all. He comes with a shout,
clutching at Peter’s scalp and feeling him swallow everything down. Stiles
collapses bonelessly and lets the aftermath of that piercing pleasure wash over
him. 
Peter smiles and licks his lips, sitting back on his heels. “Was it good?” he
asks.
“Mnnurgh,” Stiles replies, which is all he’s capable of producing right now and
is meant to indicate both that it was mind-blowingly good and that he can’t
believe Peter resorted to a cliché like that afterwards. Peter’s smile widens
and acquires a hint of relief and affection. He moves to get off the bed.
Stiles stirs himself enough to grasp Peter’s wrist. “Wait,” he manages,
confused. He can still see the obvious signs of Peter’s arousal on the front of
his boxer briefs. “Don’t you… I can help.”
“You don’t have to,” Peter says.
If he’s doing this, he’s going all in. It’s only fair. “I want to,” Stiles
insists, and pulls gently until Peter is leaning over him again. Then he pulls
down the waistband of Peter’s briefs, licks his hand, and wraps it around
Peter’s length.
It’s both familiar and unfamiliar. Stiles has jacked off hundreds of times, but
he has never touched someone else’s dick, and the lack of sensation in his own
body throws him off. The angle is wrong too, and Peter is slightly longer and
thicker than he is, though his hand still fits easily around him. Stiles moves
his hand back and forth, fascinated, memorizing the differences, as Peter moans
above him, rocking into his fist. He leans his forehead down until it touches
Stiles’, their breath mingling. His eyes are closed and he makes soft sounds of
pleasure.
Stiles notices that he’s hard again after only a few minutes. His erection
bumps up against his hand, and it only takes a second to decide he wants this
too. Bringing his hand back up quickly to apply another coating of spit, he
cants his hips up and wraps his hand around both of them together.
Peter lets out a shout that’s more like a howl. Stiles hears the ripping of
fabric next to him and turns his head to see Peter’s nails punching through his
bedspread. He wonders briefly how he’s going to explain the holes in not only
his sheets but his mattress as well, then ignores the problem in favor of
moaning with Peter at the delicious friction. They’re moving quickly now,
rutting into his fist, and Stiles feels the familiar tight anticipation, made
sharper by his previous orgasm.
Stiles tilts his head up to steal one more kiss, and it tips Peter over the
edge. He lets out a guttural moan as Stiles comes a few seconds later, pumping
both of them through their orgasms. Their come mingles on Stiles’ stomach.
Peter collapses on Stiles’ chest, unable to hold himself up any more. It feels
good, comforting in a way it absolutely shouldn’t, considering their normal
relationship. But just this once, Stiles is willing to give the situation a
pass.
He shoves at Peter’s shoulder. “Move,” he says, and Peter rolls over on his
side, enough for Stiles to scrub away the come with one of his ruined sheets.
By rights they should be taking showers – Stiles is sure they’re filthy in more
ways than one – but he’s drained by the night’s activities, and Peter seems to
be in the same condition. Stiles tosses the sheet in the vague direction of his
hamper and puts his arm around Peter again. Peter mumbles something and nuzzles
into the side of his neck, Stiles’ body thrilling briefly as he brushes against
one of the hickeys. Stiles’ eyes flutter closed.
This is going to be such an awkward morning after, he thinks, just before he
passes out.
***** Chapter 5 *****
Chapter Notes
     In which everything breaks down.
Stiles drifts awake and lays there for a minute, disoriented. He can’t quite
remember who he was in his dream, but that role temporarily has a stronger hold
on him than reality, and the familiar walls and ceiling of his room seem
strange and new.
And there’s something next to him that’s completely new. Stiles looks over at
Peter, head pillowed on Stiles’ shoulder, and takes a moment to just observe
the man while his brain gets back up to speed.
The lines on Peter’s face have smoothed out in sleep. His hair is still mussed
from where Stiles grabbed it, a few strands draping across his forehead. His
jaw is slightly stubbled around his moustache and goatee, a day’s growth making
it rough. Peter’s mouth is slightly open as he sleeps, his breathing soft and
slow. Stiles can feel its slight warmth on his skin.
Beyond that are broad shoulders and a strong back, one arm across Stiles’
waist. His flesh dips and then curves to form a really great ass that Stiles is
slightly disappointed he didn’t get his hands on last night. He itches to trace
the curve of Peter’s spine, to trail kisses down his abdomen, to fully explore
the body of the first person he’s allowedto touch. The lines of Peter’s
muscular thighs are cut short by the waistband of his boxer briefs, which must
have left a mark in his skin by now. Stiles would like to ease those briefs
off, use his thumbs and then his tongue to soothe the angry red lines, possibly
lick up Peter’s inner thigh and repay the favor…
Stiles is aware that his objective assessment has quickly become not so
objective, and that Peter is enjoying it as well, judging by the fingers subtly
kneading his side. He darts a glance back at Peter, who has opened his eyes a
crack and is smiling softly. “Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” Stiles says, smiling in return. He thinks he’s starting to get what
Peter must feel under the spell, and why he keeps trying to be near Stiles to
feel it. This wash of warmth and affection and joy, simple and perfect, is
addictive. He says the first thing that comes into his head. “Glad you’re still
here.”
Peter’s smile deepens. “Where else would I be?” Peter’s eyes acquire a devilish
glint and he leans his head closer. “Unless, of course-” Peter licks Stiles’
neck and applies a kiss after it. “-you’d rather I left-” Another lick, closer
to his jaw now, and Stiles feels a delicious shiver run down his body. “-before
you even woke up.” Peter nibbles lightly on his earlobe.
Stiles grins and is about to give Peter a taste of his own medicine when he
hears the front door open.
His father.
Panic jolts him completely awake, and he suddenly remembers exactly what
happened last night and who it is next to him. Stiles stares at Peter, who
stares back, eyes wide. “Tell me you didn’t leave anything out there,” Stiles
whispers frantically.
Peter shakes his head, then stops. “My coat-” he says.
Heart pounding, Stiles listens to his dad’s footsteps. Closer than the hall. On
one hand, that means he didn’t notice the coat. On the other hand, he’s closer.
“Okay, down, down,” he says, pushing Peter’s shoulder to get him off the bed
and onto the floor. Peter gets the gist and rolls off while Stiles practically
flails out of bed, stuffing himself back into his boxer shorts. He grabs the
shirt and jeans Peter apparently discarded last night and throws them under his
desk, swearing and shaking the arm Peter had slept on as it comes back to life.
There’s probably a joke to be made there, he thinks, but he’s too panicked to
make it. Stiles grabs the ruined sheet off the floor and stuffs it in the
hamper.
The room still smells faintly of sex, so Stiles quickly sprays some air
freshener around and jumps back into bed, trying to look asleep, just as his
father knocks on the door and opens it a crack. “Stiles?”
Stiles does his best impression of an early-morning wake-up – not that hard
considering he was asleep ten minutes ago. “What?” he asks, yawning mid-
syllable and elongating the word. He blinks fuzzily at the Sheriff. “What’s
up?”
“Nothing. Just checking in,” his dad says. “I’m pretty wiped, so I’m going to
take a rest until noon or so.”
“Sounds great,” Stiles says weakly, giving him a thumbs-up. His heart is still
galloping, and he is very much aware of the werewolf under his bed. If his dad
even suspects…
“Okay then,” the Sheriff says. He pauses and sniffs. “Does it smell a little…
flowery in here to you?”
“Nope,” Stiles lies through his teeth. “Not a bit.”
“Huh,” his dad says, and leaves.
Stiles collapses on his bed and waits for his body to calm down. That was way
too close. If he hadn’t woken up in time - well, he’s not sure exactly what his
father would do to a man in bed with his underage son, but he’s willing to bet
it would involve firearms. And then awkward explanations when it turned out
that just inconvenienced Peter for a while. Then his dad would probably go find
Gerard’s broadsword…
“That was definitely too close,” Peter says, emerging from under Stiles’ bed
and interrupting his increasingly gory imaginings. He brushes himself off. “I
assume this means we’re going out to eat?”
Stiles puts a hand over his eyes and groans.
----
Peter takes the first shower while Stiles hunts down and eliminates any trace
of his visit. He isn’t sure what to do with Peter’s clothes. Obviously he’d
only brought the one set, and he might like some fresh clothes, but lending him
a shirt seems too… familiar, even after what they’d done last night. Sex. We
had sex, Stiles tells himself firmly, staring at the now-thoroughly wrinkled
set of clothes on his bed. Stop skating around it.
But it wasn’t midnight anymore, and he couldn’t shove away his doubts about
what he’d done. What they both had done. He kept running it through his head,
trying to figure out what exactly he’d been thinking.
“Shower’s free. I left some hot water,” Peter says. Stiles snaps out of his
thoughts and sees Peter standing in the doorway, a towel around his waist and
hair still dripping down his back. He was expecting some kind of suggestive
comment or pose – maybe an invitation to join him - but Peter just hovers,
watching him. Waiting for a cue on how to proceed.
“Thanks,” Stiles says, brushing past Peter on his way out. The momentary
contact gives him a thrill, but he can’t tell whether it’s desire or unease.
----
Stiles showers quickly, taking some time to massage sore muscles that have
never been used quite so hard before. The hot water awakens every bruise and
scratch. He turns off the water and steps in front of the mirror, rubbing a
section free of condensation to survey the damage.
The stubble rash actually isn’t so bad. He can pass it off as razor burn, or
possibly a bad reaction to a new acne wash. The hickeys, on the other hand…
Stiles catches his breath at the constellation of bruises that march up the
side of his throat. Somehow they bring home that this is real, it actually
happened, and he feels the stirrings of panic again as he brushes his fingers
over them. Peter left him bruised last night, even if it was consensual. Semi-
consensual. He’d had sex with the man who killed half a dozen people, turned
Scott, haunted Lydia’s nightmares. And he’d liked it.
Stiles digs his fingers into one of the marks, savoring the sharp pain that
comes with it. Peter at least had the spell to explain it. Stiles had no such
excuse. He’d thought it was just a spur-of-the-moment thing, a compromise to
avoid something worse and definitely non-consensual, but how he’d reacted this
morning was making him think twice. If he’d just been desperate, why was he so
content with lying in bed with Peter? If he really wanted Peter out of his
life, why put him under the bed and not out the window? Did he actually want
more?
And if so, was that a safe thing to want?
“Stiles?”
Stiles yelps and spins around, ready to flee. Peter is standing in the doorway,
looking uncertain. “I felt… are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” Stiles says, a little more harshly than he means to. Peter’s
expression closes, and Stiles forces himself to back down. “I’m just… I’m
fine,” he says, looking away. “You can hang out downstairs. I’ll be there in a
few minutes.”
He doesn’t hear Peter leave. He’s too busy clinging to the countertop and
waiting for his fingers to stop trembling.
----
Stiles stares out the window of Peter’s car, hands fiddling with the hem of his
plaid shirt. He’d ended up covering the highest of the hickeys with band-aids
and relying on the popped collar of his shirt to hide the rest. (“Tell people
you fell onto some poison oak,” Peter had advised as they walked to his car.
“Gives you a solid reason not to show anybody, and they’ll understand if you
forget and end up scratching at it.”
“Who says I’ll scratch at it?” Stiles asked, and Peter just smiled at him, this
one kind and tinged with indulgence, saying silently, Come on. We both know
better. And Stiles had shivered and widened the gap between them just a bit.
Maybe he didn’t want people to know better about him. Especially Peter, who
always seemed to see through the masks.
“Did it work for you?” he had asked instead.
Peter’s smile goes lopsided. “No,” he admitted. “For one of my friends. It’s…
more difficult to hide things like that among werewolves.”)
There’s nothing much to look at outside, the sky grey and overcast, but it’s
better than the tension simmering inside the car. Peter keeps darting glances
at Stiles, who pretends not to see, because if he looks he’ll speak, and he’s
not sure what will come out of his mouth.
It’s not Peter’s fault, though, right? He couldn’t help himself – yeah, and
that’s what people say to excuse rapists. Stiles was the one without a choice.
He was the one who couldn’t get out, who had to lessen the danger, who – said
yes when Peter kept resisting. Pulled him in. Insisted on getting him off
too.But Peter said yes too. Not in so many words, no, but he could’ve – surely
he could’ve – what? How the hell was Stiles supposed to judge how hard or easy
it was for Peter to resist? And it was Stiles’ dream that set him off in the
first place – no. Hell no. He wasn’t going to blame himself for a frickin’
dream. He was thevictimhere. And Peter had all the power? When he was under a
spell?
Stiles worries his lower lip until the skin starts to crack. The slight taste
of blood on his tongue fits his mood.
Peter clears his throat. “There’s a place down the road that makes good
omelettes,” he says. When this is met with silence, he continues, “Unless you’d
rather have lunch. We could go for burgers.” More silence. “Or I could just
drive through the whole town until we inevitably end up back at my apartment,
where I will open a bottle of wine and pretend this never happened, because
obviously I’m just talking to myself and will you please say something-”
“Would you ever have wanted to do it? If you weren’t under a spell?” Stiles
says.
There’s a pause and a careful sigh. Stiles looks at Peter only to find that
he’s the one who can’t meet Stiles’ eyes now, watching the road unfold before
them. His fingers tighten and relax on the steering wheel. “So that’s what’s on
your mind.”
“Hard not to think about it,” Stiles replies. “That wasn’t exactly the way I
pictured my first time going, you know? Or who it was with.”
“Really,” Peter says, his fingers tightening ever so slightly.
“Yeah, really,” Stiles says, his blood rising. He’s scared and confused and
angry and guilty, and blaming Peter seems the easiest way out of the mess of
his emotions. Arguing is almost a relief. “Kids my age lose their virginities
in the backseats of cars and at parties, not to serial killing werewolves.”
“Kids your age don’t usually spend their time attacking said werewolves and
hunting down werelizards,” Peter shoots back. “Unless they’ve been bitten
themselves, which narrows it down to, what? Half the school?”
Stiles gapes. “Oh, like you can talk! You bit the first teenager you could
find! You were going to bite Scott’s mom, and me!”
“Maybe if I had, we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” Peter says. Stiles
catches an angry glance in the rearview mirror and counts it as a small
victory. “Maybe then you would have had the sense to not go sticking your hands
all over enchanted objects-”
“I saved Derek’s life when I did that,” Stiles objects. “Hell, maybe all our
lives. This was supposed to be much worse-”
“And yet you keep blaming me for the fact that you screwed up!” Peter half-
yells. Stiles has no idea where they are anymore. He thinks that Peter is just
driving because if he tried to stop he’d end up flipping them into a ditch. “If
you hadn’t taken that thing out before I could get a proper look at it-”
“You’re the one who grabbed it!”
“So you’d rather it was Scott in my position?” Peter spits out. “Or Derek?
Would you have preferred one of them last night?”
Stiles reels back, stunned. He lashes out without thinking. “At least they
wouldn’t have forced me!”
Peter slams on the brakes. Stiles is thrown forward, his seatbelt snapping
taut, nearly choking him. The car screeches to a stop, the scent of burnt
rubber filtering through the vents. Stiles swears vehemently as soon as he gets
his breath back.
“Get out.”
Stiles looks at Peter, who is still glaring furiously through the windshield.
His fingernails have lengthened into claws and his eyes are flashing blue.
“What?” Stiles asks.
“I said get out!!” Peter yells, and his voice has echoes of the alpha he used
to be. Stiles is fumbling for the buckle to his seatbelt before he really
processes what’s happening, and he tumbles out the door. He stops with one hand
on the door. “I didn’t-”
“Yes you did,” Peter says, his voice like ice. The glare he shoots Stiles is
angry enough, animal enough, that Stiles closes the door by instinct to get
away from it.
Before the latch fully clicks, Peter hits the gas, and the car tears away,
leaving Stiles standing by the side of the road somewhere near the edge of
town. The scent of burning tires wafts up through the drizzle to surround him.
He swallows past the lump in his throat, eyes prickling. “Fuck,” he whispers.
He digs out his cell phone and punches in a number. The phone rings three
times, then picks up. Stiles gulps in air and clears his throat. “Hello, Dr.
Deaton? Yeah, it’s me. Stiles. You remember what you said earlier? About not
screaming insults and slamming the door in Peter’s face?” He rubs his nose and
takes a deep breath.
“I kind of just screamed insults at him and slammed the door in his face.”
***** Chapter 6 *****
Chapter Notes
     Ugh, this chapter just would not come out right. Then I got halfway
     through and realized I forgot Isaac. I apologize for the long wait.
     Next one won't take nearly as long.
Stiles makes no effort to be quiet as he marches into his house and slams the
door. He’d refused to be picked up by Scott or Derek to get to the vet clinic.
Not only would it be humiliating, he didn’t know what he would say to them
about what had happened. He didn’t know what to say to himself.
Unfortunately, the long walk back in the constant drizzle had only served to
add self-loathing and irritation caused by damp clothing to the mix of his
emotions. He’s no closer to figuring out what to do than he had been by the
side of the road.
Stiles grabs his keys off his desk, trying not to look at the still-messy bed
where only hours ago he’d been sleeping with Peter draped on top of him. The
thought sends a twist through his gut.
Or maybe I’m just hungry, he argues with himself. Which was also true. He
hadn’t had anything to eat since last night. That was why they’d been going to-
Stiles cuts himself off and goes to the kitchen to grab a banana, a slice of
bread, and a pack of Reese’s. He’ll eat them in the car or something. Maybe he
should leave a note for his dad, too.
He’s halfway through scribbling something about going over to Scott’s when his
dad walks in blearily. “Leaving already?” his dad asks, taking in Stiles’
supplies and the keys on the table.
“Yeah, I’m… heading over to meet Scott at the vet’s,” Stiles says. It’s not a
lie. He just doesn’t mention the whole werewolves part of it. “We might be
there for a while.”
His dad shrugs. “If you want to spend the day helping Scott, that’s fine with
me,” he says, taking out the coffeemaker.
Stiles starts to leave and hesitates, watching his father. He desperately wants
to ask for advice, but has no idea what he could say that would get across the
enormity of the problem. “So there’s this serial killer I slept with last
night…” Nope. “Hey dad, werewolves are real, and I just pissed one of them off
in a major way…” Still no. “I accidentally accused this resurrected
supernatural creature of raping me…” More likely to get him checked into the
psychiatric ward.
"I might have feelings for someone who’s absolutely wrong for me in so many
ways and said the worst thing I could possibly say to him…”
Stiles realizes that his dad is staring at him, puzzled, and that he’s been
staring at his dad for the past two minutes. “Is… everything okay?” his father
asks.
Stiles clears his throat. “What would you do if you accused someone of
something that wasn’t really their fault, but wasn’t really yours either?” he
asks. “And they got really angry about it?”
His father sets down his mug carefully. “Is this about Scott?” he asks.
Stiles shakes his head mutely. His dad doesn’t press the point, looking up at
the cabinets as if to gather his thoughts. “If you’re both at fault, you’ve
both got to admit it,” the Sheriff says after a while. “You can’t really fix
this unless you talk about it. And I’d say you should go first.”
“Talking may not be an option,” Stiles mutters, thinking of the long claws and
wolfed-out eyes.
“If it isn’t, you should make it one,” the Sheriff says, picking up his mug
again and taking a sip. “It’s always better to negotiate.” His expression
suddenly changes to alarm and he looks back up at Stiles. “Just – promise me
this isn’t the kind of argument that would lead to harassment charges if you
pursued it. One restraining order is enough.”
“It’s not like that,” Stiles assures him. If I screw this up any more, I’m more
likely to get my throat slashed out. “Thanks for the advice.”
“Good luck,” his dad says. He settles down with his coffee as Stiles walks out
the door.
----
Scott is chaining up his bike as Stiles pulls in to the clinic parking lot.
Stiles is tempted to avoid Scott completely, but feels ashamed of the impulse
almost immediately. Scott is still his friend, and this affects all of them.
“So?” Scott asks as he falls into step beside Stiles.
“So, what?” Stiles asks.
Scott gestures at Stiles. “So, what happened? You look awful, and Dr. Deaton
told me that Peter might be going crazy after all.”
Stiles opens his mouth to say something like “it’s nothing” or “it’s no big
deal” and stops himself. “I kind of… said something to make him angry,” he
says. “It was stupid. And then he left.”
“Did he do something to you? Attack you?” Scott asks. He cranes his neck around
and his eyes widen. “Is that what those bandages are?”
Stiles slaps a hand to his neck. He’d forgotten about his attempt to cover up
the hickeys. Before he can answer, they reach the operating room, where Derek
and Deaton are leaning over a table covered in spell ingredients and syringes,
Isaac standing next to them looking like he’d been told not to touch anything
and was seconds away from doing so anyways.
Derek looks up at Stiles, and for a moment there’s a mixture of worry and
relief on his face. Then Derek’s nostrils flare and his eyes widen. He strides
over to Stiles and snatches his hand away from his neck, pulling down his
collar to see the extent of his bruises.
“Dude-” Stiles says, trying to squirm away from Derek’s grip on his other
shoulder. Derek looks back at Stiles in shock. Stiles can practically see him
leaping to conclusions. Then Derek’s expression hardens into a glacial fury.
Without a word he drops Stiles and walks out the door.
Stiles follows, swearing under his breath. “Wait!” he calls out.
“I’m going to kill him,” Derek says in a low growl. “I’ll kill him, and this
time rip him in half, so the little bastard can never-”
“Derek, you’ve got it wrong,” Stiles pants, jogging to catch up. “He didn’t –
it wasn’t like that-”
“He’s going to wish he stayed dead before I ever let him touch-”
“Derek, STOP!” Stiles yells.
Derek stops with one hand on the handle of the Camaro and slams his fist into
the side of the car. He straightens up slowly, looking at Stiles. “Give me one
good reason why I shouldn’t hunt him down right now,” he says tightly.
Stiles swallows and lifts his chin. “Because he didn’t do anything to me that I
didn’t do to him,” he says.
The words hang in the air like a challenge. Derek stares at him, outrage
melting slowly to disbelief and then to horrible comprehension. Stiles stands
his ground, refusing to feel guilty. It’s the truth, more or less. They’re both
complicit.
Derek’s mouth parts as if he’d like to speak, but no words come out. Finally he
lets go of the car and walks back inside, steps heavy. He doesn’t look at
Stiles as he passes.
Isaac had been hanging by the door, torn between getting out of Derek’s way and
following his alpha, and Stiles knows he overheard everything from the raised
eyebrows he gets on the way in. Scott is waiting inside, looking perplexed, and
Isaac gravitates to him. “What’s going on?” Scott asks, looking from Derek’s
slumped shoulders to Stiles’ sullenly defiant expression.
“Derek’s overly concerned about Peter putting the ‘creepy’ in ‘creepy uncle’,”
Isaac drawls, and when Scott still looks confused, Isaac whispers something in
Scott’s ear. Scott looks at Isaac and then at Stiles, stunned. “You’re not- are
you okay, dude?” he asks Stiles.
“Yes,” Stiles snaps, and while he feels slightly guilty for the hurt that
crosses Scott’s face, he’s tired of everyone acting like he set fire to an
orphanage. “Can we stop questioning my life choices for five minutes and deal
with the real crisis here?”
“If it weren’t for the fact that what happened between you and Peter has led to
the current situation, then maybe we could,” Deaton says, putting down one of
the syringes. “As it is, we need more information. How certain are you that
Peter was angry enough to reset the spell?”
Stiles swallows, remembering the fury in Peter’s voice. “Pretty certain.” When
Deaton keeps staring at him, Stiles attempts to elaborate. “We’d just – we were
arguing over something pretty personal, and I accused him of something he
didn’t do. That he was trying not to do. And I knew he was worried about it,
and I wanted to – to say something to hurt him. So I did.” He’s twisting the
hem of his shirt in his hands again, pulling it tight enough to turn the tips
of his fingers purple. “I fucked up,” he says, surprising himself with his
bitterness. “And he was wolfing out by the end of it. So.”
Deaton waits a few more moments, but Stiles can’t force any more words out.
Deaton sighs. “That does sound like what I was afraid of. We have to assume
we’re dealing with a worst-case scenario here.”
Isaac raises his hand. “Exactly how worst-case is this scenario?” he asks. “I
wasn’t here when the spell got cast, but I thought Peter was still weak from
rising from the grave. He won’t spar with us, anyway.”
“Maybe not as bad as if it were Derek, but-” Deaton begins.
“You overestimate him,” Derek says suddenly, speaking for the first time since
the parking lot. He’s leaning against the wall, arms folded, nursing his hurt
and brooding. Every so often he glances at Stiles and turns away again. “Peter
couldn’t hold his own against a beta right now. Just let him go. He’s not
powerful enough to do any real damage.”
“Unfortunately, that’s not an option,” Deaton says testily. “Even at his
weakest, Peter is strong enough to kill someone. Multiple someones. And he can
and will do so in order to get to Stiles.”
Stiles starts. “Wait, me? I thought you said the spell would reset, and it was
supposed to be a general sort of thing.”
“That was before it was tampered with,” Deaton replies. “You’re still bound to
him. You’ll be the focus of any kind of action or mood the spell produces.”
Stiles rolls his eyes in exasperation. “Oh. Wonderful. So instead of trying to
fight or fuck anything he sees, it’s just my ass Peter is after. Literally,”
Stiles says. He can feel Derek’s eyes boring into him and presses on. “So what
do we do? Use me as bait and take him out when he’s distracted?”
“Actually, that’s pretty much the plan,” Deaton admits.
Stiles gapes. “You know I was being sarcastic there, right?”
“We considered tying a bow on you too, but we didn’t know you’d already been
unwrapped,” Isaac says. Scott elbows him in the side and shakes his head.
Stiles glowers.
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Scott says. “If Peter’s lost control,
there’s way too much chance for Stiles to get hurt. Or worse. We could find him
without Stiles, couldn’t we?”
“This is why you’re my favorite,” Stiles tells Scott.
“We’re not just going to throw Stiles into his path,” Derek says. He gestures
at the table. “Deaton’s got some wolfsbane solution to slow Peter down, and all
three of us will be on lookout. And we’ll set up a space for Stiles with a
mountain ash barrier.”
“That implies you actually know where he is,” Stiles says. “I sure as hell
don’t, and I don’t think any of you do either.”
Derek glares but says nothing. Isaac shrugs. “I didn’t smell him at all on my
way over here,” Scott offers. “Until Stiles came in, of course.”
Stiles ignores Isaac’s suggestive grin and looks at Deaton. “Shouldn’t he be
sniffing around here already? I thought the spell was overwhelming.”
Deaton’s expression grows thoughtful. “Yes, actually. If he’s fully given in to
the spell, I would expect him to home in on you fairly quickly. This place is
protected, but I wouldn’t put it past him to test those defenses.”
“Then… maybe he’s not out of control yet,” Stiles says slowly. A wild bit of
hope blooms in his mind, a notion that maybe he didn’t screw things up
irreparably. “He’s got to know where I am, right? He knows I’d come here to
plan things out with everybody. So maybe he went in the opposite direction.
Distanced himself as much as possible so he wouldn’t be as affected.”
“He could have gone anywhere,” Derek argues. “He could be waiting outside to
ambush us right now. Or he could have gone to your house.”
“Yeah, but he didn’t,” Stiles retorts. “I was at my house for fifteen minutes
before I came here, and he was nowhere to be seen.”
“Which doesn’t mean he’s not out there, waiting to attack you!” Derek says, his
voice rising into a yell. He’s standing up straight now, fists balled at his
sides. Scott looks tense, ready to leap between them. “We can’t trust Peter,
Stiles!”
“Yeah? Well, I do!” Stiles yells back.
“So what did you argue about this morning? Tell me it was baseless. Tell me
you’ve never doubted his intentions,” Derek says, low and intense. Stiles can
feel his anger radiating up his spine. “Tell me why you’re so sure he’s not
lost yet.”
“Because he let me go,” Stiles says, just as intense. He meets the dark crimson
of Derek’s eyes and wills his heartbeat to stay steady, to tell the truth he
can’t describe out loud.
Derek looks at him for a long minute. Then, slowly, his fists uncurl and his
eyes go back to their normal green.
Deaton clears his throat. “Even if what you say is correct, Stiles,” he says
with a nod in Stiles’ direction, “Peter will still be fighting the influence of
the spell. And we don’t know where he might have gone to do that.”
“He’ll go where he can keep his focus,” Stiles says, more confidently.
“Probably not somewhere with a lot of distractions. Somewhere he feels grounded
already.” He looks at Derek. “Do you know what his anchor is on full moons?”
Derek shakes his head. “It’s not something we normally talk about. I think it’s
something to do with our family, though.”
“The Hale House, then,” Stiles says. “I bet he’s there. I don’t think he’s very
close, at least.”
“How can you tell?” Isaac asks. Stiles opens his mouth to answer and shuts it
again. He doesn’t know. He just feels certain that he’s right.
“You might be right,” Deaton says grudgingly. “It’s not impossible. We’ll start
the search in the preserve, then.”
“Great. Now if someone would please clarify on the ‘you’re not going to get
eaten’ bit-” Stiles says. He’s interrupted by two sharp twangs from another
room. Everyone looks around. “What was that?” Stiles asks the room in general.
Deaton excuses himself and goes to check on whatever he has set up in his
office. When he comes back, his face is grey. “I set up a network of charms
some time ago to detect the presence of foreign Alphas,” he says. “They just
went off in the northeastern quadrant. Probably scouts, coming to see what
damage the spell caused. Two of them.”
Stiles feels a sick certainty creep up on him. “Let me guess. The old house is-
”
“In the Beacon Hills preserve,” Derek finishes. “Directly northeast of here.”
Silence falls across the room.
***** Chapter 7 *****
Chapter Notes
     Listened mostly to Raveheart by Galantis and Who Are You Really by
     Mikky Ekko while I wrote this. You'll understand why by the end.
The argument went on for what seemed like hours, and Stiles has the
uncomfortable feeling that he only won the right to come along because he had
threatened to evade all of them and go looking for Peter alone. Derek had been
adamantly against bringing him along even if they did start the search, which
he thought would be too risky with the alphas in the area. Isaac was
noncommittal and didn’t seem too perturbed at the idea of leaving Peter to be
killed by the alphas. Even Scott, who normally balked at any loss of life,
seemed reluctant to risk his best friend to save a werewolf who was a murderer
several times over.
“But he’ll be all – you know-” Scott had waved his hands vaguely near his face
to suggest a transformation. “Pumped up because of the spell. Can’t he defend
himself?”
“No, because he’s weak right now,” Stiles had said again, cursing mentally at
the delay. “You heard Derek – he can’t defend himself against a beta. What do
you think two alphas will do to him?”
“I could be wrong this one time,” Derek suggested.
Stiles spun around and pointed a finger at him. “You are not taking back your
word just because you want your uncle ripped to bloody pieces.”
Derek shrugged. “Worth a shot.”
Eventually, Deaton had ended the argument by saying that if the two alphas were
scouts, they wouldn’t be leaving until they found some indication of what
they’d been searching for, which meant that they could end up with both a pair
of alphas and a homicidal Peter attacking the group at the same time. The pack
might be able to deal with one or the other, but they couldn’t deal with an
attack on two fronts when their numbers were dangerously low. The best course
of action would be to neutralize one threat before they had to deal with the
other – “and we’re not letting Peter die,” Stiles had reminded them when they
hesitated.
Now the argument has shifted to tactics and locations while Deaton prepares the
syringes full of wolfsbane solution. Stiles watches him carefully fill each
syringe with the milky liquid. “So what’ll this stuff do?” he asks, reaching
toward one and thinking better of it when Deaton glances at his hand. “Will it
make him sick?”
Deaton squirts a fine jet of liquid into the air and puts down a syringe. “In a
manner of speaking. The wolfsbane will numb the senses of any werewolf who is
injected with it and make them less able to react to stimuli. Their powers will
be slightly hampered as well – slower to heal, physically weaker. It doesn’t
leave any permanent damage, but it should last long enough for you to get out
of the preserve and back here. The counterspell isn’t ready yet, but it will be
soon.”
“How soon?” Stiles asks.
Deaton checks his watch. “About… three hours.”
Stiles feels a pang of inexplicable regret. Three hours, and all this could be
over. Would be over. As soon as they managed to get Peter back to the clinic,
Deaton would break the spell. Stiles would be free.
“It’s not like any of this was real,” Stiles mutters.
Deaton looks up from packing the syringes into a small case. “Pardon?”
“Nothing,” Stiles hastens to say. “I didn’t say anything.”
“Stiles! We’re leaving,” Derek says impatiently. “You’re driving Scott. If
we’re going to do this, we need to do it now.”
“Okay, okay,” Stiles says, scrambling to follow the werewolves. He picks up the
plastic container of mountain ash on the way. “You know, you really ought to
unbend once in a while, I promise you won’t break something.”
Deaton grabs his shoulder before he can leave. Stiles is momentarily stopped
short. “Take this as well,” Deaton says, handing him – what is that, a dagger?
A knife? Whatever you call a sharp piece of metal as long as Stiles’ forearm
with a slightly serrated edge.
“Don’t touch the blade,” Deaton warns. “I coated it with kanima venom a little
while ago.”
“You what?” Stiles asks, unnerved. He can see the way the edge glistens now and
feels a phantom paralysis spreading through his body. He shakes himself to get
rid of it, not dislodging Deaton’s hand. The man’s grip is like iron.
“Kanima venom is one of the few things we know of that will work on any enemy,”
Deaton says, fitting the blade into a well-worn leather sheath. He flips it
smoothly and hands the blade hilt-first to Stiles. Stiles realizes he must have
done this many times before and wonders again about the man’s past. “I kept a
sample of it in case a situation like this came up. Most of the venom will be
absorbed after it touches flesh, though. Use it wisely.”
Stiles holds Deaton’s eyes for a few seconds as he accepts the knife. “I will.”
“Stiles!” Derek calls, and Stiles heads out before Derek can change his mind.
----
They find Peter’s car before they find him, parked at the bottom of the long
drive leading up to the Hale house. Stiles would take this as a more positive
sign if the seatbelt hadn’t obviously been clawed off rather than unbuckled.
There are also scratches near the edge of the door and its handle that suggest
abnormally sharp nails used carelessly. Stiles swallows and looks around.
Nothing. Just wet leaves and wet tree trunks.
Derek sniffs the air grimly. “He was definitely here,” he says. “Very stressed
too.” He leans into the wind, then shakes his head in frustration. “The rain’s
making it too hard to get a clear trace.”
Isaac glances back at Stiles. “Any ideas?”
Stiles blinks and realizes all three werewolves are looking at him expectantly.
“What? Why are you asking me?”
“You seemed pretty certain he’d be up here before,” Scott reminds him.
“Yeah, but that was…” Stiles trails off. He’d wanted to say ‘an educated
guess’, but it wasn’t really. More of a gut feeling. Something he couldn’t
explain in daylight.
Something magical?
Biting his lip and closing his eyes in concentration, Stiles exhales and tries
to feel for the connection Peter had said was between them. Stiles had assumed
the bond only worked one way – he certainly hadn’t felt any different – but
since it definitely existed, maybe he could find it once he knew what he was
looking for.
There. Buried under a pile of emotions and memories and sensations, something
like a string tied around his soul, very weak but with a bit of tension still
in it. He carefully sifts through the debris and wills the string to be tugged,
gently. He can sense roughly how far away the other end is. The bond quivers
like a harp string and he orients himself in that direction.
When Stiles opens his eyes, he’s facing the Hale house.
“Up there,” he says, pointing. “He’s either in it or very close to it. I can’t
be sure.”
Scott looks awed. “Did you just do magic?” he asks.
“No, I followed my heart like a Disney princess,” Stiles snaps, then realizes
how uncomfortably close to the truth that is. “Just – come on,” he says, and
starts to climb the hill.
----
Derek insists that they stop twenty feet away from the house to build an
almost-complete mountain ash circle, with the container of mountain ash left
inside to finish it if Stiles needs its protection. Derek casts anxious glances
around the whole time and occasionally shoots a disgusted glance at the sky.
“What’s he so worried about?” Stiles asks Scott. “Won’t he smell the alphas if
they get close? Isn’t there some kind of power-level-to-body-odor scale?”
“Not necessarily,” Scott says. He’s tense too, and that has Stiles worried.
Scott rarely gets upset without good reason. “Derek says alphas can hide their
scent. Betas, like me and Isaac, can’t. And you definitely can’t. They might
already know we’re here.”
Stiles swallows, letting Scott’s grammar slide. “And suddenly I understand why
you guys want to get out of here so much.”
“Let’s get it over with, then,” Derek says, appearing at Scott’s side. Scott
jumps, and Stiles guesses Derek did the scent-hiding thing too. Which only
serves to make him more aware of the odor of nervous teenage boy he’s sure is
pouring off him.
Derek opens the small case and hands out the syringes. “Isaac, you stay out
here. Let us know if you sense anything. Scott and I will cover Stiles while we
search the house. We’ve got fifteen minutes, then we leave. We can’t afford to
spend too much time in an enclosed area.”
The others nod in agreement. Derek looks at Stiles. “You’re sure he’s in
there?”
Stiles looks for the magic thread, but it has dissolved into bits of fluff that
don’t give him any sense of direction. Stiles hopes this means he’s too close
to get an accurate reading and not that the spell is changing form. “As sure as
I can be.”
Derek sighs and squares his shoulders. “Let’s go.”
----
The interior of the house is dark and gloomy. It’s less dusty and ash-filled
than Stiles remembers, but that’s mostly because the humidity is making
everything into a damp, soggy mess. Drips sound from everywhere and nowhere,
putting their nerves even more on edge. Derek has stopped them twice for sounds
that turned out to be rain hitting metal or hollow objects.
“Maybe he doesn’t know we’re here,” Scott suggests as they finish the first
floor. He darts a glance at Stiles, who shrugs. His connection to Peter hasn’t
gotten any clearer, and it actually worries him a bit. And by a bit he means
frustration tinged with panic.
“And what do you suggest we do?” Derek asks. His shoulders have grown tenser
and tenser with each empty room. He holds the syringe like a gun, even though
he’d clearly rather be using teeth and claws.
“Call him?” Scott says.
“Worth a shot,” Stiles says. As they reach the top of the stairs, he steels his
nerves and calls, “Peter?”
Silence, broken only by the rain.
“Come on, Peter, we know you’re here,” Stiles continues, the creaking of their
footsteps the only other sound. “I mean, I know you’re here. Everyone else is
only taking my word for it, which I’ve been kind of overusing today, so it
would be awesome if you could show up and prove me right. Or don’t show up, if
that would set you off. Maybe just make a noise or something. Please? I’m not-”
He falters. “I shouldn’t have said that to you. It was wrong, and you didn’t,
and I knew that, but I just-”
“Quiet,” Derek hisses, and Stiles hears movement up ahead. Scott grabs his arm
and Derek readies his syringe. There’s a hint of light in the gloom, such as
would be made by a pair of glowing eyes, and Stiles feels his knees go weak
with relief. “Peter?”
The form in the gloom wavers, splits. The eyes glow red.
“Guess again,” says one of the alphas, grinning nastily.
“Run!” Derek shouts, pushing Stiles behind him and back toward the stairs. He
charges towards the alphas, who roar a challenge to him. Derek returns it in
kind and Stiles hears an almighty smash as he and Scott race to the stairs,
skidding around the railing and taking the steps three at a time. Probably
another bedroom down, Stiles thinks dizzily, trying not to trip over his own
feet. There, he’s down, he’s reached the bottom, just a straight shot to the
door-
A loud snarl, getting closer, and only an instinctive twitch and jerk back
saves him from getting an alpha’s claws through his skull. This one looks
exactly like the first – twins, wonderful – and apparently agrees with Derek
that stairs are only necessary for puny humans, because he’d freaking jumped
from the gallery straight down into the main hall.
The boy rips his claws from where they’d cut through the wood floor like butter
and looks up, grinning at him. Stiles takes another step back, scrabbling at
the staircase for something he could use as a club, babbling “Oh my god,” and
thinking I don’t want to die, not tonight –
Which is when Scott shoots past him, fully wolfed-out, and stabs the alpha in
the shoulder with his syringe. “Go!” he shouts, grappling with the snarling
boy.
Stiles doesn’t need to be told twice. He tears out of there, passing Isaac, who
dashes in to help Scott. Stiles’ focus is solely on the ring of mountain ash.
If he gets there, he’ll be safe. Three yards left to go – two-
There’s a snarl close behind him and his blood chills. One of the alphas must
have gotten away from his opponent. He doesn’t bother to look behind him and
lets the panic spur him on, which works fine until he feels claws start to
catch in the back of his shirt-
A flash of blue and a swirl of black leather barrel into the thing behind him,
roaring like a freight train. Stiles is knocked off his feet and rolls the
remaining distance into the circle. It takes a few seconds for his vision to
steady and for him to understand what he’s seeing.
Peter. As transformed as a beta can be, minus the full-out wolf muzzle and
hulking dimensions of his alpha form. Stiles has never seen him so enraged,
snarling and tearing at the alpha furiously, heedless of the damage done to
him. He’s actually driving the thing back a ways.
With a growl, Peter tosses back his opponent and catches Stiles’ eye, and
Stiles suddenly remembers that he’s supposed to be making his space safe from
all werewolves. As welcome as the rescue is, Peter has obviously fully given in
to the spell, and Stiles is aware that Peter’s attack was probably the werewolf
version of don’t touch my shit. He hastily unscrews the cap of the mountain ash
container and spreads it on the ground, willing the barrier to spring up in his
mind as hard as he can.
Peter lopes towards him and Stiles jumps back, the circle complete. Peter seems
to run into an invisible wall where the mountain ash is spread and snarls
briefly in frustration. Stiles gulps at the fury in Peter’s eyes, the animal
ferocity of him. For a second Peter actually seems to look back. Then the alpha
digs his claws viciously into Peter’s unguarded side, reeling him in, and Peter
howls in pain, tearing loose.
A crash sounds from the house and Stiles sees Derek and Scott tackle the other
alpha through the wall and into the porch. Isaac dodges the flying shards of
wood and heads towards the alpha Peter is fighting, digging one set of claws
into the alpha’s back and going for his throat with the other. The alpha drops
Peter and grabs Isaac’s wrist, flipping them both so that Isaac ends up
slamming into the ground with the alpha knocking the wind out of him. The alpha
springs to his feet and would plunge his claws straight through Isaac except
that Peter tackles him again and tries to rip his throat out.
It’s chaos for a few minutes, and Stiles can see that even with the wolfsbane
potion doing its work on the twins, they’re still more than a match for the
ragtag pack. Alpha wounds don’t heal as quickly in the betas, although Scott
seems to be recovering more quickly than Peter or Isaac. Peter is obviously
favoring one side and Isaac has a head wound that keeps dripping into his eyes.
The alpha twins are stronger and faster than anyone except Derek, and they
fight viciously, without any sort of restraint. But more than that, they’ve
been trained to fight, and to fight together. The Beacon Hills pack is starting
to resemble terriers worrying a pair of wolfhounds.
Still, the pack gets enough hits in that the twins are bleeding just as much
and breathing just as heavily when there’s a lull in the fighting. Peter is
curled over a wound in his gut, still growling, while Derek struggles to his
feet and Scott checks on Isaac, who may have a concussion after the last time
he was thrown into a tree. The twins are standing with their backs to the Hale
house, panting, and Stiles sees a look pass between them. They grin and tear
off the remainders of their shirts – little more than rags – and then-
Stiles blinks. “Oh, that is not right,” he comments as one twin literally fists
himself into the other, their bones crackling and skin stretching as they
combine. Stiles can see their rib cages flexing under their skin and is almost
sick. The resultant giant stands up and roars. Even Peter pauses as the pack
tries to figure out the best way to attack their new opponent.
The combined alpha charges in among them and knocks them flying. Derek gets in
one good swipe at the thing’s ribs before he’s knocked head over tail, and
Scott gets swatted away trying to defend Isaac. The giant grabs Isaac’s
shoulder. Stiles hears a sharp crack and Isaac howls in pain.
Suddenly the giant roars and drops Isaac. From where Stiles is standing, he can
see Peter clawing through the back of the giant’s knee and up its thigh, trying
to get at an artery. The giant twists around and grabs Peter, lifting him up
and slamming him to the earth. The bloodlust in Peter’s eyes is filmed over
with a haze of pain, and he groans softly. One of his legs looks like it’s
twisted underneath him.
Stiles’ heart is beating triple-time as the giant raises its fists, ready to
break Peter’s back or skull. Someone will help him, right? There’s got to be
someone – but Derek is halfway across the clearing and Scott is no closer.
Isaac is crumpled on the ground, clutching his shoulder. Stiles is the only one
near enough to do anything. But the circle – there’s not even a handy branch,
what can he –
Stiles’ frantic fingers find the sheath of the dagger Deaton gave him, and his
mind snaps into focus.
Waving one hand over the barrier (the ash, not having collected a single drop
of moisture since Stiles completed the circle, is blown away as if by a sudden
gust of wind), Stiles charges towards the giant alpha. Time seems to slow as he
approaches, and he has plenty of time to pick out a spot on the giant’s back
between two massive ribs. Gripping the dagger tightly, he thrusts up and in,
using the force of his momentum to slam it into the giant as far as it will go.
The giant lets out a hideous roar of pain and fury and swipes at Stiles. The
huge fist connects with his head and Stiles is bowled over, coming to rest
against a fallen log. The giant takes a step toward him. Stiles levers himself
upright, too dizzy to do anything except wait for the giant’s fists to come
crashing down.
Except that the giant isn’t coming towards him any more. It tries to take
another step and frowns when its leg won’t obey. Then it starts twitching and
shaking as the numbness spreads. The giant stumbles once, twice – then topples
backward like a felled tree and stays there.
Stiles is dimly aware of Scott at his side as the giant pulls itself apart into
two alphas again. One of them has the knife stuck in his back and seems to have
gotten the full force of the kanima venom, because he can’t do much more than
lie on the forest floor and drool. The other reaches over to him shakily and
pulls out the knife, jostling his twin’s shoulder and calling out his name. He
glares pure hatred at the pack and looks ready to kill them just for this, but
Derek places himself between the alphas and his pack and growls out a low
warning. The alpha takes the hint and helps his brother to his feet, draping
the boy’s arm over his shoulders.
“This isn’t over!” he calls out as he retreats into the forest. “We’re going to
make you suffer.”
“Try again when you can stand straight,” Derek retorts, glaring at the alphas
until they’re out of sight. His shoulders relax, but only slightly, as he turns
to glare at Stiles instead. “What the hell were you thinking?”
Stiles smiles at him, feeling the tug of a busted lip. “I’m glad you’re safe
too.”
Derek tries to maintain his glare, but Stiles knows he’s cracked Derek’s code
of surliness when his expression softens into mixed relief and annoyance.
“Those two might try to hide and attack us again. I’m going to make sure they
stay gone,” he says. His gaze flicks to Scott. “Think you can manage here?”
“Sure,” Scott says, his hand on Stiles’ shoulder. “I’ll take care of them.”
Derek nods and lopes off. Scott examines Stiles with a worried expression
that’s eerily similar to the afternoon in the loft. “Are you okay? You look
pretty banged up.”
“Aside from the death of my career as a male model, I’m fine,” Stiles says,
although every muscle protests when he uses Scott to help himself up. “Go take
a look at Isaac. I think the alphas broke his collarbone or something.”
Scott takes one last look at Stiles and heads over to Isaac, who has started to
whimper. Stiles stretches his arm cautiously and feels his face, wincing as he
encounters what are sure to be new bruises. As soon as this is over, he’s going
to just lie in bed for a full 24 hours with a bunch of icepacks and play
Pokémon. All they have to do is collect Peter and-
Stiles glances at the spot where Peter lies on the ground. Had been lying. Was
now advancing towards him, limping slightly but looking every bit as foreign
and dangerous as when he had crouched over Lydia’s body on the lacrosse field.
Stiles’ stomach flip-flops. He has to run, has to get back to the mountain ash
circle – but the circle is useless, ash made into a kind of paste by the rain,
and he’d broken it himself. The kanima blade lies halfway to the house, dropped
by the alphas. He tries to call Scott, but his throat feels constricted,
useless. He can’t look away from Peter’s fierce blue eyes.
It’s my fault.
The thought stabs him suddenly, and he instinctively tries to deny it. Nothing
about this situation was because of him alone, all the blame filtering through
shades of grey. But he was still the one who had brought matters to this point,
reduced Peter to this creature of instinct out of spite. Out of fear, because
Peter seemed to understand him in a way none of the others could, finding the
secret places in his thoughts as though he’d built them himself. Peter was the
only one who knew what he was in the dark. What he would choose. And Stiles had
taken that understanding and stabbed him in the heart with it.
Then maybe I’m the only one who can fix it.
Stiles takes a deep breath and stands his ground. He’s never backed down from
Peter before and he won’t start now.
Peter slows as he approaches, though he looks no less feral. He seems confused
as to why Stiles isn’t running. He stops a foot away from Stiles, his breathing
labored.
Stiles stares into Peter’s eyes, determined to find some flicker of the man he
knows in there. “Peter,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
He lifts one arm, and Peter grabs it, claws digging into his flesh and leaving
five distinct points of blood. Stiles swallows down a cry of pain and keeps
staring at Peter. He thinks he catches a glimpse of something hurt and watchful
in there. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, trying to give the words all the weight they
deserve. “Come back.”
Nothing happens for several seconds. Blood trickles down Stiles’ arm and drops
silently to the forest floor, mingling with the rain. Then Peter shudders and
shuts his eyes. His claws slowly retract, and he half-collapses onto Stiles’
shoulder, their combined weight bearing them to the ground.
“I’m sorry,” he says into Stiles’ shoulder. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
“We’re both sorry,” Stiles says into Peter’s hair, and has the crazy urge to
laugh. Derek will be back at any second, and judging by Scott’s horrified gasp,
he’s seen them as well. They still have to get everyone bandaged up and back to
the veterinary clinic. But as beaten and bruised as he is, there’s nothing in
this moment that could make him move from this spot.
***** Chapter 8 *****
Chapter Notes
     This is the end of the story proper, but I couldn't resist adding a
     small epilogue. You guys have been absolutely wonderful. Thanks for
     indulging this idea of mine!
Getting back to the clinic proves much more difficult than getting to the Hale
house. Only Scott and Derek were in any condition to drive. Isaac, as it turned
out, had broken his collarbone, and while it was healing much faster than it
would for a human, he still needed to be kept relatively stable while his bones
knit. Peter was healing slowly as well, but Derek insisted on keeping an eye on
him, and no one wanted to stop whatever calming effect Stiles had on Peter. So
Stiles had tossed his keys to Scott and clambered into the backseat of Derek’s
Camaro with Peter.
Derek glances back at the two of them occasionally, like he can’t quite believe
what he’s seeing, but is mostly silent. Stiles has his arm around Peter to
steady him and Peter is taking advantage of the position to nuzzle into Stiles’
hair, taking long, deep breaths of his scent. Stiles is pretty sure he still
smells of fear sweat and leaf mold, but he doesn’t mind. He kind of missed
Peter’s warm affection, even if it was spell-caused. And he much prefers
infatuated Peter to angry and murderous Peter. If those words had been the last
things he’d said to the man…
Stiles’ fingers tighten on Peter’s side and Peter makes a low noise between a
chuckle and a hum. “Penny for your thoughts?” he asks.
“Hey, my thoughts are worth more than that,” Stiles says automatically. “I have
million-dollar thoughts. I have priceless thoughts. You can’t buy these off of
me.”
This time Peter actually chuckles. He starts carding his hand through Stiles’
hair, and Stiles resists the urge to purr. “Sorry I asked. I wouldn’t want to
devalue you.”
I’m sorry echoes in Stiles’ mind and he quiets. “Actually, I was… um.” He
struggles for the words that seem to have deserted him. “Thinking about the
car. Earlier. And what I said.”
“Ah. So that’s it,” Peter says. His hand stills briefly. “I don’t blame you. It
wasn’t exactly an… easy position for either of us, and I may have left you no
choice. It’s hard not to take something like that personally, though.”
“I wasn’t- I had choices,” Stiles argues. “Okay, not easy ones, but it’s not
like you were doing it on purpose. Nothing about that was ideal, but you didn’t
ravish me or anything. I made a decision, and after that, I was – I was into
it.” He swallows. “And it was good.”
The car jerks to the side and then steadies, as if Derek had stopped paying
attention to the road for a moment, and Stiles uses it as an excuse to not look
at Peter. He feels a long whuff of breath against his cheek. “Glad to hear it.
I’d feel horrible if I did anything to scar you for life.”
Stiles glances at Peter to see if he’s aware of the hypocrisy dripping off his
statement and catches a glint of humor in his eyes. Oh. Well, two can play at
that game. “Then I hope you’re going to pick up my therapy bill for yesterday.
I mean, clothes shopping? Talk about cruel and unusual punishment.”
“Not sure if you can call something a punishment when we both benefit from it,”
Peter says, leaning a bit closer. “Although, if it was really so awful, I’m
sure I could simply – remove the offending items…”
“Would you stop flirting in my car!” Derek explodes, hitting the brakes a bit
harder than strictly necessary for a traffic light. He twists around to glare
at them. “If you can’t settle down for ten more minutes, I swear I will leave
one of you by the side of the road!”
“Which one? That seems like a really pertinent detail,” Stiles says.
Derek gives him the evil eye.
“Okay, okay,” Stiles says, shrinking back. Peter eyes Derek coolly and says
nothing, shifting closer to his original seat but still threading his fingers
through Stiles’ hair.
They stay silent for another few miles. Stiles is feeling a lot better than he
was earlier. With their misunderstanding cleared up, even his physical pain
seems to be disappearing. His bruises aren’t puffing up as he expected, and the
headache that started shortly after hitting the log isn’t nearly as bad. Even
his split lip feels –
A thought occurs to Stiles and he grabs Peter’s hand, pulling it forward in
time to see black veins disappearing up his arm. He looks at Peter. “You’re
doing the wolfy healing thing on me!”
“Would you like me stop?” Peter asks, not in the least abashed. “Your headache
is almost gone, and you definitely won’t be getting a concussion now.”
The word makes something in Stiles’ brain click into place. “You did this
before,” he says. “That first night, when you snuck into my room through the
window. I wasn’t even sore when I woke up.”
“I did,” Peter agrees. “You were… upset. I couldn’t help with that, but I could
at least ease your pain.”
Stiles stares at Peter and wonders again how much of this is the spell and how
much is from Peter himself. “Shouldn’t you be trying to heal yourself?” he
says. “I saw how beaten up you were. Don’t wounds from an alpha take longer to
heal?”
Peter glances at his side and winces. Stiles can’t see it, but he’s pretty sure
Peter is still bleeding from where the alpha clawed him. Peter attempts to
shrug nonchalantly. “I’ve survived being set on fire. Twice. I’ll heal.”
“I’d rather not have to wait through six years of you in a coma for that to
happen,” Stiles snaps.
Peter smiles. A slow, happy smile that suffuses his face with warmth and leaves
crinkles at the corner of his eyes. Stiles is slightly unnerved. “What?” he
asks, feeling his cheeks begin to warm.
“Nothing. Just glad to know that you’d rather have me here and whole than be
healed yourself,” Peter says.
Yeah, he’s definitely blushing now. “I never said stop,” he points out.
Peter’s smile grows as he resumes brushing his hand through Stiles’ hair.
“What did I say about the flirting?” Derek demands, and for the sake of Derek’s
sanity, Stiles and Peter stop talking for the remainder of the trip.
----
The clinic’s bell tinkles as they walk in, and Deaton emerges from the back
room. “Welcome back! How’d everything go?”
“The alphas ran,” Derek says shortly. “They did plenty of damage before they
left, though.”
Deaton looks the company over and his shoulders tense. “Where are Isaac and
Scott?”
“They’re fine,” Stiles hastens to add. “They’re alive, anyways. Isaac broke
some bones in the fight and they’re waiting for him to heal more before moving
him. They’re on their way.”
“Ah. I’m glad to hear it,” Deaton says, relaxing. His eyes move to Peter. “And
what about you?”
Peter stares coldly back at Deaton, and Stiles realizes that he doesn’t seem to
like Deaton very much. “I can keep myself under control for now, if that’s what
you’re asking,” Peter says.
“Good,” Deaton says, making no pretense of politeness. He brightens. “The good
news is, you won’t have to for much longer. The counterspell only needs a few
more minutes to reach full potency.”
The bottom drops out of Stiles’ stomach and he tries to maintain his
expression. “That’s, uh- that’s great,” he manages. His fingers curl into
Peter’s side, and Peter wordlessly returns the gesture.
“First things first, though,” Deaton continues. He nods at the blood still
soaking through Peter’s shirt. “Those wounds don’t seem to be healing as well
as they ought to. Come into the back and I’ll patch you up.”
Stiles starts to help Peter past the counter and Derek stops him. “He’s been
able to walk on his own for a while now,” he says, glancing at Peter. “He’s
just using this as an excuse.”
Stiles looks at Peter, who shrugs and winks. “Couldn’t help it,” he says,
pulling his arm off of Stiles’ shoulders and strolling into the back with only
a slight limp.
Stiles makes a noise of disbelief. “Did he just-”
“Yup,” Derek answers. His expression practically screams ‘I told you so’ as he
follows his uncle behind the counter.
----
“There,” Deaton says, putting down the roll of bandages. “Those should hold
until the wounds heal on their own.”
“Can I look now?” Stiles asks, sounding a little strangled. Okay, so nobody had
forced him to come into the operating room, but he was hardly going to hang
around in the hall with nothing to do. Unfortunately, it seemed that Peter had
been downplaying the extent of his wounds, and the sight of all the blood
underneath Peter’s shirt had nearly made Stiles faint. He’d had to face the
wall and pretend to be very interested in the diagram of a dog’s muscle
structure while the sounds of medicine went on behind him.
“You can look now,” Derek says. He’s brooding in a corner as usual. Stiles
isn’t quite sure why Derek had stayed, since he hadn’t offered to help with the
bandaging. He has a feeling that Derek is there as a bodyguard in case Peter
goes crazy after all. Stiles wishes he could tell Derek that won’t be
necessary, but he knows Derek would never believe him.
Stiles turns around and his breath catches when he sees Peter sitting,
shirtless, on the operating table. His torso is just as broad and powerful as
Stiles remembers, but bandages are now wrapped around his bicep and scattered
over his chest. A particularly big one covers his midsection, and blood is
already starting to spot through on his side.
Stiles is halfway across the room, his hand outstretched to touch, before he
remembers that both Derek and Deaton are watching him. His steps falter and his
hand drops. “Are you… going to be okay?” he asks, turning the gesture into a
rub of his arm.
“I’ll be fine,” Peter assures him, voice softer than usual. “These aren’t so
bad.”
Deaton clears his throat. “Derek, would you help me dispose of these?” He lifts
a few of the stained gauze pads. “While we’re at it, I can take a look at that
scratch you’ve been hiding.”
Derek looks briefly guilty, hand darting to a dark patch under his ribs, then
glances over at Stiles. “But what about-”
“Now, if you don’t mind,” Deaton says calmly, though there’s a hint of steel
under his words. “I don’t think anything will happen while you’re gone.” His
tone implies that it had better not.
Derek grumbles a bit but obeys. He casts a lingering glance at Stiles as he
leaves.
“Why is everyone certain you’re going to kill me if they leave us alone?”
Stiles wonders aloud.
“I’m not so certain that ‘kill’ is the right word for what Derek’s concerned
about,” Peter says dryly. “And it wasn’t so long ago that I might have done
exactly that.”
“But you’re better now,” Stiles points out.
“Thanks to you,” Peter says. Stiles has to look away from the unadorned
sincerity in his eyes.
The tension in the room grows thick and choking. Stiles can’t stop his mind
from wandering ahead to when the spell will be broken. He knew all of this was
temporary. He even wanted it to be over for a while. But he’d assumed that once
the spell was broken, he and Peter would go back to their normal sarcasm-laced
bickering whenever they were forced to be in the same room together. Now he
isn’t sure if that’s possible. He hadn’t expected them to form a lasting
connection.
Assuming there was a connection, and this wasn’t all in his head.
Stiles clears his throat. “What’s going to happen? After… you know.” He
gestures between them as if their bond is suddenly visible. “When the spell’s
gone. Are we still going to be…” And he can’t finish that sentence, because he
doesn’t know what to call whatever this is. Whatever they are.
Peter smooths down the edge of a bandage and doesn’t answer.
“Do you even like me?” Stiles asks, his throat tightening.
Peter looks at him and musters up a smile. “Right now? Of course.”
Stiles sighs. “You know what I mean.”
The smile dies and Peter looks away. “I don’t know.”
Stiles feels the ground drop from under him. He tries to hide it by crossing
his arms and glaring. “You don’t know? How can you not know?”
A bit of the old Peter returns as he gives Stiles a sarcastic glare. “Did you
miss the part where the spell was affecting my emotions? I can’t tell you how I
really feel about you because I can’t trust my own perceptions to be accurate.
Anything I say could turn out to be wrong.” His gaze drifts away. “I’m sure
we’ll find out soon enough.”
That’s what I’m afraid of, Stiles wants to say, but he bites his tongue.
Instead he leans on the edge of the table, close enough to touch Peter but not
daring to. His words are jumbled in his head, and he thinks that if he opens
his mouth he might end up saying more than he can take back.
“It was… nice,” Peter says quietly. Stiles glances at him to find that he’s
still staring into the distance. Peter’s hands rub against each other
unconsciously. “Since the fire… I’ve felt dead on the inside. Burned beyond
healing. There was no point in trying to feel anything. I’d forgotten what it
was like to… to love someone.” His fingers tangle together. “I’ll miss that.”
Fuck saying too much. Stiles draws in breath to respond when Deaton walks back
in, followed by Derek. “Everything ready?” Deaton asks. “Stiles, I’ll need you
in the office for a moment. The spell needs a drop of your blood to be
complete.”
Stiles has never wanted to punch someone so much in his life, but he has the
feeling Derek would assume the madness was spreading and tie him up with
surgical tape. Stiles forces his fists to unclench and says “Sure” in a tone
that’s almost recognizable as normal. He leaves Derek eyeing his uncle
suspiciously and doesn’t look back.
----
Deaton is waiting for him in his office with a small ceramic mortar and a
sterilized needle. Stiles forgets some of his ire at the sight of the needle
and gulps. “You did say just a drop, right?” he says, checking behind him for
an avenue of escape.
“That’s all I need,” Deaton assures him. “Hold out your arm.”
Stiles does, and Deaton swabs the tip of one finger with alcohol before
kneading it to get the blood flowing. Stiles swallows and looks away.
“I noticed that there were no stab wounds when I was fixing Peter up,” Deaton
says, still kneading. Stiles looks at Deaton, who appears wholly concentrated
on Stiles’ finger.
“Yeah, we- I used your knife on the alphas instead,” Stiles says.
Deaton picks up the needle and Stiles quickly looks away. “How did you bring
him back, then?”
Stiles stares at the certificates on the wall and shrugs as he waits for the
needle stick. “I talked to him. Told him I was sorry and- OW! – I don’t know,
asked him to come back. Tried to mean it as much as possible. I guess I reached
him.”
“I see,” Deaton says quietly, and Stiles looks over to find that Deaton has
apparently gotten the blood he needed and is putting a band-aid on Stiles’
finger. While staring at the scabs on his arm where Peter’s claws had dug in.
“That’s not- he didn’t know what he was doing,” Stiles protests.
Deaton holds a hand up. “I understand. Just- be careful.” He catches Stiles’
eye, looking serious. “Peter is very good at getting what he wants.”
Stiles thinks about how desperate Peter was to get Scott in his pack, and how
he ultimately failed. About the bitterness and sorrow in his voice when he
talks about his family. About the way nobody trusts Peter or takes him at his
word unless they have to. “Not from where I’m standing,” he says. He rubs his
punctured finger. “Are we done here?”
Deaton looks at him appraisingly. “Yes,” he says. “I think we are.”
----
Peter has put his shirt and coat back on by the time they get back to the
operating room, leaving Stiles both disappointed and grateful. He and Derek are
standing in the middle of the room. Peter looks tense but determined.
Deaton holds up the mortar. “I’ll need to paint some of this on your forehead,”
he says. “The alphas had to set up the spell for long distance, but since we’re
all present and the target is set, we can take some shortcuts.”
Peter bows his head and closes his eyes as Deaton paints three runes on his
forehead. Stiles vaguely recognizes them as having been on the vase. Then
Deaton gestures for him to come forward. “Dip your thumb in this and draw a
vertical line through this one,” he says, pointing at the middle rune.
Stiles obeys, realizing as he does so that Deaton probably mixed his blood into
the potion and feeling slightly queasy. No time for that, he tells himself, and
steps up. Peter is watching him from under his lashes. Stiles brushes his thumb
down the middle rune, feeling like a traitor even as he lingers on the point of
contact. This isn’t healthy, he thinks. It could never have worked. It wasn’t
real.
He steps back and Deaton takes his place. “Once these have been activated, that
should do the trick,” he says. He places his hands on both sides of Peter’s
face and says a few sentences too low for Stiles to make out. The feeling of
potency in the room gathers, thickens – then breaks.
Stiles was expecting a clap of thunder, maybe a breeze from nowhere to ruffle
the papers in the room. What he gets is a short, sharp tug from the invisible
bond he’d discovered and then a sudden feeling of emptiness where it had been.
It was like living with a splinter in your finger for days and then getting it
pulled out. It had never belonged there in the first place, and losing it
meant he could heal, but there was a sense of loss all the same. A space where
something used to be.
Peter blinks and straightens up. The runes on his forehead glow for a moment
and then turn to ash, flaking away bit by bit. Peter brushes them away as a fog
Stiles hadn’t noticed falls from his eyes. He looks around and examines his
hand as if assuring himself that he is once again under his own control. Then
he zeroes in on Stiles and starts towards him.
Stiles gulps and tries not to back away. Okay, maybe I was a little rude, but I
didn’t think I pissed him offthatmuch, he thinks. Peter stops right in front of
him, staring at him with an expression Stiles can’t read. Derek has just
started to move towards Peter when the man grabs Stiles, jerks him close, and
kisses him.
It’s the dirtiest kiss Stiles has ever participated in, and that includes the
one when he was having sex. Peter explores every inch of his mouth and does
things with his tongue that make Stiles’ knees go weak. Peter finally pulls
away with a nip to the newly-healed spot on Stiles’ lip where the skin is still
sensitive. Stiles is glad of the arm around him because without it, he would
probably collapse on the floor.
“That question you asked me before?” Peter says huskily. He smiles, slowly and
hungrily. “The answer is yes.”
Then he lets Stiles go and strides out the door, calling back, “Where did you
say you abandoned my car?” to an enormously pissed Derek, who follows him out
as if he’s going to commit murder in the parking lot. Stiles sways in the
center of the room for a moment, unable to speak.
Deaton looks after Peter, his brow furrowed. “Back to the drawing board, I
suppose,” he says. “I really thought that would work.”
“It did,” Stiles says, finding his voice in the midst of the joy rising up in
him. “That’s as sane as he gets.” And, grinning hugely, he heads out after his
werewolf boyfriend.
 
END
***** Epilogue *****
“You do realize that absolutely no one is going to support us being together,
right?”
“Not even you?”
“Of course me, jeez, Peter, you think I’d be – ah! – making out with you if I
wasn’t- mm…”
“We’ll just have to put their doubts to rest, then, won’t we? And in the
meantime, I’m sure we can manage to be… discreet.”
“Oh, thank god. Because I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but my dad would
probably tie me down and chop my balls off before he’d let me go out with a guy
in his thirties. Not to mention that he’d throw you in jail before you could
say ‘underage’.”
“That’s nice.”
“…you stopped listening when I said ‘tie me down’, didn’t you?”
“Guilty as charged.”
“…you horny son of a bi- mmph! … mmm.”
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