Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I’m busy, someone else can take him,” Peter muttered. He turned the thin, vellum page of the ancient book he was in the middle of cataloging carefully before making a note on the yellow pad next to him, and photographing the next page.

“Scott and I are going to check on the school. Everyone else is busy with things that can't wait,” Derek insisted.

“Who the hell cares right now anyhow? Don’t we--” Peter looked up from his work, scowling sharply, frustrated by being interrupted yet again. The look on Stiles’ face stopped his mouth before it did any unnecessary damage. Stiles was anxious and upset, the Jeep was important to him. Peter wanted his help researching and he would be useless until they retrieved it. Not willing to start a fight over something so easily remedied, Peter nodded and closed the small, fragile book he had been working on. “Fine, let’s go,” he agreed.

Of course he was annoyed. They all had better things to do, but Stiles didn’t purposely break his Jeep. He never would. The gravity of that truth was something Peter understood in a way no one else ever would. Sometimes knowing exactly where the Jeep came from, who Stiles had come from, made him more gracious toward Stiles, maybe even a little sentimental. Peter was still in school when he first saw Claudia Stilinski--Monroe back then--driving the big, blue monstrosity of a vehicle around town. She terrorized everyone with her irrepressible sense of self possession for years before the world went a little too quiet from her loss. Eventually Stiles inherited her mascot. So far he was well on his way to living up to it.

The rules didn’t seem to apply to Claudia back then any more than they applied to Stiles now. Peter was never sure how the two of them pulled it off, but watching it was priceless. The irony that they were both tied to the town’s highest enforcer of the very authority they rebelled against was not lost on Peter. He never appreciated women enough to want to date one, but he found himself daydreaming about tearing around town recklessly with Claudia more than once. The Jeep was an alarmingly cool vehicle to all the bored kids of Beacon Hills back then. Watching a tall, leggy, gorgeous redhead awkwardly tumble out of it was entertaining, every time. Everyone loved her, everyone wanted to know her, but not many people ever succeeded, just like Stiles.

Once, Peter forced himself to be brave enough to speak to her. He pointed out a broken bulb in the headlight of the Jeep with a smile that was far too big and probably looked like flirting. He tapped on the glass when he spoke and leaned against the Jeep, waiting awkwardly for some kind of reward for succeeding in talking to her, and being charming and helpful even though he was terrified. Claudia smiled, thanked him, and continued moving her overflowing grocery bags into the back seat like nothing remarkable had happened. He walked away feeling stupid, but far more educated in what not to do when trying to make a friend.

The very first time Peter remembered seeing Claudia though, she was stuck in the parking lot of the movie theater with the hood of the Jeep raised. She cursed at the engine loudly as he came out of a movie with his friends. It was late at night and the mall next door was closed. Peter knew a little about cars, enough to want to try to help. He motioned toward her, about to tell his friends he was going to offer to help when a Sheriff’s vehicle pulled up. His friends thought he was pointing to her very tiny cut-off shorts and long legs. The Deputy that got out of the car to give Claudia a hand ended up being Stiles' father, so it was a good thing he was misunderstood. Though it irritated Peter the way his friends assumed he was objectifying Claudia.

She was like a force of nature, genuinely rebellious, unwilling to conform to the standards set by the suburban rabble around her, even though she chose to live deep in it. People wanted to notice her, they wanted to forgive her oddities and relentless rush. She lived like she was chasing life down, hunting it recklessly. People liked her right away, the same way they liked Stiles. Easy smiles, dramatic gesticulations, and enthusiasm made them both look approachable and honest. The social awkwardness never hurt either of them. It went a long way in selling how genuine they both were.

Of course, Peter never really knew Claudia. He never even had a single conversation with her. He filled in a lot of Claudia’s blanks with things he knew about Stiles because he obviously didn't get his eccentricities from his father. In the end though, it was all useless assumption, sentimental garbage Peter had no clue why he clung to when he had forgotten so many other things. Maybe watching Stiles flounder through a life he should have been protected from cut at Peter a little. They all still wanted Claudia around, but Peter had no way of sharing that sentiment. So, he thought about it too much instead.

“It’s over here,” Stiles pointed out the window toward the pharmacy parking lot. “The brakes felt squishy, then the engine sputtered. I pulled it over right before it died.”

“I’ll take a look at it. We can--” Peter started to offer.

“I know how to fix it. I just didn’t have a flashlight with me.” Stiles interrupted. He climbed out of the car dangerously just as Peter rolled to a stop, like he was in an uncomfortable hurry.

Checking the underside of the Jeep, in spite of Stiles' protests, Peter found a puddle of brake fluid. He crawled under the tall body to check the lines more closely, unnerved by what he found there.

“Who wants you dead?” Peter asked, jumping to the obvious conclusion. He shifted slightly so he could see Stiles face on the top side of the engine through the clutter of the engine well.

“What?” Stiles asked. He pointed the flashlight at Peter, momentarily destroying his night vision.

“Your brake line has been torn out,” Peter answered, shading his eyes with a dirty hand.

“It probably came loose,” Stiles murmured, blowing off the news. The blinding light vanished as Stiles went back to pulling off the spark plug wires with a pair of pliers he had in his glove box, checking them one by one.

“Brake lines do not come loose like this. These are reinforced, hydraulic flex hose. This one has been pulled out of the fitting by something, or someone, strong enough to do that.”

“That’s--can you fix it or do we need a new part?” Stiles asked.

“New part, but we have to go to Fairfax, to the 24 hour auto part store,” Peter offered. “I’m not sure though. I want to look this over in the daylight and make sure nothing else is sabotaged. I’m guessing from your description there might be something in your gas tank as well.”

“Fuck,” Stiles cursed, dropping his pliers on the air filter cover with a loud clang.

Crawling out from under the Jeep, Peter offered further assistance. “Let me call a tow truck. We’ll go back to the loft, have them drop it off there. Then you’ll know it’s safe until we can take a closer look and fix it?”

There were a few reasons Peter suggested this, the foremost being he was sure the person who broke the brake line expected it to hurt Stiles, or put him in the position he found himself in right now, fixated on his Jeep and not his own safety. Stiles wasn’t answering, he was just looking at Peter like he was crazy, which certainly wasn't anything new.

“We have shit to get done tonight Stiles,” Peter reminded him gruffly, realizing Stiles was probably just as thrown by Peter’s agreeableness and willingness to help as he was the odd circumstance.

“I--I know,” Stiles said, sighing and rolling his eyes like he was defeated. “We can call the tow truck,” he agreed, looking confused, frustrated and worn around the edges.

A few minutes later they were heading back to Derek’s loft. The tow truck had been called, but they didn’t need to be there. Maybe it was paranoia, perhaps just smart, but Peter didn't want to hang around like a target any longer than they absolutely had to, and the tow truck driver hardly needed them to babysit. Stiles was anxious to leave it, but agreed when Peter pointed out he could take the time to make sure there was a good spot waiting for the Jeep when it got there. Someplace easy to work on it.

“You have any napkins in here?” Stiles asked. His knee was shaking nervously and his fingers were tapping on the car door.

“Glove box.” Peter pointed to the dash, hoping it wasn't locked. He almost never used it.

Stiles surprised him by handing a couple over at the next red light. “Your hands,” Stiles motioned.

The dirt and motor oil would wash off easy enough, and it didn’t bother Peter. For some reason though, it was bothering Stiles enough that he watched Peter expectantly, waiting for him to use the napkins. He wiped his hands off as best he could just to make Stiles feel better. There was obviously no changing how much a of a micromanager Stiles became when he was stressed out. It wasn’t worth the argument to point out his hands weren't nearly as dirty as his back.

“Why are you being so nice?” Stiles asked abruptly.

Peter was about to ask Stiles to explain why he would even ask that question, but that would likely end in both of them testing how much they could piss each other off, as usual. Peter wasn’t interested in another round of useless exercises of the emotionally bored. “I’m not being nice. I don't want to do the research on my own,” he said dryly.

Giving Stiles an easy answer shut him up, miraculously. They didn’t need any interpersonal drama tonight. The unknown nagual running around town making trouble was plenty. It was acting like it was new and clueless. The newly made trouble makers were dangerous because they didn’t think as much about not being seen. They only cared about not getting caught, not understanding yet those things went hand in hand. Naguals could be remarkably powerful, and this one was. Leaving a hole in the side of a burger joint in the middle of the night implied youth and self destructive habits. It could easily be someone they already knew, but that was just Peter’s guess.

As they got out of the car to head back upstairs Peter caught a scent that made all his hair stand on end. The sharp, woodsy scent of the nagual was unmistakable. It had been all over Bob’s Burgers when he and Derek went to check it out earlier in the day. He snapped his fingers and pointed at Stiles, silently commanding him to stay in the car, but Stiles got out anyways. Peter didn't fight him on getting back in. Being in the car only gave them the illusion of safety anyways. That didn't stop Peter from giving him a hard look that Stiles totally ignored.

“Is it here?” Stiles asked, jumping to the obvious conclusion.

“Quiet,” Peter hissed, trying to hone in on the sounds around him. The faint scratching noises of claws on brick sounded like they were coming from the other side of the enormous building.

“Okay, real talk, chances we specifically are being stalked, slim to none. Chances that thing is attracted to the werewolfy vibe here, much higher.” Stiles snapped his fingers for Peter’s attention then cringed at the loudness of the sound.

“What?” Peter asked, trying to make sense of what Stiles said and track the thing at the same time. He just couldn’t do both. He wasn’t built like that anymore. “Stop talking and let me listen,” Peter warned.

“Listen? What the fuck good is that going to do? We already know it’s here,” Stiles hissed.

“I mean it, stop talking.” Peter closed his eyes and focused on the sounds that were now much closer. It was moving across the roof toward them, but it was moving slowly, like it was curious, not like it was coming to attack. “Get back in the car,” Peter demanded, not needing to look at Stiles to know he wasn’t going to comply.

“The car won't help us, and if we drive away it could follow, then where would we go?" Stiles asked rhetorically. He was right. The building was far more protection than the car, and leading the nagual out into the city would be irresponsible and dangerous for everyone.

“Text Derek, no calls,” Peter warned, tracking the thing as it moved closer to them, stopping whenever one of them spoke. It was listening to what they were saying. “Inside,” Peter waved at the building and followed Stiles up the loading dock stairs.

As soon as they opened the door the sound of the nagual moving stopped. Peter pushed Stiles through the door and flipped the deadbolt. They needed layers of protection, many doors and walls to break through. It probably wouldn't stop the nagual if it was dead set on getting to them, but it might deter the thing for long enough to get help if it was merely curious.

A loud, metallic wrenching noise, loud enough for even Stiles to hear, echoed through the building. Stiles took a few steps back from the door, but the nagual was coming down a ventilation shaft that let out right next to the stairwell Stiles was heading toward. There was one place in the basement the nagual probably wouldn’t be able to get to, but the concrete walls would block their cell phones.

“Stiles, did he text you back?” Peter asked as he reached out for Stiles shoulder and grabbed on to his shirt.

“Not yet,” Stiles answered, his eyes fixed on the ventilation grate just like Peter’s were.

“Call, now.” Peter dragged him away as soon as he was sure he heard the nagual breaking the grates that protected the ventilation system from pests. He opened the basement access door and shoved Stiles through. He was searching for a way to bolt the door from the wrong side when he heard Stiles say Scott’s name. “Scott? You called Scott?” Peter hissed.

Stiles waved at him angrily to shut up, then grabbed Peter by the arm and pulled him down the stairs as a barrage of information came out of his mouth. He barely took a breath, telling Scott everything, even how Peter heard the nagual on the roof.

“Scott, dude, we’re locking ourselves in the basement. No more service. Do not leave me hanging... I love you too,” Stiles said quickly, then hung up and shoved his phone back in his pocket before he pushed Peter through the basement door. He waited until Peter turned on the lights to close and lock the heavy, reinforced door behind them. “I forgot this place was even here. Old survival shelter.” Stiles pointed to the black and yellow fallout sign on the door next to his head that was also painted over on the outside of the door.

“Is Scott going to get Derek?” Peter asked.

“This place was built in ‘54, there’s probably a whole network of hidden tunnel--hey, you don't live down here do you? Underground network of tunnels?” Stiles laughed. He pushed past Peter in the narrow hallway and ran toward the door at the end of the hall. Peter listened for the nagual. It was either busy destroying an empty apartment, or it was tearing apart walls for fun, Peter couldn’t tell, but the noise was impressive. “Peter, c’mon,” Stiles shouted at him.

Peter cringed as the nagual stopped and redirected itself back to finding them. Even a reinforced door and concrete walls couldn’t stop Stiles voice from traveling entirely, not when the curious creature was looking for anything that might grab it’s attention. Peter gave up on tracking when it went silent again, probably listening for them. He ran after Stiles and followed him through the second door.

Inside the actual shelter the lights were dim and eerie looking. Peter sat down on the concrete ledge that ran along all of the walls. It was deep enough to serve as extra sleeping or storage space. Above all the ledges were the air filtration ducts. The nagual could probably get in that way, but the filters and pumps would be much more complicated than the large, grated ventilation shafts in the rest of the building.

Nothing could separate Stiles from his insatiable curiosity, not even the fear of an unknown, deadly creature on the loose hunting them. He was opening doors and cupboards, making mental lists of the contents while he intermittently checked his phone to see if he had any service. He opened a door close to Peter and hissed low in satisfaction. When he closed the door he had a baseball bat in one hand and a smile on his face like he had found treasure.

“Every time you try to use one of those things it just gets destroyed,” Peter reminded him.

“Maybe,” Stiles shrugged. His enthusiasm unaffected as he took a few steps toward Peter.

“Not maybe, actually,” Peter argued as he scooted over to make room for Stiles. Peter looked around the room, unsure why Stiles would choose to sit so close when there were dozens of places he could go. None of those places could protect Stiles as well as Peter could though, so the proximity made more sense. He watched curiously as Stiles made himself comfortable, still keeping a few inches of space between them for the sake of civility. He twirled the baseball bat on the floor and glanced up at Peter like he expected some kind of conversation or update. “It’s still moving around, I think. I can't hear it very well through three feet of concrete,” Peter informed him.

“I’m sure you’ll tell me if it gets close,” Stiles shrugged. “How do you know about fixing cars?” Stiles asked.

“I learned when I was a kid.” Peter answered far too succinctly if he read the scowl on Stiles’ face correctly.

“You really think someone was trying to hurt me?” Stiles asked.

“It looks like it. You piss off anyone remarkably large lately?” Peter asked.

“You,” Stiles grinned. Obviously sure the culprit wasn't Peter. “One thing I’ve learned is size doesn't always go hand in hand with strength. I’m bigger than you, but you’re way stronger.”

“That’s true. It could be a supernatural, but I didn't smell anything when I was under the Jeep,” Peter pointed out.

“Could you? All I can smell that close to the engine is burnt oil and road dirt.” Stiles scrubbed at his forehead with his long, nervous fingers and crinkled his nose like he didn’t appreciate the smell.

“If it was distinctive, or someone I knew, but there wasn’t anything, even on the line.” Peter realized now how odd that was.

“Gloves. It’s been cold, they were probably wearing gloves,” Stiles said as he twirled the baseball bat on it’s end.

“Who wears gloves anymore when it’s cold?” Peter asked.

“You do,” Stiles grinned again, “and Lydia. She wears gloves all the time.”

“Lydia does not possess the strength needed to cause that kind of damage,” Peter pointed out. “Something like that is almost always personal. Have you noticed anyone actively disliking you?”

“You,” Stiles let out a cute little laugh and shook his head.

“I don’t dislike you,” Peter argued, unsure why Stiles thought accusing him was so funny.

“You’d rather use a double negative than say you like me.” Stiles chuckled and reached out toward Peter.

Unsure what Stiles was doing, and instinctively distrusting it, Peter reared back to avoid being touched.

Stiles scowled and stopped, dropping his hands immediately. He got up and walked to one of the cupboards and pulled out a bright red oil rag. Stiles handed it to him, but Peter wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do with it.

“Dude, you are covered in god knows what,” Stiles snapped. Snatching the rag from Peter’s hand, Stiles went to work scrubbing on his face like their lives depended on Peter being clean.

All he wanted was for Stiles to stop and back off, until he caught Peter’s chin in his hand and held him still while he worked. Then Stiles stood up straight, inspecting his efforts. He looked Peter over thoughtfully, like he wasn't an awful, terrible thing to be around. Not many people who knew anything about Peter looked at him with any kindness. When Stiles hesitated, hand hovering over a raw spot like he might intend to keep scrubbing, Peter snatched the rag back and went to work on the leftover smudges on his hand.

“I’ve never seen you get dirty before, unless you count getting bloody in a fight,” Stiles said like it was some kind of explanation.

“So?” Peter asked.

“So, I realized you’re always pretty nice about the Jeep. Everyone else calls it a piece of shit, or a death trap.”Stiles folded his legs up as he sat back down next to Peter.

“Your Jeep does it’s job just fine,” Peter said.

“Roscoe has hauled our asses through Canada, Mexico, and that mud pit that one time, but everyone still acts like he’s fucking useless and on the brink of breaking down all the time,” Stiles complained. It wasn’t like Stiles to complain that way. It sounded self serving and pitiful coming from him.

“Excuse me while I drown in the metaphor of your fragile humanity.” Peter rolled his eyes.

“You’re such a dick,” Stiles laughed.

“You’re a dick,” Peter argued.

“Exactly,” Stiles laughed again, like he thought it was genuinely funny.

“That was an insult,” Peter pointed out.

“I know, and pretty much everyone else would be consoling me right now because it’s so sad I’m the tiny fragile human.”

“You are hardly a sad case, and you aren't tiny. You might be human but you can still crush heads with your bare hands. Not to mention your uncanny ability to unravel tiny minds like a grade A sociopath.” Peter realized as he said it he was complimenting Stiles, even if he spoke with contempt.

“I’m not a good fighter.” Stiles said the words like they were a fact.

“You’re not as good as the creatures around you that were built for it. You always unfairly compare yourself.”

“Which is why I stopped arguing with you about staying behind.” Stiles tapped the baseball bat on the ground a few times then stopped and looked at the ceiling like he was finally concerned about making noise and attracting the nagual. “We’re still alone, right?” Stiles asked.

“No, it’s been hanging out in the corner listening to your sentimental vomit, wishing it could die,” Peter said. His sarcasm was a little too harsh and uncalled for. Stiles narrowed his eyes at Peter and cocked his head like a Yorkie. Normally it was something Peter would make fun of Stiles for, but his curiosity hadn't been pointed at Peter that way for a long time. Peter didn't like how close he was, or how curious he was. “Can you concentrate on us getting out of here?” Peter snapped.

Snapping was a mistake, avoiding his eyes was a mistake. Like a flash of lightning striking between them, suddenly Peter was the object of scrutiny. He wasn’t acting predictably. He didn’t snark when he would usually snark, he snapped defensively, and now he was actively avoiding looking at Stiles. Usually there were so many things around to distract Stiles when they were together. Big problems, fighting, research and answers to find, but now Peter was the most interesting thing in the room, and there was no way he was going to hold up if Stiles had a chance to interrogate him.

“Can you hear anyone out there?” Stiles asked.

“I’ve been listening for the tow truck driver,” Peter answered.

“He’s probably being slowed down by a deputy, pulled over, searched, something like that,” Stiles shrugged.

“How do you know?” Peter asked.

“Scott would have thought of that.” Stiles had complete faith in Scott, which was odd because everyone else thought Scott was still out of his element.

The thing about the two of them though, when Stiles was around Scott let him make the plans, but they always ended up in the same place they always would have. They fell in line together, worked seamlessly side by side like they could read each other’s minds. Stiles was just the voice because Scott prefered it that way. The only thing Scott really ever needed Stiles for was moral guidance, but that was more at the beginning. It had been a long three years and Scott knew the difference between right and wrong just fine now thanks to Stiles. Peter had benefited from a few lessons as well. Life was difficult when Stiles was angry with you.

“There’s a couple board games in the closet next to you,” Stiles suggested halfheartedly.

“So you can cheat like last time?” Peter asked.

“I’m a creative problem solver,” Stiles argued. He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head toward Peter like he expected to be agreed with.

Peter smiled, relenting. Trading rent payment for perks later in the game wasn’t really cheating outright. Stiles was taking a chance he wouldn’t get anything out of it, and everyone got to keep playing instead of being cleaned out by land tycoon Stiles Stilinski, which Peter suspected was the point--not winning. He was never as excited about winning as he should have been. Peter may have given him a run for his money, if he bothered to play and not simply observe from across the room.

“Tell me secrets then. Don’t make me sit here bored and wondering when we’re going to die,” Stiles demanded when Peter was silent for too long.

“I’m not telling you my secrets to stave off your boredom Stiles.” Peter glanced over at him, dead eyed and unamused.

“Then tell me other people’s secrets,” Stiles grinned.

Peter was about to protest when he realized he knew a few Stiles would either not care enough to repeat, or certainly keep his mouth shut about, and they had nothing to do with Peter.

“Deaton spends every Saturday night at The Hill,” Peter grinned.

Stiles burst out laughing like it was the funniest thing he had ever heard. “Just imagining uptight Alan Deaton sitting down with a steak and a bourbon to watch tits bounce every Saturday night is awkward as fuck.” Stiles laughed at the imagery he created along with Peter.

“People surprise you sometimes I guess,” Peter shrugged.

“Wait, how do you know?” Stiles asked suspiciously.

“I live near The Hill. I kept catching his scent. Honestly, I thought I was going crazy the first couple months I lived there.”

“Likely story. I can imagine you spending a time there way easier than Deaton,” Stiles laughed.

“Then you have a very remarkable imagination. I appreciate very little about the overpowering scent of oppression, baby powder, Victoria’s Secret body spray.” Peter rolled his eyes at Stiles assumptions, not surprised at all by them though.

“I guess a place like that might be kinda gross to a person with a really acute sense of smell,” Stiles mused. “I think I would think it was weird it was only girls though. I feel like I might be an equal opportunity objectifier.”

“That is quite well established by how much time you spend staring at Derek’s ass,” Peter laughed.

“That is really unfair. You both--” Stiles shut his mouth abruptly and picked up the baseball bat, rolling it in his hands like it was suddenly the most interesting thing he had ever seen in his life.

Peter very clearly understood the implication of what he was about to say and why he stopped himself, he just wasn't sure if it was genuine or some kind of entrapment. He leaned closer to Stiles, eliciting a panicked expression when Stiles realized what he was doing, but it only took Peter a moment to ascertain there was no outright deceit on Stiles part.

“Warn a guy, huh?” Stiles complained as he backed away.

The distinct scent of arousal hit Peter’s nose like a punch to the face. He wanted to run. For a moment he was willing to face down the nagual on his own and hope for the best before subjecting himself to something as terrifying as that scent. Instead he just sat there and stared at his fingers drumming on his knee absently. Peter had kept the mildly dubious interest he had in Stiles all but snuffed out for years because it was inappropriate and unreciprocated.

Once Peter remastered the art of self control, he allowed himself to be in Stiles’ presence, but it had taken a very long time for him to finally feel comfortable in any way. All that was gone now, up in a puff of smoke not even a fallout shelter could save them from.

“I’m sorry, don’t be mad,” Stiles said abruptly, confusing Peter. “Just forget all of that. You were finally being nice and I took a fucking mile. I should have just kept my mouth shut. There was--”

“Stiles,” Peter snapped, interrupting the gale force confession that was mercilessly adding to Peter’s deep confusion. “What do you think just happened?” Peter tried to speak in a kind, forgiving tone, hoping it would slow Stiles down.

Stiles slumped against the wall, his gangly height not so gangly looking when he obviously wanted to fold in on himself and disappear. “You like me, but you don’t like me enough to do anything about it. I was--I shouldn’t have steered the conversation that way. I’m sorry. You look like you’re going to puke.” Stiles gestured to Peter’s face like it was all the proof he needed he had made a terrible mistake and humiliated himself. He let his hand fall like he was defeated.

Somewhere along the way Peter had made himself transparent. Stiles didn’t understand how Peter felt, probably because Peter didn’t understand it either. “It’s not like that Stiles,” Peter tried to argue, but he could hear the defeat in his voice. Stiles raised his eyebrows like the conversation had just become unbelievably uncomfortable. “It’s not like that because you should hate me, and you’re a kid,” Peter blurted out, unwilling to make Stiles suffer thinking he was the root of the problem. It was too cruel.

“Are you kidding me?” Stiles asked, his voice thick with disbelief. The ugly, self righteous sneer that crawled over his face was the kind of challenge Peter was terrible at backing down from.

“Are you kidding me? Why would you not hate me?” Peter argued far too loudly. He knew he should shut up, but he didn’t.

“Exactly what should I hate you for? Coming whenever we call, staying up for days on end helping us not die. Or maybe how you actually teach us shit instead of saying ‘It’s a werewolf thing’, like everyone else does? That one’s my favorite.” Stiles raised his voice right back, throwing Peter’s good behavior in his face like it was an insult.

“I’m the one who started this fucking mess Stiles,” Peter argued. “You wouldn’t even be here if it wasn't for the things I did.”

“Right, because you had so much to do with Talia taking all your memories and making your brain swiss cheese. Cutting the nematon down before you were born? Totally your fault. Kate burning your house down.... yeah.” Stiles scowled like he knew things about the fire he wasn’t supposed to. Peter had no idea what was written in the police files, or what Derek might have told him.

“Yeah, I asked Derek about it. He told me he lied and made you look like you were being paranoid back then, even though you were the only one who suspected she was after Derek. Oh, and the best one. The. Best. Crazy werewolf nurse who showed up out of the blue and pounded on your brain till you finally woke up. The whole psycho revenge alpha, slash coma boy thing was all your idea even though you had about the same power of consent as a carrot when those clues started being dropped for Laura.” Stiles snarled in disgust as he concluded his tirade of proof that Peter wasn’t the evil thing he liked to pretend he was.

Peter’s face was hot with anger, but he was shocked at all the things Stiles had put together. No one knew about his nurse Jennifer, not even Derek.

“I guess it’s convenient though, when you want everyone to hate you,” Stiles scoffed.

Disarmed, frightened and nervous, Peter got up and walked over to the door. Panic pounded at his self control. He pressed his ear to the cold metal and concentrated on listening. Somehow, Peter had missed it all. The sound of Derek barking orders meant the nagual was most certainly incapacitated. The faint chorus of voices that reverberated through the pipes and walls was further proof of success.

All Peter wanted to do was leave, walk out the door and vanish, but he had already tipped his hand too far. He told Stiles he lived near The Hills, close enough to catch Deaton’s scent as he walked in the door. There was only one apartment building near the strip club downtown. It wouldn’t be hard to find. If he knew anything about Stiles it was how relentless and unforgiving he was when he thought people were running away. He would never tolerate it.

“They got it. We can go,” Peter announced, giving Stiles the opportunity to release him mercifully.

“I’m nineteen, the same age my mom was when she married my dad and had me. I am not a kid,” Stiles argued, ignoring Peter.

“Your mom was--” Peter closed his mouth and shut his eyes, realizing too late his argument did nothing to help him.

What it did do was peak Stiles interest. Peter cringed as Stiles got up and made his way toward the door. “What about my mom?” Stiles asked. When Peter didn’t answer immediately Stiles grabbed his shoulder and turned him around, only because Peter didn't stop him. “What about her?” Stiles repeated.

Peter couldn’t tell if the expression on Stiles’ face was anger Peter brought her up to begin with, or frustration he wasn’t spilling his guts. Whatever it was it melted as Stiles’ expression crumbled. The onslaught of unmasked pain and confusion tore Peter up. He wanted to spill his guts, tell Stiles everything, but he didn’t know where to start.

“You knew her didn’t you? Why didn’t you tell me?” Stiles asked.

“I don’t--I didn’t think you would want me to share things like that,” Peter tried to explain.

“No one ever talks about her. It’s like no one knew her, but I know that’s not true.” Stiles insisted. He was old enough when she passed away. Stiles had to remember being around all the people that loved Claudia when she was alive.

“Everyone knew her Stiles. Everyone did. They don’t talk about her because they miss her so much,” Peter explained.

“That’s fucked up, and really unfair.” Stiles swallowed too hard and folded his arms over his chest. He took a step back, looking like he wanted to turn around and hide because he was suddenly so upset.

Peter caught him by the elbow, just barely holding on as Stiles stood, perched at the ready to get as far away from Peter as possible. “She was a lot like you, now. Not back when you were nerdy and weird and no one knew what the fuck you were talking about half the time, but now.”

“What does that even mean?” Stiles asked quietly.

“Tall, gorgeous, way too much of everything.” Peter waved a hand encompassing all of Stiles face. Stiles smiled a little, but his eyes were sad and too shiny. “She was never sad like you are though. Never. She never had a reason to be. She tore through this town cutting a path of broken hearts and daydreams I never thought I would see again until you came along.”

“I hate how you talk sometimes,” Stiles sighed and leaned toward Peter like he didn’t actually hate it at all.

“I can stop talking,” Peter offered.

“Am I really like her, or are you--?” Stiles scrubbed a hand across his eyes and shook his head like he changed his mind, he didn’t want to know the answer to the question he didn't ask.

“I didn’t know her, not like that, but I know what I saw. I know she dressed like she wanted to piss people off. She laughed loud, and she smiled a lot. She was so gorgeous no one knew what to do with her, and she was way too tall for that goddamned Jeep. Every time she got out she had to unfold herself and stumble out like a baby giraffe.” Peter smiled at his favorite memories of Claudia, hating how Stiles had made it his life's mission to reenact those things without even knowing he was doing it .

“The steering wheel,” Stiles said. His eyes were fixed on the floor, but he was smiling. “It’s too big. The steering column was the first thing that shit out when she got it. She replaced it with a junkyard find. I think it was out of a Wrangler. It just happened to fit.” His eyelashes were wet and shiny where he tried to rub them dry. “Were you into her?” Stiles asked. He tightened his arms across his chest and waited, tight lipped, for Peter’s answer.

“Not like that,” Peter assured him. Scott’s fast, heavy footsteps fell on the stairs outside, catching Peter’s attention. Stiles scowled at the door like it was his enemy even though he couldn't have heard it. “Your mom was so beautiful and charming I’m not sure I would have turned her down if I’m being honest. She had a thing for older guys though, obviously.” Peter continued, hoping to get it all out before Scott interrupted them.

“Something else we have in common,” Stiles muttered. Peter hoped Scott wasn’t listening too closely.

“I saw the two of them, outside the movie theater on Harvard. She was fixing the Jeep and it was dark. Your dad came to help her. I was about to offer when he showed up and my friends, they--”

“Catcalled her. Yelled something like ‘nice ass, Daisy’?” Stiles finished the memory, proving he had heard the story before.

“That was John Whittemore, Jackson’s uncle,” Peter admitted. “He was such a dick.”

Stiles smiled, then let out a short little laugh. “Not surprised,” he said as he shook his head. “That was the night they met. My mom had just bought the Jeep. She wasn’t fixing it in the version I heard. She--”

“She was swearing at it,” Peter laughed. “Was that when the steering column broke? She was halfway inside that engine well trying to get to it,” Peter laughed.

“Yeah, she said she didn't blame you guys for shouting at her with her ass half hanging out of her shorts,” Stiles laughed.

“No, that was a fucked up thing for John to do. It was dark out, there was almost no one around. We probably scared her.”

“She said you guys were tiny, pimply middle schoolers and she had a nine inch crescent wrench in her hands. She was not scared. She thought it was funny,” Stiles informed him.

“We were freshmen....” Peter rushed to defend the boys he was with that night, but remembered quickly they were all short, and assholes, except for Peter. “Okay, they were tiny, but I was almost the same size I am now. I had to think about things like that.”

“You thought about things like offending women when you were fourteen?” Stiles asked, his voice thick with amusement and disbelief.

“Yes. Growing up with Talia and a couple baby girls I helped raise clued me in pretty quick to the daily struggles of females.”

“Yeah, not in the same boat,” Stiles scoffed. The arms he had protecting his chest loosened and he scratched at the dark stubble on his chin. Peter realized they hadn’t been interrupted. He listened at the door but no one was even close. No heartbeats, nothing. “Anyone out there?” Stiles asked.

“No, they all left.” Peter turned and pressed his ear to the door again, unsure why the entire building was empty, why no one had even knocked to let them know the way was clear.

The warm hand on his back felt natural for a moment. He was about to reach out and wrap his hand around Stiles’ shoulder in return, but he stiffened, nervous and unprepared for being touched. Stiles was always touching him when he wasn't ready. A stray hand running down his back when he was hurt, lingering fingers on his shoulders and hands when he needed help up. The worst was when Stiles stood in front of him. Arms caging him in, Peter pressed too close to Stiles’ back as they backed away from whatever threatened them. Stiles protected Peter like he protected everyone, even though Stiles was the most breakable.

Long, rugged, scarred fingers traced up his back and over his shoulder. Peter was unsure how to say no when he didn't want to. The scarce height Stiles had over him suddenly felt like far too much. Stiles loomed over Peter, tilting his head back with errant, rude fingers on his face and neck. One of them abandoned Peter’s chin to slide across his lower lip, exposing unremarkable human teeth.

“I always imagined you’d have fangs and glowing eyes for this, but that’s probably against the rules or something.” Stiles smiled softly, his scent and smile far too close.

Peter wished Stiles could see how nervous he was, hear his heart pounding in his chest, feel his stomach clenching and making him feel sick. Whatever Stiles saw he liked. Maybe he thought it was the right kind of nervous trepidation, but it wasn’t. Warm, soft lips pressed against his and a billowing cloud of overwhelming scents surrounded Peter. Need invaded the air around the both of them as Stiles let out breath after devastating breath. Peter reached up and clutched the hand holding his face. His hand wrapped carefully around Stiles’ wrist. Peter concentrated on that, not the tongue sliding over his bottom lip, and pulled Stiles’ hand away, breaking the kiss.

“I’m sorry,” Peter gasped. He hated his voice. He couldn’t look at Stiles’ confused, hurt expression. “Please, Stiles, just--I’ll fix your Jeep. I’ll have them call you.” Peter tore open the door and made a run for it before he changed his mind.

Chapter Text

“Why are you talking to me about this? I hate him,” Lydia complained. Stiles heard her shuffling through her house over the phone, then the clacking of the keys on her laptop.

“You don't hate him. You haven’t forgiven him, and you never have to, obviously, but there is a difference,” Stiles repeated, already exasperated. “You hate the guys your Mathlete buddies date and you still help them,” Stiles pointed out.

“None of them are serial killers,” Lydia spat out bitterly.

“Statistically speaking with twelve ladies and two gay dudes at least two of them are dating rapists.” Stiles huffed into the phone, sure Lydia would cave eventually.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? And where did you get those numbers? Those numbers are wildly inaccurate,” Lydia argued.

“I did the math myself, and your faith in humanity is way too high considering you aren't even one.”

“Please, I’m more human than you are and we both know it,” Lydia scoffed. “Speaking of, does he even know?” she asked.

“No, why would I tell him? I don't know why I told you. It doesn't even matter if it never manifests. Look at your grandma,” Stiles reminded her.

“Yeah, she still had weird senses and thoughts. Being part incubus has got to do something to you eventually,” Lydia said far too matter of fact.

“Sure, lots of people want to kiss me. More than that? Nope, and let me tell you, Peter did not want to kiss me. He looked like he was about to cry, shit himself and puke all at once.” Stiles fell down on his bed. Scott slammed something down on the counter in their tiny, shitty kitchen, making it clear he could hear Stiles, and he didn't like what was going on. “Scott is so pissed at me. He says I broke Peter right when we needed him most. He was the one talking all those photos for you to translate.”

“I know. Derek does about four a day. I can translate that on my professor’s smoke break. You need to either make things right or go take some fucking photos for me.”

“Why me?” Stiles argued.

“You were planning on helping anyways, and you’re the one who broke him! Doing the book work is the only way I get to be useful anymore. Plus I can't yell at anyone else when I’m this far away. You’re the only one who listens to me bitch.” Stiles could hear the smile in Lydia’s voice.

“My Jeep is still fucked up,” Stiles pointed out.

“Borrow Scott’s car,” Lydia snapped. She sighed and the chair she was sitting in creaked loudly. She was sending him mixed messages and she knew it. “He’s not okay Stiles. He’s fucked up a lot. In ways he will never recover from.”

“You don't know that, he could get better, and who says he isn’t okay now?” Stiles argued.

“Are you going to get all his memories back or erase all that programming the psycho hose beast of a nurse stuffed into the cracks? He’s been used as a weapon too many times, by people who would eat your heart for breakfast. He will never be okay.”

“He killed one of them. I think that counts for something,” Stiles argued.

“Before Talia there was their father. One day he’s going to find someone to fill in for them and you’ll be fucked, we’ll all be fucked. Deep down he wants to be used that way, and once he finds that person, they’ll be the center of his entire world, but not in a good way. They’ll have to take care of him, keep him on a short leash. Completely fucked up is the only kind of relationship he can have, and you don't want that,” Lydia warned him.

“Do you really believe that’s it for him?” Stiles asked.

Part of him wanted to deny everything she said, but he called because Lydia was the smartest person he knew, and she had taken a few walks around inside Peter’s head, literally. If there was an expert, she was it. He couldn’t dismiss what she said so easily.

“Stiles,” Lydia sighed. “He’ll kill you if they ask him to,” she said.

Those words should have terrified him, they should have frozen him down to his bones, but his mind started creating a plan instead.

“Don’t you think we should do something about that instead of just waiting for it to happen?” Stiles asked.

“Yes, Derek should. Derek was the one who stuck him in the ground like take out leftovers instead of cutting him in half like he should have. Peter’s dangerous because he doesn't belong to anyone, but technically he already belongs to Derek. He was built to be a guard dog Stiles. He’s feral now, no matter how good of a show he puts on.” Lydia let a short frustrated sigh out her nose that sounded like static in his ear. “Promise me you will just leave him alone.”

“I promise I won't fuck with him,” Stiles said, hoping Lydia wouldn't notice it wasn't exactly the same thing.

“Not at all?” Lydia pressed.

“I swear to god Lydia. Thank you. I’m glad I called.” Stiles smiled, grateful he took the chance.

“I love you babe, take care of yourself, and get me my pictures.”

“I will, I love you too.”

Chapter Text

Shutting the door quietly behind him, Peter leaned against the cold metal and took a deep breath. The stagnant, old air in the room smelled like dust, concrete and everything Stiles. Peter had come back because he was curious if there was any evidence left of their interaction. He had a few reasons to want to know, covering it up being a large part of that. The scent of Stiles had spread out through the whole space like a plague somehow. Peter scowled at the invisible scents swirling in the air around him. Stiles had stayed after Peter left.

The rickety looking metal bunks were all pulled up and locked in place except the one Stiles laid down on. His scent was strongest there. Nothing about coming back was a good idea. Peter’s was consumed by the paralyzing scent of Stiles and intense arousal all over the bed. He took a step back, looking over his shoulder like he might find someone there silently judging him. There was no one, he was alone. No one was watching.

Adjusting slowly, Peter stood at the edge of the offending cloud of scents and slowly immersed himself out of pure curiosity. That’s what he told himself at least. He stopped and shook his head, convinced he should leave as soon as he realized he was hard and straining against the inside of his pants. Poor judgement seemed to be par for the course though because he didn’t move toward the door, he moved closer to the bed. His dick was aching by the time he convinced himself it was a good idea to lay down on the bed, just like he imagined Stiles would have done.

Instead of overwhelming his brain, the scents around him coursed through his veins, making his heart beat too fast. He wanted to touch himself, but that felt like going too far. Instead, he turned over and buried his face in the dusty old mattress, realizing too late how good his dick felt trapped against the hard mattress. He flexed and rolled his hips, convincing himself such a small movement couldn’t mean much, while trying desperately to hold back the quiet moan that escaped past his lips. Peter stopped for a moment, trying to be more aware of his actions and how reprehensible they were, but Stiles didn’t think he was a terrible person for wanting him.

Stiles wanted to kiss him. He wanted Peter to want him. He would be excited and turned on by what Peter was doing. Peter didn't know who he was censoring himself for anymore. Derek maybe, but he was so wildly indifferent since his full transformation, he was letting himself think too much like a wolf. One day though, Derek would care again and he would hate Peter. But Derek already hated him for what he did to Laura. Nothing could make that worse, not even this. Derek would roll his eyes and snarl in disgust, be done thinking about it the moment he passed judgement, like everything else Peter did that he didn't agree with.

A long, ragged breath left his lungs, muffled by the mattress his nose was still buried in. Giving in because it wasn't Stiles, it was just a scent and his imagination, Peter arched against the mattress, seeking out friction and relief. He refused to touch himself, but he didn't have to. Images of long, rough hands, beautifully scarred arms and wide shoulders holding him down, pressing him into the mattress mercilessly were enough to do the job. Clutching the hard metal frame of the bed. Peter ignored how it cut into his hand as he rocked his hips slowly against the firm cotton bedroll. One last aching thrust and relief spilled through him like a wave of euphoria.

Satiated for a moment, Peter drifted in and out of fantasy as he lay in the sticky, wet evidence of his own poor judgement. He was finally relaxed. His muscles sang out in sweet relief as he melted into the bed. It had been so long, years since he had felt so warm and alive. His skin tingled and he was awake, but he had nowhere to go, no one was expecting him, he could lay there and enjoy himself quietly for as long as he liked.

Sometime later, after Peter had lost all sense of time and shame, the rattle of keys in the doorknob shocked him back to reality. Derek was the only one with keys, but he was the last person Peter expected to come down to the basement. Peter scrambled up, grabbing his coat from the floor to cover himself as adrenaline flooded his body. There was no where to run or hide and nothing he could do about the scents in the air. His heart was rattling in his chest and his hands were shaking when the door finally opened and Stiles came through. He leaned against the door to close it and bolted the lock down, his eyes fixed on Peter like he was just as alarmed.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” Stiles said quietly. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and pushed it toward Peter before he could convince himself to be less terrified. Stiles shoved the phone at him when he didn't take it right away, folding his hand around it so Peter could see the picture on the screen. It was video of the two of them, as they were only a few moments ago when Stiles first came in. He watched Stiles walking up to him and put the phone in his hands. “I’m sorry. I thought maybe--all this equipment was still in my garage. It’s not being recorded, I swear,” Stiles confessed.

“Why? Did Derek ask you to?” Peter asked.

“No, I wanted to see if you came back, for me, like you did,” Stiles explained. He knew all about scenting, what it meant and how it worked.

“Why would you do that?” Peter watched the video, horrified by what Stiles had very likely seen.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles apologized quietly.

Dropping to his knees in front of Peter, Stiles hung his head a little, but he didn’t smell like shame. His scent was strong and familiar, the same as the scent that clung to the bed. He had Peter right where he wanted him. Peter wanted to bury his face against Stiles’ neck and memorize every facet of the complex scent. He also wanted to push Stiles away and storm out angry. He couldn't decide which so he sat there looking at the phone instead wondering exactly how much Stiles could have seen, really.

“You do like me, you want me,” Stiles said as he slid his hands over Peter’s knees and up his thighs. Stiles wasn't waiting for an answer, he didn't need one. He had proof. Peter shifted, pulling his jacket over his lap a little more like it might protect him. Stiles’ hands tightened around his legs. “Please don't be mad and don’t leave again. I need you.” The words poured out of Stiles like sticky, sweet honey, trapping him in place.

Unable to do anything else until he found out why Stiles would say such a thing, Peter relaxed against the wall and waited for an explanation. He looked up at the corner where the camera was, certain he should have noticed the sliver of black the peeked out from behind the ventilation grate. He listened closely for electronic sounds and honed in on the tiny fan and the crackling pop of a modem hidden somewhere deep in the closet the baseball bat came out of. Peter should have been more careful, he should have noticed those things.

Stiles had come back and installed it all. He planted the bed, his scent and the temptation there to distract Peter. Saying he never stood a chance was a lie. He could have walked away like he told himself to when he first realized what the scent was. He had been so close to running out, but he chose to stay. He wanted to, desperately. He could only hold himself responsible no matter what kind of trail Stiles had left behind for him to follow.

“Do you want to know why, or do you want to leave? I won't make you stay,” Stiles said, being chivalrous even though Peter hardly deserved it.

“You said you needed me. Why Stiles? Stop playing with me,” Peter demanded.

“Am I human?” Stiles asked. He looked up at Peter, his light brown eyes dark and black in the low light. It didn't matter what color they were when Stiles was afraid, all Peter could see was the hope someone cared enough to help him.

“I don't know,” came out of Peter’s mouth instead of the ‘yes’ he intended to say. He couldn't lie, not to Stiles, not when he asked point blank. “Sometimes I think maybe... maybe your mom wasn't totally human either,” Peter admitted.

“I got a letter, last year. She said we were latent demons, succubi. No one had manifested in generations, but there was always the chance. She talked about Talia, how she knew. She said Talia would take care of me and she was sorry she couldn’t be here if it had--” Stiles stopped talking abruptly and laid his head down on Peter’s legs. Nervous fear made Stiles breathe heavily, his arms clung to Peter’s thighs. He ran his fingers through Stiles’ hair, unwilling to keep his distance when Stiles really did need comfort. “Did you know?” Stiles asked.

“No.... Maybe. Talia told me a lot of things then took them back when she decided I couldn’t be trusted,” Peter admitted. The information Stiles shared didn't shock him, it resonated like a truth he had heard before but couldn’t quite recall. It was always like that when he found something Talia had taken from him. “Talia gave the letter to Deaton, didn't she?”

“Yes, he never said anything, not the whole time all of that terrible shit was happening and we were working together. It doesn't make sense.” Stiles was bitter and angry, with good reason.

“He is loyal to her first, always.” There was no room in Deaton’s world for a shift in loyalties. He was Talia’s, more than her own husband ever had been. Deaton would go to his grave loving Talia, just like she was still alive and right next to him.

“The mountain ash though?” Stiles asked.

“He tested you to see if you could use it first, but all demons used to be human. They still technically are. The rules get a little sketchy there. The mountain ash starts relying on your intention more than the purity of your blood when it can't be sure. If it didn’t druids would never be able to use magic.”

“Is it the same?” Stiles asked. He lifted his head and looked up at Peter again, the pain on his eyes lessened as his curiosity kicked in like Peter hoped it would.

“The magic is the same. The druids use the ley lines. That’s what makes a demon. A human soul steeped in the magic of the ley lines,” Peter explained.

“They aren't from hell?” Stiles asked.

“No,” Peter laughed. The short, barking sound wasn't meant to insult, but Stiles’ cheeks turned red anyhow. “There is no such thing. Fully manifested demons can live in the earth to be close to the ley lines and their sources. Recharge, rest, like sleeping, you understand?” Peter asked. “I’m sorry for laughing, I just didn't think you believed in things like that.”

“I don’t--I mean, I didn’t. Does Deaton know that? I asked and he said to check the bestiary,” Stiles said. He looked defeated like he had been carrying around the information alone for too long.

“He knows, he just doesn't share unless he absolutely has to.” Peter trailed his hand down Stiles neck and shoulder, touching him with more purpose when Stiles leaned into his hand.

“You won't lie to me, and you tell me everything just because I ask. I need you. I’m not sure what’s true and what’s not, but the one thing everyone seems to agree on is someone like me could kill people if they aren’t careful, but I don’t know how to be careful. I can’t risk this flaring up in the middle of having sex for the first time, I won’t be able to control it.” Stiles scowled, embarrassed and frustrated by his circumstances.

“The chances are so slim though,” Peter reminded him.

“Any chance... I’m fucking lucky I was such a distracted spaz or I might have killed someone years ago.” Stiles shook his head, illustrating clearly the consequences of acting recklessly. “I don’t know what to do. I feel paralyzed. I’m stuck until I get better answers.”

Peter had answers. He had too many really. Everything he knew about demons would overwhelm Stiles easily. “If you are...” Peter trailed his hand down Stiles’ cheek, demanding his undivided attention. “If.... Your effect on humans depends on their constitution. You can't really hurt other supernatural beings though, except vampires. You can literally snuff them out with a single touch,” Peter informed him. He kept the information succinct and relevant to Stiles’ most pressing interests so he would stay focused.

“Really? Why?” Stiles asked, his eyes suddenly bright and curious.

“They’re dead, suspended by a combination of ley line magic and demon soul. You have the power to take both of those things. Strip it and all they are is a dead body. Living people recover most of the time because they heal and replenish the energy you take, unless you take too much,” Peter explained. “Most supernaturals heal almost as fast as you could take, or you can’t take it at all. Try to drain Lydia and all you’ll get is a headache and a nasty taste of death.”

“How do you know all this?” Stiles asked.

“I’m the book guy,” Peter smiled. "I always have been. Part of learning to protect the family is knowing what you're fighting on sight and being certain you know how to beat it."

"That's why Derek knows things too?" Stiles asked.

"Some, he was young and not as interested because I was around to do the book work. It was supposed to be me and Derek protecting the family. I did what Talia asked, and Derek would have followed Laura. Talia and I were supposed to retire one day and leave it all to them, just like our parents did."

“No succession by death?” Stiles asked. He smiled ruefully like he knew how absurd that sounded, but that was all he knew of their kind so far.

“No, we have ceremonies, traditions, a language and culture. We aren’t barbaric. We’ve only been acting that way because we lost all our leaders,” Peter admitted.

“Scott is here now,” Stiles said, like that fixed it somehow. It sounded absurd, but maybe it did.

Things had been quiet for a while. The nagual was a fluke, an orphan who manifested in a group home. She was with Marin while Satomi found a suitable home for her. Stiles was the only one she recognized during their chase. She had seen him at the sheriff’s station. The girl targeted him with all the tactical planning one could expect from a ten year old girl, thinking sugar in his gas tank and a broken brake line would ‘get rid of him’ like she had seen in the movies. The girl was already totally in love with Kira. She would never be a problem again because Scott took responsibility for her, cared for her. Scott was becoming a respectable and reliable leader.

“I need to know what I can do, if there’s anything inhuman about me,” Stiles said, bringing Peter back to the present. Unsure how Stiles had managed to stretch himself out over Peter’s lap without noticing every little shift, Peter let his eyes travel over Stiles’ gorgeous face and rugged body in fascination. “I need someone I can trust. Someone who can protect me,” Stiles said quietly.

Stinging, sweet words pinned Peter in place, snuffed out any pretense of resolve. Peter would never say no to a request like that from Stiles. He wouldn’t be able to justify abandoning Stiles, leaving him to fate or circumstance, always terrified he might hurt someone he was trying to love. It would be cruel and heartless to refuse Stiles because of some stupid human notion of age and propriety that wasn’t really an issue. It was an excuse Peter used to keep himself safe. Maybe other people would care, but none of them were as important as Stiles, not anymore.

“Are you sure you want me?” Peter asked, needing to know before he did anything else. It was a farce though. It was too late. His mind was already calculating Stiles’ next move.

“Yes.” Stiles scowled a little, like he didn't like Peter questioning it.

“Why?” Peter asked, pressing the issue to see if Stiles desired entirely for himself, or if he cared about how Peter felt.

“That’s such a stupid question. Look at the people around us,” Stiles gestured wide with his hand, encompassing the rest of them, all the young, fallible, sensitive people Stiles surrounded himself with. None of them would be eager to help Stiles, not as eager as they would be to amuse themselves at his expense. They weren’t cruel, but they wouldn’t help Stiles easily with something like this. “I’ve always wanted you though, even when you scared me. You’re perfect. You love me, I know you do, and you tell me the truth.”

Before he killed Kate, Peter thought he could use Stiles’ attraction to lure him in eventually, turn him into a vicious killer. Peter’s plans went so wild and graphic in his own mind he distanced himself from Stiles for a very long time just to make sure those plans died like they were supposed to. What Stiles was asking for now was the opposite of what Peter wanted back then. It was safe, loving, kind. It put Stiles first, not himself. Peter didn’t deserve to be put first. When he tried before he could never see himself succeeding. He made himself despicable and evil hoping they would stop him because he didn’t have enough self control to stop himself.

“I can trust you, can't I?” Stiles asked as he lifted himself off Peter’s lap.

“Of course you can,” Peter assured him. “I’ve always come when you called. I always will, even if you don’t love me back,” he admitted.

“How could I not?” Stiles leaned in, seeking out Peter’s lips. “You’re perfect. Made for me,” he muttered as he pressed his lips to Peter’s.

Soft, forgiving sensations coursed through Peter, urging him to release himself, to give in and kiss Stiles back. When he surged forward, matching the passion and attention Stiles was giving, it was like letting the wolf free. Running through the woods as fast as he could, being chased by something he didn’t mind catching him. The wet slide of lips, the hands scratching through his stubble made him brave and bold. He pulled Stiles up on top of him and tugged at his shirt, pulling it over his head as he let his eyes glow the bright, preternatural blue Stiles confessed he wanted to see.

Stiles groaned low and needful when his attention stopped on Peter’s eyes. “Let me try right now. I mean, I want to anyways but--”

“Stiles, I don’t care. I understand. We’ll do whatever you want,” Peter promised.

The smug sense of self satisfaction that rolled off Stiles in waves was proof enough he had planned most of their encounter, but that wasn't a bad thing. Peter had been stalked and trapped, seduced by an expert. The elite, tactical commander of their tiny war on all things evil and monstrous wanted Peter all to himself, so he used his strengths to get him. The trouble Stiles went through was overwhelmingly flattering. Thinking about it made Peter’s heart surge with excitement.

The chains that held the bed to the wall groaned as Stiles straddled Peter’s hips. He was too big to sit on Peter’s lap the way he was, all hard muscles and long limbs, but Peter wasn’t frail or easily defeated. His hands groped Stiles’ thighs and ass bravely, squeezing and gripping as they traveled to his waist. He trailed his hands over Stiles’ chest, then let go as Stiles pushed Peter’s hands away to get at his clothes.

“How will you know? It doesn’t hurt, right?” Stiles asked as he pulled on Peter’s shirt.

“I’m not sure, but I know it doesn't hurt. The opposite, actually,” Peter assured him.

Stiles kissed him, his long fingers threading through the thick hair at the center of Peter’s chest. “You’re sure?” he asked as he pulled back to take a deep breath.

“I’m sure. You have to try to make it work. You’ll know.” Peter grabbed Stiles’ hips and slid his hands into the waist of his jeans, trapping his hands between the warm fabric and his soft skin.

Stiles sat up and looked down at him, a thoughtful scowl forming between his eyebrows. “Try? What does that mean?”

“Willpower, just the same as us,” Peter explained.

“How do accidents happen then?”

“When you’re working up to an orgasm it’s pure desire. You want the other person to give you more. That’s unadulterated willpower. If you don't know how to regulate, that could be dangerous for someone fragile,” Peter explained. He couldn't help digging his hands into Stiles’ skin, cupping the swell of his ass and pulling him forward a little more.

“You’re not fragile,” Stiles smirked.

“No, not even a little,” Peter agreed. “You should try, don't hold back. I hear it feels pretty great though, to go out that way, just in case you fuck it up.” He laughed a little and Stiles smiled like he got the joke. Not wasting anymore time, Stiles stood up and went for his zipper, pulling off his pants and boxers far too quickly. He nodded for Peter to do the same, but he didn’t finish nearly fast enough as far as Stiles was concerned. He pulled on the legs of Peter’s jeans roughly and tossed them to the floor, ignoring the sound of Peter’s cell phone clattering across the floor. Peter smirked, “It’s a little hard to watch you and concentrate on getting naked at the same time.”

Stiles grinned, incredibly pleased with Peter’s compliment. He lowered himself down, straddling Peter’s hips again, taking up all the space around him. He was caged in by long legs and strong arms. A willing prisoner, but it was obvious Stiles wanted to feel like he was in control. Everything inside Peter agreed silently but enthusiastically. Stiles hovered over him, forcing him to tilt his head back to see his face. A hand circled his throat, sliding slowly down to his chest. Eyes grazed over him, liking what they saw, wanting more. Stiles gasped as his other hand closed around Peter’s dick.

“Fuck,” Peter cursed as overwhelming pleasure coursed through him. He had no idea how he wasn’t a total mess as the sensation of Stiles, naked and warm against him, competed with the aching pleasure of his hand stroking Peter slowly. “I’m not--I haven’t--with another person. Not in a long time,” Peter admitted awkwardly.

“You and me both,” Stiles assured him. “You know what you’re doing, don't you?” he asked quietly, his lips lowering to brush against Peter’s ear.

“Yeah, so do you,” Peter smiled softly.

The gentle touch of Stiles’ hands didn’t match the desperate sensations that were building under his skin. Peter forced himself to concentrate on what was happening, how Stiles was moving and what his hands were doing. It was hard to concentrate, but he fumbled through guiding Stiles’ hand around both of their dicks. His long fingers wrapped almost all the way, like some kind of feat of human engineering.

“Stiles,” Peter heard himself say, but he couldn’t feel the words in his mouth. Every breath he took dragged over his lips and tongue, sweet and strong like vanilla scented bliss coursing through his veins. Something about it wasn't right, but it felt too good to stop.

“Peter, don’t you want me?” Stiles asked. Peter didn't know why Stiles was asking, it confused him, forced him to open his eyes and look up at Stiles. Peter’s hands were too far away, everything was tinged with pink like blood vessels had broken in his eyes. Stiles pressed against his chest, burning Peter’s skin with a wicked, invasive euphoria that threatened to collapse his lungs. “Tell me you love me?” Stiles asked.

Nothing Peter was feeling meant as much as what Stiles asked. His questions were too big to be stifled by blissful confusion or the sense of self preservation that bit at the corners of Peter’s mind. Peter of all people knew some things were worth dying for.

“I do, I love you,” Peter forced out breathlessly.

The rattling, ragged gasping that echoed in his ears did hurt for a moment, but everything turned to a wash of clear, perfect bliss. Peter heard himself moan far away, felt ghostly fingers trace along his lips. A tongue played across teeth that were too big and too menacing for this moment. The taste of blood in his mouth worried him, but he couldn’t hold on to the concern for long enough to say anything. So many things were wrong, but the pleasure was perfect and beautiful. It overwhelmed everything else but the instinct to seek out more.

Visions flooded his mind of his own face, his mouth open as he cried out in pleasure, his neck and chest flexing beautifully as he moved. He was vain, certainly, but he would rather imagine Stiles. Immediately the visions snapped to Stiles, thinner, less scarred and worn, like he used to be. Stiles moved against him urgently, his hips snapping up as he thrust himself into Peter’s hand. He was too soft, too sweet and pliant. Peter yearned for the Stiles he knew now. The thick, unforgiving arms that put Peter’s to shame, the perpetual splotchy stubble he didn't care about and the hard edge in his words that teased Peter, convinced him Stiles wouldn’t be shy about taking what he wanted.

Harsh moans echoed in his ears as his mind was immersed in the vision he wanted so desperately. His face pressed into the mattress, his arm pinned behind his back. Stiles warm and hard, moving slow, with purpose as a tirade of words fell from his lips. Peter gasped as his hands gripped at the mattress when Stiles thrust into him, holding Peter tight at the hip as he drove down over and over promising Peter would still be able to feel him the next day. In Peter’s fantasy Stiles could pin him down, and marks would stay bruised into his skin, and not just because Peter wanted it to be that way.

A hand gripped the back of his neck, demanding his attention. A voice echoed the sentiment, but Peter didn't want to leave the warm blanket of gratification that surrounded his whole body. The voice dragged him back, prickled at the places in his mind that usually screamed when something was wrong. Stiles demanded his attention, forced Peter out because he was afraid of something and Peter couldn’t ignore that.

“Let go, please,” Stiles begged quietly. His voice was edged with pain and concern both as he shook Peter’s shoulders.

Cold, hard reality crashed into Peter as he forced himself up. His hands were wrapped around Stiles’ hips, his claws digging into soft, sensitive flesh. He let go and Stiles flinched, taking in a sharp breath as he turned to look at the damage.

“I’m sorry,” Peter said. His voice felt like dry, metallic pins in his mouth. Sick self loathing surged in his chest and he reached for his shirt, trying to work out his best route of escape.

“No,” Stiles snapped, holding Peter’s hand down before he could put his shirt on. “Just--wait.” Stiles shook his head and turned to look at the wounds again. His fingers brushed over the marks lightly and the blood smeared away in a eerily familiar way. “They’re healed,” he said.

Not entirely convinced he was off the hook so easily, Peter dragged his hand over the marks and they all but vanished, leaving thick trails of red behind, but nothing else. Peter looked up at him, pleased but not really surprised. The trance he had been in was proof enough, but there was always something about Stiles that didn't quite settle. Something scratching at his instincts like a finger tracing words into foggy glass.

“It’s true, I didn’t--” Stiles reached out for him, his hand gripping Peter’s shoulder too tight. Stiles was stronger than he should have been and he was doing real damage. “Oh, shit,” he exclaimed when he saw the crumpled flesh under his hand. Stiles moved like he was going to get up or run away, but Peter wasn't going to let him, not when Stiles stopped him from doing the same thing. He grabbed onto Stiles’ waist and dragged him back down, wrapping his arms around his chest and holding him tight. “Fuck, I’m sorry,” Stiles whispered into his ear.

“You’re fine, really. It’s healing and I feel good, better than I have in a long time,” Peter promised. Stiles relaxed into him and dropped his shoulders, letting the tension in his body go. Acute sorrow and frustration that didn't belong to him bloomed in his chest like an errant weed. Peter fought it for a moment before he realized it came from Stiles. The sounds he made echoed inside Peter’s head like he was listening to it twice. “Empathy,” Peter whispered. “Are you okay?” he asked. The emotions peaked and washed over him like a wave he might drown in, then it was gone.

“What’s going to happen to me?” Stiles asked. He sounded so broken and lost, like he felt hopeless.

“Complicated, interesting things. I’m not sure that’s much different than the usual.” Peter pressed his mouth and nose against Stiles’ cheek, hoping he would stop swimming in the uncertainty and pay attention to Peter.

“I thought--I didn't really think it was real,” Stiles admitted.

“You thought you were playing a game with me?” Peter smiled.

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I want you, I swear,” Stiles promised. He turned his face to Peter’s and pressed their lips together softly. “I thought maybe it was my mom, she didn't know what was real and what wasn’t.”

“Talia did. She would have been able to tell. She had ways.” Peter tilted Stiles’ head back and kissed his chin. “Sometimes you’re a little dense and too hopeful,” Peter laughed quietly.

“Why aren't you mad?” Stiles asked.

“What should I be mad at?”

“I lied sort of, and--” Stiles gestured and sat up, lost for words to describe what he had done.

“Everyone lies to get what they want,” Peter assured him.

“What happens now?” Stiles looked at him expectantly, wanting as many answers as Peter would help him find.

“Experimentation,” Peter grinned.