Chapter Text
Peter caressed the velvet box lying on the seat next to him as he drove into Beacon Hills. He’d been working with an artisan in L.A. on the contents of it for the past four days, fine-tuning the design he’d sent him months before. Now it was finally ready to present it to Stiles—but he wasn’t quite sure he was ready.
He and Stiles had been dating for two years, since shortly after the nogitsune was defeated. Stiles had turned to Peter, as the only person in the Pack who could understand his feelings, and in return Peter had found someone who finally accepted him as he was, without judgment. And eventually, with love.
Their announcement to the Pack about their dating had gone about as well as could be expected, and far better than Peter had feared, to be honest. Derek and Scott were the hardest sells—Peter suspected that Derek harbored some feelings for Stiles himself, and couldn’t quite suppress a smug smile that he’d been the one to land such a desirable mate.
Only he hadn’t quite landed him…yet. Stiles was still living at his father’s house while he took Criminal Justice classes at the local college and studied to be Emissary to the McCall Pack under Deaton. They hadn’t seriously discussed the prospect of living together; largely because Peter was nervous about pushing for more commitment, in case Stiles finally woke up and realized all that he would be missing, committing to a damaged, older werewolf. He knew Stiles loved him, but he was bright and young, and not the awkward, gawky teenager he had been. Peter noticed the attention he attracted wherever they went, even if his lover missed it.
Finally he’d decided it was time to make his intentions clear, before one of those other prospects lured Stiles away. He was going to ask Stiles to be his mate, officially. To share a den, and a life together. The box on the passenger seat contained a mating gift, a leather bracelet with a silver spiral that read, “Je porte le coeur de mon loup.” Two silver rings, each decorated with oak leaves and a full moon, would arrive later. He was going to propose tonight.
Peter felt like he might throw up. He focused on the radio as he entered Beacon Hills and headed for the sheriff’s house, humming along to the classic rock station and tapping his foot restlessly. The police cruiser was in the driveway, but Stiles’ Jeep wasn’t. He was probably out doing something with the Pack. The sheriff would know where they were; since he’d been made aware of the supernatural threats in town he insisted on at least being kept apprised of the Pack’s plans, if not included in them.
John answered the door in a pair of sweatpants and a worn t-shirt. He looked guilty when Peter raised an eyebrow at the smell of salt-and-vinegar potato chips clinging to him. “I won’t tell if you won’t?”
Peter weighed the advantages of winning points with his father-in-law versus his boyfriend’s ire if he found out. “I won’t tell if he doesn’t ask,” he compromised.
John nodded. “Fair enough. Stiles is out with the Pack at Jungle, did you want to come in and wait?”
“No thanks, I’ll see if I can catch up with him there. Would you mind hanging on to this for me?” Peter held out the box with the bracelet in it, and the sheriff raised his eyebrow. Peter fought the urge to drop his head and blush like a teenager.
“Finally going to pop the question then?” John asked, an approving note in his voice. “He’s going to say yes, you know. I’ve caught him discussing the finer points of wedding planning with Lydia more than once, and she’s certainly not at that stage with her latest boy-toy.”
Peter couldn’t help the smile that crept across his face. “I hope so. But Jungle certainly isn’t the right place to propose, and I don’t want to leave it in the car or waste time going home.”
“Yeah, I get it,” Stiles’ father said as he took the box. “I’ll keep it safe for you. Now go on and catch up with my son, he’s been missing you.”
~
Peter could hear the thumping music of the club from over a block away. He didn’t much care for Jungle; the loud music and crush of smells were a bit overwhelming to his werewolf senses. Still, he and Stiles came occasionally, both alone and with the Pack. Peter wasn’t thrilled about the idea of his lover wading through that sea of hands and hormones without him.
Preoccupied with his thoughts, he didn’t notice his surroundings until he passed by the mouth of the alley to one side of the club and was assaulted by Stiles’ scent, overlaid heavily with arousal. The wet sound of kissing and a muffled groan followed as he turned on his heel and stood frozen. Stiles was pressed up against the brick of the club, his hands pinned over his head while a strange man kissed him thoroughly. The younger man’s hips thrust up ineffectually, and Peter felt a flash of rage as he started forward. He’d been gone four days, laboring over an engagement gift, and Stiles paid him back by taking the first opportunity to cheat on him with some stranger from a club?
Before he’d taken two steps, though, that thought was wiped from his head as he picked up the scent of panic and revulsion coming from his lover. Of course Stiles wasn’t cheating on him — his goddamn danger-magnet of a boyfriend was being assaulted. He surged forward with a furious roar, batting the offender — werewolf, omega, his mind supplied — against the opposite wall with a single swipe. Sparing a glance at Stiles to make sure he was unharmed, he bent down and casually slit the omega’s throat.
Stiles was still slumped against the brick, wide-eyed and gasping, when Peter turned. He reached out a shaking hand to Peter, and the werewolf felt a sinking shame in his gut. How had he actually believed, even for a moment, that his lover would cheat on him? And what would have happened if he’d walked away instead of going for a confrontation? He’d almost left Stiles alone with a rapist, because of his own insecurity.
He let out a pained growl, turned away from Stiles, and ran.